I left Matthew to his nervous bouncing and went to retrieve James and Kevin, who were carousing with women who were twice their age and out on a self-proclaimed “girls’ night out.” I grabbed James from the clutches of a lady whose tight red and green twinset gave the illusion of holiday leftovers in Saran Wrap. Kevin reached for me like a life jacket. A woman with expired highlights had been gabbing to him about her son, who seemed “just like” him . . . “funny—like, you know.” God bless her—she loved her boy “even still.” Girls’ night out seemed to inspire open-minded declarations from suburban moms right around the third cosmopolitan.

Outside, our chariot awaited us. Matthew was sitting in the back of a horse-drawn carriage with a young man in dungarees leading the way. He’d finagled a bargain rate for a ride back to James’s place. Let’s just say it wasn’t a joy ride—drunk, packed, horse, awaiting bar exam results. Upon pulling up to the building, the horse defecated on our front stoop. We went inside.

11:56. Tick. Tick. Tick. Suddenly, I envied Brian. I wanted my mom.

11:58. Tick. Tick. Tick. Rocking.

Felt like on an airplane. With turbulence.

11:59. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Clock struck midnight. We logged on: http://www.nybarexam.org. Come on come on come on. Posting bar exam results online—at midnight no less—was cruel and unusual punishment. Especially considering that some kid named Joe actually offed himself in his basement apartment in the Bronx last year at 12:01 when he didn’t find his name on the pass list. But there was no time for institutional change. Our cell phones were ringing manically. I screened out Puja, Sanjay, and my mom.

12:01 AM. The Web page still hadn’t come up. That’s what happens when eight billion type As try to get onto the same Web site all at once. Sweat. Heart palpitations. The only thing worse than a panic attack was a panic attack drunk on dead skunk, stinking of horse manure. Click here for Exam Results.

“Who’s first?” Kevin demanded.

“Not me.” There was no way I was going to be the first to fail.

James stepped up to the plate. New York divided up its scores into four departments, broken down geographically. We scoured the A–F section under the first department (New York City). No James Calloway. We assured him he was in the fourth (for anyone who took the bar in NYC but was no longer there). He didn’t look remotely convinced and turned a bright orange. Sure enough—there he was. James exhaled a tornado before color returned to his face.

Kevin went next. I’d gone completely silent and still. Kevin Peterson was quickly found under the fourth.

My turn. Spinning. Sweating. Rocking.

“Are you OK, Sheila?” Matthew rubbed my back. “It’ll be fine. You passed.”

Ragazzo, Antonio. Raghavan, Sunil. Rahman, Abdul. Raoul, Julio. Sweat sweat sweat.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I-J.