If you walk past the great hall on a Monday morning, while the matriculants are lined up outside, you can tell by the look on their faces what exam they’re writing that day. Well, you can make a few educated guesses anyway.

For example, if the students are eating snacks and chatting while they thumb the pages of their books, they’re probably brushing up on setwork for an English or Afrikaans exam.

And if they only have snacks and it looks like they’re playing games outside the hall, they’re about to sit down to write a language paper.

But if you walk past the great hall and there are no snacks or smiles, and everyone is seated on the ground, frantically referencing textbooks, tapping their calculators, and only speaking to their friend to compare answers or lend a pencil sharpener, we’re probably writing one of the ‘deadly subjects’. This refers to any subject that, if you fail it, your mother will murder you.

Here’s the list of deadly subjects my school offers:
Physical Sciences,
Accounting,
Economics,
and the deadliest of all — Mathematics.

Mrs Harris, the headmistress who smiles more than anyone I know, walks down the corridor. In the stillness her heels click softly on the wooden floor. Each student whispers their greeting as she walks by. Aside from the occasional crinkle of paper as someone turns their page, it’s quiet.

“Khanya,” she whispers, “You’re writing Maths today?”

I look up, relieved at the distraction.

“Yes, ma’am. First paper.”

Mrs Harris slides the key into the door to the great hall. She stands aside so the students can enter.

While I’m speaking to her, one of the boys snatches my favourite pen. If the headmistress wasn’t talking to me, I would have chased after him. It’s just like Sizwe to irritate me before an exam. He’s liked me since grade eight.

Our headmistress takes a special interest in me because I’m one of the students who received the Star Scholar Award – this merit bursary is the only reason my mother can afford to send me to this school.

Mrs Harris is always reminding me that I can do anything, be anyone I want. As wonderful as her support is, it can also be equally crippling.

Sometimes I’m so afraid I’ll disappoint her or my mother, that I put off studying until the last minute. And this time I was stupid enough to get one of my anxiety attacks just before a big maths exam.

“You feeling prepared?” Mrs Harris asks.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am,” I tell her, feeling like a soldier who’s been taught to parrot things back to her commanding officer.

Mrs Harris laughs. She’s the youngest headmistress in the school’s history and most of the teachers didn’t think she’d last when she started here three years ago. Like me, she has the desire to exceed expectations.

In the evenings when I return home, after taking two taxis and the late train, the young boys sitting outside the shebeen mock me. They tell me my white socks will always be stained with township dust no matter where I go.

Mrs Harris and I are more alike than most people would think. I’m also here to prove something — that a girl from Gugs can be a success.

Mrs Harris reaches into her lunch bag and takes out a bright red apple.

“You need to stop intermittent fasting when it’s exams,” she jokes. Her smiling face makes me feel less ashamed for not eating breakfast.

Unlike my classmates, who jump from one diet to the next as they prepare to squeeze into tiny matric ball dresses, when I don’t eat, it’s because my mother’s boss paid her late again.

Mrs Harris knows this. And she never forgets how much I love sweet red apples.

I thank her, then enter the hall. After I’ve dropped my bag, I head to the front to sign my name on the register.

I run my finger down the list and stop at M, for Mthembu. Then I pat my pockets. No pen. Thanks, Sizwe.

“Ag kom nou, Khanya,” Elana says, getting annoyed that I’m hogging the sign-in sheet.

I spot a golden pen on the desk near me. I grab it and sign my name.

Elana gives me a side-eye as she rips the sheet away.

Unthinkingly, I pocket the golden pen. It must belong to one of the invigilators and they get paid enough to buy a replacement. Unlike my classmates, I don’t have a big pencil case filled with stationery.

***

Two hours later, I have barely inked in three answers. Most people are halfway through their tests and I’m sweating bullets.

I look at the pen, wishing it could write the answers for me. If only I’d studied harder or more, perhaps I would not have had a panic attack.

I start making patterns in the answer booklet, wondering if I’ll score points for creativity.

I wish I had more time, I think. Then I write these words in the lower margin. I put my head in my hands, wondering if I should pray for a miracle.

And by the time I look up, everything is frozen.

Tell us: Are there any exams you dread writing? What’s your least favourite school or college subject and why?