These Things are Sent to Test Us
Bridget Nicholas Scott High School Fiction
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These Things Are Sent to Test Us The home of the perfect child was the color of the water in day-old puddles. Perhaps I’d been expecting pearly gates. Stylus in hand, I flicked through virtual pages until I found a clean slate on my tablet. I pasted my reporter’s smile over my lips and rang the doorbell. The doorknob rocketed backwards. I thrust my hand at the woman in the doorway. “Beryl van Hart, education columnist for the PanU.S Press. Mrs. Dunsse, mother of Perfecta?” “Oh yes, yes, that’s me. Call me Angela, please.” Mrs. Dunsse bared her teeth. She was squat with a crispy halo of orangish hair. Her eyebrows were overplucked, her upper lip underplucked, and the mustachioed area painted with fuchsia lipstick to give the impression of fullness. “Come in, please. I’ll fetch Bernard. Please, Miss van Hart, make yourself comfortable.” I followed her into a cramped sitting room cluttered with maroon sofas and bookshelves. Settling myself into an armchair, I peered at the titles of the Dunsses’ coffee-table reading. Rhetorical Techniques of 15th Century Writers, Population Trends of Eurasian Invertebrates, and The Comprehensive History of Western Mathematics. “Fascinating reading,” I remarked as Mrs. Dunsse bustled in with a stoopshouldered man at her elbow.
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Mr. Dunsse looked as though he had been stretched from a wad of drooping putty. Everything about him was limp—his few strands of gray hair, his wide lips, and his beige shirt and rumpled argyle tie. “Beryl van Hart.” I shook his hand—soggy and lifeless. “Nice tie.” He flapped a hand in a gesture of uncertain meaning. “I’ll bring Perfecta,” he mumbled, ambling away. Mrs. Dunsse perched on the edge of the sofa. “So, Miss van Hart, what would you like to know about my darling Perfecta?” “The public would like a personal impression of Perfecta. We want to know that even geniuses are ordinary in some ways.” Mrs. Dunsse’s lips bunched together. “My daughter, Miss van Hart, is anything but ordinary.” I raised my eyebrows and my stylus skittered across my notepad. “I see.” “Miss van Hart, this is our daughter, Perfecta,” said the morose voice of Mr. Dunsse. I turned, shooting a smile at the top of a pale-haired head visible behind Mr. Dunsse’s shoulder. “Perfecta, I presume? Beryl van Hart, PanU.S Press.” Perfecta Dunsse dodged my outstretched hand and sagged into the sofa beside her mother. Her skin, hair, and eyes were a dispirited gray-beige, like she had been run through the wash too many times. Her eyes were huge and slightly bulging, reflective like mirrors, and her lank hair was meekly restrained by an Alice band. She wore a woebegone grayish sweater, corduroy pants, and square leather shoes. A lime green
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fanny pack was buckled around her waist. I couldn’t catch her gaze: she stared not at me but through me. I gazed into her eyes and noticed a shred of lettuce stuck between my teeth. “So, Perfecta,” I began, tapping my fingers on my knee to draw attention away from the motions of my stylus. (PERFECTA IMBECILE?) “You’ve received a perfect score on every standardized test in the U.S. You broke the SAT—the president of College Board was committed to an asylum after your results were sent out. You scored a whopping 40 on the ACT. The scale only goes to 36. How did you manage that?” Perfecta stared at me. A fly looped around her head and drifted onto her nose. “She sent the test back with revisions,” said Mrs. Dunsse. “What tests have you taken, Perfecta?” Perfecta became fascinated with a point to the left of my head. “Perfecta has scored perfectly on the ACT, SAT, PSAT/NMSQT, ELPT, ITBS, GHEA, IELTS, HSPT, CLEP, PLAN, FAIL, ZWULNBLU, WHYOWHY, and QYPUEE,” said Mrs. Dunsse, giving Perfecta a pat on the head. “How impressive. How have you prepared Perfecta for doing so well on all of these tests?” Mrs. Dunsse’s eyes shone. “All her life we’ve been preparing her to succeed on the tests that will guarantee her any college or career she chooses. She could read by age two and perform intermediate algebraic functions by age six. We home-schooled Perfecta to—” “I understand that Perfecta once received a ninety-percent on a preschool-level quiz?”
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A sound like the croak of a dying bullfrog came from Mrs. Dunsse’s throat. Perfecta shrank back into the cushions. “We do not speak of that.” The fly hit the window with a gentle thump. Mrs. Dunsse cleared her throat. “As I was saying, we home-schooled Perfecta to give her the best education possible. There is never a moment in which Perfecta is not actively learning.” I wondered what Perfecta was learning about her current focus, the fabric of her sweater, at the moment. “Is it true that you’re not just a student, Perfecta, but involved in other activities?” I asked. Perfecta chewed on her sleeve. “We trained Perfecta to feel comfortable about standardized tests when she was very young,” explained Mrs. Dunsse. “She feels more comfortable if you explain the time constraints, topic, and type of question asked before starting a conversation.” I blinked. “Uh . . . The following . . . test . . . will take up approximately sixty minutes and will involve . . . .” I looked at Mrs. Dunsse. “Short answer, multiple choice, and true/false questions, on the subject of . . . .” she prompted. “Perfecta Dunsse’s life?” I finished. Perfecta’s face relaxed; she looked up from her sweater. “First question is in, er, short answer format. What are you involved in?” Perfecta’s brow furrowed and she glanced at her mother. “Essay 58, dear.”
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Perfecta spit words out with great concentration. “It-is-important-for-a-student-tobe-well-rounded-to-succeed-in-the-workforce. I-have-been-involved-in-orchestra-crosscountry-volunteering-at-the-animal-shelter-competitive-chess-science-fair—” “How did you decide to get involved in so many activities? You certainly seem well-rounded.” “It-is-important-for-a-student-to-be-well—” “Yes, but why?’ Terror flickered in Perfecta’s eyes. “It-is-to-your-advantage-to-answer-all-of-thequestions-to-the-best-of-your-abilities-even-if-you-must-guess.” “What’s your favorite?” “It-is-important-for-a-student-to-be—” “Next question, why don’t we?” interrupted Mrs. Dunsse. “All right. What are your methods for preparing yourself for success, Perfecta?” Mrs. Dunsse answered for her. “Perfecta’s day is divided into a variety of subjects. This week, from wake-up at six through breakfast it’s higher mathematics. Eight through ten is quantum physics. From ten to twelve, she studies foreign language— Perfecta speaks 17 languages, you know.” “Really? ¿Hablas español?” I asked. Perfecta looked at me without comprehension. “Spanish, dear,” said Mrs. Dunsse. Perfecta snapped to attention. “Ah, be, ce, de . . . .’ “Greek?” “Alpha, beta, gamma, delta . . . .”
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“Armenian?” “Ayb, ben, gim, da . . . .” “Ogham?” “Ailm, beith, coll, dair . . . .” “Mandarin Chinese?” Perfecta gave a high-pitched wail. Shuddering, she clutched at her hair and tried to tug it out by the roots. “What did I do?” “Mandarin Chinese doesn’t have an alphabet,” said Mrs. Dunsse, patting Perfecta’s clenched fists. “Perfecta has mastered the alphabet—letters ‘a’ through ‘k’—in 17 languages.” “But what use is that?” Mrs. Dunsse smiled. “So she can answer the questions, of course!” A shrill beep sounded from the alarm clock on the mantle. Perfecta released her hair and drew out a laptop computer from her fanny pack. Balancing it on her lap, she jabbed at keys with her index fingers. Click CLICK click click CLICK CLICK CLICK click. I peered over her shoulder. AJKJDBHHCCHKJAKCGH . . . . “What are you writing, Perfecta?” “To familiarize Perfecta with multiple-choice format, we taught her a shorthand using letters A through K. Perfecta translates this to ordinary English later.” “Wouldn’t it be easier to just use the regular alphabet?”
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“We have invented the multiple-choice-essay, Miss van Hart,” said Mrs. Dunsse proudly. Perfecta click-clacked away. “I have pasta on the stove—care to come in for dinner?” I followed her into a kitchen dominated by a metal table that would have looked more at ease hosting cadavers than food. I sniffed—a stench emanated from a pot of viscous brown liquid. A similar pot contained entrail-like pasta, which Mrs. Dunsse prodded with the tip of a wooden spoon. Perfecta, clutching her laptop to her chest, huddled into one of the straight-backed chairs. Mr. Dunsse rummaged in drawers, grabbing fistfuls of silverware and napkins patterned with seashells. With the solemnity of a six-year-old given a task for the first time, he arranged silverware and napkin at each of the seats except Perfecta’s. I settled into a chair and turned to Perfecta, whose head was tilted to study my napkin. “So which is your favorite subject?” I asked. Terror stole into Perfecta’s eyes. “This question is in multiple-choice format: A, mathematics; B, English; C, science; or D, foreign language.” Tremors rippled through Perfecta’s shoulders. “E,” she squeaked. “There-is-noerror-in-the-preceding-sentence.” I blinked. “All right, true-false format. A is true, B is false. You have difficulty with opinions.” “A.” “Do you like this, all this studying?” “A.”
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“Do you ever get to spend time with other people?” “Collaborating-on-the-test-is-strictly-prohibited-and-will-result-in-thedestruction-of-both-tests.” “What college would you like to go to, Perfecta?” “All of them,” said Mrs. Dunsse. “What do you mean?” “All of them.” “In the United States, or . . . ?” “All of them.” “A,” intoned Perfecta. A lusty squelch indicated that Mrs. Dunsse was transferring her concoction to plates. Mr. Dunsse placed a timer, two sharpened pencils, a Scantron sheet, and a test booklet in front of Perfecta. She gazed at the booklet with a sort of rapture, a dribble of spittle trickling down her chin. “Here you go, Miss van Hart,” said Mrs. Dunsse, setting a heaping plate of entrail-pasta before me and sliding two other plates across the table. Perfecta was not served. “Where’s Perfecta’s dinner?” I asked. Mrs. Dunsse laid a possessive hand on her daughter’s head. “Perfecta is fed a highly concentrated, highly nutritive meal-shake to eliminate excess eating time.” She twitched a finger in Mr. Dunsse’s direction and he trotted to the refrigerator. He placed a cup filled with a substance that looked suspiciously like cat vomit in front of Perfecta. A straw poked out of the top.
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“Now, Bernard, will you say the blessing?” Mr. Dunsse cleared his throat and ducked his head. I followed suit, stylus poised. “O Testwriter who art in CollegeBoard, “Hallowed be thy work. “Thy test will come “Thy prompts be answered “In pencil, as instructed. “Give us this test our daily test “And forgive us our guesses “As we forgive those who write bad questions. “And lead us not into confusion “But deliver us from mediocrity, “For thine is the kingdom, “The power, and the glory “Forever and ever.” “Amen,” intoned Mrs. Dunsse, laying a pious hand over her heart. “Amen,” I repeated. I poked my spaghetti with the tip of my fork. As I was trying to decide where to hide it, Mrs. Dunsse lunged across the table and set the timer. With a slightly manic grin, she stabbed the START button. I heard a beep and then a horrible sucking sound like a clogged garbage disposal. I flinched and glanced at Perfecta, who had glued her lips to the straw of her cup so that she had both hands free to flick through the booklet with one and bubble furiously on the
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Scantron with the other. Her cheeks bulged and deflated in sickening rhythm—I could see the lump of meal-shake squeezing down her gullet. Mr. and Mrs. Dunsse divided their pasta into uniform squares. “What’s Perfecta doing?” I asked, trying to ignore the slurping noises as I sawed at my spaghetti. “Her nightly practice test,” said Mrs. Dunsse. The alarm on the timer went off and Perfecta threw down her pencil. Her mouth was rimmed in a brownish crust. “Let’s check those answers, shall we?” Mrs. Dunsse snatched up Perfecta’s Scantron and thrust it into a slot in the wall. A loud whirring noise and the sheet shot out again, smoking slightly. “Thirty-nine out of forty,” said a monotone female voice. Perfecta’s hands shook; her eyes widened in terror. Mrs. Dunsse rose like some avenging deity. Her arm raised, her index finger pointed to the back corner of the room. Perfecta wobbled out of her chair and wedged herself into the space between the stove and the refrigerator. Her trembling hand reached up and removed a cardboard cone from a hook above her. As she dropped it on her head, I realized that it bore the word “Mediocre.” “What did you answer for question twelve, Perfecta?” snarled Mrs. Dunsse, waving the Scantron. “What did you answer?” “C,” croaked the shuddering, slobbering creature in the corner. “C-eeeeeee.” “And what was the correct answer?”
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“A,” Perfecta moaned, dissolving into an animal whine. “Ayayayayyayayyayayayayayayay—” “What are the seven deadly sins, Perfecta?” shrieked Mrs. Dunsse. Mr. Dunsse bolted out of his chair and began to recite. “Estimation, Leisure, Mediocrity—” “MEDIOCRITY!” howled Mrs. Dunsse. She dashed for the door, flailing her arms, and disappeared. I glanced at Mr. Dunsse, who was standing on his chair and still belting out the seven deadly sins. “Collaboration, Distraction—” My notepad buzzed. I tore my gaze from the Dunsses and jabbed at the “BREAKING NEWS” bubble that had appeared on my screen. New education legislation has passed in Congress, effective immediately, changing national education standards. According to this bill, the current standardized testing system will be terminated, allowing students to be judged on a variety of criteria rather than the score on a single test. Mrs. Dunsse staggered through the door with a stack of test prep books in her arms and plopped them on the ground before Perfecta. She stooped and heaved them into stacks, walling Perfecta away from the rest of the kitchen. “Angela,” I began. “There’s some news you might take an interest in—” Mrs. Dunsse turned and hissed at me—actually hissed—so I turned my attention to Mr. Dunsse. “Excuse me, uh, Bernard—” Mr. Dunsse had started singing a song about the seven deadly sins. I cleared my throat. “Ah-HEM!”
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No one paid any attention. I slid a finger across the volume controls, jerking it up to supersonic level, and stabbed the “READ ALOUD IN PRETENTIOUS ACCENT” button that was flickering in invitation. Aristocratically clipped vowels erupted from my speakers. The textbook walls shuddered and then tumbled down, and Bernard dove under the table. Mrs. Dunsse was suddenly looming over me. I meekly pressed the mute button. “What did that say?” she said, her face rigid. “Standardized testing has been abolished,” I announced. “Perfecta will have to rely on her other merits to get into college.” In contrast to the post-dinner melee, the Dunsses’ reaction to the news seemed quite anticlimactic. Mr. Dunsse slithered out from under the table and curled up in the corner of the room; Mrs. Dunsse’s face blanched an unnatural chartreuse. Perfecta’s arm shot out of the rubble of her prep book prison and flailed wildly about. Mrs. Dunsse rushed to her. Even in such an unyielding mother, the maternal instinct prevailed after the traumatic news, I wrote. Soft whumps sounded from behind me as textbooks hit the ground one after another. Angela Dunsse ran to the aid of her daughter, tossing books aside as she reached out to embrace her perfect creation— A strangled gasp. My head jerked up. Mrs. Dunsse’s hands encircled Perfecta’s throat, thrashing her about like she was a disobedient rag doll. “WHY?” she roared. As the question was not in multiple-choice format, Perfecta remained limp, glassy eyes barely perturbed. “You failed me!” Perfecta recognized the word “fail.” A keening sound burst from her throat.
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Mrs. Dunsse bared her teeth, fuchsia-tinted saliva spattering onto Perfecta’s reddening face. “THE TEST GOD HAS DESERTED US! THERE IS NO PLACE FOR US IN THIS WORLD!” I snatched up The SAT for Child Prodigies and swung it into the back of Mrs. Dunsse’s head. She crumpled to the ground. I heaved her limp form off Perfecta and laid my hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” Her eyes were blank Scantron bubbles. “True-false format, A for true and B for false.” Her lips puckered and she gave a shrill beep. “Please-put-down-all-writingutensils-time-is-up.” “Perfecta, you’re free now,” I said, pulling her upright. I wondered what had happened to Mr. Dunsse—I couldn’t see him anywhere. Perfecta continued to beep in a forlorn sort of way, stepping over her mother’s body as though she didn’t even notice it. I guided her into a chair and she sagged. I patted her shoulder. “It’s all right,” I soothed, my stylus springing into my hand. “We’ll take you somewhere safe. Now, tell me, how does all of this make you feel?” Perfecta gazed up at me, and for a moment something flickered in her eyes. Her brows drew together; her mouth opened . . . she was thinking, really thinking— Beeping sounded from the living room. Multiple-choice-essay time. Perfecta whipped out her laptop. I peered over her shoulder as she pecked out her lament: DABCKJAKHCCAEGFHHH…….
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These Things Are Sent to Test Us The home of the perfect child was the color of the water in day-old puddles. Perhaps I’d been expecting pearly gates. Stylus in hand, I flicked through virtual pages until I found a clean slate on my tablet. I pasted my reporter’s smile over my lips and rang the doorbell. The doorknob rocketed backwards. I thrust my hand at the woman in the doorway. “Beryl van Hart, education columnist for the PanU.S Press. Mrs. Dunsse, mother of Perfecta?” “Oh yes, yes, that’s me. Call me Angela, please.” Mrs. Dunsse bared her teeth. She was squat with a crispy halo of orangish hair. Her eyebrows were overplucked, her upper lip underplucked, and the mustachioed area painted with fuchsia lipstick to give the impression of fullness. “Come in, please. I’ll fetch Bernard. Please, Miss van Hart, make yourself comfortable.” I followed her into a cramped sitting room cluttered with maroon sofas and bookshelves. Settling myself into an armchair, I peered at the titles of the Dunsses’ coffee-table reading. Rhetorical Techniques of 15th Century Writers, Population Trends of Eurasian Invertebrates, and The Comprehensive History of Western Mathematics. “Fascinating reading,” I remarked as Mrs. Dunsse bustled in with a stoopshouldered man at her elbow.
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Mr. Dunsse looked as though he had been stretched from a wad of drooping putty. Everything about him was limp—his few strands of gray hair, his wide lips, and his beige shirt and rumpled argyle tie. “Beryl van Hart.” I shook his hand—soggy and lifeless. “Nice tie.” He flapped a hand in a gesture of uncertain meaning. “I’ll bring Perfecta,” he mumbled, ambling away. Mrs. Dunsse perched on the edge of the sofa. “So, Miss van Hart, what would you like to know about my darling Perfecta?” “The public would like a personal impression of Perfecta. We want to know that even geniuses are ordinary in some ways.” Mrs. Dunsse’s lips bunched together. “My daughter, Miss van Hart, is anything but ordinary.” I raised my eyebrows and my stylus skittered across my notepad. “I see.” “Miss van Hart, this is our daughter, Perfecta,” said the morose voice of Mr. Dunsse. I turned, shooting a smile at the top of a pale-haired head visible behind Mr. Dunsse’s shoulder. “Perfecta, I presume? Beryl van Hart, PanU.S Press.” Perfecta Dunsse dodged my outstretched hand and sagged into the sofa beside her mother. Her skin, hair, and eyes were a dispirited gray-beige, like she had been run through the wash too many times. Her eyes were huge and slightly bulging, reflective like mirrors, and her lank hair was meekly restrained by an Alice band. She wore a woebegone grayish sweater, corduroy pants, and square leather shoes. A lime green
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fanny pack was buckled around her waist. I couldn’t catch her gaze: she stared not at me but through me. I gazed into her eyes and noticed a shred of lettuce stuck between my teeth. “So, Perfecta,” I began, tapping my fingers on my knee to draw attention away from the motions of my stylus. (PERFECTA IMBECILE?) “You’ve received a perfect score on every standardized test in the U.S. You broke the SAT—the president of College Board was committed to an asylum after your results were sent out. You scored a whopping 40 on the ACT. The scale only goes to 36. How did you manage that?” Perfecta stared at me. A fly looped around her head and drifted onto her nose. “She sent the test back with revisions,” said Mrs. Dunsse. “What tests have you taken, Perfecta?” Perfecta became fascinated with a point to the left of my head. “Perfecta has scored perfectly on the ACT, SAT, PSAT/NMSQT, ELPT, ITBS, GHEA, IELTS, HSPT, CLEP, PLAN, FAIL, ZWULNBLU, WHYOWHY, and QYPUEE,” said Mrs. Dunsse, giving Perfecta a pat on the head. “How impressive. How have you prepared Perfecta for doing so well on all of these tests?” Mrs. Dunsse’s eyes shone. “All her life we’ve been preparing her to succeed on the tests that will guarantee her any college or career she chooses. She could read by age two and perform intermediate algebraic functions by age six. We home-schooled Perfecta to—” “I understand that Perfecta once received a ninety-percent on a preschool-level quiz?”
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A sound like the croak of a dying bullfrog came from Mrs. Dunsse’s throat. Perfecta shrank back into the cushions. “We do not speak of that.” The fly hit the window with a gentle thump. Mrs. Dunsse cleared her throat. “As I was saying, we home-schooled Perfecta to give her the best education possible. There is never a moment in which Perfecta is not actively learning.” I wondered what Perfecta was learning about her current focus, the fabric of her sweater, at the moment. “Is it true that you’re not just a student, Perfecta, but involved in other activities?” I asked. Perfecta chewed on her sleeve. “We trained Perfecta to feel comfortable about standardized tests when she was very young,” explained Mrs. Dunsse. “She feels more comfortable if you explain the time constraints, topic, and type of question asked before starting a conversation.” I blinked. “Uh . . . The following . . . test . . . will take up approximately sixty minutes and will involve . . . .” I looked at Mrs. Dunsse. “Short answer, multiple choice, and true/false questions, on the subject of . . . .” she prompted. “Perfecta Dunsse’s life?” I finished. Perfecta’s face relaxed; she looked up from her sweater. “First question is in, er, short answer format. What are you involved in?” Perfecta’s brow furrowed and she glanced at her mother. “Essay 58, dear.”
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Perfecta spit words out with great concentration. “It-is-important-for-a-student-tobe-well-rounded-to-succeed-in-the-workforce. I-have-been-involved-in-orchestra-crosscountry-volunteering-at-the-animal-shelter-competitive-chess-science-fair—” “How did you decide to get involved in so many activities? You certainly seem well-rounded.” “It-is-important-for-a-student-to-be-well—” “Yes, but why?’ Terror flickered in Perfecta’s eyes. “It-is-to-your-advantage-to-answer-all-of-thequestions-to-the-best-of-your-abilities-even-if-you-must-guess.” “What’s your favorite?” “It-is-important-for-a-student-to-be—” “Next question, why don’t we?” interrupted Mrs. Dunsse. “All right. What are your methods for preparing yourself for success, Perfecta?” Mrs. Dunsse answered for her. “Perfecta’s day is divided into a variety of subjects. This week, from wake-up at six through breakfast it’s higher mathematics. Eight through ten is quantum physics. From ten to twelve, she studies foreign language— Perfecta speaks 17 languages, you know.” “Really? ¿Hablas español?” I asked. Perfecta looked at me without comprehension. “Spanish, dear,” said Mrs. Dunsse. Perfecta snapped to attention. “Ah, be, ce, de . . . .’ “Greek?” “Alpha, beta, gamma, delta . . . .”
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“Armenian?” “Ayb, ben, gim, da . . . .” “Ogham?” “Ailm, beith, coll, dair . . . .” “Mandarin Chinese?” Perfecta gave a high-pitched wail. Shuddering, she clutched at her hair and tried to tug it out by the roots. “What did I do?” “Mandarin Chinese doesn’t have an alphabet,” said Mrs. Dunsse, patting Perfecta’s clenched fists. “Perfecta has mastered the alphabet—letters ‘a’ through ‘k’—in 17 languages.” “But what use is that?” Mrs. Dunsse smiled. “So she can answer the questions, of course!” A shrill beep sounded from the alarm clock on the mantle. Perfecta released her hair and drew out a laptop computer from her fanny pack. Balancing it on her lap, she jabbed at keys with her index fingers. Click CLICK click click CLICK CLICK CLICK click. I peered over her shoulder. AJKJDBHHCCHKJAKCGH . . . . “What are you writing, Perfecta?” “To familiarize Perfecta with multiple-choice format, we taught her a shorthand using letters A through K. Perfecta translates this to ordinary English later.” “Wouldn’t it be easier to just use the regular alphabet?”
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“We have invented the multiple-choice-essay, Miss van Hart,” said Mrs. Dunsse proudly. Perfecta click-clacked away. “I have pasta on the stove—care to come in for dinner?” I followed her into a kitchen dominated by a metal table that would have looked more at ease hosting cadavers than food. I sniffed—a stench emanated from a pot of viscous brown liquid. A similar pot contained entrail-like pasta, which Mrs. Dunsse prodded with the tip of a wooden spoon. Perfecta, clutching her laptop to her chest, huddled into one of the straight-backed chairs. Mr. Dunsse rummaged in drawers, grabbing fistfuls of silverware and napkins patterned with seashells. With the solemnity of a six-year-old given a task for the first time, he arranged silverware and napkin at each of the seats except Perfecta’s. I settled into a chair and turned to Perfecta, whose head was tilted to study my napkin. “So which is your favorite subject?” I asked. Terror stole into Perfecta’s eyes. “This question is in multiple-choice format: A, mathematics; B, English; C, science; or D, foreign language.” Tremors rippled through Perfecta’s shoulders. “E,” she squeaked. “There-is-noerror-in-the-preceding-sentence.” I blinked. “All right, true-false format. A is true, B is false. You have difficulty with opinions.” “A.” “Do you like this, all this studying?” “A.”
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“Do you ever get to spend time with other people?” “Collaborating-on-the-test-is-strictly-prohibited-and-will-result-in-thedestruction-of-both-tests.” “What college would you like to go to, Perfecta?” “All of them,” said Mrs. Dunsse. “What do you mean?” “All of them.” “In the United States, or . . . ?” “All of them.” “A,” intoned Perfecta. A lusty squelch indicated that Mrs. Dunsse was transferring her concoction to plates. Mr. Dunsse placed a timer, two sharpened pencils, a Scantron sheet, and a test booklet in front of Perfecta. She gazed at the booklet with a sort of rapture, a dribble of spittle trickling down her chin. “Here you go, Miss van Hart,” said Mrs. Dunsse, setting a heaping plate of entrail-pasta before me and sliding two other plates across the table. Perfecta was not served. “Where’s Perfecta’s dinner?” I asked. Mrs. Dunsse laid a possessive hand on her daughter’s head. “Perfecta is fed a highly concentrated, highly nutritive meal-shake to eliminate excess eating time.” She twitched a finger in Mr. Dunsse’s direction and he trotted to the refrigerator. He placed a cup filled with a substance that looked suspiciously like cat vomit in front of Perfecta. A straw poked out of the top.
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“Now, Bernard, will you say the blessing?” Mr. Dunsse cleared his throat and ducked his head. I followed suit, stylus poised. “O Testwriter who art in CollegeBoard, “Hallowed be thy work. “Thy test will come “Thy prompts be answered “In pencil, as instructed. “Give us this test our daily test “And forgive us our guesses “As we forgive those who write bad questions. “And lead us not into confusion “But deliver us from mediocrity, “For thine is the kingdom, “The power, and the glory “Forever and ever.” “Amen,” intoned Mrs. Dunsse, laying a pious hand over her heart. “Amen,” I repeated. I poked my spaghetti with the tip of my fork. As I was trying to decide where to hide it, Mrs. Dunsse lunged across the table and set the timer. With a slightly manic grin, she stabbed the START button. I heard a beep and then a horrible sucking sound like a clogged garbage disposal. I flinched and glanced at Perfecta, who had glued her lips to the straw of her cup so that she had both hands free to flick through the booklet with one and bubble furiously on the
10
Scantron with the other. Her cheeks bulged and deflated in sickening rhythm—I could see the lump of meal-shake squeezing down her gullet. Mr. and Mrs. Dunsse divided their pasta into uniform squares. “What’s Perfecta doing?” I asked, trying to ignore the slurping noises as I sawed at my spaghetti. “Her nightly practice test,” said Mrs. Dunsse. The alarm on the timer went off and Perfecta threw down her pencil. Her mouth was rimmed in a brownish crust. “Let’s check those answers, shall we?” Mrs. Dunsse snatched up Perfecta’s Scantron and thrust it into a slot in the wall. A loud whirring noise and the sheet shot out again, smoking slightly. “Thirty-nine out of forty,” said a monotone female voice. Perfecta’s hands shook; her eyes widened in terror. Mrs. Dunsse rose like some avenging deity. Her arm raised, her index finger pointed to the back corner of the room. Perfecta wobbled out of her chair and wedged herself into the space between the stove and the refrigerator. Her trembling hand reached up and removed a cardboard cone from a hook above her. As she dropped it on her head, I realized that it bore the word “Mediocre.” “What did you answer for question twelve, Perfecta?” snarled Mrs. Dunsse, waving the Scantron. “What did you answer?” “C,” croaked the shuddering, slobbering creature in the corner. “C-eeeeeee.” “And what was the correct answer?”
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“A,” Perfecta moaned, dissolving into an animal whine. “Ayayayayyayayyayayayayayayay—” “What are the seven deadly sins, Perfecta?” shrieked Mrs. Dunsse. Mr. Dunsse bolted out of his chair and began to recite. “Estimation, Leisure, Mediocrity—” “MEDIOCRITY!” howled Mrs. Dunsse. She dashed for the door, flailing her arms, and disappeared. I glanced at Mr. Dunsse, who was standing on his chair and still belting out the seven deadly sins. “Collaboration, Distraction—” My notepad buzzed. I tore my gaze from the Dunsses and jabbed at the “BREAKING NEWS” bubble that had appeared on my screen. New education legislation has passed in Congress, effective immediately, changing national education standards. According to this bill, the current standardized testing system will be terminated, allowing students to be judged on a variety of criteria rather than the score on a single test. Mrs. Dunsse staggered through the door with a stack of test prep books in her arms and plopped them on the ground before Perfecta. She stooped and heaved them into stacks, walling Perfecta away from the rest of the kitchen. “Angela,” I began. “There’s some news you might take an interest in—” Mrs. Dunsse turned and hissed at me—actually hissed—so I turned my attention to Mr. Dunsse. “Excuse me, uh, Bernard—” Mr. Dunsse had started singing a song about the seven deadly sins. I cleared my throat. “Ah-HEM!”
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No one paid any attention. I slid a finger across the volume controls, jerking it up to supersonic level, and stabbed the “READ ALOUD IN PRETENTIOUS ACCENT” button that was flickering in invitation. Aristocratically clipped vowels erupted from my speakers. The textbook walls shuddered and then tumbled down, and Bernard dove under the table. Mrs. Dunsse was suddenly looming over me. I meekly pressed the mute button. “What did that say?” she said, her face rigid. “Standardized testing has been abolished,” I announced. “Perfecta will have to rely on her other merits to get into college.” In contrast to the post-dinner melee, the Dunsses’ reaction to the news seemed quite anticlimactic. Mr. Dunsse slithered out from under the table and curled up in the corner of the room; Mrs. Dunsse’s face blanched an unnatural chartreuse. Perfecta’s arm shot out of the rubble of her prep book prison and flailed wildly about. Mrs. Dunsse rushed to her. Even in such an unyielding mother, the maternal instinct prevailed after the traumatic news, I wrote. Soft whumps sounded from behind me as textbooks hit the ground one after another. Angela Dunsse ran to the aid of her daughter, tossing books aside as she reached out to embrace her perfect creation— A strangled gasp. My head jerked up. Mrs. Dunsse’s hands encircled Perfecta’s throat, thrashing her about like she was a disobedient rag doll. “WHY?” she roared. As the question was not in multiple-choice format, Perfecta remained limp, glassy eyes barely perturbed. “You failed me!” Perfecta recognized the word “fail.” A keening sound burst from her throat.
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Mrs. Dunsse bared her teeth, fuchsia-tinted saliva spattering onto Perfecta’s reddening face. “THE TEST GOD HAS DESERTED US! THERE IS NO PLACE FOR US IN THIS WORLD!” I snatched up The SAT for Child Prodigies and swung it into the back of Mrs. Dunsse’s head. She crumpled to the ground. I heaved her limp form off Perfecta and laid my hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” Her eyes were blank Scantron bubbles. “True-false format, A for true and B for false.” Her lips puckered and she gave a shrill beep. “Please-put-down-all-writingutensils-time-is-up.” “Perfecta, you’re free now,” I said, pulling her upright. I wondered what had happened to Mr. Dunsse—I couldn’t see him anywhere. Perfecta continued to beep in a forlorn sort of way, stepping over her mother’s body as though she didn’t even notice it. I guided her into a chair and she sagged. I patted her shoulder. “It’s all right,” I soothed, my stylus springing into my hand. “We’ll take you somewhere safe. Now, tell me, how does all of this make you feel?” Perfecta gazed up at me, and for a moment something flickered in her eyes. Her brows drew together; her mouth opened . . . she was thinking, really thinking— Beeping sounded from the living room. Multiple-choice-essay time. Perfecta whipped out her laptop. I peered over her shoulder as she pecked out her lament: DABCKJAKHCCAEGFHHH…….
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