Barcelona, North East Spain

The minutes tick quickly out of my reach and I am still lost within the test. My hair has lengthened and hangs shaggily over the collar of the clubbing shirt recruited for the S.A.T. Surprisingly even with this unorthodox look I am not out of place, as I might be in some cold American test facility in New England. The Spanish students surrounding me wear clothes that make them look good rather than excessively formal. The atmosphere is tense (of course some things never change) but friendly and we seem more like good friends sitting down for dinner in a trendy restaurant rather than strangers in a dusty conference room taking the S.A.T.

It is the proving ground, this exam that can secure you a place within the walls of academia or bar you from the same. Steve has helped me prepare to combat this test, coached me through the many math sections until the gibberish started to make sense. Unfortunately nothing prepares for the real thing and my fingers tap restlessly against the desk, my eyes riveted to the square wall clock. Its like a starters gun, the moderator up at the front calmly saying ‘you can begin’ as we scramble to open the booklets and start writing.

Later I stand up feeling bruised and sore, finish the last tick box, hand in the paper and walk slowly down the stairs as shaky as if I had escaped Lorcas, ‘Shipwreck of blood’. In the test centre restaurant Steve sits and waits for me, then together we escape the Orwellian looking test center and exit onto the street, the trees a leafy green above us.