Descriptive Essay: Leaving Cert Results Day

The sun was no longer hidden by the hill. It crept slowly upwards and caressed the drowsy fields with its elegant, fluttering fingers. I watched from the window as the landscape reared its drowsy head, shaking off its sluggish slumber. The towering oak trees saluted the rolling hills, the rabbits raced to greet the morning dew, and the daisies unfurled their delicate petals, embracing the soft sun's glow. The world's eager anticipation for the day ahead squared only to emphasize my own uncomfortable exhilaration. I hadn't slept- I hadn't slept at all. It was Leaving Cert results day.

The class of 2023 had been promised long summer days and chaotic summer nights. July began with a flourish- we were high on the adrenaline of handing up that final Leaving Cert paper. I recall the trembling of my hands as I added my script to the towering pile of business booklets that surveyed the exam hall from their desk. The June heat was suffocating, and the sun was blinding – Leaving Cert weather. I stumbled from the hall door into the sunlight, blinking rapidly and willing my eyes to adjust. Gaggles of students crowded the yard, giggling and embracing one another. Stifling school jumpers were cast off, and shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the pasty skin that seared beneath the sun. A wave of euphoria washed over me, flowing from my head to my toes. It was as if I'd stepped into a freezing shower–for the first time in a long time, I felt awake.

September fifth had seemed awfully far away, but the days slipped into weeks, and July bled into August. I'd been uneasy for the past number of days, but nothing had prepared me for the roaring rush of fear that consumed me last night. As I closed my eyes, I was assaulted by violent accusations and hounded by menacing cloaked figures. "Failure", they taunted, "you should have worked harder!". I tossed in the tangled sheets, my light pyjamas clinging to my skin as I broke into a cold sweat. The darkness loomed from every direction, pressing uncomfortably into my chest as I gasped for breath like a fish out of water. Eventually, I accepted that I wouldn't escape to the sanctuary of sleep and instead chose to nestle in the sturdy armchair by the window.

I picked at a fraying thread on my pyjamas absent-mindedly and surveyed the outfit arranged on the fading floorboards. I felt like a first-year again! Choosing my clothes the night before and painstakingly positioning them beside my bed. Ah, first year. I was giddy with anticipation that first day, fumbling with my itchy woollen tights and prickly school jumper. The harsh, synthetic smell of the bristling uniform pierced my nostrils, but I masked it with an enthusiastic dousing of a sickly sweet SoSu body spray. My boat shoes were as polished and glossy as a gleaming new car. The dreary maroon jumper threatened to swallow me whole as I hitched my trailing skirt as high as possible upon my hips. Like a turtle, I edged slowly out the door, weighed down beneath my shell of immaculate new books and strawberry-scented stationery. Although my stomach churned with first-day nerves, I embraced the anticipation and plunged head-first into the school day. Results day nerves were different. They felt more like sinking than diving.

Early April was always shrouded in tension and discomfort. The echoing school halls were lined with stiff-backed chairs, and the students spoke only in whispers. The oral examinations flustered students, clutching brimming folders, and the distinctive yellow "Sraith Pictiúr" booklet balanced uncomfortably on the edges of the rigid seats. Their dread was almost tangible as they awaited the call from the suited, solemn examiner. We crept by in twos or threes, craning our necks to peer into the notorious exam centres. Our pigtails perched upon our pristine uniforms as we turned our noses up at freshly brewed coffee's distinct, overpowering odour. First years are simply curious. Fifth years, however, become agitated as the trembling sixth years provide an unwelcome insight into the year they will face.

My own French and Irish oral exams were demanding, taxing and awkward. I tackled Irish first. For weeks, I grappled with that little yellow book and the punishing pictures that lay within. The sleek, smooth pages taunted me with their juvenile illustrations and the margins were peppered with half-hearted scribbles in a fading blue pen. The top right corner was stained a suspicious brown colour and smelled faintly of tea. We fought like kids in a sandpit- taunting, threatening, tears. Seated outside the exam centre, I clutched the hostile book tightly, my knuckles turning white as they pressed against my burning skin. My palms felt clammy, and my knee bounced. I flinched as the door groaned slowly open. A faint buzzing rang in my ears, but I heard a muffled voice announcing my name. Staggering to my feet, I made my way awkwardly into the room, fumbling to close the door behind me. The buzzing grew louder, and my heart pounded fiercely, threatening to burst out of its cage. Surely, the examiner could hear it. "Lara?" a voice demanded loudly. My head jerked, and the buzzing seemed to clear. Facing me sat an older woman, her head cocked slightly to the side as she stared at me intently. Greying hair roosted upon her head, and her ageing face was framed by two wispy tendrils. Her blazer was a shocking cobalt blue, contrasting the powder pink lipstick sunken into the crevices and wrinkles etched around her lips. Her eyes were kind, however, and her mouth pulled up at the corners, comforting me. "Lara?" she questioned again. I unclenched my fists, cleared my throat and began to speak.

The oral exam was like an injection–overwhelming anticipation but relatively painless, and over before I realised it. However, the written exams proved to be a gruelling test of resilience, endurance and stamina. The sun sidled in the exam centre windows and across the tables, jeering at us and taking our papers hostage. The stale smell of sweat hung limply throughout the building, disrupted only by hidden tears after a particularly challenging exam. Exhaustion smothered each hunched student and rested heavily upon our shoulders. We trudged wearily, our feet heavy, like soldiers wading through bogland. Eyes rung with dark circles and the familiar 'crack' and 'hiss' of the monster energy drinks. The tepid, flat liquid was a student staple.

Approaching the school, I asked my mother to let me out of the car. It was unusually cool for the beginning of September, but the fresh rush of crisp air elevated some of the tension mounting in my chest. As I walked slowly towards the school, hordes of my classmates bounded out of the gates. They brandished creased brown envelopes and squealed enthusiastically, throwing arms around one another. Fervent 'Congratulations!' were exchanged, and a range of points bounced around. The closer I got to the gates, the weaker my knees became. My stomach churned violently, and ominous voices urged me to turn and run back to the car as fast as possible. I fixed my eyes on the crest above the school gate. Rusted orange metal and peeling black paint decorated the intertwined torches. I blocked out the relieved laughter that saturated the clammy air and continued inside.

The yearhead sat behind a rickety table, his grin stretching from ear to ear. A stabbing pain shot across my chest, and a bead of perspiration trickled down my brow as the envelope was pressed into my shaking hands. I stepped aside, my heart hammering and took a long, deep breath. The school still smelled of cheap disinfectant, masking the musty stench of various lunches. The cream paint, blackened by dirt, flaked from the scuffed skirting boards and gathered in little piles by the wall. Everything was the same as it had been six years ago. But everything would be different after I opened the envelope. I pressed my eyes tightly closed and slid the smooth, silky letter from its paper pocket prison. I unfolded the letter, and I opened my eyes.