I’m sitting in the living room watching John Mercer attempt to replace a guitar string, and based on the noises he’s making, I’m beginning to suspect the guitar has insulted his family. He’s hunched over the coffee table with the guitar across his lap, muttering under his breath while Mr. Whiskers occupies approximately forty percent of the available workspace. John keeps gently moving him. Mr. Whiskers keeps moving back. At this point, I’m not sure which one of them actually owns the coffee table.
Pandora walked through about twenty minutes ago and said, “I need to study for that test today.”
That was it.
One sentence.
Perfectly ordinary.
Except she looked directly at me when she said it.
I’ve been thinking about that.
John pulls the string tight, winces, loosens it again, and mutters something I can’t quite hear.
“What test?”
John looks up. “What?”
“The test Pandora mentioned.”
“How would I know?”
“You were sitting right there.”
“So were you.”
That’s technically true, but not helpful.
I look toward the hallway where Pandora disappeared. She hasn’t mentioned any test recently. At least not that I remember. Pandora talks about work, things she’s reading, things she needs to do, and occasionally television shows I’ve apparently agreed to watch despite having no memory of agreeing to them. A test seems like something I would remember.
Unless she deliberately waited until John was here to mention it.
Interesting.
John breaks the guitar string.
Mr. Whiskers immediately raises his head.
John closes his eyes.
I decide this isn’t the right moment to share my theory.
A few minutes later, John has another string out of the package and is starting over. Mr. Whiskers has repositioned himself beside the guitar and is watching with the expression of a building inspector who has already found several violations.
“You know,” I say, “Pandora looked at me when she mentioned the test.”
John doesn’t look up. “People generally look at other people when they talk to them.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Deliberately.”
John stops working.
He looks at me deliberately.
“Like this?”
“No.”
He goes back to the guitar.
Now I’m thinking about yesterday. Pandora was quieter than usual. She spent part of the evening looking at something on her laptop and closed it when I walked past. At the time I assumed it was work. But what if she was studying?
That would make sense.
Except why wouldn’t she tell me what the test was?
Maybe she thought I already knew.
That’s possible.
Or maybe the test isn’t hers.
I sit forward.
John notices.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made the face.”
Apparently I have a face now.
“What if she wasn’t studying *for* a test?”
John sighs.
“What if she was studying *me* for a test?”
John puts the guitar down.
“Hal.”
“Think about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“She specifically said, ‘that test.’ Not ‘a test.’ *That* test. Definite article.”
“I know what ‘that’ means.”
“So there was previous knowledge.”
“Probably hers.”
“Or mine.”
“You didn’t know about it.”
“Exactly.”
John stares at me.
Mr. Whiskers stares at me.
It’s unsettling when they coordinate.
I begin reconstructing Pandora’s recent behavior. Yesterday she asked what I would do if I found twenty dollars on the sidewalk. Two days ago she asked whether I thought people could really tell when someone was lying. Last week she asked if I would rather know exactly what people thought about me or remain blissfully ignorant.
At the time, I assumed these were normal relationship questions.
Now I’m not so sure.
What if those were preliminary questions?
What if I’ve already been taking the test?
I stand up.
John immediately says, “Sit down.”
“I need coffee.”
“You’re going to investigate.”
“I can do both.”
I go into the kitchen and pour myself a cup. Mr. Whiskers follows me, which I initially interpret as support until I remember his food bowl is also in the kitchen.
Still, timing matters.
Pandora’s laptop is sitting at the end of the kitchen counter.
Closed.
I look at it.
Mr. Whiskers looks at it.
“No.”
He looks at me.
“We respect privacy.”
Mr. Whiskers licks his paw.
“Exactly.”
I take my coffee back into the living room without touching the laptop. This is growth.
John has resumed working on the guitar.
I sit down.
For approximately thirty seconds, everything is peaceful.
Then Pandora walks into the room carrying a notebook.
I try not to look interested.
She sits in the chair across from me and opens it.
I look at John.
John keeps his eyes on the guitar with an intensity that tells me he’s intentionally refusing to participate.
Pandora starts reading.
I wait.
She turns a page.
I wait longer.
Finally, I can’t take it.
“What test?”
Pandora looks up.
“The one I mentioned.”
“Yes. That one.”
She waits.
I realize she’s making me ask the entire question.
“What test are you studying for?”
“The certification test.”
I blink.
“What certification test?”
“The one for work.”
There is a pause.
John’s mouth twitches.
I don’t appreciate that.
Pandora reminds me that she told me about it two weeks ago. Apparently, we had an entire conversation about the certification, when she planned to take it, how much studying she needed to do, and why passing it would be useful.
I remember none of this.
Then she tells me where the conversation happened.
We were sitting right here.
I was watching television.
That narrows it down considerably.
She tells me what I was watching.
Now I remember.
Sort of.
There was an explosion.
Possibly a helicopter.
Pandora had been talking during it.
I suddenly understand what happened.
“You tested me.”
Pandora lowers the notebook.
“No.”
“You mentioned the test today to see if I remembered.”
“No, I mentioned the test because I have to study for it.”
“But you looked directly at me.”
“I was talking to you.”
John makes a sound that suspiciously resembles a laugh disguised as a cough.
I ignore him.
Pandora goes back to her notebook.
The explanation is annoyingly reasonable.
There is a certification test.
She told me about it.
I wasn’t paying enough attention.
Today she mentioned it again because, apparently, human beings sometimes continue conversations without constructing elaborate psychological traps for their partners.
That’s embarrassing.
I take a sip of coffee.
Then something occurs to me.
“Wait.”
John closes his eyes.
Pandora doesn’t look up.
“You said you told me two weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“And today you said *that* test.”
“Yes.”
“Which implies you expected me to remember it.”
Pandora slowly looks at me.
“So technically, whether you intended it or not, today became a test of whether I remembered the test.”
John puts the guitar down and rubs his face.
Pandora stares at me for several seconds.
Then she smiles.
Not a warm smile.
The kind of smile people use immediately before making decisions about another person’s future.
“You failed.”
I knew it.
I lean back on the couch, strangely satisfied.
John looks at me like I’ve completely misunderstood what just happened.
Maybe I have.
But here’s the important part: there *was* a test.
It wasn’t the test I thought it was, and technically Pandora wasn’t administering it, but I was nevertheless evaluated and found deficient.
That’s close enough.
Mr. Whiskers jumps back onto the coffee table and sits directly on John’s package of guitar strings.
John looks at him.
Mr. Whiskers looks at John.
Neither moves.
I point toward them.
“Now *that* is definitely a test.”
John tells me to shut up.
Pandora laughs.
And just like that, everything makes sense again.