I finished my geography test early, and I was bored, so I stared at Dean Easton and watched him take the test. I heard he failed every test he ever took. I was curious about his process, about how he did it, about how it was even possible to fail every test. And as I snuck peaks at his paper, my questions were answered. I saw his hand gripping his pencil, his head hunched over his paper with his brown hair obscuring his masterpiece. I saw dragons and unicorns and griffins and chimeras prancing across his test paper, over and around the questions and answers, which were completely ignored. I watched as his dexterous fingers drew fairies and goblins. After seeing the way he used the paper to create art, I began to see the test as antiquated and unnecessary. I began to feel that anyone who wanted to score what he’d accomplished on the page had completely missed the point. I had seen a test turned into a work of art. I, who loved tests, had reached a turning point, an eventful moment. Then, I left the class and went to the next class and got absorbed in my next text and forgot that paper can be used for something more than proving knowledge and that Dean Easton was so much more than all of the ‘F’s that he earned. For a moment, I had been touched, my soul had been touched by Dean Easton, but I had turned in that moment like a test and just as quickly had forgotten it.