8
I didn’t want to know about their love story, and I certainly didn’t want to be a part of it.
September arrived, and I was a senior. As my homeroom teacher always said, nothing was more important
than the final exams. My only goal now was Brierfield University.
Later, Maya sent me updates on the Bill and Wendy saga. It turned out many of Wendy’s dance competitior titles were fraudulent. She’d even bribed an examiner during her arts college entrance auditions. Every stud-
ent who auditions for those programs endures unimaginable hardship-the tears, the sweat, the endless training. When someone cheats the system, in a world where there are already too few spots, the outrage is
immense.
The story broke online, where Wendy had a small following due to her “pure and innocent” image. As the scandal grew, her scores were invalidated.
Her reputation was in ruins.
With nothing left, she clung desperately to Bill. He was so worn down by her constant harassment that his parents transferred him to a new school just to get away from her. The Crestwood Confessions page was now filled with posts about how the school’s former “it couple” had become such a tragic mess.
I read it all like a distant observer, then went back to my books. The countdown calendar on the wall grew thinner and thinner. Every student was trying to stretch time, cramming one more concept, memorizing one more fact before the next monthly exam.
I saw Bill many times, standing outside the gates of Westwood High. He would just stand there silently, then after a while, he would leave.
Chapter 2
In June, after the relentless drone of the cicadas had faded, the final exams arrived. It poured rain that day. I remember the math section being brutally difficult. By the fifth multiple-choice question, my heart had sunk, my palms were sweating, and a cold dread washed over me.
When I walked out of the exam hall, I was sure I had failed.
The stairwells were filled with the sounds of students complaining about the math test. Some couldn’t take
it and just broke down crying. “That was impossible! I’m so dead!”
But time doesn’t pause for anyone’s complaints, and the exams don’t get easier just because you wish they would.
The last subject was biology. I double-checked my answers one last time, making sure I hadn’t missed anyth ing. I capped my pen. Outside the window, the world was a vibrant green. The classroom was silent.
The proctor announced there were five minutes left.
My high school career, my youth… it was all about to end.
Walking out of the exam hall, out of the school building, I looked back at Westwood High, the school I had only attended for a year and a half, and was filled with a wave of emotion.
I smiled and waved goodbye to my youth. Goodbye, Westwood. Goodbye to my eighteen-year-old self.
No one is eighteen forever, but there will always be people who are.
