CHAPTER 12 – A Day in the Life (2)

She studied all night, thanks to her private room.
And thanks to her inexhaustible [Stamina].

With her studious self, iron will, and the [System], she crammed six AP Physics Papers and self-evaluated with total confidence that she would ace the exam.

At 5:30 AM, she tried to wake up the others for Yoga, succeeding only in dragging Ava to their morning routine.

At 6:30, she took advantage of Josefina’s limited-time breakfast offer, consuming two portions of toasted bolillos, washed down with heavily sugared coffee.

At 7:15, she stepped out into the campus and jogged her way down to Salazar Hall, waving at the familiar faces of College students living in or near her dorm. With a routine and a face like hers, she was very quickly becoming a local attraction, which suited Eppie’s purpose well. After all, if some creep were to corner her somewhere near the dorm, people who knew her voice and silhouette were far more likely to come to her help, preventing her from becoming yet another Kitty Genovese.

At 7:45, she arrived at the threshold of Salazar Hall, an enormous, brutalist L-shaped rectangular structure of concrete, brick and glass. In the shadow of its incredible bulk, the temperature dropped, and the scent of the eucalyptus-lined campus changed to the stink of antiseptic.

In the lobby, she was met by Coordinator Carr, who had volunteered to see her through the process. The Director didn’t have to do this, nor was this her duty, but she was truly, TRULY thankful for the gift of Excel (™).

The lobby was positively cavernous. In the morning hours, only the admin staff and students with early exams stalked the halls. Following her Director, they made it through hallway after hallway until they reached the C-Wing.

The auditorium they entered had no windows. It was a tomb world, like Antigone’s resting place. Vivid fluorescent lights banished all shadow, leading her eyes toward Proctor’s desk, where a middle-aged, sleep-deprived man sat on the desk with arms crossed and eyes closed in a short-sleeve shirt and Cal-State vest, one loafer tapping the concrete floor.

There were a half-dozen students in the room, all young men.

She smiled at them.

One of the boys grew so startled that he almost stood to greet her, dragging his table a meter across the room.

The Proctor coughed. “Right. That’s everyone. This is Euphemia Fontaine, I assume.”

“I am, sir,” Eppie bowed her head.

“Sit.”

She moved toward the boys.

“No, Miss Fontaine, sit behind them.”

She moved past the boys, who gave her big smiles and hopeful grins.

Eppie was glad that she chose all black, ankle-length yoga pants and a full sleeve Cal State jersey. Had she worn her croptop, the Proctor might have requested that she leave and come back when the boys were done.

She bid Susan goodbye with a confident grin, received her well-wishes, then sat.

The Proctor walked by with a plastic box. “Phones OFF. It rings. You fail.”

Eppie gave up her phone, as did everyone else.

“No labels on water bottles. Clear bottles only,” the instructions continued. “Pencils and Calculators. I will now issue you your standard TI-85s.”

Once he was satisfied, the Proctor asked them to check the number of booklets. “Alright then. My name is Marcus Cunningham, and I am your AP Physics Competency Exam Proctor. The paper will take exactly 120 minutes. There are 40 multiple-choice questions and three free-response problems. Read the content provided on the front page. Do not open the packet until I give the mark.”

“Check your Scantrons now. IDs need to be bubbled correctly. If you make a mistake, raise your hand. Do not get up. Do not make a noise.”

Eppie closed her eyes.

Neutral Face.
Neutral Body.
Neutral Mind.

“You may now begin.”

The onomatopoeia of flapping books filled the auditorium. The past papers were as fresh to her mind as the cold waters of Santa Monica Bay.

The Proctor returned to his desk, eyes half-closed, his gaze scanning the test-takers like a hawk.

With the ease of a dancer gliding across the stage, her pencil tap-dances across the Scantron, chasing the results of her tried and tested mental math. She finishes Newtonian law in minutes. She blasts through Energy and Momentum, hopscotching across friction calculations and elastic collisions. Next came Rotational Dynamics, where her momentum could not be stopped. Electricity and Magnetism were her weak points, so she slowed down to take it easy, solving for resistance by carefully double-combing her parallels and series until she was sure of the answer.

In fifty minutes, she was done with section one.

Her second section consisted of three long-form answers.
One, the Atwood Machine, solving for acceleration.
Two, the Roller Coaster, solving for Conservation of Energy.
Three, Electric Field Variable, her worst possible area, solving for value.

She finished the first two in under thirty minutes, the last in thirty minutes, then double-checked her answers, concluding with a flourish of double lines on her final derivatives.

“TIMES UP.” Cunningham’s voice rang out, together with the clatter of pencils and collective groans.

The student ahead of her slumped in his chair, a dead man.

As the last student, Eppie was to return her packets first. She rose with grace and slid past the zombies with the grace of a video game protagonist. At the Proctor’s desk, her answers landed with a soft thump.

The Proctor’s eyes moved from her face to her test.
Her bubbles were laser-etched. Flawless.

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“May I?” he smiled at last.

“Please do,” Eppie smiled back.

Proctor’s grin grew as he scanned the Scantron data sheet. When he opened her long-form answers, he audibly sucked-in a lungful of air-conditioned air.

“You did this?” the man licked his lips.

“Is there… something wrong?” Eppie grew suddenly paranoid.

“No… no,” the man looked to her, then to the test, then to her hand. “You have… really good handwriting. Usually, the students write in Arabic.”

Eppie cocked her head. “Arabic numerals, sir?”

“No, no… Arabic…” her Proctor flipped through the pages. “This… is a pleasure to grade. Thank you, Miss Fontaine.”

Eppie held back her laughter, lest the other testers grow hostile.

Outside the testing hall, she was just about to find lunch when a voice called out her name, flagging her down.

“Erm…” One of the college fellers had a face as red as a baboon’s bottom. “Eppie, do you want to grab some food? I would love to discuss some of the questions with you. That Atwood Machine question… um…”

“MISTER JONAS,” the booming sound of their Proctor called out from inside the hall. “If you need advice from our fifteen-year-old Sophomore, then I suggest you retrieve your test now, and not waste my time.”