At Half Past Seven

On a cold wall in a school courtyard there is a sheet of paper held up by four pins. A boy stands in front of it looking for his name in a long column, and finds it on the fourteenth line: his name, then his hall number, then his seat number. Nothing else. He has no title here and no history, no father, no wealth, nothing of what he used to say about himself at break. One line, and a whole year folded into it.

Outside the door there is a wooden shelf where bags and phones are left. The boy puts his bag there as everyone does, and goes in light, carrying nothing. This is the first rite of the hall: you enter alone, and everything you leaned on for months stays outside.

He climbs the stairs and pushes a wooden door, and it creaks. The hall is wider than he thought. The chairs stand in rows at equal distances, and on the back of each one there is a small number in chalk. He walks between the rows counting until he reaches his own, and sits down. He lays two pens on the desk, leans back, and looks at the clock hanging above the blackboard.

Then the invigilator comes in carrying a sealed envelope. He holds it up for everyone to see, then breaks the seal in front of them; and he passes between the rows laying a paper face down on every desk, saying what invigilators have said in every age: do not turn the paper over until you are told. Then he stands by the door and waits.

And everything goes still. The boy hears his own breath, the scrape of a shoe on the tiles, the tick of a hand on the clock, and a heartbeat he cannot account for.

Then the bell rings.