This certainly was not the sort of question Reynie had expected. It was only a question of preference. Anyway, of course he liked to watch television — everybody liked to watch television. As he started to mark down the answer, however, Reynie hesitated. Well, did he really? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn’t, in fact, like to watch television at all. I really am an oddball, he thought, with a feeling of disappointment. Nonetheless, he answered the question truthfully: NO.
The next question read: “Do you like to listen to the radio?” And again, Reynie realized that he did not, although he was sure everyone else did. With a growing sense of isolation, he answered the question: NO.
The third question, thankfully, was less emotional. It read: “What is wrong with this statement?” How funny, Reynie thought, and marking down his answer he felt somewhat cheered. “It isn’t a statement at all,” he wrote. “It’s a question.”
The next page showed a picture of a chessboard, upon which all the pieces and pawns rested in their starting positions, except for a black pawn, which had advanced two spaces. The question read: “According to the rules of chess, is this position possible?” Reynie studied the board a moment, scratched his head, and wrote down his answer: YES.
After a few more pages of questions, all of which Reynie felt confident he had answered correctly, he arrived at the test’s final question: “Are you brave?” Just reading the words quickened Reynie’s heart. Was he brave? Bravery had never been required of him, so how could he tell? Miss Perumal would say he was: She would point out how cheerful he tried to be despite feeling lonely, how patiently he withstood the teasing of other children, and how he was always eager for a challenge. But these things only showed that he was good-natured, polite, and very often bored. Did they really show that he was brave? He didn’t think so. Finally he gave up trying to decide and simply wrote, “I hope so.”
He laid down his pencil and looked around. Most of the other children were also finishing the test. At the front of the room, munching rather loudly on an apple, the test administrator was keeping a close eye on them to ensure they didn’t cheat. She was a thin woman in a mustard-yellow suit, with a yellowish complexion, short-cropped, rusty-red hair, and a stiff posture. She reminded Reynie of a giant walking pencil.
“Pencils!” the woman suddenly called out, as if she’d read his thoughts.
The children jumped in their seats.
“Please lay down your pencils now,” the pencil woman said. “The test is over.”
“But I’m not finished!” one child cried. “That’s not fair!”
“I want more time!” cried another.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry you haven’t finished, children, but the test is over. Please pass your papers to the front of the room, and remain seated while the tests are graded. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”
As the papers were passed forward, Reynie heard the boy behind him snicker and say to his neighbor, “If they couldn’t finish that test, they shouldn’t even have come. Like that chess question — who could have missed it?”
The neighbor, sounding every bit as smug, replied, “They were trying to trick us. Pawns can only move one space at a time, so of course the position wasn’t possible. I’ll bet some stupid kids didn’t know that.”
“Ha! You’re just lucky you didn’t miss it yourself! Pawns can move two spaces — on their very first move, they can. But whether it moved one space or two is beside the point. Don’t you know that white always moves first? The black pawn couldn’t have moved yet at all! It’s so simple. This test was for babies.”
“Are you calling me a baby?” growled the other.
“You boys there!” snapped the pencil woman. “Stop talking!”
Reynie was suddenly anxious. Could he possibly have answered that question wrong? And what about the other questions? Except for the odd ones about television and bravery, they had seemed easy, but perhaps he was such a strange bird that he had misunderstood everything. He shook his head and tried not to care. If he wanted to prove himself brave, after all, he had better just stop worrying. If he must return to his old routine at the orphanage, at least he had Miss Perumal. What did it matter if he was different from other children? Everyone got teased from time to time — he was no different in that respect.
Reynie told himself this, but his anxious feeling didn’t fade.
After all the tests had been turned in, the pencil woman stepped out of the room, leaving the children to bite their nails and watch the clock. Only a few minutes passed, however, before she returned and announced, “I shall now read the names of children admitted into the second phase of the test.”
The children began to murmur. A second phase? The advertisement hadn’t mentioned a second phase.
The woman continued, “If your name is called, you are to report to the Monk Building on Third Street no later than one o’clock, where you will join children from other sessions who also passed the test.” She went on to lay out the rules about pencils, erasers, and disqualification. Then she popped a handful of peanuts into her mouth and chewed ferociously, as if she were starving.
Reynie raised his hand.
“Mm-yes?” the woman said, swallowing.
“Excuse me, you say to bring only one pencil, but what if the pencil lead breaks? Will there be a pencil sharpener?”
Again the boy behind Reynie snickered, this time muttering: “What makes him so sure he’ll be taking that test? She hasn’t even called the names yet!”
It was true — he should have waited until she’d called the names. He must have seemed very arrogant. Cheeks burning, Reynie ducked his head.
The pencil woman answered, “Yes, if a sharpener should become necessary, one will be provided. Children are not to bring their own, understood?” There was a general nodding of heads, after which the woman clapped the peanut grit from her hands, took out a sheet of paper, and continued, “Very well, if there are no other questions, I shall read the list.”
The room became very quiet.
“Reynard Muldoon!” the woman called. Reynie’s heart leaped.
There was a grumble of discontent from the seat behind him, but as soon as it passed, the room again grew quiet, and the children waited with bated breath for the other names to be called. The woman glanced up from the sheet.
“That is all,” she said matter-of-factly, folding the paper and tucking it away. “The rest of you are dismissed.”
The room erupted in outcries of anger and dismay. “Dismissed?” said the boy behind Reynie. “Dismissed?”
As the children filed out the door — some weeping bitterly, some stunned, some whining in complaint — Reynie approached the woman. For some reason, she was hurrying around the room checking the window locks. “Excuse me. Miss? May I please use your telephone? My tutor said —”
“I’m sorry, Reynard,” the woman interrupted, tugging unsuccessfully on a closed window. “I’m afraid there isn’t a telephone.”
“But Miss Perumal —”
“Reynard,” the woman said with a smile, “I’m sure you can make do without one, can’t you? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must sneak out the back door. These windows appear to have been painted shut.”