By Ali G.

The weather outside is mild and sunny, but there’s not a soul to be found out on the field or at the picnic tables. We’re all inside, scrambling to find a last-second blue pen or sheet of lined paper before the first exam. It’s finally Finals Week, the home stretch, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.

Father Liz Groskoph starts us with a prayer, and suddenly, where seconds ago there were groans, shouts and frenzied last-minute review—“Wait, quick, what’s petroskia mean again?”—all is silent, save for the hurried scratching of pencil on paper.

For me, Finals Week at home was a period of manic cramming, abject terror and eventually, inevitable defeat. Now, there’s no feeling as gratifying as looking at the test in front of me, and knowing I’m prepared, a worthy contender for my printed, stapled foe. Every note I’ve scrawled, essay I’ve written, Monday morning I’ve pinched myself awake for has come down to this academic Battle Royale.

It’s almost eerie to be in a room with a hundred other adolescents and each to be so singularly, inwardly focused on our own personal opponent, whether it be Economics, Global, or U.S. History.  And each has their own tic, an indicator of their effort: There’s a foot-tapper to my right, a pen-chewer to my left, and in front of me, a boy who is mouthing to himself the words of each question as he reads it.

This Finals Week, we’re all densely focused on  bundles of scholarly force – and one week will our metamorphosis into jubilant successes, head held high into the summer, clutching fistfuls of A pluses and five credits richer. Well, cross your fingers!