The examination hall smelled like old wood and anxiety. Rows of desks stretched before me, each one occupied by a thirteen-year-old trying to pretend they weren't terrified. The eighth-grade entrance exam. The thing that would supposedly determine the trajectory of our academic futures, or at least that's what Principal Morris had said during his dramatic assembly speech last week.
I wasn't terrified. I was never terrified.
I took my assigned seat near the middle of the room, third row from the front, four seats from the left. Close enough to see the clock but far enough from the proctor's desk to avoid unnecessary attention. My backpack went under the chair. Two pencils, one pen, an eraser, and a calculator sat arranged on my desk in perfect alignment. Everything in order. Everything controlled.
"Luke."
I glanced to my right. Marcus Chen sat one desk over, already looking pale. Marcus had been my partner for the science fair last year. Not because we were particularly close, but because his father was a chemist and had access to equipment that made our volcano project actually impressive. We'd won second place. Marcus thought we were friends now.
"Hey," I said, my voice even and calm.
"Man, I barely slept last night," Marcus whispered, his fingers drumming nervously on his desk. "Did you study the geometry section? I kept mixing up the theorems and—"
"You'll be fine," I interrupted smoothly. "You're good at math. Just breathe."
It was the right thing to say. Marcus's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he nodded, looking pathetically grateful. People were easy like that. Give them a small reassurance, show a tiny bit of confidence in them, and they'd calm down. It was almost boring how predictable it was.
The proctor, Mrs. Henderson, stood at the front of the room with a stack of exam booklets. She was old, maybe sixty, with reading glasses that hung on a chain around her neck. She looked like someone's grandmother, which probably made most students underestimate how strict she'd be about cheating. I knew better. I'd done my research. Mrs. Henderson had failed three students last year for looking at their neighbors' papers. She walked in a pattern too—front to back along the left side, then back to front along the right, then down the middle. Every twelve minutes, like clockwork.
"Good morning, students," Mrs. Henderson's voice cut through the nervous murmurs. "You have three hours to complete this examination. It consists of four sections: Mathematics, Language Arts, Science, and a final essay portion. You may not use your phones or any electronic devices besides the approved calculators on your desks. You may not speak to other students. If you need to use the restroom, raise your hand, but you may only leave one at a time."
She paused, letting her eyes sweep across the room with the kind of intensity that made even me sit up slightly straighter.
"This exam will determine your placement for eighth grade. Take it seriously. You may begin when I place the booklet on your desk."
The room fell silent except for the sound of Mrs. Henderson's sensible shoes clicking against the linoleum floor as she moved between the rows, placing exam booklets face-down on each desk. When she reached mine, I kept my expression neutral, unreadable. She didn't even glance at me. Good.
"You may begin. You have three hours starting... now."
The sound of pages flipping filled the room like a flock of birds taking off.
I opened my booklet methodically. Name, date, student ID number. Fill in the bubbles completely, use a number 2 pencil. The usual bureaucratic nonsense. Then the first section: Mathematics.
Fifteen questions, multiple choice, followed by five that required showing work. I scanned them quickly, my mind already categorizing them by difficulty and point value. Two algebra problems, basic. Three geometry questions about angles and triangles. Four about probability and statistics. One calculus problem that was probably meant to separate the average students from the ones who'd been studying ahead.
I started with the easiest ones first. Not because I needed to build confidence, but because it was strategic. Lock in the guaranteed points, then allocate remaining time to the problems that required more thought. Sports had taught me that—you don't waste energy on unnecessary movements. Every action should be calculated, efficient.
The pencil moved across the page with steady precision. Question one, answer B. Question two, answer C. Question three required calculation, but it was simple Pythagorean theorem. My hand moved almost automatically, muscle memory from hundreds of practice problems.
Around me, I could hear the sounds of struggle. Pencils scratching frantically. Someone's eraser rubbing so hard it squeaked. A quiet sigh of frustration from behind me. Marcus was writing quickly to my right, his body language suggesting he was either very confident or very panicked. Probably panicked. Marcus always wrote faster when he was nervous, as if speed could compensate for uncertainty.
I finished the math section in forty minutes. That left two hours and twenty minutes for the remaining sections. More than enough time.
Language Arts was next. Reading comprehension, vocabulary, grammar. This was even easier than math. Language was just pattern recognition, another system to decode. Read the passage, identify the main idea, eliminate obviously wrong answers, choose the most defensible option. The vocabulary section was almost insulting—words like "benevolent" and "adversity" that any decent reader would know by sixth grade.
I moved through it like water flowing downhill, following the path of least resistance. Efficient. Controlled.
The Science section was more interesting. Biology questions about cellular processes, chemistry problems about reactions and compounds, physics problems about force and motion. I'd always liked science because it was honest. Numbers didn't lie. Chemical reactions didn't care about social hierarchies or who was popular. Things either worked or they didn't. There was something almost comforting about that clarity.
Forty-five minutes later, I'd completed three sections. I glanced at the clock. One hour and thirty-five minutes remaining. Mrs. Henderson was making her fourth circuit around the room, her eyes sharp behind those ridiculous glasses. A girl in the front row had her hand raised—bathroom break. Mrs. Henderson nodded curtly, and the girl scurried out, looking like she might cry from stress.
Pathetic.
I turned to the final section of the booklet. The essay portion. My eyes skimmed the instructions:
Choose ONE of the following prompts and write a 500-700 word essay. Your response will be evaluated on clarity of thought, supporting examples, and writing quality.
Three options were listed.
The first: "Describe a challenge you have overcome and what you learned from the experience."
Standard. Boring. Every student would write about struggling with a difficult subject or dealing with a sports injury or some other manufactured hardship designed to make them look resilient and reflective.
The second: "If you could have dinner with any historical figure, who would you choose and why?"
Even more cliché. Someone would pick Einstein, someone else would pick Martin Luther King Jr., and the graders would have to read forty variations of the same derivative essay about inspiration and admiration.
The third option sat at the bottom of the page, and as I read it, something cold settled in my chest.
"What does loyalty mean to you? Provide a personal example."
My pencil stopped moving.
I read the question again, slower this time, as if the words might change.
What does loyalty mean to you? Provide a personal example.
Around me, students were already writing. I could hear Marcus's pencil scratching enthusiastically across paper—he'd probably chosen the historical figure prompt. Safe. Easy to fabricate. To my left, a girl with red hair was writing slowly, deliberately. She'd probably chosen the challenge prompt.
But I sat frozen, staring at that third option.
Loyalty.
The word seemed to pulse on the page, growing larger with each passing second. My mind, usually so quick to formulate responses, to calculate angles and craft perfect answers, had gone oddly quiet.
I knew exactly how to write this essay. I could see the structure forming even now—a compelling opening about what loyalty means in abstract terms, a touching personal anecdote designed to showcase emotional depth and moral growth, a conclusion that tied everything together with mature self-awareness. The graders would eat it up. I'd probably get full points.
But my hand wouldn't move toward the paper.
Because the moment I'd read the word "loyalty," a name had surfaced in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
Jamie.
Jamie Park, with his ridiculous obsession with comic books and his laugh that was too loud for any social situation. Jamie, who'd been my best friend from second grade through the beginning of seventh. Jamie, who'd sat with me at lunch every single day for five years. Jamie, who'd helped me study for tests and covered for me when I'd skipped class to try out for the track team. Jamie, who'd told me things he'd never told anyone else, who'd trusted me with secrets and insecurities and dreams.
Jamie, who I'd stopped talking to eight months ago.
Not because of a fight. Not because of some dramatic betrayal or falling out. I'd simply... stopped. I'd found a new group to sit with at lunch, kids who were more athletic, more popular, more useful for my social positioning. I'd started leaving Jamie's texts on read. When he'd tried to talk to me in the hallway, I'd been polite but distant, always with somewhere more important to be.
Eventually, he'd stopped trying.
I could still remember the look on his face the last time he'd approached me. Not angry. Not even particularly hurt, at least not outwardly. Just... confused. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle that didn't have enough pieces. He'd asked if I wanted to come over to watch the new Marvel movie that weekend. I'd said I was busy. He'd said maybe next weekend then. I'd said maybe, in a tone that made it clear I meant no.
He'd nodded slowly. Said "okay." Walked away.
That was it. No dramatic confrontation. No moment of realization where he'd called me out for being a terrible friend. Just... acceptance. And somehow that was worse.
The clock ticked above me. One hour and twenty minutes remaining.
I looked down at the essay prompt again.
What does loyalty mean to you? Provide a personal example.
My intelligence, usually my greatest asset, was now working against me. I could see the situation with perfect clarity, could analyze exactly what I'd done and why I'd done it. Jamie had been loyal to me—absolutely, unquestioningly loyal. And I had calculated that his loyalty was worth less than the social advantages I'd gain by moving to a different friend group. It had been a strategic decision, made with the same calm efficiency I brought to everything else.
I'd never felt particularly bad about it. Jamie was fine. He'd found other friends, other people to sit with. It wasn't like I'd destroyed his life. People drifted apart all the time. It was normal. Natural. Just the way social dynamics worked.
So why couldn't I start writing?
I picked up my pencil. Put it back down. Picked it up again.
I could write about Jamie. Frame it as a learning experience: "I learned the importance of loyalty by failing to show it to someone who deserved better. This taught me that relationships have value beyond their strategic utility." Self-aware, mature, exactly what the graders wanted to see. I could already imagine the comments in red pen: "Excellent self-reflection!" "Mature perspective!" "Shows real growth!"
But something about that felt wrong. Not morally wrong—I'd long ago accepted that morality was mostly social programming designed to control behavior. Just... wrong in a way I couldn't quite articulate.
Writing it down would make it real. Would force me to examine something I'd been very carefully not examining for eight months.
Mrs. Henderson's shoes clicked past my desk. I kept my expression neutral, but my jaw was clenched. My athletic training had taught me to control my body, to hide pain and fatigue behind a calm exterior. But right now, that exterior was taking more effort to maintain than it should.
Marcus glanced over at me, probably wondering why I hadn't started the essay yet. I was always the one who finished first, who made everything look easy. I could see the question forming in his eyes: Was Luke struggling?
I looked back down at the page. My hand was completely steady. No trembling, no visible sign of distress. To anyone watching, I probably just looked like I was thinking carefully about my essay approach.
Inside, something I didn't want to name was happening.
I thought about loyalty as a concept. It was irrational, really. Staying committed to people even when they no longer served a purpose in your life. Maintaining relationships out of obligation rather than utility. It was inefficient. Sentimental. The kind of thing that held people back from making optimal choices.
But then I thought about how Jamie had covered for me when I'd skipped Mrs. Patterson's class to make the track team tryout. He'd told her I was in the nurse's office, had even gone to the trouble of signing the excuse sheet with my name (badly, but the effort was there). He'd risked getting in trouble himself for literally no benefit.
That was loyalty.
And what had I given him in return? Polite distance. Strategic abandonment. The slow, cold drift of someone who'd decided that friendship wasn't worth the social cost anymore.
I could write about something else entirely. Choose prompt one or two. Play it safe.
But my eyes kept returning to that third option. What does loyalty mean to you?
The honest answer was: loyalty meant something I'd never actually practiced. I understood it in abstract terms, could define it, could recognize it in others. But I'd never felt obligated to it. People were resources, relationships were tools, and when a tool stopped being useful, you set it aside. That was rational. Efficient.
So why did Jamie's face keep appearing in my mind? Why could I remember, with uncomfortable clarity, every time he'd laughed at my jokes, every time he'd shared his lunch when I'd forgotten mine, every time he'd waited for me after track practice even though it meant he had to walk home in the dark?
The clock read one hour remaining.
I started writing.
Not the essay I'd planned. Not the strategic, mature reflection designed to score points. Just... words. Honest words, maybe for the first time in longer than I wanted to admit.
Loyalty means staying even when leaving would be easier. It means valuing someone not for what they can give you, but for who they are. I know this because I had a friend who showed me exactly what loyalty looked like, and I repaid him by pretending he didn't exist.
My hand moved across the page, faster now. The words came easier than I'd expected, like they'd been building up behind some internal dam and finally found a way through.
His name was Jamie Park. We were best friends from second grade until the beginning of seventh. He was the kind of person who remembered everyone's birthday, who would help you study even if it meant he'd do worse on the test himself, who believed that friendship meant something beyond convenience.
I wrote about the comic books he'd lent me, even though I'd never been particularly interested in superheroes. About the time he'd talked me through my parents' divorce, sitting on his porch for three hours while I tried not to cry. About how he'd never asked for anything in return, never kept score, never made me feel like I owed him.
And then I wrote about how I'd left.
I stopped answering his texts. I found new people to sit with at lunch. When he tried to talk to me, I was always busy, always had somewhere more important to be. There was no fight, no dramatic ending. I just calculated that the social benefits of moving to a different friend group outweighed the value of maintaining our friendship.
My pencil pressed harder against the paper.
He stopped trying eventually. And I told myself it was fine, that people drift apart, that it was just the natural evolution of middle school social dynamics. But the truth is simpler and uglier than that: I understood exactly what loyalty meant because Jamie showed me every day for five years. I just decided it wasn't worth practicing.
The essay was supposed to be 500-700 words. I was well past that now, but I couldn't stop. Words kept coming, sentences forming faster than I could fully process them.
I could write about what I learned from this experience, frame it as personal growth, make it sound like I've become a better person who understands the value of loyalty now. But that would be another manipulation, another strategic move designed to get a good grade. The reality is messier. I still think about friendship strategically. I still evaluate people based on what they can offer me. The only thing that's changed is that now I know exactly what I'm doing when I make those choices.
Mrs. Henderson announced thirty minutes remaining. Students around me were finishing up, some looking relieved, others worried. Marcus had put his pencil down and was reviewing his answers.
I kept writing.
Maybe loyalty means something different to everyone. Maybe for some people, it's this grand, noble thing that defines their character. For me, it's Jamie Park's face the last time he asked if I wanted to hang out, and the casual cruelty of my "maybe" that we both knew meant never. It's the absence of something I still don't fully understand, even as I'm writing this.
I wrote until Mrs. Henderson called time, until my hand was cramping and the page was covered in sentences that were far too honest for a school essay.
When I finally put my pencil down, I felt strange. Not relieved, not cathartic, not like some weight had been lifted. Just... aware. Uncomfortably, unavoidably aware of something I'd been very successfully ignoring.
"Pencils down," Mrs. Henderson commanded. "Close your booklets and place them at the edge of your desk."
I closed the booklet. My essay—raw, honest, probably too personal for what the graders were expecting—was sealed inside. No taking it back now. No editing it into something more strategic and less revealing.
Marcus turned to me as Mrs. Henderson collected the exams. "How do you think you did?"
"Fine," I said automatically, my voice calm and controlled. "You?"
"I think I nailed it," he said, looking relieved. "I wrote about having dinner with Stephen Hawking. What prompt did you pick?"
"The loyalty one."
"Oh man, that one seemed hard. What did you write about?"
I looked at him for a moment, this kid who thought we were friends because I'd strategically partnered with him for a science project. Who'd probably cover for me if I asked him to. Who I'd drop without hesitation if someone more useful came along.
"Just some stuff about friendship," I said, standing and grabbing my backpack.
"Cool," Marcus said, completely oblivious to the fact that I'd just written an essay that basically admitted to being exactly the kind of person who would use him and discard him when convenient.
We walked out of the examination hall together. Students flooded into the hallway, talking loudly about how easy or difficult the test was, what answers they'd gotten, whether they'd pass. The usual post-exam chaos.
I separated from Marcus at the intersection, claiming I had to meet someone. He waved goodbye cheerfully, and I walked toward the exit alone.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from David Rodriguez, the captain of the track team and my current "best friend" by virtue of his social status and connections. "