By Soumya

The day my IB results came out, I decided to go out with my friend to delay the inevitable for as long as I could. Walking through the streets of the city centre in the mid-afternoon heat was just a much better option than looking at two digits that will define the unending to-do lists that followed me around for the last twenty-four months. My mom, on the other hand, was excited and scared at the same time. She was not sure what to make of my indifference. But I was not really indifferent, I was trying to lower my expectations. I knew I would pass. If I’m being honest, my only concern was to get a double-digit number that started with a 4. And that was a bit too much to ask for. I was trying to lower my expectations as a defense mechanism. And they kept going lower and lower. I told myself, anything above 36. After a cone of ice-cream with my friend, I said above 35. Then 34. It kept going. ‘Realistic’ had left the chat. I was praying I passed. Which was a bit dramatic, to say the least.

When I came home, around 3 hours after the results were out, I realized there was no outrunning this. Then, if not for myself, but to end my mother’s misery, I grabbed my laptop. I went to the IB Candidate website. By this time, I knew my personal code by-heart, from all the exams I had to remember it for. I got my pin that I had on my board in my room. A white screen with blue letters popped up. Numbers, words. White and blue, clean and scary like a doctor’s office. Getting your results back after two years of treatment.
Long behold, I passed the IB. My final points were above 24, and I got a grade above 2 in every subject. I felt no bliss, no calm, no peace. Achievement was expected. It was an obligation. How could I have possible not passed? I had a 6 in five of my six subjects, and a 7 in Psychology. Which was a great indicator given it was the career path I had chosen. With 2 extra points, my sum total came to a 39 out of 45. And, lord, did that feel like a slap in my face! All I kept thinking was that, this number is laughing at me. It’s slapping me, laughing at me and telling me that I am not a 40-points student. That even after reaching the threshold, I could not cross it. And my parents and sister did not understand why I was sobbing over this. My dad got me flowers and my mom called my sister to give her the news. And I kept saying thank you to everyone through the sobs. They were happy, but utterly confused.
One point less. And it made no difference, whatsoever. No one cared. 39 was an Ivy League score. What was I complaining about? I had a conditional offer from my first choice university, which needed me to merely pass. So, I was in. I had two months of vacation in front of me. A university of my choice. A degree with a curriculum I adored. I could not stop sobbing.
Two years later, I have stopped crying now.
My IB coordinator in school had this extended metaphor about the tunnel (meaning the IB) we were in. We’re getting closer to the end, she’d say. You can see the light at the end of tunnel, you just have to get there. And there I was. Blinded by the light of the outside. When you get used to the dark, even daylight seems scary. Horror.
The score did not matter as much as I told myself it did. If ever mentioned, people were only impressed and happy that I did the IB. But it was still hard for me to get over it. As more time went by, and the more things filled my life with meaning, the tears became scarce to scarcer. There were other things to cry about, but not this score. The truth is, the score wasn’t the only representation of my time in the IB. Of the efforts, pains and joys. At least not for me. The day I opened my IB results is not even in my memory as my days in IB. IB was different. It was so much more. Building up the two years of studying to one score, that was really not the point. Getting out of the tunnel just meant getting out of the tunnel. And boy am I glad I am out of that one!

P.S. Uni is easier than IB, it’s true.