This school is extraordinary — sprawling across 30 football fields, complete with its own teachers’ village. It boasts farms for fruits, vegetables, and livestock, alongside four rivers perfect for swimming, kayaking, and diving. Massive gardens are designated for school socials, while hundreds of hidden corridors and caves remain forbidden to students.

 

“Did you know some students actually ride to classes on horseback?” Imani asks, sitting down opposite me at lunch. My homeroom teacher paired us as buddies.

 

Imani talks too much, takes too many notes, and is more cheerful than a frolicking dolphin, but I kind of like her. I wonder what she did to warrant her exile to this place. She doesn’t seem at-risk, uncooperative, or difficult.

 

Her voice has a lilting quality, and she speaks like someone who’s always rehearsing for a musical. When she’s really excited, her long ponytail bounces from one shoulder to the other.

 

“I’m so signing up for riding lessons!” she says.

 

“I take it you also met Starburst?” I ask her, glancing up.

 

“Starburst?” She frowns. “No, I came in on Stella. This cute little pony—”

 

I’m about to tell her about the horse, but a young boy — probably around 13 — comes barrelling into the dining hall, blood gushing from his mouth; it spills through his fingers when he tries to stop it with his hands. A few prefects rush forward and carry him out before he causes further commotion.

 

An older boy with freckles and messy black hair sits down at our table. His hands are covered in blood, and Imani passes him a napkin. We watch him wipe his hands, smearing deep red stains on the soft cream cloth.

 

“Do you know what happened to him?” Imani whispers, pointing her thumb in the general direction of where the boy had stood just minutes ago.

 

We lean in as the older boy, with the name tag ‘Elias,’ tells the story.

 

“That boy was sent here because he gets choked up every time he tries to speak to an authority figure. You see,” Elias explains, “he’d been a witness to a violent crime but lost his voice when he tried to testify in court. Because he wouldn’t speak up, a criminal was released, and several more people died.”

 

A look of fear passes between me and Imani.

 

“His test — which he obviously failed —”

 

“Test?” I interrupt.

 

“Yes, the test,” Elias says. “This school is not like other schools. You don’t come in, complete all your grades, and then leave after Matric, ending your high-school career off with a beautiful ball.” Elias laughs as if the idea of a lovely school farewell is absurd. “Everyone at this school is here because they couldn’t handle life and began spiralling into self-destruction.”

 

Elias looks around the hall, a sad smile spreading across his face.

 

“We were all exiled for different reasons, brought to this place, waiting to pass a test created just for us,” he explains.

 

Elias waves the bloody napkin around. “The school made that boy face an illusion of his worst fear: an aggressive authority figure. The boy was required to tell the truth about the crime he witnessed that day to break the spell. And each time he couldn’t, the enchantment grew stronger, cutting up his mouth and lip —”

 

“Until he began to choke on his own blood…” Imani completes his sentence, rubbing the sides of her arms.

 

“Exactly. These tests are serious. They’re not mere illusions or silly charms.” Elias picks a roll off the pile on the table and starts buttering it with the knife from Imani’s plate. “That bra will be in the hospital for the next month trying to recover.”

 

“I have to get out of here,” I say.

 

Elias laughs. “There is only one way out of this school, and the teachers determine when you’re ready to take your test. What that test is, we’re never told — but you’ll know when you’ve passed. One of the senior teachers, like Mrs Lunga, will pin a golden badge to your chest and send you back home, granting you a second chance at your real life.

 

Some people leave a few months after they start, while others remain after Grade 12, becoming teachers at this place because they’re still waiting for their tests.”

 

Imani and I sit quietly, listening to Elias chew. How can he eat after seeing all that blood?

 

Noting the sobering shift in the air, Elias slams his palms on the table and laughs. “Ag, but not everyone’s tests are as severe as that boy’s. It depends on what brought you here.”

 

“I just want them to give me my test and then send me back out into the real world,” I say.

 

Imani raises a brow. “Right, right. Because your real life was so great and you can’t wait to get back to it, right, Kat?”

 

Tell us: How do you think our past mistakes shape who we become, and how much should they affect how others see us?