The Past Papers in the Storage Room

The results of the May mock examination came back on a Tuesday, handed out face down, the way they always were.

Haruki Sonoda turned his over slowly, as though a slower reveal might improve the number printed underneath.

It did not.

Deviation score, fifty-one point two.

Class rank, one hundred and seventy-sixth out of two hundred and thirty-eight.

Probability of admission to Hokuto University, Faculty of Engineering: E.

E was the lowest band the testing company used.

In their careful language it meant that admission would be difficult.

In the language of the classroom it meant that he should stop.

Around him, paper rustled.

Somebody laughed too loudly, the way people do when they are relieved.

Haruki folded his sheet in half, then in half again, and pushed it into the inside pocket of his bag where he would not have to look at it.

He had studied.

That was the part he could not explain to anyone, including himself.

Since April he had come home, eaten, sat down at his desk at seven, and stayed there until midnight.

He had finished two workbooks in physics and most of a third in mathematics.

He had underlined and highlighted and copied out.

By his own count he had spent more than four hundred hours at that desk since spring, and the number in his bag was almost exactly the number he had received in January, before any of it.

Ms. Ihara called him in at the end of the week for the first careers meeting of the year.

She had his file open on the desk between them, and she turned it so he could see, which was a kindness of a kind.

"Hokuto is a national university," she said.

"The second-stage examination is written by the university itself, not by a testing company.

It is a serious paper.

Have you thought about Nishimori Institute of Technology?

It is private, but the entrance test is closer to what you are already good at."

"My mother works nights at the clinic," Haruki said.

"Private tuition is about three times as much."

Ms. Ihara did not argue with that, which told him she had already done the arithmetic herself.

She closed the file gently.

"Then you will have to be more efficient than the people you are competing against," she said.

"I do not know how you would do that.

But that is what it would take."

He thought about the sentence for a long time afterwards, mostly because it was the only honest thing anyone had said to him that month.

The storage room came into his life two weeks later, and it came as a chore.

Haruki was on the library committee, which at Kitaura High School meant stamping return cards on Wednesdays and shelving whatever the second-years had left on the tables.

In June the school decided to convert the small room behind the library into a space for audio equipment.

Somebody had to empty it first.

Mr. Tokunaga, the part-time librarian, was sixty-eight years old and could not lift boxes, so the task came down to the two committee members who could.

The room was about the size of a classroom cut in half, with one window that had been painted shut.

The air inside had the dry, papery smell of a place that has been closed for a decade.

Steel shelves ran along three walls, and on them, stacked to the ceiling, were cardboard boxes with dates written on their sides in thick marker.

Mei Ozaki lifted the lid off the nearest one and made a small sound of disgust.

"Old exams," she said.

"Someone kept old exams."

Haruki looked over her shoulder.

Inside the box, bundled with rubber bands that had gone hard and brittle, were entrance examination papers.

Not photocopies of workbook questions — the real papers, the ones the universities themselves had printed and distributed on the morning of the test.

Each bundle had a slip of paper on top, written by hand: Hokuto University, Second Stage, Faculty of Engineering, and a year.

He counted the boxes.

There were nine of them, and when he opened the rest, they were all the same.

Hokuto.

Hokuto.

Hokuto.

The oldest bundle was twenty-six years old.

The newest was from the previous spring.

At the bottom of the last box was something else: a row of ring binders, thick and slightly warped from the damp, each one labelled Examination Reports.

Inside were forms, filled out by hand, hundreds of them.

Every year, it seemed, the graduating students of Kitaura High School who had sat the Hokuto examination had written down what the paper had been like.

What they had run out of time on.

What had surprised them.

What they wished they had done differently.

Twenty-six years of it.

Sitting in a room nobody had opened since before Haruki started middle school.

"They were going to throw these away," Mei said.

He took one bundle home that night, because it seemed wrong to leave it, and because he was curious in a way he could not justify.

The paper was from eleven years earlier.

He cleared his desk, set his phone across the room, and gave himself the full one hundred and fifty minutes, the way the instructions said.

It felt serious.

It felt, for the first time in months, like something that mattered.

He scored thirty-one per cent.

He sat and looked at it for a while afterwards.

Then he checked his answers again, in case he had marked himself too harshly, and found that he had actually been generous.

The first large question he had answered well.

The second he had half-finished.

The third he had not understood at all.

The fourth he had never reached; he had simply run out of time, sitting there with fifty marks of paper in front of him and eight minutes on the clock.

He did the same thing on Sunday with a different year and scored twenty-eight per cent.

On the following Wednesday he tried a third and did slightly better, thirty-five, and then he stopped, because he understood what was happening.

He was not learning anything.

He was simply confirming, with increasing precision, that he was not good enough.

That was where Mei found him on the Friday of the next week, asleep in the reading room with three papers spread out under his elbow and a red pen still in his hand.

She did not wake him kindly.

She pulled a chair out and sat down hard, and he came up out of sleep with a line of ink across his wrist.

"You're solving them," she said.

"That's what they're for."

"That's what everyone does with them." She turned one of the papers around and looked at it without interest, the way you look at a bus timetable for a city you are not going to.

"Twenty-six years of examinations were sitting in that room, and you took three of them home and did them like homework."

"What else would I do?"

"Read them," Mei said.

"All of them.

Not to answer them.

To see what they are."

Haruki did not understand her at first, and told her so, and she got a piece of scrap paper and drew a grid on it, and that was how it started.

Her argument was simple, once he had it.

A university that has set its own examination for twenty-six years is not a mystery.

It is an institution with habits.

The people who write the paper are a department of perhaps forty professors, and every year a small committee of them sits down and produces four large questions.

They have preferences.

They have topics they believe an engineering student must be able to handle.

They have a house style, a way of asking, a way of allocating marks.

Twenty-six years of evidence about all of this had been sitting in cardboard boxes under a painted-shut window.

"Nobody has ever added it up," Mei said.

"That's all.

Everyone treats each paper as one practice test.

It isn't.

It's one data point."

They started the following Saturday and it was, Haruki would say later, the most boring work he had ever done in his life.

The rule they agreed on was that every single question in every single paper had to be recorded.

Not summarized — recorded.

For each one they wrote down the year, the subject, the question number, the topic, the sub-topic, the format of the answer required, and the marks available.

Mei insisted on the marks.

Haruki thought it was excessive until the third week, when the marks turned out to be the entire point.

They used index cards at first and abandoned them after two hundred questions.

After that they used the old desktop computer in the library workroom, the one with the sticky spacebar, and built a spreadsheet.

Mei typed.

Haruki read the questions aloud and classified them, and when he was not sure how to classify one, they argued about it, sometimes for ten minutes, and the arguments were the part where he learned the most.

It took them five weeks.

Mathematics, physics, and English; twenty-six years; one hundred and four large questions and something over a thousand individual parts.

Mr. Tokunaga noticed on the second Saturday, said nothing, and on the third Saturday gave them the key to the storage room and a small electric fan.

"Mr. Kuroda started those boxes," he said, when Haruki finally asked.

"Physics teacher.

He was here from the year I came until about fifteen years ago.

Every March he wrote to the students who had graduated and asked them to send back the paper and fill in a form.

Some of them did.

Enough of them did."

"Why did he stop?"

"He retired.

And the year after that the curriculum was revised, and everybody decided the old papers were out of date." Mr. Tokunaga shrugged, one shoulder only.

"I kept adding the new ones because it seemed a waste not to.

But nobody asked for them.

Twelve years, nobody asked."

"Were they out of date?"

"The syllabus changed," the old man said.

"The professors did not."

What they found, when the spreadsheet was finally complete and they began to sort it, did not feel like a discovery at first.

It felt like an accounting error.

In physics, twenty-two of the twenty-six papers contained a question that combined circular motion with the conservation of energy.

Twenty-two.

It was not a topic; it was practically a tradition.

Thermodynamics appeared in three years out of twenty-six, and in two of those it was worth fewer than fifteen marks.

The workbook that Kitaura High School recommended to every third-year student devoted an equal number of pages to each chapter.

In mathematics, the third large question was, in twenty-four years out of twenty-six, a proof or a derivation broken into three parts, in which part one and part two were routine and part three was genuinely hard.

Parts one and two together were worth about sixty per cent of the marks for that question.

Haruki went back through the examination reports in the ring binders and counted: of the students who had written about question three, more than half had used the phrase left it blank.

They had left blank the easiest marks on the paper, because the question as a whole looked frightening.

In English, one long reading passage of eight hundred to a thousand words carried, on average, fifty-eight per cent of the marks for the entire subject.

The vocabulary and grammar section at the start carried nine per cent.

The examination reports were full of students describing how they had spent twenty minutes on that first section, being careful, being thorough, and then meeting the passage with a hundred minutes gone.

And underneath all of it, when they finally sorted the whole table by marks rather than by frequency, the number that Mei circled twice in red: roughly thirty per cent of the topics accounted for roughly seventy per cent of the marks.

"That's it," she said.

"That's the whole thing.

We've been studying as if every page of the textbook were worth the same."

Haruki sat back in the library chair and felt something he had not felt since the previous autumn, which was the sensation of a problem having a shape.

The trouble started when they told people, which they did badly.

Haruki mentioned it in the classroom, too pleased with himself, and Kenji Abe — who sat behind him and had wanted Hokuto since he was thirteen — listened to the whole thing with his arms folded and then said the word that Haruki had been dreading without knowing it.

"That's a shortcut."

"It isn't."

"You're guessing what's on the test instead of learning the subject." Kenji was not being cruel.

That was what made it difficult.

He meant it.

"What happens when they change the paper?

What happens when you get thermodynamics and you've done nothing all year?"

Ms. Ihara, when it reached her, was more measured but not much happier.

She used the phrase study everything twice.

She reminded him that the university could revise its examination without warning.

She said, and Haruki wrote it down afterwards because it was a fair point and he wanted to remember fair points, that a pattern in the past is a description, not a promise.

He and Mei argued about it for a week.

Then October came and settled the argument for them, in the least pleasant way available.

The October mock examination was the big one, the one the whole prefecture sat.

Haruki went in confident for the first time in his life and came out having done worse in physics than he had in May.

The paper had a thermodynamics problem worth forty marks.

He got nine of them.

He did not sleep that night.

In the morning he found Mei in the workroom already, with the spreadsheet open and the mock paper flattened out beside the keyboard, and she looked as though she had been there for some time.

"This paper isn't Hokuto," she said, before he could speak.

"It's a national mock.

It's supposed to predict —"

"It's written by a testing company in Tokyo to be sat by a hundred and forty thousand students applying to four hundred different universities." She tapped the front cover.

"It has to cover the whole syllabus evenly, because it doesn't know where you're applying.

Hokuto knows exactly who is sitting its paper.

That is the entire difference and we should have seen it in September."

Haruki looked at the mock paper, and then at the spreadsheet, and felt the thing settle into place properly for the first time.

"So we were right about Hokuto and wrong about the mocks."

"We were right about Hokuto and careless about everything else." Mei scrolled down.

"And there's something else.

Look at nineteen years ago."

She had found it two nights earlier and had not wanted to tell him until she was sure.

Complex numbers had appeared in the mathematics paper in the third year of their records, and then vanished completely.

For twelve consecutive years, nothing.

Every reasonable reading of the data said the topic was dead.

It had come back seven years ago, as a full question, worth fifty marks.

"So the pattern breaks," Haruki said.

"The pattern breaks about once every eight years, as far as I can tell." Mei rubbed her eyes.

"Which means the honest version of what we found isn't drop the rare topics.

It's something more boring."

The honest version took them another week to write down, and when it was finished it fitted on one side of a sheet of paper.

They divided everything into three tiers.

Core was the thirty per cent of topics that carried seventy per cent of the marks, and it got forty per cent of their study time, worked to the point where speed no longer mattered.

Secondary was everything that appeared regularly but carried fewer marks, and it got forty per cent.

Maintenance was everything else — the thermodynamics, the complex numbers, the topics that turned up once a decade — and it got the remaining twenty per cent, forever, at a low level, never allowed to fall to zero.

One problem a week.

Enough to stay alive.

Underneath, Mei wrote three lines that had nothing to do with content at all, drawn entirely from the ring binders of examination reports:

In mathematics, always write out parts one and two, even when part three is impossible.

In English, read the long passage first and the vocabulary section last.

In physics, when a question has taken twelve minutes and is not moving, leave it and come back.

None of it was clever.

That was what struck Haruki most.

Twenty-six years of evidence and five weeks of work had produced advice that sounded like something an uncle might say at New Year.

But it was not the same as an uncle saying it.

An uncle was guessing.

They had counted.

They made forty photocopies and left them in a folder on the library counter with a note that said Hokuto University, Faculty of Engineering — analysis of past papers.

Take one.

Haruki had assumed, in some part of himself he was not proud of, that they would keep it.

Mei had not even raised the possibility.

"Kuroda collected those papers for twenty years and gave them to a school," she said.

"We're not going to be the two people who sat on them."

Eleven students took a copy in the first week.

Kenji Abe took one in the third week, without saying anything about it, and Haruki had the sense not to mention it either.

Winter, when it came, was simply work.

There was no transformation.

Haruki's November mock came back at fifty-six point four and a D, which was better and was still not enough.

His December mock was fifty-five.

He had days when the whole thing felt like a story he had told himself in a dusty room in June.

He had one bad week in January when his mother caught a cold that turned into something worse and he lost four days entirely, sitting in a hospital corridor with a physics book he did not open.

What was different was smaller than a transformation and more useful.

He no longer wasted evenings.

When he sat down at seven o'clock he knew what he was doing and why, and when he finished a session he could say what it had been for.

In the old days he had studied until he was tired, and the tiredness had felt like proof of something.

Now he studied until a specific thing was finished, and some nights that took two hours and some nights it took five, and the difference no longer frightened him.

Mei was under a different kind of pressure.

She was applying to Hokuto for medicine, which took perhaps one student in twelve, and her father had told her in October that if she failed she would spend the next year at a cram school in the city whether she wanted to or not.

She did not talk about it much.

Once, in February, she said that the worst part was not the studying but the way everyone in her house had started speaking to her carefully, as if she were ill.

The examination was on the twenty-fifth of February, and it snowed.

Haruki's mother had swapped a shift so she could see him off at the station, which she had not done since he was in middle school, and neither of them mentioned it.

On the train he did not open a book.

He looked out of the window at the white fields and ran through the three lines on Mei's sheet of paper the way other people run through a prayer.

The mathematics paper came first.

He turned it over and read all four questions before writing anything, which had been Mei's instruction and which he had practised eleven times.

Question three was a proof in three parts about a sequence, and part three was, as he had known it would be, beyond him.

He did parts one and two carefully, wrote out every line, and moved on without the surge of panic that would have taken him a year earlier.

Physics after lunch.

The second large question was circular motion joined to conservation of energy — the tradition, the thing that had appeared twenty-two times in twenty-six years — and he had done so many of them since July that his hand moved before his mind caught up.

Question four was long and strange and he did not finish it.

He had planned not to finish it.

He had planned which twenty marks he was going to lose, and losing them on schedule was, in its own peculiar way, a comfort.

English last, and he did what the ring binders had told him to do.

He turned straight to the long passage on page four while everyone around him was still filling in vocabulary boxes on page one.

He had ninety minutes for a passage that needed seventy, and he came back to the vocabulary at the end with time to spare and answered it quickly, and some of it he got wrong, and it was worth nine per cent.

He walked out into the snow at ten past five and could not have said whether he had passed.

That, he thought, was probably correct.

Nobody knows.

It was only that he had spent one hundred and fifty minutes of each paper doing what he had planned to do, instead of one hundred and fifty minutes reacting.

The results were posted on the ninth of March.

Haruki's number was on the list, near the bottom of a column, and he looked at it four times before he believed it.

He had been admitted to the Faculty of Engineering at Hokuto University by, he learned later, eleven marks.

Mei's number was not on the medicine list.

She had missed it by more than eleven marks — she never told him by how much, and he never asked.

She had passed the pharmacy course at a national university two prefectures away, and after four days of not answering her phone she decided to take it.

They met at the school on the last Saturday of March to return the storage room key, and sat on the low wall by the bicycle racks in the cold.

"You can say it," she said.

"You're allowed to say it was worth it.

You got in."

"I got in by eleven marks," Haruki said.

"If I'd spent September the way I spent April, I wouldn't have."

"That's the part people won't understand." Mei watched a first-year struggle with a bicycle lock.

"They'll think we found a secret.

We didn't find a secret.

We found out where the marks were, which anyone could have done, and then we did the same amount of work as everyone else."

"Do you regret it?

Given how it turned out."

She thought about it for longer than he expected.

"No," she said.

"Those papers gave me back about three months.

Three months I would have spent on things worth nine per cent.

I still wasn't good enough for medicine.

But I was as good as I could actually get, and I know that now, and I would rather know it than spend the rest of my life wondering whether I'd wasted the year." She stood up and brushed off the back of her coat.

"That's not a triumphant ending.

But it's the true one."

The following March, Haruki came back.

He had spent his first year at Hokuto in a flat with a broken heater, and he came home for the spring holiday with a copy of that year's second-stage examination paper, which he had bought at a bookshop near the campus, and the original notebook, and a memory stick with the spreadsheet on it.

Mr. Tokunaga had retired in the summer.

The new librarian was a woman in her thirties who did not know what he was talking about at first and then, when he explained, walked him back to the storage room herself.

The audio equipment had never arrived.

The room was exactly as they had left it, nine boxes on steel shelves, the window still painted shut, the smell of dry paper and dust.

Somebody had put the folder of photocopies back on the third shelf.

Two of the forty were gone; he did not know whether that was disappointing or not.

He added the new paper to the top box and wrote the year on the bundle in thick marker, the way Mr. Kuroda had done it.

He put the notebook and the memory stick beside it, and he wrote a form for the ring binder — what the paper had been like, what he had run out of time on, what he wished he had done differently — even though nobody had asked him to, because somebody had asked the students of twenty-seven years ago, and those forms had been worth more to him than any teacher he ever had.

Then he closed the box and turned off the light.

On the shelf behind him, in the dark, twenty-seven years of evidence went on quietly waiting for the next person who thought to open it.