Eleven out of ten
The mark scheme said 10 was the limit. I was given 11. That extra point wasn’t about perfection — it was proof that ceilings are often self-imposed. Sometimes excellence isn’t scoring full marks. It’s redefining the scale.
Eleven Out of Ten
There are moments in life when something small carries more weight than it should.
For me, it was a number.
Eleven out of ten.
I was at secondary school. Physics. Second set. A subject that, at the time, felt like it belonged to a certain type of student—the precise, methodical, quietly brilliant ones who always seemed two steps ahead. I wasn’t the loudest in the room, nor the most flamboyant academically. I was consistent. Solid. Reliable.
But I wasn’t used to breaking the scale.
That particular test had gone well. I knew it as I handed the test in. Not in an arrogant way—just a quiet certainty. I had revised properly. I understood the concepts rather than memorising them. I had drawn the diagrams carefully. I could see the questions from multiple angles.
When the results were handed back, I glanced down and saw the number circled in red.
11/10.
For a second, I assumed it was a mistake.
