Journey Across the Four Seas by Veronica Li

slits of my eyes I could see that the pink blobs had grown into one another to form an enormous pig’s head.
    There was no use in pretending to study anymore. I crawled into bed, itching and aching all over. My head felt as if an axe had split it right down the middle. I turned toward the wall, away from the lamp that was still burning at Renee’s desk, and shed silent tears. Sleep was impossible that night. Long after Renee had shut down, my twitching and scratching went on.
    The next morning my dorm mates were shocked to see my pig’s head. "What happened to you!" they exclaimed. At Great Hall the same question was thrown at me from left and right. To each I replied that I’d eaten something that didn’t agree with me. My classmates didn’t probe further, for they had their own skins to save. The ordeal ahead would tax their mental and physical capacity to the maximum.
    We filed into Great Hall. I daresay there was no place in this world as solemn as this examination hall. Every detail was designed to remind us of the gravity of the occasion—the shiny waxed floor that dared anyone to scuff it, the desks and chairs lined up like headstones in a cemetery, and the high breezy ceiling that cast a chill in the air. No matter what season it was, you shivered the moment you stepped into Great Hall. And you would shiver even more when you saw Miss Archer licking her index finger and placing the test papers face down on each desk. The morning session was devoted to Part I: economic theory. Two others were to follow in the afternoon—economic history and economic policy. Each portion was to last three hours. The marathon began at eight in the morning and would go on till seven in the evening. It was as much a test in stamina as in knowledge.
    When I took my place, my body was still itching and my head hurting. But the minute Miss Archer announced, "You may start now," all my discomforts were forgotten. I grasped the pen and scribbled away. Miss Archer’s definitions poured out of me. Much to my surprise, I’d retained more than I thought. There was only one problem—my fingers couldn’t move fast enough. The pen kept slipping out of my swollen fingers. My script looked like the slow, clumsy scrawl of a child learning to write. When the bell rang, I’d finished only three of the four questions.
    After a short lunch break, we sat down for the second paper. Economic history was my forte, and therefore my hope for salvaging the morning’s damage. There were six essay questions. I browsed them over and found that there were no surprises. But the problem of my fingers remained. Getting them to hold a pen was as frustrating as trying to manipulate a bunch of bananas. The effort was so painstaking that my hand cramped up after two essays. Pausing to rest, I listened helplessly to the frenzied scratching of my classmates’ pens.
    A wave of fatigue washed over me. The floor rolled under my feet. I held on to the desk to steady myself. When I looked up, the white wall was spinning toward me like a typhoon, the heavens and earth were tumbling round and round, and Miss Archer was swirling in the midst of it all. I closed my eyes and the last I remembered was the cool surface of the desk on my cheek.
    The bell woke me. For a second or two, I didn’t know where I was. Around me echoed the scraping of chairs, the scuffling of shoes. My classmates were walking out of Great Hall. The open page of a notebook stared up at me, a half-finished sentence leading to a large empty space that should have been filled with my handwriting. I wanted desperately to pick up my pen and resume writing, but exam rules were strictly enforced. All pens must be down at the sound of the bell. Anyone who disobeyed would be disqualified. Tears welled up in me. I fought them back and stumbled out of the hall.
    My head was still swimming when the class returned for Part III. During the break my classmates had avoided me as I’d avoided them. Nobody seemed to