"Stop right there—Laure, one minute."
"Make it ten," the invigilator added, holding a clipboard like a prop at a ceremony.
Laure pulled her bag tighter and kept walking.
"Ten minutes for photos," the invigilator said to the crowd. "School tradition. Come on—this is a big one."
"She’s the top," a girl whispered behind Laure. "Grade is unreal."
Laure didn't look back. Her shoes tapped the tile in a steady rhythm. Cameras clicked. Phones lifted.
"Ten minutes," the invigilator repeated, as if that detail could change anything.
"You'll pose by the banner," a teacher said. "We want the press shots."
Laure glanced at the banner, then at her watch. She nodded once.
"One minute for speeches," a boy called, too loud. "Give us a line, Laure. Say something inspirational."
Laure stopped. The hallway went thin with attention.
"One sentence," she said. "Ten minutes."
"Ten minutes for a photo and a line. Everybody, close in," the invigilator directed, and the hallway squeezed.
"How does it feel?" someone asked.
"Like I got the right answers," Laure said. Her voice was small but precise.
"Say more," the boy prodded.
"No."
There was a stutter of disappointed laughs. Cellphones hummed closer.
"You have to smile," an older parent nudged from the side.
Laure put her back to the banner, straightened, and let a single click-ring of flash take her picture after picture. She held that pose until the invigilator counted down on his fingers and said, "Okay, that's
