Student sample for assessment
Written by a Year 7 student in Croydon, Victoria, Australia.
Year 8, now. When the photograph circulates, I recognise myself immediately — younger, smaller, in a jumper I haven't worn in three years. In it, I'm standing with Jacob. We're both grinning at the camera, his arm around my shoulders. Someone has written on the photo, directly under Jacob: 'He's a weirdo. Don't believe him.' My stomach drops. That is not recent handwriting. The photo is old — from Year 7, when we were close. I stare at the words and I know. I wrote them. Or rather — I know the moment I wrote them. Year 7, lunch. A girl asked me about something Jacob had said, something he'd told her about his family. I was angry at him that day (I cannot even remember why, now). So I told her not to trust him. I wrote it on the back of a photo he'd given me, and I left it on her desk. I thought I'd thrown that photo away a year ago. I thought no one had seen it. But someone kept it. Someone photographed it. And now, in the middle of year 8, when I have forgotten all about the anger, when Jacob and I have drifted so far apart that we barely speak, his words are everywhere. Not his words. Mine. I find him after school by his locker. 'I wrote that,' I say. 'On the photo. I wrote that in Year 7. I don't even remember why I was angry. I'm sorry.' He looks at the phone I'm holding, at the photo, at the circulating words. For a moment he doesn't say anything. 'I know you wrote it,' he finally says. 'I always knew. You weren't very subtle.' 'Then why didn't you say anything?' 'Because I thought we'd moved past it. Because I thought we were still friends, back then.' 'We were friends.' 'Yeah. And then we weren't.' He walks away. I stand there, looking at the photo again — the two of us, grinning, before the moment I turned on him. The words I wrote were a year old. The photograph is three years old. But somehow, standing here now, all that time collapses. Everything feels like it is happening right now.