But without hard work, I doubt I can scrape so much as a B+ on this test. Even if I could, I’ve never been able to perform well when I’m panicked. And I’m panicking hard right now. My heart feels like it’s about to explode in my chest, my fingers shaking so badly I almost drop my pen.

No. Focus, I urge myself. I look up at the ticking clock. Seven minutes have passed already, and my test paper is still blank.

Normally, by this point, I’d have written enough to cover two entire pages.

I attempt to answer the first question (“To what extent did the Warlord Era prove a turning point in the development of the revolution in China?”), but all that’s running through my head is fuck fuck I’m so fucked in a maddening, highly unhelpful loop.

When I check the time again, another minute has already passed. And all around me, people are writing, answering each question perfectly, scoring every mark, and I—

I can’t do this.

Oh god, I can’t do this.

I take a deep, shuddering breath that fails to fill my lungs. Another. It sounds like I’m hyperventilating. Fuck. Am I hyperventilating?

“Alice?” Mr. Murphy crouches down beside me. He’s whispering, but it’s pointless. Almost comical. With the whole room silent, everyone can hear him. “You look a little ill. Do you need to go to the nurse’s office again...?”

More eyes turn to me. Pin me down in place.

All while I’m trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

I don’t trust myself to speak—I’m not sure I’m even allowed to, under test conditions—so I just shake my head. Force myself to write a few sentences, slowly, shakily, over the printed lines.

It’s complete bullshit, of course. I have no dates memorized, no key events that I can recall. I’d turned invisible for half our class on the Warlord Era, and must’ve missed the important points.

After a few seconds of excruciating silence, in which Mr. Murphy seems to confirm that I’m not going to faint or throw up at his feet, he stands up and returns to the front of the room.

Meanwhile, the clock ticks on like a bomb.

“Please put your pens down.”

I glance up from my test paper, where my writing crawls over the page like spiders, nearly illegible in my frenzy. Evie Wu and I are the only people left in the class; the test was short enough that everyone else turned it in early. Henry left the classroom before half an hour had even passed, his stride confident, his face calm.

Evie’s face, on the other hand, must look a lot like mine: bright red and shiny with sweat, as if she’s just finished running a marathon. When she hands her test to Mr. Murphy, I notice that the entire back page is empty, save for one or two hastily scribbled words.

“Thank you very much, Evie,” Mr. Murphy says. Then pauses. “I hope you didn’t find this test too difficult. I’d hate to have to give your mother another call...”