Name, Date, Period by Oliver Lin

Dropping end first on the linoleum, the already fragile pencil point breaks as it lands, tipping and bouncing to roll under the chair of the student sitting behind him. Ben leans backwards out of his seat to look, but she’s already bending, plucking the pencil from the floor. Jumping and spinning, not toward him but toward the pencil sharpener.

He watches, distracted from the unfinished test in front of him, as she sharpens the pencil and maneuvers back through the classroom toward him. Slipping between desks with a strange kind of grace.

“Thanks,” he whispers. She nods silently and returns to her seat.

When the bell rings he’s still scanning over his work, stubbornly hunching in his chair as the class rises around him, already devolving into the smooth chattering buzz of “how was it?” and “what did you get for number 4?”

The teacher shushes them harshly as he points them out the door. Turning back to the room, he glances from Ben to the one other person left—the kid who sharpened his pencil.

He says their names, and Ben flinches.

“Time to finish up,” the teacher says.

Ben glances over to catch the other student’s quiet blush and lowered gaze, knowing his face must mirror hers.

He stands to turn his test in, glancing at it front and back. No matter how confident he is in his answers, the anxiety floods in every time. For more reasons than one.

He pauses, staring at the top of the paper. He’s forgotten to write his name. He turns back to his desk, but his pencil is gone. He checks under the table, behind his privacy folder. Nothing.

Behind him, his classmate shifts in her seat, and he sees his pencil in her fist. She glances up at him, that blush spreading over her cheeks, and he sees her paper. Also no name.

“Come on, you two,” the teacher says quietly. “My next period is coming—I’m sorry.”

And before Ben knows what he’s doing, he gives the other student a tiny beckoning nod. Without asking for his pencil back, he turns and slides his test onto the teacher’s desk face down, then steps back to let her do the same. She moves past him without speaking and places her test on top of his.

She’s left it face up. Name line still blank.

She sneaks him a glance as she turns back to her desk, and Ben has to fight a sudden, tiny grin pulling at his lips, because he doesn’t want the teacher to see.

—

“…Sofia, and Jonathan.” The teacher glances up as the last two students scurry up to collect their tests. “And I have two no-names, if anyone wants to come up and see—”

Ben doesn’t look at his classmate as they both get up and silently make their way across the room. Ben recognizes his handwriting immediately, reaching for his test as the other student takes hers.

“See, you didn’t need all that stress at the end,” the teacher points out, nodding at the tops of the tests. Two perfect scores.

“Oh, but I did,” the other kid blurts, and Ben nods vigorously, sneaking a curious glance at her.

He’s never heard her speak before. Her voice is louder than he expected. More confident.

The teacher grins. “Whatever makes you happy.” He holds out his hand to take the tests back, and they obediently hand them over.

“Thought it was funny,” he says, stacking the papers together as other people come up and return them. “You both remembered to write the date and the period, but not your names.”

They’re the last two people to leave math, as usual. Ben lets the other student go through the doorway before passing through himself. He lets the door swing shut behind them.

They both stop, hovering outside the classroom, neither looking at the other.

“I’m never writing my name on a test again,” she says abruptly.

Ben fiddles with a strap on his backpack.

“Not your name,” he points out. “It’s not your real name you’re writing.”

She looks up. A sudden, startling hope lights in her eyes.

“I—” She swallows. “I guess not.”

Surprise shoots through Ben, that she of all people wouldn’t know this—accept this—followed by a crushing sadness he can’t seem to shake.

“What is your name, then?” he asks her, quietly. The hallways are empty, that brief moment of isolation after the first rush is gone and before the next period’s students can crowd the hallway again.

He was afraid she’d look away, disappear. But her eyes clear, and she meets his gaze.

“Ashika,” she says.

“Ben,” he says.

He hesitates. Then— “Thank you for stealing my pencil.”

She laughs out loud. Her laugh is just as startling as her voice—a bright burst of joy, not at all polite or controlled, and beautiful for it.

“Thank you,” she says.

He doesn’t ask what for. They walk down the stairs together to their next class.

They might still have to hide here, their names, their dreams, themselves. But the two of them know the truth. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.