《Testing Day》
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When the lights dim, we are to remain calm, seated, with our eyes pressed forward and glued to the holographic screen that flickers with images of FUA past glories: the victory at D.C.; the burning of the Whitehouse; the toppling of the Washington Monument; the inauguration ball of the ten men and women of the Council; the first Culling. We are to applaud our country's success, and so we do, moderate, almost lazy claps breaking the silence and sounding off the room's barren walls.
Our teacher for today's lesson hushes us with a grunt from somewhere in the dark. We quiet, most of us going rigid as the hologram's blue tint silhouettes the stiff forms of the others. There's one of us missing in the line-up. November. She was taken last week and none of us have seen her since. Tujo says she's dead, saw Corpse Removal leave her room, but I'm not convinced. Liars were one in a dozen; it seemed wasteful to kill her just because she'd been found with a pair of tweezers.
"But that's against the rules," Rima had said. "Could have hurt herself or someone else. It's a punishable offense."
But death? That seemed a bit harsh, even in the Facility. She must have been sent to the Calming Chamber. I'm sure she'll pop up again. She's my walking mate, and making my rounds on the indoor track alone is making me feel silly, especially with the armed guards watching from their eagles' nests.
The holographic player, a small silver circle recessed into the front wall, whirs and clicks, and a new set of images is projected in front of us. This time, it's each of the Council members, all ten of them, young and cheerful on Graduation Day. They held diplomas high overhead, crowned with black caps. Matching robes draped their bodies with flowy, bell sleeves.
From right to left: Councilman Ira, Abyashi, In-Semelle, Triav, Mercado, O'Mallory, Inez, Patel, Flint, and Dove. The image changes and we see these same ten faces on Inauguration Day, standing stalwart in matching suits emblazoned with the country's crest - a fledgling dove, mid-flight, a caning rod clutched in one talon, a stone in the other.
They wave at us as the prerecorded crowd erupts into a fever pitch of applause and whoops. The din echoes throughout the room, and I feel as though I'm there, witnessing the birth of a new nation. That is to be us someday— if we don't die before we graduate.
The slide show ends and lights burst on. Mistress Ramona scurries from her corner as the darkness recedes, her scarlet dress fluttering above her ankles. It takes a few blinks for my eyes to adjust but when they do, all I can focus on is the FUA crest--the dove-- stitched over Ramona's left breast. Where it lays, it's like its nesting above her heart, as though its feathers could provide her warmth, its wings could shield her from disaster, as though its heart could flutter in tandem with her own.
I wish I had a pair of scissors to lop off the dumb bird's head. But scissors, much like tweezers, were forbidden. And if I got my hands on one? I could end up like Nove, though, honestly, would that really be all that bad?
Mistress Ramona sniffs and drags her glasses to rest higher atop the bridge of her twice-broken nose. Though I hadn't been the one to give her a face-full of fist, on some testing days, I wish I had.
"Today's test," she begins, her voice pinched, nasally and grating. I resign my head to my hand as the struggle to keep my eyes open becomes a battle I'm beginning to lose. Miss Ramona must not notice, despite her inches thick lenses, because she continues carrying on,"covers Federated United American History. Years 2037 to 2055. No exemptions." I wish we'd had another teacher today, but beggars can't be choosers. At least not until the power of the country was placed at my disposal. Mistress Ramona turns away from us and swipes a hand across empty air prompting a screen to hover before my eyes. "I've already uploaded everything. Remember—" She turns back towards us, straightening her shoulders. "You are to aim for a 96%. Anything below that is an automatic fail and you will be expelled. There are always more Liars that can be Culled. Do not disappoint your country. Praise Dove."
"Praise Dove," I say, adding to the collective.
Mistress Ramona offers an approving nod before exiting the room. With a click, the door locks behind her, and a virtual timer begins counting down on our screen.
"An hour and a half," Tujo whines. "For seventy-five questions?" He sighs and rests his head in his hand. "That's absurd. I hope there's no essay."
"They said it'd get harder," Rima chides. "But it shouldn't be a problem. They've pounded this stuff into our heads since we arrived."
Tujo nods.
"It's all rhetoric anyway," Nol says, and we all turn to him, dumbfounded.
It was the truth. The Council shaped history into whatever made them look best, but the fact he said it out loud...could get him in a lot of trouble. Have his rations cut, be sentenced to the Isolation Ward, or even face expulsion.
He shrugs and swipes his screen right. "Just say whatever they want you to say, and you'll be golden." He pauses mid-air, his finger passing through the blinking test screen, and smiles at me. "Or you could be like Ten and just answer at random. How'd you pick your answers for the geography quiz again?"
I smile. "Limerick. A-A-B-B-A."
"And you got an 87%," Marava cuts in. "We were supposed to get 90. Don't know how you managed to still be here."
"Guess they liked my individualism?"
Nol chuckles.
Marava scowls. "You must have made a deal with someone high up to get away with all you do."
I focus on her red, press-on nails. "And what is it that you do to keep that nice little manicure going? Whose dick do you suck?"
She shoots up from her seat and snarls. "I don't have to suck dick to get what I want. I'm rewarded for my behavior." Marava clenches her jaw, balls her hands into fists. The urge to slam them into my face blazes briefly in her grimace. She relaxes, knowing what would happen if she were to give in to that impulse, and adds, "As well as my immaculate test scores."
It's not until Quint rests a hand on her shoulder that Marava takes a seat. Having to reign her in at all hours must be exhausting. God bless him and his seemingly endless patience.
"We've only got 85 minutes left," Tujo laments. "Mind shutting up?"
Rima slugs Tujo's shoulder. He howls with feigned pain, and Rima smiles. She never liked it when her brother showed all his sharp edges. Everyone knew she preferred his softer, kinder side, which he seldom showed anyone else.
Nol swipes his screen left again. I spy his completion bar and almost gasp. 67% done. No wonder they called him a genius.
He must have noticed my wandering gaze because he turns toward me, and in a voice low enough not to irritate Tujo, he says, "How are you going to answer this one?"
I shrug and without reading question one, pick A for my answer. "Shakespearean sonnet for the multiple-choice. Iambic pentameter for the essay."
He nods his approval. "Cohesive," he says, swiping left again. He didn't even bother reading the question. "I like it."
"I hope you get expelled," Marava hisses.
I lean forward, so she can feel my breath against the nape of her neck. "I hope to one day see Corpse Removal leave your cell."
She whips around and slashes a hand through my screen. The words split apart only to reform seconds later. "Fuck you, Ten."
And with that, I settle back into my seat, kick my feet up, and begin to sincerely take my test. B. I swipe left. A. Swipe right. B. Swipe left.
¤
Mistress Ramona doesn't return to the room even after the test timer blinks red and our testing screens disappear. Instead, the door clicks open and six armed-guards stalk into the room. They motion for us to line up against the opposite wall. Due to the tinted visors shielding their eyes, I can't make out any of their faces. The Accuracy Assist's latest update drowns their cheekbones in that eerie, electronic blue. I inhale. The last version of AA increased accuracy to 95% in long range situations, and I shudder to think what this newest one could do. A single, well-aimed bullet was all they needed to put down a running target, in case any of us felt defiant.
We do as the guards instruct and line up according to our order. Sin's first - a tall, muscular Korean boy who says so little, I sometimes forget he's with us. There's no Deuce. He passed away last year - heart imperfections - and each of his successors keeps getting expelled. Next to the empty space formed by Deuce's absence, stands the twins and the youngest of our batch - Tujo and Rima. With blond ringlets, spindly limbs, and forest green eyes, they remind me of fairies. I half-expect them to sprout wings and fly free of this place.
Marava and Quint stand next to the twins. Marava is a tall, slender Latina girl, and Quint is a tanned, lithe man, standing a good six inches taller than her. And then there's Nol. Pale and freckled with skin that blisters and peels if he spends more than a quarter of an hour underneath the artificial sun lamps in the Yard. There's another gap, where Octavio and November should be, and then it's me, taking up the rear, the only Federated Afro-American to survive the year.
November was, is, half Haitian, and that's one of the reasons I felt such a strong connection with her, why her absence caused me to hunger strike until they prescribed the feeding chair and force-fed me pulverized meat substitute. I still feel pitted over her disappearance, though I haven't let that emptiness goad me into further disobedience.
"Out," the guard commands.
Again, we do as we're told - since they're the ones cradling the semi-automatics - and reach out our hands so they can be cuffed. Once Tujo, who's always the last to do anything he's told, complies, the guard who spoke motions to a man on his left, carrying a tray of DECs. Each DEC looks like a slim, silver bracelet, but once it's slipped over our wrists, it ignites in a blue beam of contained electrical current.
If the guard holding the activation key finds us in violation of any codes of conduct, he can press a button, lower the invisible shield protecting us from the current, and give us a shock on a scale of one to ten. The latter could send the recipient into permanent stasis, and that's only if they manage to survive, but even on the lowest setting, the DEC's pretty powerful. Tujo got a grade one shock his first year here, and it knocked him on his ass and made him piss himself.
I won't be trying anything funny with that band slapped around my wrist.