CHAPTER TWELVE
After that, lunch hour pretty much sucks. I find Laronda in the cafeteria, and she's sitting all the way in the back, so that I have to carry my tray with its slice of pizza and glass of juice past several tables filled with the popular mean crowd.
It's only day two, and Yellow Dorm Eight has already established a social pecking order, and they are center stage, here in the cafeteria. All the in-crowd has occupied the best tables. This grouping of alphas now includes in one category the hashtaggers, and a number of other athletic-looking jocks and cheerleader types, or simply big and tough teens, many of whom seem to be well-off, sporting expensive smart jewelry and gadgets. In another category there are the scary street-tough guys and girls that look like they are gang-affiliated.
The rest of us, kids who are ordinary beta types, geeks and nerds, the weirdoes, or the invisible loners, are relegated to the secondary, more-or-less "loser tables" at the periphery, the farthest ends of the room, and pressed against the walls and cafeteria backroom doors.
As I pass the loudest table in the middle, I hear laughter and hoots, and then someone says, "Gwen Lark, baby, why you ask such difficult questions?" I pause and a new wave of laugher hits me.
I turn.
The big dark-haired guy with the creepy neck tattoo, who pinched and elbowed me the other day, is staring directly at me. His grin is hard and terrible. Again, he shapes his lips into an air kiss and I feel a wave of cold fear sweep through me. . . .
"Where you going, baby?" he says loudly, leaning his muscled body in my direction. "Looking for some more Atlantis homework? I got some for you right here!" He makes a gesture at his crotch.
"Owww, Derek! You show her, man!" More hoots, crude gestures, and guffaws break out. There's Olivia, hanging on to Wade's arm, and making more disgusting gestures, then covering his ear with her hands to whisper something. Both of them bust out laughing.
My head feels like it will explode from a mixture of sudden rage and fear. But fear wins out and makes me stiffen and turn away and pretend to ignore them—especially this tattooed Derek guy who scares the crap out of me in a serious way, with his bulk and his hardcore attitude, and the aura of street-tough meanness.
I quickly rush past their table, barely keeping the tray in my hands, and make it to Laronda's table.
"Ooooo, girl, they really have it in for you!" Laronda looks at me worriedly. "See, that's what you get for not keeping your mouth shut and talking so much in class. All these jerks notice you!"
"I know. . . ." I slam my tray down, because I am still shaking in anger. "I can't help it. I always talk in class. Way too much."
"Then cut it out!" Laronda nibbles at the crust remains of her pizza slice.
I sit down and stare at her. "It's just how I am. I dunno, I always have this need to answer everything—I know, it's crazy, I guess. It's automatic—"
"See, even now you're talking too much. Just, zip it. Shush!"
"Okay . . ."
"Nuh-uh!" Laronda lifts her hand palm up in my face, then mimes closing a zipper with her fingers across her lips.
I take the hint and chew some pizza instead.
Meanwhile Laronda tells me stuff—first about her horrible Combat class over at the huge Arena Commons building, then about her Auntie Janice back in Buffalo with whom she lives, and about how her six-year-old baby brother Jamil loves pizza, any pizza no matter how awful, and too bad she couldn't give him some of this crappy cardboard kind from the cafeteria, because he'd eat it for sure. . . .
I listen and nod, and think about saying something about how sorry I am that her aunt and her brother Jamil cannot be here with us, cannot Qualify, just like my parents cannot be here.
But I say nothing, because, of course speaking about any of it is too horrible. . . .
"So hey, how was Agility?" Laronda twirls and folds a drinking straw wrapper into an accordion on her tray.
I tell her about it, and then mention Blayne last, and how he basically cut me off in the end.
"Boy's got issues, that's for sure." Laronda chews the straw wrapper. "So, you're never going to talk to him again now, right? Right? Cause that would be the smart thing to do."
"I don't know, I guess not. . . . Still, I feel so bad for him, for some reason, as if I am supposed to do something—as if I could do something to help him."
"Well, you can't. And he doesn't want help. Stop being a pushy moron, and get it through your thick smarty pants skull. Some people just don't like it when others fuss at them. Let the man have his pride."
The claxon bell rings to indicate the end of lunch hour and five minutes before next class.
Today Laronda and I share this one also, and it happens to be Atlantis Tech.
"All right, move your hiney, girl, time for us to go get all 'techie.'"
I nod and pick up my tray. Then we go to unload the remains of our lunch, and I pause momentarily and take Laronda's elbow. "Wait a little. Let those jerks clear out first, I don't want to pass by that table again. . . ."
Laronda glances to where I am motioning with my eyes, and she sees the alpha crowd near the doors, clearing out their trays and leaving the cafeteria.
"Okay, but you can't just avoid them all the time. Remember what I told you, you gotta cultivate an attitude. And I mean, Attitude with a capital A."
"Yeah, okay. Maybe next time. . . ." And I continue waiting a few more seconds, while the majority of them leave the cafeteria.
"Chicken!" Laronda says.
"And proud of it," I smile at her.
* * *
Mr. Warrenson is already in the classroom when we get there, and he is setting out a bunch of gadgets on the large surface of the teacher's desk.
"Hurry, hurry, take your seats please, everyone!" he repeats every few minutes, as Candidates fill up the empty seats in the classroom. "So much to do today, and no time to waste. . . ."
Laronda knows me well already, because she plunks down on a seat in the second row, giving me the "primo" spot closer to the middle.
I purse my lips to hold back another smile.
And then the nerves kick in again. I remember this is the "singing class."
Mr. Warrenson begins class with a demonstration.
"Today," he says, "is very exciting! As you recall, in yesterday's class I demonstrated to you some basic sound-based levitation. Well, today, you are going to learn how to do it yourself—you'll make the sounds that levitate objects! Yes, all by yourself!"
Okay, Mr. Warrenson is being way too geeky and way too optimistic in thinking we actually "recall" anything from yesterday's class. Because, to be honest, he does ramble on a whole lot, which makes it hard to follow him. And that's saying a lot, coming from me.
"OMG!" Laronda whispers. "Isn't it like in those really old kids' books about a boy wizard who goes to magic school and they do all these funky spells? I want me some magic wand!"
"Except, this is not magic," I whisper back. "At least I don't think so. . . ."
"Ladies, quiet, please!" Mr. Warrenson turns in our direction then continues. "Now, the fact that we are using the Yellow Quadrant as our basic approach, makes it a bit more complicated. The Majors and Minors—Red Quadrant and Blue Quadrant—have it easy. Their sound controls are based on common musical scales. Yours, on the other hand, are based on relativity, and so are the Green Quadrant's. Yellow is Sharp, while Green is Flat, so basically you don't really have your own reference points, as much as you have to riff off the others. To put it simply, in a musical piece, Red is the melody line, Blue is the harmony, and Yellow and Green are the counterpoints, with Yellow rising and Green falling. But—we'll get to that later, today is just the general basics common to all Quadrants—"
The class appears somewhat dazed at this musical theory explanation. Seriously, a few people are already flatlining from boredom. And it's only been, like, thirty seconds of class. I mean, we're supposed to be levitating stuff, for goshsakes! Where is Nefir Mekei and his mesmerizing Storyteller voice when you need it?
Fortunately Mr. Warrenson gets a clue and gets practical. He picks up a small lump of charcoal gray material from the surface of the desk and displays it to the class. "This—this right here is the basic metal alloy that Atlanteans have developed to resonate to sound. It's the same material that hoverboards are made of. There are so many other uses—"
"What is it?" a girl asks.
"Aha!" Mr. Warrenson pauses, then scratches his balding head to better consider his answer. "Well, that's the thing. We don't really know what it is. And the Atlanteans won't tell us."
The classroom comes awake.
"For lack of a better term, we here in the Earth scientific community, refer to it at present as orichalcum. I realize it's a placeholder name, and somewhat trite, since it's the mythic term from ancient writings referring to an unknown, 'magic' Atlantis metal. But until the Atlanteans share with us its atomic structure, we have nothing else to go on. And who knows, maybe that's what the mythic orichalcum is anyway."
I raise my hand. Laronda immediately kicks me underneath the desk, but I ignore her.
"Yes," Mr. Warrenson turns to me. "Your name, please?"
"Gwen Lark. I want to know why can't we simply analyze a sample in a lab and find out for ourselves its atomic structure? Isn't it the normal thing to do with unknown substances? And if we already tried, what happened?"
"Good question, Ms. Lark. We have, in fact, tried. Unfortunately, it turns out we cannot properly break down this material to the atomic level, and none of our lab tests are able to have any conclusive effect on it."
My eyes widen, and I stare. The gears of my mind are turning. Orichalcum, the fabled metal from myth and legend, is in fact real! And it's super weird!
"We do know," Mr. Warrenson continues, "that it is a metal alloy. It appears to conduct heat—sometimes. Yes, I know that makes no logical sense. We can make an educated guess that part of its elemental makeup is gold, since gold is widely used on Atlantis for practically everything. We have not found its melting point temperature however. And everything else we think we know about it is messy science at best. The Atlanteans have not been particularly forthcoming with us about this stuff, nor have they shared with us many raw samples."
Mr. Warrenson turns the lump of orichalcum this and that way in his fingers as we continue to stare. Under the bright overhead lights, it appears to catch fire and sparkle with gold flecks. But as soon as light falls away it goes back to dull grey. "But enough background for now. Watch!"
Mr. Warrenson sings a sequence of notes in a clean tenor voice. It's a sustained C Major followed by short notes E and G and then C again, sustained. He repeats this so that it sounds like he is singing the components of a C Major cord, over and over again.
The lump of orichalcum begins to visibly vibrate in his fingers. When suddenly he takes his hand away, the piece remains in place, floating in mid-air.
"Awesome!" a boy says.
"It sure is. Now, I want all of you to do it. Everyone, turn to the person next to you, who will be your partner."
Mr. Warrenson plucks the orichalcum piece from the air—it continues to vibrate oddly in his hand—and then opens a large box that contains a whole bunch of similar grey lumps. "As you can see, the other pieces of orichalcum in this box are presently inert. That's because the container is soundproof and serves as sound insulation."
With the box, he walks around the classroom, depositing a piece on every desk. "This is for your use today, but you cannot keep it. You will need to return it to me at the end of class. Now, put your hands on your piece, squeeze it, close your fingers all around. Warm it in your palm."
I wrap my palm around the small metal lump that Mr. Warrenson just gave me. It feels cool to the touch at first, then quickly takes on body temperature. Soon, it feels strangely right.
Next to me, Laronda is holding up her own piece and examining it closely.
"Now, repeat these notes exactly. C-E-G. And be sure to hold the C longer—"
A very young middle-schooler with freckles raises her hand. "Excuse me, I don't know music notes. What's a C-E-G?"
Mr. Warrenson sighs. "What is your name, dear?"
"Jessica Conlett . . ." the girl mumbles.
"That's all right now, Ms. Conlett. I know that not all of you've had music education, or even remember all your notes if you did—and really it's quite a lot to demand of you. But, as you realize, this is not ordinary class, this is Qualification." He sighs again. "So please see me afterwards, or during your Homework Hour. My office is upstairs in the Arena Commons building. I'll catch you up on basic music theory. There are also some books you can borrow. . . . In addition, you can see your Dorm Leaders and they might be able to tutor you a bit."
"Okay," the girl mumbles.
"Now, everyone," Mr. Warrenson continues, "even if you don't know the notes, just sing along with me. Hold your piece up on your palm and sing C-E-G, like this."
We raise our palms up, and echo the Instructor. I take a deep breath. As soon as I make the first C note sound, I feel the vibration in my hand start. The lump of metal comes alive, and I feel its strange soothing warmth run like a light charge of electricity up and down my arm, echoing in my body. "C-E-G," I sing, and my voice begins soft and breathy then gets more confident, as I continue the notes. I am focusing so hard that my knuckles pressing against the side of the desk are turning white, while I hold up the other hand, palm up, with the orichalcum.
It's just another note, just another note, a familiar mantra begins in my head. I try to ignore it, focus, focus.
At my right, Laronda is singing in a pleasant soprano, smooth as silk. On the other side of me, an older girl sings in a slightly nasal lower soprano, with rich overtones. A boy's light tenor sounds directly behind me . . . then further back, someone else with a deeper voice. There are even a few baritones from the older boys. From everywhere, teen voices rise, repeating the grand C Major chord, eerily beautiful and powerful, until the classroom itself is suddenly buzzing, and all our orichalcum pieces are practically dancing in the palms of our hands, vibrating to the frequency. . . .
Mr. Warrenson raises his hand for silence. "Now, keep your palms up, fingers wide open and slowly lower your hands without holding on to the orichalcum."
I gently remove my palm from underneath the piece in my hand, and it . . . stays floating in the air before me.
My breath catches in my throat with awe.
With my peripheral vision, I see other pieces of metal floating like clouds in front of each Candidate. Laronda is watching her own levitating piece with amazement.
"Good!" Mr. Warrenson smiles at us. "What you've all done just now is keyed each piece to your unique voice and specific sound frequency. This means that your own piece will respond to only your voice and commands, until another person handles it and repeats the keying note sequence. This assures that there are no conflicting commands being issued. It's truly ingenious how the Atlanteans made it so that you have inert and keyed states for orichalcum."
I raise my hand again. Laronda rolls her eyes at me.
"Yes, Ms. Lark?"
"This is definitely amazing," I say. "But what if no one touches it, and there are several people all singing different commands at the same time? Will the inert piece respond at all? How will it know what command to 'obey?'"
"An excellent question!" Mr. Warrenson nods eagerly. "That is called auto-keying. In a situation where several voices sound together, and there is potential conflict, the orichalcum will indeed pick up and auto-key to the frequency of the strongest, loudest, cleanest voice. It will then follow the first complete command sequence issued by that voice. So, the more precise and powerful your notes are, the more likelihood there is that you will key the object to yourself remotely."
"Wow," I say.
"Yes, yes." Mr. Warrenson nods at me then walks to his desk. "Now, there are two ways of returning orichalcum to its inert state. The first is to place it in a soundproof container. After a sufficient period of continued silence—about fifteen minutes to half an hour—the auditory 'charge' appears to wear out. The second method is to issue a 'turn-off' command by the person to which the object is keyed. And the way to do it is simple. Just sing a few random notes that are dissonant. In other words, notes that sound 'jarring' or weird together, and don't make good harmony or melody. Plenty of flat or sharp notes should do it."
Mr. Warrenson holds up his original piece of orichalcum that is still buzzing in his hand. He opens his palm to show us, then takes his hand away until the piece levitates in front of him above the desk surface. And then he sings four notes that don't sound good together at all.
With a clatter, the orichalcum falls down on the desk.
"Now, the next basic commands you need to know is how to lift objects up from either a stationary or levitating position, and how to bring them back down smoothly."
This time Mr. Warrenson stands back from the desk. He clears his throat, then sings a loud C Major and holds it for a few seconds, then sweeps up an octave, and concludes on another C Major, except one octave higher. As he does so, various loose objects on his desk suddenly begin to rise.
There must be a whole lot of orichalcum there, because in seconds, the contents of the entire desk surface are airborne. They float up slowly, and I remember in that moment how Oalla Keigeri had used a similar octave-jumping sequence to call the hoverboards in gym hall.
Before everything floats away to the ceiling, Mr. Warrenson begins singing the C-E-G looping sequence we already know that makes the objects stop in place and just levitate. He goes silent, and looks around the class to see the Candidates staring intently.
"And now," he says, "the final sequence to bring everything back down again." And he sings C Major, starting in a higher octave, then bringing it down to the lower C. The levitating stuff begins to gently float down, until it is once again resting on top of the desk.
"And that's the basics of Atlantean object movement," Mr. Warrenson concludes. "The only other command you need to know for now is the 'advance forward' command. It is perfectly simple. You hold a single note. Usually it's C Major, or the first note of the chord you choose to use for your keying command sequence—that's the tonic note. As I said before, the Red Quadrant uses Major keys and chords, so we have been using C Major notes in our demonstration. But you can use any chord sequence, Major or Minor. The Blue Quadrant often uses D Minor, for example. As for Yellow and Green—well, that will come later. For now we're keeping it simple."
Mr. Warrenson pauses, then looks at all of us, at our levitating orichalcum pieces. "Now, I want you all to turn to your partner and you will be practicing moving your pieces across space toward each other. . . . Then you will reset each piece back to inert state, then switch and try to key each other's piece remotely. Please begin!"
There's much shuffling and scratching sounds of furniture as the class starts rearranging and pushing desks together. In moments Laronda and I are facing each other across two levitating pieces of grayish metal with gold flecks.
"It's on, girl!" Laronda grins. And then she sings a loud and perfect C—at the same time as other teen voices sound everywhere around us.
Her orichalcum easily floats in my direction.
I watch it for a few seconds, then take a deep breath and begin to sing also.
* * *