I’ve met. I’ve failed. But the moments before I know which outcome I have achieved are always the same. My palms sweat with beads of anxiety. My whole body feels like its heating up and like my molecules colliding. I feel as though if I shake anymore I will soon evaporate. My head pulses as my heart’s might pumps blood through my veins. I take deep breaths and try to relax my shoulders but the tension only eases for a breath or two. A boa constrictor wraps slowly around my throat and with every dwindling breath I feel the hole in my stomach grow deeper. It feels as though my brain is being suffocated by a thick heavy blanket that falls around it and tunnels my vision. The room closes in until I’m the only one there.

The distinct smell of Bedford Senior High School fills my nose. They all smell the same: Papers, erasers, perfume, overwhelming Axe body spray, dry erase markers, pencil lead, fear, and anxiety. The hallway is poorly lit with flickering lights that haven’t been fixed and I immediately regret wearing a sweater because the walk to my locker is extremely humid. The hallways are becoming increasingly crowded with people as the clock nears the time that the bell rings telling students they have five minutes to get to class. The weariness increasingly fading off their faces with every step they take. Most will still be half asleep when they get to first hour anyway. Many have stayed up late and woken up early as student life demands. My friends and I are share these qualities with the people streaming around us. Although, my friend Sara and I spend the moments leading up to 7:15, when we start our venture to the school from the parking lot, sitting in my big, grey, Chevy Silverado truck with heat on talking about whatever comes to mind. I glanced at the one of the only working clocks in the building and decided I had time to stop at my locker before first hour.   My shoes squeak on the waxed floor as I walk. I am not particularly dressed up but I hardly look homeless. I wear skinny jeans most days and today is no different. They are ripped but the holes are patched with a darker denim. A long blush pink sweater drapes over me and turns my top half into a formless figure. I have cuffed my jeans, I think they look better that way, and I have a pair of shoes on that I stole from my moms closet. My hair is down and is a little longer than shoulder length. I am growing it out after cutting it short about this time last year. My nails are bare as per usual and some are shorter than others from my bad habit of chewing them when I am stressed. I wear no makeup except for the swipe of mascara and curled eyelashes. At this point I am already ready to turn around and walk back out of the heavy silver doors to my car, to my house, to my bed and feel the sweet darkness engulf me, releasing my anxiety.

The sounds that besiege me consist of squeaky desks and nervous tapping and driftless coughs and sneezes followed by quiet  “Excuse mes” and “Bless yous”. Backs are being jabbed by the uncomfortable blue chairs and my peers are forced to change positions after a while so a new spot can be poked and prodded. People rest their feet on the unused baskets under the desk proceeding theirs to gain some refuge from the cramped quarters. Some people are fanning themselves while others are putting on sweatshirts. The floor is the color that everyone feels. A bland grey that was once probably another shade but irregular cleaning and piles of dust bunnies have altered it. Shining silver table, chair, and desk legs accessorize the room. The blue tennis balls, that prevent the squeaks of chairs, are filthy and only covering half the chair legs in the room.The teacher drones on and the feeling of impending doom fills the hearts of the students as we await to see our fortune.

So here I am. Ready to face the reality of my choices. “Did I study enough? How bad were my guesses? I think I did alright. Have I fallen into a false sense of security?” my mind floods with doubt. I press down on my touchpad and pause before I hear the second click and the button spring back up into my hand. I play with the thought of not having to do through this again. The small arrow traces the outline of a circle and then the screen flickers to a new. I look in the corner. A 96/100 pops up into view. I feel like my heart is being pushed out of my chest and it forces a smile onto my face. The reality of the thought sets in. "I didn't fail, my parents will be proud", I think to myself. I try to push my smile down but it relentlessly creeps across my face like a trickle of water flowing around a barrier. I look around. Some faces have smiles drawn on them and some have frowns and eyes filling with tears. Others have no emotion. These ones calmly shuffle their papers and put them neatly in their notebook and look up when they are done to see what is the class will move onto. These people are a known mystery to me. Some are disappointed with their grade but hide it behind a placid facade. Some are happy but don't want to show it for fear that they will hurt someone else. I have known the unknown. I have been the person hiding failed expectations and I have been the person who chooses not to scream my met ones from the rooftops. I try not to imagine what I would have felt if I failed. The feeling like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff looking down. The fear of falling. Like I was on the brink of plunging into the unfathomably deep water below the jagged bluff. I push the memories aside and remind myself that I am not standing on the edge.

So family, friends, peers, me, myself, and I. If I have failed what you expect of me I am sorry. If I have met what you expect of me I will try my hardest to meet your expectations again. Everyone carries something. I try to carry everyone. Everyone who requires or calls for something of me. I carry you and I carry the weight of what you insist upon.