Passed or not passed? This is how it went with May

This day. 29 years ago, but I still remember everything. Minutes that last hours. Circles around the dining table. Fifty jumping jacks, ten in each direction. and then another ten to finish it off. Crazy, I know, but I had no idea what else to do. Then coffee. With warm milk. And sugar. I can't get a bite down my throat and this might help a little against that razor scraping along my abdominal wall.

Did you get called if you passed or the other way around?

Let me call Judith to ask. Her father is the principal of the school, so you're in good hands with her when it comes to these kinds of issues. But if I call her, I might just miss that phone call. That I passed. Or not, then.

Jumping jacks. Coffee. Milk. Sugar.

There is no mobile phone yet, no internet, no WhatsApp. Nothing, nada, zip. Just me and my jumping jacks.

What time was that deadline again? Two o'clock? Half past two?

Of course, they might just have forgotten about me. That can happen.

But let me calculate my averages again. And divide that by the lowest possible grade. What do I end up with?

Oh guys. Jumping jacks. Coffee.

I believe I’ll jump on my Puch at five to two. Twelve kilometers from Wemeldinge to Goes. To school. If the axe has to fall on my head, then let it be with my friends around me to catch me. I might miss that phone call, but I’ll just be there myself later. That’s much braver than waiting cowardly by that line.

I see the gate. I lift the front wheel of my white Puch over the worn curb. Could this be the last time I ride onto the square?

I park my white lifesaver that has been taking me every day from our little village to school for two years. I had to promise that I would never, ever, ever drag anyone along who was on a bike. Which I, of course, did every day as soon as Stephanie waited for me on her bike at the tracks in Kloetinge. Left hand on my shoulder, thumbs up and I opened the throttle and we floated together over the hill towards the tracks. That fine we got once was no problem. Or if we paid it immediately this afternoon, wouldn’t they send the ticket home? And breathe out. We emptied the peak pipes (80s, remember?) of her boyfriend and went to the police station with 35 ringing guilders. Now we breathed even deeper out.

No more hills soon. No more Stephanie. No more Michele. No more Jon. No more Patrick. We spread out. To Rotterdam, The Hague, Tilburg, Groningen. Rotterdam. Luckily, I’m going to live in a house with five friends in Tilburg where I will study Dutch.

At least… If I…

‘May, your grades!’

A classmate jumps on my back. I freeze and it’s not because of her weight. Yes, yes, what do you want to say? My grades. This sentence can still go in any direction and I believe there is a limit to what my nerves can handle.

‘My grades what? Good or bad?’

She says something like ‘yeah, bye’ and ‘figure it out’, so I run across the square, past the coat racks, of course, I slip on the stone stairs towards the cafeteria. There stands Mr. Limonard, my French teacher. He extends his hand. ‘Well done, girl.’

I believe I think I can safely assume that this means that I passed.

But really breathing out… I’m not ready for that yet.