Anyway, D wasn't at school today to witness the festivities, so I shall tell them to her. Yaaaay!
Firstly, we had the ASVAB today. For those who don't know, it's a test they make juniors take to see if they're fit to be military cannon fodder.
I dislike the military.
Thusly, for the past week, I've been telling people--my mom, my friends, fellow students, a few teachers--that I shall not take the accursed test. I thought it was all well and good.
Until this morning. . .uhm, jazz band, eat donut holes (thanks Mr. F!), go to locker, go to first class. Chemistry with Ms. Y. Double yay.
I open the door, go to my seat. I know very well that I'll be the only junior here. Ms. Y looks up from her papers and at me.
"Uhm, hi, R. . ." she says. She sounds worried. "Aren't juniors supposed to take the ASVAB today?"
"Yah." I shuffle my books to tackle yesterday's homework. "I'm not taking it."
"Oh, uhm. . .I think that's mandatory. You have to take it."
"Mandatory?" I grow disconcerted. I did not remember this part in the contract. I look for the key paper in my folder that outlined the ASVAB, avoiding words such as "army" and "hands-on," of course. Gotta be PC.
"I didn't know this was mandatory. . .anyway, I don't want to take it."
Ms. Y thinks for a second, then gets her in-school phone and calls the office. "Yes, just wanted to know if the ASVAB today is for all juniors. . .yes. . .oh, sure. . .okay, thanks. I'll send R up right away."
Oh snap. I've been taken in.
She gives me meaningful looks and pushes me towards the door, books in arms. I go down the halls, towards the cafeteria, out the door to the separate elementary school, where the test is held. . .all with a slowly increasing sense of dread. I don't want to take this test! I thought. It's not mandatory, I'm sure it's not. . .
At the door of the school, I see a guy in khaki. The feds are here bright and early, I see. He waves me in--can't feign a locked door now--and I step inside.
The tables are middling-full, the lights buzzing, the test not yet started. I sit with my friends J, J, and A.
The test papers whistle my way. Okay then, I think, If you want to play it this way, I'll go along.
I fill in the bubbles with goodwill and black ink. Name: R. S. Date: January 28, 2009. Grade: 11.
And here's where it gets interesting. I have no intention of telling these organizational people my address. So I, as they say in jazz band, improv it.
Mailing address: 1234 Giggles Street. City: Fairyland. State: ZZ. Zip: 00000. Telephone: 3141592 (pi).
It soon comes time to end the ID section and begin the testing. I hide my pen, turn in my paper, and start a'fillin those bubbles with ink.
A few minutes into the test, two khakis stop by my table, talking about me but not to me. Here's what I heard.
"Uhm, sir? There's one of these tests that was filled in wrong. . .with ink. . ."
"Let me see." I think this is where he sees my faerie address. "[Expletive deleted]" and suddenly disobedience doesn't seem funny anymore.
"Who did it?" He turns over the paper. "R____ S_____."
I have to stop myself from looking up. They walk over to the guidance counselor, and I, hands shaking, compose myself.
They walk over, this time only for me. They're not mad, or don't seem it.
In essence: Did you know you did this in pen? Yes. Did you know you had to use a pencil? Yes. Could you refill it using a pencil? Yes. Do you have a pencil? Yes, two actually, but I keep that last part to myself.
So I re-fill the ID section and return to the questions.
I answer these questions, I think, as many a serious student would love to do.
I read the question. I think about it in my mind. I read the answer choices. I think of which one would fit. I choose the best answer.
And then I fill in the bubble of what is NOT that correct answer.
Not surprisingly, I get a lot of A and D results, especially in the math section.
I think, assuming I knew the stuff in the test. . .that I failed every single section.
After the testing is over, the khaki in chief says to go to some website. . .apparently. . .to see "which career choice this test says would be best for you."
Hmmm. In about ten days' time, I'll be tickled pink to see what the army thinks would fit me best.
hakeberhut Community Member 
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