The small theater that houses our daily production meetings has been utterly transformed. I walk in to see as many students as seats. There has even been an addition to the stage: a latticework of desks designed to accommodate even more torture victims. We’ve been preparing for the test for months, but it never felt real. We’ve been called to this and many other of the school’s larger rooms at least once a week for the last two months, only to be sent back out with the announcement that: “the testing administration is sorry to share that difficulties have prevented the exam from arriving safely and without compromised confidentiality.”
Today, the haggard face of John Mahr’s devious being appears even more drawn out as he slumps in corner seat. Another night undoubtedly spent stalking the test until the time came to pounce on its delivery convoy. All of my classmates are fully aware of his delinquency, though the administration never seems to catch on. All I know is that I, Mark Joseph Simmons, won’t be the one to risk retribution if I turn him in.
Looking around after taking my seat, my hesitance is mirrored in every one of my peers, leaving bags packed away under seats–testing materials secured inside. We wait together in anticipation of our release back to class.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you all know what to expect after the previous weeks’ disappointments. At this time, I would like to inform you all that the exam was once again assaulted in its voyage to the academy. This time, however, it was not compromised and we have reasonable suspicion toward the offender. Will Mark Simmons please rise and follow Officer Johnson to Principal Franklyn’s office whilst we distribute the test to the remaining body.”