Chapter 1: The Impossible Answer Sheet

In the silent testing room, I suddenly raised my hand to get the proctor’s attention. The stale air was tinged with pencil shavings and last week’s cafeteria pizza, thick with that special kind of tension that comes with state exams. The only sounds were the soft squeak of sneakers on linoleum and the nervous shuffle of pencils. My heart thudded against my ribs as I shot my hand up, feeling every pair of eyes flick to me—no matter how hard they tried not to stare.

The proctor walked over, his khakis brushing the worn tile. He leaned down, badge glinting—Mr. Carter, it said—and asked in a slightly distracted voice, "Hey, what’s going on? Something wrong with your test?" He looked more like a tired dad than a rule-enforcer, his brows raised, voice low so the others wouldn’t get spooked.

I looked up at him with the most sincere expression I could muster, eyes wide and honest, frustration bubbling just below the surface. "There’s an answer sheet in my desk."

My voice was steady, but my hands were clammy, the words feeling heavy with a weird, misplaced guilt. I’d never cheated—never even thought about it—but right now, I was desperate to sound like the kind of student who always followed the rules. As soon as I spoke, a flash of embarrassment burned through me, bringing up a memory of the time in third grade when I got blamed for drawing on the bathroom wall—a crime I didn’t commit. The sting of injustice was all too familiar.

"Uh…" The proctor looked like he’d never dealt with this before. He glanced over at Ms. Jefferson, who was pacing between the rows, mouthing a silent question. She just shrugged, equally clueless. For a split second, I wondered if this would become one of those stories people whispered about for years.

Pretty soon, I was the center of attention in the testing room. Even the students who had mastered the art of not caring were sneaking glances my way. I could feel their curiosity prickling at my neck, and someone behind me whispered, "What’s going on?" only to be shushed immediately. I swallowed hard, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me instead.

To avoid disturbing the other students, one of the proctors led me out into the hallway. The school’s faded mascot stared at us from the wall, grinning like it was in on the joke. We stepped into the echoing corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, lockers lining the walls like silent witnesses. The distant thud of basketballs in the gym was oddly comforting.

Outside, the proctor questioned me, "Is this answer sheet yours?" He held up the paper delicately, like it might burn him. I noticed his fingers trembling just a little, which made me feel a bit better—at least I wasn’t the only one thrown off by this.

"It’s not mine. It just showed up in my desk out of nowhere."

I tried to keep my voice from cracking, but the confusion must have been obvious. I looked at the answer sheet again, half-expecting to see my own handwriting or something—anything to explain it. But it was just a generic printout, nothing that tied it to me at all.

He frowned and asked, "So how’d it get in there? Didn’t we have everyone check their desks before we started?" His tone was more confused than accusatory, like a dad trying to figure out how the remote disappeared.

I remembered how everyone had dutifully opened their desks before the test, teachers hovering nearby. "I really did check. This just appeared out of thin air. And if it was really mine, why would I tell you about it?"

I could hear the desperation in my voice, but at this point, I didn’t care. I stared him straight in the eye, willing him to believe me. The hallway clock ticked behind us, every second stretching out the tension.

The proctor just blinked, speechless for a moment, looking from me to the answer sheet and back again. His mouth opened and closed like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. For a split second, I thought maybe he actually believed me.

Just then, the head proctor happened to walk by. He spotted us talking and came over, asking, "What’s going on? Is there a problem with this student?" Mr. Reynolds looked like every principal I’d ever had—tall, graying, and with an air of authority that made you want to straighten your posture. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the scene like he was solving a puzzle.

"Mr. Reynolds, you’re just in time. This student says he found an answer sheet in his desk," the proctor reported, handing over the sheet.

The words hung in the air as Mr. Reynolds took the paper, his expression growing more serious by the second. He flipped the sheet over, then back, searching for a clue or maybe a punchline.

His frown deepened, turning a bit panicked as he squinted at the sheet, holding it close to his bifocals. His forehead wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth turned down. My stomach twisted—I’d never seen him look rattled before.

He pointed at the answer sheet and asked me, voice stern, "Where did you get this?" It was the kind of tone that made you want to shrink back into your sneakers.

Seeing how intimidating he was, I didn’t bother to sugarcoat anything. After all, the answer sheet had just appeared. So I straightened my back and replied, "It’s not mine. It just showed up. If you don’t believe me, you can check the security cameras."

I tried to sound unflappable, but my hands fidgeted with my sleeve, my heart pounding. I forced myself to meet his gaze. There was nothing else to say.

"Check them! We have to check!" Mr. Reynolds barked, his voice echoing through the building. His outburst made me jump. Doors down the hall cracked open as teachers poked their heads out, trying to figure out what the commotion was about. It felt like the whole school paused to listen.

The proctor quickly pulled Mr. Reynolds aside. I watched them step closer, huddled in a whisper-fight, arms folded, voices tense. I rocked on my heels, pretending not to hear, but their words bounced off the metal lockers and came right back to me.

"Sir, is this really necessary?" the proctor asked, voice wavering, like he knew he was in over his head.

"Necessary? Look at this answer sheet—it has every single answer to the test!" Mr. Reynolds nearly hissed, waving the paper. A teacher from across the hall paused, wide-eyed, before hurrying away.

"No way! Does that mean the test was leaked?" I watched the proctor’s face drain of color. Suddenly I worried about how this would blow back on everyone. The idea that the SATs could be compromised was like the ultimate school nightmare.

"I’m telling you, we have to take this seriously. Today is the last subject of the SATs. We can’t afford any screw-ups. If we don’t handle this, neither of us will keep our jobs!" The stakes felt real now—like the future of the whole school, not just my own, hung in the balance. I felt a wave of guilt, even though I was just as confused as everyone else.

With that, they brought me to the security office. It was a cramped little room tucked behind the front office, filled with dusty monitors and the smell of burnt coffee. I perched on the edge of a plastic chair as they rewound the footage, eyes glued to the flickering screens.

After watching the camera footage more than ten times, they finally believed me: the answer sheet really had just appeared in my desk out of nowhere. Every time they hit replay, the footage showed my empty hands and a clean desk—until, in one frame, the answer sheet just popped into view like a magic trick. By the tenth time, Mr. Reynolds’s mouth was hanging open, and the proctor had stopped blinking altogether.

"Sir, what do we do now?" the proctor asked, awe and terror mixing in his voice, like he half-expected the desk to start spitting out money next.

"You’re asking me? I’ve been proctoring for over twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this." Mr. Reynolds ran a hand through his thinning hair and stared at the ceiling, as if waiting for divine inspiration. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin.

"Maybe… we should call the police?" The suggestion hung there, both absurd and somehow not absurd enough. I pictured a squad of officers storming the school, only to find a haunted desk.

"Call the police? Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Reynolds glared at the proctor, then turned to me. "Alright, go back and finish your test."

His words snapped me out of my daze, but I caught the way his hands were shaking. Apparently, even grown-ups didn’t have a handbook for magic answer sheets.

I rolled my eyes at Mr. Reynolds. After wasting so much of my time, what could I possibly write now? I slumped my shoulders, my usual test-day adrenaline replaced by tired frustration. My brain was fried, the clock already ticking against me. I thought about arguing, but what was the point?

Not wanting to stir up more trouble, I followed the proctor back into the testing room. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum as we slipped inside. Heads turned, whispers chased me back to my seat, every pair of eyes burning holes in my back. I kept my eyes glued to my desk, trying not to notice the hush that followed me like a shadow.

As soon as I sat down and was about to pick up my pen, I noticed the corner of a white sheet poking out from the desk. I pulled it out—another answer sheet. My stomach flipped. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. But no, the paper was as real as my racing heartbeat. The room seemed to shrink, every detail sharp—the posters about academic integrity, the dusty sunlight through the blinds.

I raised my hand again. The proctor seemed to have anticipated this and hurried over. When he saw yet another answer sheet in my desk, he nearly lost his balance. He looked like a man about to faint, hands fluttering at his sides. His eyes darted between me and the desk, then back to me, like he was searching for a camera crew waiting to yell, "Surprise!"

He looked at me, eyes wide with disbelief. "How is there another one?" His voice was almost a squeak, barely audible over the creaking of a nearby chair. The disbelief on his face was almost comical, if the situation weren’t so bizarre.

I shook my head, showing I had no idea either. I tried to give him a helpless half-smile, the kind you give when you’re in way over your head. My palms pressed against my thighs to steady my nerves.

The proctor crumpled up the answer sheet and gestured for me to continue the test. He seemed to hope that maybe, if we ignored it, the weirdness would stop. I nodded, though every instinct told me we were past the point of pretending this was normal.

I nodded and was about to start writing, but once again, I saw a sheet full of answers inside the desk. My hands trembled as I slid the sheet out. With each new sheet, my breath came faster. I started counting them under my breath, hoping the next one would be the last. I started glancing around, half-expecting to see Rod Serling in the corner, narrating my descent into the Twilight Zone in a skinny black tie, ready to break the fourth wall.