Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 14

A sharp sound pierces the air, snapping my attention to the front of the room. The tall man with a posture my fourth grade piano teacher would have gone nuts over ignores the high pitched squeaks the chalk ekes out and steps away from the board to gaze at what he wrote:

INSPIRATION = JOB

Not only can't I place this class but when the teacher turns around, I'm startled to discover who's presiding over us.

Mr. Jordan surveys the group, then nods. "I believe all of you are here now."

Sitting in the seat diagonal to the front of me with long brown, tightly curled hair, Christina Phillips is giving him her full attention.

My insides are quietly freaking out as I try to pull myself together. The only thing I recall about Mr. Jordan's Art History class was convincing everyone we should register for it together.

"Before we get started, I want to provide everyone some words of encouragement. You're attendance today verifies that each of you did well enough on your assignments. This is all we ask of you. To do the best you can with what you have been given."

We had an assignment? I'm drawing a blank. What if he calls on me? I guess it could be worse. It could be a test.

"You will find on your desks individualized pretests. These have been issued based on the analyses conducted throughout your various assessments."

My fears are realized.

A sizable paper folded into a triangular shape is now sitting on my desktop. I'm pretty sure it wasn't there a minute ago. The others also have similar packets. Constructed of thick, suntanned paper and folded several times, it's definitely not like any kind of test I've taken before. Two globs of red wax are smeared across the seams. My initials are branded in the circular seals.

"Once the testing time starts, there should be no talking," Mr. Jordan says. "If you are perplexed by any particular area, take a moment to meditate. The answers may come to you. If not, remember: this is a pretest only. Now, are there any questions before we begin?"

My hand goes up.

"Yes, Ms. Temple?"

All eyes are on me, including Elizabeth Clark, one of the best volleyball players on my team. Wait. No Ethan or Vincent? No Abigail or Lindsey, either? I'm certain we all signed up for this class. How was I the only one selected?

"Ms. Temple? You have a question?" Mr. Jordan says.

"Yes. Um, since this is a pretest, our scores don't count toward our grade, right?"

"Suffice it to say that this assignment is for assessment purposes only. Rest assured this will not count against you," he dryly replies.

"You want us to break the wax on the paper?" says a freckled face girl with fire red hair sitting in the third row. "It's so pretty. And it looks like you put a lot of time into designing it, too. I'd feel bad just breaking it."

"Ahem." Mrs. Jordan, assistant coach for the cheerleaders and also the best dressed teacher at Landry High, is standing behind the over-sized wooden desk at the back of the room. Despite being Mr. Jordan's wife, she's one of the more likable teachers. I've never had her, but she's even passed Lindsey's coolness test.

"Well, that would be the work of my partner," he replies. "And yes, Ashley. Rupturing the seal is expected. Alright, class. If there are no further questions?" His eyebrow raises in my direction. "You will have all the time that's available. Remember, the goal is to carefully consider each section of your exam and give your best answer. Once you begin, I am not permitted to reply to any questions. There is no particular order in which you must proceed, so you may skip around to work on whatever you feel most confident. You may begin."

Snap. Pop. My classmates are breaking the seals on their triangular packets. Some are made of red wax, like mine. Others are blue, like Christina's. Ashley has an orange seal. Elizabeth's is yellow.

I bend mine until it cracks and brush off the broken fragments. As I examine it more closely, I instantly recognize what it is.

My neighboring student pulls the sides of her folded document and forms the mouth of the paper puppet.

I follow suit.

Although this is much larger, it's still just like the millions of paper fortune tellers I used to make all the time when I was younger.

Once I have each quadrant pulled out, I plug my thumbs into the bottom pockets and then my index and middle fingers into the top pockets. Both of my hands are swallowed up by the four holes of the giant puppet head. Written in ornate calligraphy, one name per side, are the following: John, Timothy, Daniel, James.

The girl to the left grumbles under her breath. "Really? This is so stupid."

"I know, right. What are we, like eight?" Someone else says in a whisper.

Not sure why they're complaining. It could be worse...or maybe it couldn't. What if I end up failing this test? He said it was just a pretest, but I'm clueless. Why didn't I remember to study for this? In fact, why can't I remember this class at all? None of my friends are with me. Our whole plan failed. I gave up a once in a lifetime writing program for a course taught by a teacher with the worst reputation.

The paper puppet face is staring at me, mocking me with his designer smile.