My pen hovered. I thought of my grandmother’s hands, folded in her lap at the nursing home last Sunday. I thought of the way light breaks through a glass of water on a windowsill. I thought of the fact that I have never told my father that his laugh sounds like an old screen door—rusty, familiar, and the safest sound I know.
I still don’t know what grade I got. But I know I passed something that mattered. My pen hovered
The clock ticked. 60 seconds.
He nodded once.
But I couldn’t move.
Then I closed the book. The world didn’t shake. The fluorescent lights didn’t flicker. But as I walked up the aisle to hand in my test, I noticed the proctor glance at my final page. For a split second, his stern mask cracked into a smile so small and so sad it looked like a secret. I thought of the fact that I have