[Atlantis Grail 01.0] Qualify

by Vera Nazarian

  A few seconds later the girl steadies herself somehow, stops the sniffles and with another determined breath says, “Go!” The board resumes moving, and this time she says “Descend!” in a more steady voice.

  When almost on the mats, she says, “Level!” and continues floating silently to the end of the line. “Stop!” She steps off and stands in one spot, dazed. She looks around. “Um, what do I say now?”

  “Reverse, Rise, Return . . .” someone whispers.

  “Reverse, Rise, Return!” the seventh grader repeats in a voice of relief. The hoverboard rises and floats away while the girl heads to the back desk toward Ligerat Faroi. The Atlantean nods at her and scans her token, as everyone watches.

  Oh, to be her at this point! I think with envy. To just be done with it!

  “See, that wasn’t so bad,” George whispers to Gracie. “Look at her, she’s a bigger wimp than you. . . . You can do it!”

  Meanwhile the next kid is already up in the front of the stage, his ID token scanned. The moment the board arrives, he hops on with a practiced snowboarder stance and with a grin makes a shaka hand sign, then says, “Go!” In moments he sails past the stage, descends smoothly, levels off, and then jumps off at the stop. As the board returns, the kid stares after it with admiration and says, “That was sick! I want that board.” He is then ID-scanned at the desk in the back.

  “Okay, this is looking more and more like it’s gonna take forever,” mumbles Gordie.

  Suddenly everyone is itching to advance, to get it over with. We move forward a few steps and wait, and watch teens of all ages and from all the schools get onto the board. Some are terrified, others absolutely loving it. Most are more or less in-between, cautious, but grimly determined, since after all, it’s Qualify or die.

  It gets sad however, a few times. A few of the younger kids, both girls and boys, and even a few of the older ones, balk completely as they stand next to the board. Two end up bawling, and just shake their heads negatively and refuse to get up on the hoverboard, even after a teacher comes to hug them and takes them off to the back of the stage to try to speak to them quietly. One girl is unable to put her second foot up. She just stands there, and then a teacher says, “why don’t you take a few minutes, try again later?”

  And the next name gets called.

  I watch the whole thing, as I slowly inch closer to my turn. Gracie is very quiet and subdued, and she keeps grabbing my hand, then letting go.

  “Oh man! Oh no! Look!” George’s bud Eddie says, and we all stare as Archer Richards, an older boy from our school, my year, suddenly slips and ends up hanging off the board with both hands. . . .

  Just wow.

  Archer is hanging by his hands then arms, hugging the board, and he cries out, “Stop!” The board freezes eight feet up in the air, just a few feet away from the stage. All Archer needs to do is just let go and he’ll be standing on the mat. It’s only a few inches to the floor from where he is hanging.

  But somehow Archer Richards knows. If he lets go now, he fails the stupid hoverboard test.

  And so everyone holds their breath and watches as Archer grunts and switches his grip with both hands, and then suddenly he pulls himself up and lies on his stomach on top of the board.

  There are whispers of relief.

  Archer lies there for a few seconds. He’s a short, stocky guy with powerful arms that look like he works out regularly, and obviously it has helped. He then carefully stands up and resumes the movement of the board, finishing his pass without further mishap. When he gets off, everyone claps and hoots. And apparently the Atlantean in the back has noticed too, and looks well pleased as he scans Archer’s token.

  “I bet that guy just Qualified,” says Gordie, as we take another few steps closer to the stage.

  And then, a few minutes later, just as it looks like it can’t get any more heartbreaking, I look up on stage and there’s a kid in a wheelchair.

  Chapter 4

  “Oh, no, just no!” Gracie mutters, staring with great big eyes at the student in the wheelchair, who has been somehow lifted up onto the stage. It’s a dark-haired boy I’ve never seen before, probably from another school, and he looks frail.

  “Poor guy. . . .” George frowns. “This must really blow for him.”

  “It’s really unfair.” I stare, while a weird numbing sense fills me. Regret or pity, or I don’t know what. Maybe this is what resigned despair feels like. Whatever it is, it makes my gut cold.

  The auditorium has once again grown really quiet.

  Principal Marksen stands looking at the disabled boy, and for the first time his tough face has cracked and he looks really uncomfortable.

  A woman teacher comes up to the wheelchair, leans forward gently and speaks something to the boy. After a pause the boy nods. The teacher then reaches into the box and hands a blank token to the Principal who frowns, then encodes the ID data.

  The Principal leans down and hands the token to the boy.

  The kid looks up, and I watch his skinny neck move, and the tightening of his lips. He takes the button and pins it to the front of his sweatshirt.

  The teacher then pushes the wheelchair closer to the hoverboard.

  I hold my breath as the boy lifts himself off the wheelchair with his hands and arms, and then drags himself along the floor. Then he pulls himself up with unexpected strength, lifting his body onto the hoverboard, lies there on his stomach for a few seconds, then manually pulls up his legs, adjusting them to lie along the length of the board.

  “Wow! No way!” Gordie opens his mouth.

  Everyone else is making noise too.

  “Go!” says the kid without the use of his legs. His voice is calm, he is holding on with both hands, while lying on his stomach, and the board sails forward over the stage. He soon moves into a smooth descent and finishes at the end of the run with a confident “Stop!”

  Here, he lifts himself onto the linoleum near the edge of the mat, and ends in a sitting position on the floor. He commands the board to return.

  As the board is flying back, the teacher who had assisted him on the stage has picked up the wheelchair and is hurrying it down the stairs with the help of someone, and then pushing it through the auditorium in a hurry.

  As the kid waits for the chair to be brought to him, the Atlantean in the back leaves his desk and approaches the student. Ligerat stops before the seated boy and shakes his hand. He then scans his token and for the first time there is a smile on his weirdly Egyptian face.

  The auditorium erupts in applause, and it’s pretty much a standing ovation. A few of the teachers and even the students are wiping their eyes.

  “Wow! That was sick! Amazing! Man, that kid, what he did—just wow!”

  George turns to look at Gracie. “Now you have no excuse whatsoever, Gee Four. If that poor kid in a wheelchair can do it, so can you! That was awesome!”

  But Gracie does not need to be convinced. She is holding her head up and she is suddenly calm. “I know,” she says. “I can do it.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “We can all do this thing.”

  And just for a moment I believe it. Thanks, kid in a wheelchair. I might not have done it without you.

  As I think it, I’m not even kidding.

  About forty minutes later, we make it to the front of the stage, at long last. Holy moly. That’s what Dad says when things are weird, and now I repeat it in my head, like a calming mantra. “Holy moly.” We leave our bags below in a pile, right near the corner where the stage stairs are, as all the other students have been doing before going up. We’ll come back for them after this is over.

  So far, we’ve seen it all. The good, the bad, and the seriously pitiful. My friend Ann Finnbar up there, standing up awkwardly but okay, as she manages to ride the board without any problem. A whole bunch of my classmates winging it, one way or another. The popular in-crowd bullies Mark and Chris and Jenny mostly doing well and staying on. But no sign of Logan Sangre—I’m guessing he’s st
ill in line somewhere behind us. And then there are students of all ages freaking out over the hoverboard, and a few even manage to fall off the board onto the mat below. No one gets hurt, thank goodness.

  And now, here we are.

  Eddie is right before George, and he takes his turn in a mediocre way. He stays up, and that’s pretty much what counts.

  When the board returns, George, who is getting his ID token scanned by Principal Marksen, is up next. He turns to look at us as we stand near the front, waiting, and he smiles and winks.

  George then gets up on the hoverboard and rides it, balancing decently considering he’s never ridden any kind of board before in his life, and flailing his hands only once in the middle of the auditorium. He makes it to the end safely, and I let myself breathe in relief.

  Gordie is next. Okay, my younger brother is just nuts. I watch him put on the token pin, then smile and step on the board, testing its give with his foot with a kind of dazed loony pleasure. He mutters something unintelligible, then puts his other foot up and balances. He says, “Go!” and as the board moves, lets out a woot of excitement, while I put my hand to my mouth and Gracie lets her jaw drop.

  We watch Gordie sail all the way across the auditorium, and make it safely and amazingly to the end. He jumps off, and turns to wave at us from a distance, as though he’s just taken an amusement park ride.

  “That boy is crazy,” I say with a smile. “Eh, Gracie? Our little bro is nuts!”

  But now the board has returned, and Gracie turns to me and suddenly she is serious and wide-eyed again.

  “You can do it, easy!” I squeeze her hand, and nod at her. My lips are mouthing “wheelchair kid” and I watch her nod at me. Then my sister steps to the front of the stage.

  I ball up my hands and hold my breath again, as Gracie gets her token.

  She pauses next to the hoverboard. From where I’m standing I can only see her back and her long dirty-blond hair, and can just imagine her face. . . .

  She places one foot on the board, testing it. Then she brings up the other foot, and she is balancing. Arms are flailing. She steps off, losing her balance.

  Oh damn.

  Gracie tries again. She steps onto the board and again, flails. Seconds tick. Everyone is watching her.

  And then Gracie slowly gets down in a crouch, and places one leg flat down on the charcoal grey hoverboard surface. Then she puts her other leg, knee first. She reaches with both hands and grips the board along the edges on both sides.

  She freezes in this position, her long hair spilling over her face and her back. I hear her trembling voice say, “Go!”

  And the board begins to carry my sister, on her hands and knees, through the air across the auditorium.

  I blink, and I am still not breathing, as I hear her give the other commands.

  Then, Gracie reaches the end. She gets off the hoverboard, pretty much tumbling onto the linoleum floor. And she just remains there for a few seconds before going to the desk in the back.

  Meanwhile, the board is returning, and so is my breath that I can finally exhale and inhale normally.

  Except . . . the board is now here, for me.

  Did it just get brighter in here? I feel like a stage spotlight is shining on me from overhead, and suddenly I am lightheaded.

  Everyone in the world is looking at me.

  I walk up to Principal Marksen and he gives me my token. I pin it onto my purple sweater front with icy cold fingers, since I had taken my outer jacket off and it’s lying on top of my bags somewhere below stage.

  Why am I thinking about my jacket?

  The hoverboard is before me. I take a deep breath and let it out. I then put my right foot on the front of the board, trying to remember the feel of the little orange skateboard I rode as a kid. This one feels more resilient, kind of like stepping onto a water surface.

  This hoverboard is also so much wider than a kiddie skateboard. It’s pretty comfortable actually. I bring up my left foot in the back, and stand, levitating. The rubber soles of my sneakers cling to the surface of the board. And it occurs to me for a moment that I ride “goofy,” or what the boarders refer to as using my right foot to lead in the front instead of my left which is “regular” or “standard.” Yeah, I’m goofy, all right.

  Now the worst part remains. The part that has me eight feet above the ground and in the air. I am terrified of heights. I can easily balance this board, but I just don’t see myself staying up on it mentally, simply because of the height factor. It’s going to mess with me too much, the fear of heights. . . .

  I think of the amazing kid in the wheelchair.

  And then I do a “Gracie.” Sort of. I get down in a crouch and hold the board on both sides with my hands. My fingers grip the cool surface of the hoverboard and I will myself to just hold on for dear life and not let go and not look down.

  The worst part will come once I am high above the floor, so I resolve to look directly ahead as much as possible. I’d probably prefer to squeeze my eyes shut, but I need to see where I’m going.

  “Go!” My voice sounds weird in the silence of the auditorium.

  The board underneath me begins to move forward.

  I focus on looking at it mostly, at my fingers gripping the sides, at the curving oval nose of the board. I also let my eyes spot the back doors, far ahead. There is no sound as I advance past the edge of the stage, and suddenly my brain is telling me I’m falling off a cliff, the edge of the world—screw you, brain—and I am now high up. Out of my peripheral vision, I see student faces staring at me from both sides of the aisle.

  Don’t look down.

  When I am a third of the distance across the auditorium, I make myself speak the next command. “Descend!”

  And then for an instant I feel the floor drop out from under me . . . but it’s only a tiny lurch, kind of what an elevator makes. Which I usually hate.

  The ride itself is smooth and mind-blowing, and as I am descending gradually and approaching the gym mat surface, my fear of heights is also falling away. For the first time I can truly appreciate the amazing alien thing I am riding, this hoverboard. But the feeling lasts only a few seconds.

  “Level!” I say before I hit the mat.

  Again, a tiny lurch, and the board is moving once more in a line horizontal to the floor. Then the end of the mat looms. I pass over and beyond it, a few extra inches for good measure, then say, “Stop!”

  The board freezes.

  Slowly my fingers let go their white-knuckled grip. I stand up, and step off the hoverboard.

  I did it.

  Relief hits me full blast. I am lightheaded and suddenly kind of hungry, as I walk to the back and approach the Atlantean at the desk.

  Up-close, he is tall, young-old in a sense that I cannot be sure what age he really is. I am again fascinated by the unreality of his chiseled features, Ancient Egypt come to life. I glance at his sculpted eyebrows and wonder if they are real painted hairs or lapis lazuli inlay. . . . His eyes are black, irises and pupils appearing to run together. And, I swear, he has to be wearing kohl eyeliner.

  “Your name?” Ligerat picks up a small hand-held device and looks at me.

  “Gwenevere Lark.”

  He passes the gadget over the ID token pinned to my sweater.

  “Thank you,” I say as I meet his very dark eyes.

  “Good luck,” he replies gently.

  And that’s it.

  Somehow I manage to collect my backpack and duffel, then get out of the auditorium into the hallway. I attempt to look around past other jostling students to see where my brothers and sister are. The hallway is jammed with people, and there is a lot of emotional talk.

  Some people are still standing in line to do the hoverboard test. Others are done like me, trying to get out. People are sitting on the floor with their feet sticking out, among bags. Some girls and guys are hugging each other, their friends, even just strangers, people they barely know or don’t know at all, people from ot
her schools—and they are all crying.

  I stare, and see a whole lot of tokens on people’s chests already lit up. And they are mostly shining red.

  Oh no. . . . Well, it’s not exactly surprising. They did tell us that very few people would pass even this preliminary stage of Qualification.

  Fear returns, gripping me in its cold abyss like an ocean wave pressing from all sides. . . . I look down at my own inactive token and feel sick to my stomach. Should I activate it? But no, I think I’ll wait to find out my stupid fate once I see a familiar face at least.

  I walk a few steps and there’s Ann Finnbar. Her expression is heartbreaking. My best friend is red-eyed, and so is her token, flaming merciless red. I remember seeing Ann up there on that hoverboard half an hour ago, and she looked like she was doing so much better than me. At least she had been standing up.

  “Ann!” I say, and then I am hugging her, feeling her skinny shaking form in my arms. We stand there, holding each other, and I say over and over, “Crap, crap, crap, I am so sorry!”

  We break apart, and she glances at my own dead token.

  “I am going to wait and do it with my sister and brothers there.” I feel guilty and rotten and I don’t even know why. “I’m sure mine will be red too, I just don’t want to find out just yet. Not until I see Gracie at least.”

  “I get it,” she says. “Okay, I’m going home now. My parents are probably worried, or whatever. Yeah, they’re not going to be too surprised to see me. At least I can give my Grandpa back his wooden carvings and my Mom gets her necklace back. Yeah, whatever. Anyway, you go on. . . .”

  “Look, I’ll definitely see you later!” I purse my lips. “When we get home—”

  “Oh, stop it.” Ann looks at me with an intense expression. “You are probably green.” And then she pats me on the shoulder and turns away.

  Several minutes later I run into my siblings. “George!” I cry, seeing the back of my brother’s head in the crowd.

  “There you are!” George looks grim as he waves to me, and Gracie and Gordie are right behind him. It’s like a family funeral.