The Test

Two

The lady at the store is very happy to receive all the bags I throw on her desk. ""Here, take them," I say. Before I change my mind, is what I don't. She is astonished to see all the finely woven silks inside, and she pulls them into her stock room with great enthusiasm. "Look! Delia? Look what we've just had delivered! Our customers will love us!" She shouts to her assistant. She beams as she pays me 1,000 credits, cash. Normally, all our purchases or trades are billed directly to the bank, but I guess here in the slums they like to deal in something more tangible.

I exit the store slowly, at a loss for what to do next. I take in the shouting market vendors and untidy shops, marred by the perpetual dust that seems to writhe around the body of the slums like a second skin, which is when I come across a street bar with amazing smells wafting from its kitchen.

I follow the amazing smells to a booth in the back, near the makeshift bar, asking for a latte with extra cream. They bring it, and as I sit there sipping it I realise I'll have to find somewhere to stay. "So. What're you down here for then?" A rough voice says. I turn around to face the voice, surprised to find the waitresss who brought my coffee lounging against the bar. "Oh, um...I failed my Test. "My parents kicked me out."

Her eyebrows raise, surprised. "Really now?" she says in a distinctly southern drawl. She looks me up and down while she peas, and I feel strnagely exposed. "I'd a thought a rich girl like you'd a aced it."

I frown. I have no idea how this stranger with red-bleached hair and a lip ring knows I'm rich. It must be the clothes. Or the sign, glaringly obvious, above my head.

The girl loses interest and goes back inside to the covered area behind the bar, the only place that offers any respite from the scorching heat- the one place I can't go.

I turn back to the street, sipping my latte and people-watching. I mean, I have nothing else to do. I fall into a sleepy haze and the world dims around me, blurring at the edges as I sink into a half-sleep.

Then, three things that happen very quickly snap me back into sharp focus, the world hard edges as fear sends chills up my spine.

The sharp snap of boots on hard ground. boots. grey coats. The silver insignia. The secret police.

I lurch to my feet, knocking over my latte in my haste. I barely manage to grab the bag full of credits and clothes before hitting the ground running, weaving between the tables in a futile effort to shake them off. But they can't see me. Can they?

A hand grabs my arm. I scream a little and whirl around to shake the vice-like grip off.

But it is not a guard. It is a boy.

"Go," he whispers. "Run."

"What?" I'm confused. "What-?"

"Go," the boy says again, more forcefully this time, pushing me between tables until we get to the street. "They're after you."

"What? Why?" I ask, panting, while we run.

"Because," he says in a condescending tone as he glares at me and I recoil, "little rich girl spilled to an informant."

"What? I only told that waitress I'd failed my Test-"

He pushes me roughly into an alley and puts his hands on my shoulders, his unkempt brown-blonde hair falling into his eyes. His green eyes that burn into me, two intense spheres of emerald fire. "Exactly. Or do you not understand the implications of this?" he seems exasperated for some reason. "Do you not understand that if you value your life you will tell no-one, not a single living soul, that you failed your Test?"

"No, I don't understand,' I say, genuinely puzzled. I mean, I get that it's bad for you to fail your Test, I get that now, and it would be really embarrassing to tell anyone that, especially if you're from the rich part of town, but he's acting like it's dangerous for you to tell anyone.