I beamed. My mother valued my opinion. It gave me the boost of confidence I needed. “Okay. See you later, Rice.” I grabbed Baby’s hand and led her through the door.
There weren’t other children in the hall and I hoped we weren’t late. I found a yellow door and knocked. A woman greeted us, smiling brightly.
“Hi. I’m Amy Harris and this is Baby.”
“Yes, we’re expecting her.” She opened the door wide. I gave Baby a gentle push into the classroom.
There was no artwork on the walls, no toys on the floor. It seemed more like an office than a classroom. Students were reading quietly. A few looked up at our arrival, but most continued to concentrate on their books.
“Baby can’t read,” I told the woman. “And she doesn’t talk. But she’s a quick learner. If you take the time to explain something, she’ll get it. She’s already starting to understand spoken words. She knows my name and her name and as of this morning she knows the word breakfast.” I was rambling, desperate for her to understand Baby was special, even if she didn’t speak.
“We have plenty of children who come to us unable to read and with limited vocal skills,” the teacher assured me. She was older, her white hair cut in a bob. “We have tests to measure a child’s potential, nonverbal tests.” She held out her hand to Baby, who looked at me for reassurance.
I didn’t want to let Baby go, but I knew I had to. This nice lady is going to take you now. I’ll be right upstairs if you need me.
What if she mouth talks and I don’t understand? What if I have to go to the bathroom but they don’t let me?
I turned to the woman. “Baby is concerned that you won’t understand what she’s saying.”
“The director asked us to prepare for her,” she told me, making the sign for Baby, followed by the “okay” sign. “I know she uses a modified version, but I think we can make do.”
“That’s . . . wonderful.” I felt a warm wave of reassurance.
Baby, this lady knows how to sign. Not like us, but you should be able to understand her.
Is it safe?
Yes, but you have to do as you’re told. I knelt down next to her. Will you be okay?
Baby put on a brave face, determined. Yes.
“And Amy, you’re supposed to wait upstairs.” The woman told me. “First door next to the stairs, on the left side. Someone will be with you shortly.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hugged Baby before heading upstairs. The red doors were more intimidating than the yellow and orange ones on the first floor.
I walked to the nearest red door and pushed it. It opened into a small room with a couple of metal desks and a wooden table. I sat at a desk and waited, eyeing a bookshelf filled with classic literature. Eventually an older man entered carrying a stack of papers.
“Hello, Amy. I’m Dr. Samuels.” He placed the papers before me, adjusting his bowtie and eyeing me. “Ever take the SATs?” he asked, all business.
“I took an SAT pretest.”
“Excellent.” He sat across from me. “This is the same idea. We’ll just test your basic abilities. Verbal, written, math and science, and potentiality.”
“Potentiality?” I asked.
“We used to call it an IQ test. This version is tailored to our current environment. First up is the written portion,” Dr. Samuels informed me. He punched a button on a stopwatch. “You may begin.”
It was oddly comforting, taking a test. For a moment I felt like I was back Before, sitting in class with Sabrina and Tim.
When I finished all my tests, Dr. Samuels collected my papers. “I’ll just grade these and then we’ll place you.”
“What happens if a post-ap can’t read?” I asked, curious. “What if they can’t complete the tests?”
Dr. Samuels considered for a second. “It really hasn’t come up yet. . . . This is a Class Five test. . . . I guess in the future . . . maybe in five or ten years it will be a problem.”
“Do you think anyone can survive that long out there?” After all, I barely survived. How well would I have done in a couple years when all the canned food was gone and the buildings were crumbling?
“I would have never thought that people could survive this long,” he admitted, “but at least once a week the Guardians bring back a few post-aps.” He explained to me that although New Hope had been a university, it was affiliated with Hutsen-Prime, a government-funded research facility. Researchers lived on the complex with their families, and along with the university campus, it was its own little town.
“Are there other Class Five post-aps?” I asked.
“Yes, but most don’t integrate very well,” he admitted, gathering up my papers and organizing them. “We’ve learned that the recovered post-aps who were teenagers in pre-ap times have a hard time fitting in. The small children don’t remember how it was and most of the adults are just happy to be alive. People your age . . . they want things to be the way they were.”
“I can relate,” I told him. “What happens if a kid doesn’t play well with others?” There had to be a couple of troublemakers.
“Well, it depends. Children aren’t really punished, except with extra chores. The kids like to call it Dusty Duty.” He chuckled at the silly term. “But honestly, if you need extra help coping, you’re admitted to the Ward.”
I thought of Rice’s strange warning. “What is the Ward, exactly?”
“It’s where citizens can go to get the help they need,” he explained automatically. “Some people just can’t learn to live in a Florae-filled world, even though they’re perfectly safe here. They need intensive psychological treatment. The Ward is where they live until they can get better. In extreme cases, troublemakers are expelled, but that doesn’t happen very often.”
“What does someone do after they’re expelled?” I asked.
Dr. Samuels looked confused. “They do whatever they want, I suppose.” He stood. “Let me grade this and get back to you. . . . Can you hold tight here?”
“Sure . . .” I grabbed a copy of Alice in Wonderland from the bookshelf, but was too nervous to focus. I kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Finally I shut the book and tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting.
• • •
An older man with a silly, yellow bowtie sits across from me. I’ve been given papers, a pencil, and a clipboard on which to write. I’ve never been able to write in my room before and I’m pleased. I begin to doodle on the paper, drawing cubes and circles.
“Now, we’re going to test your basic abilities. Verbal, written, math and science, and potentiality.”
“Potentiality?” I ask. This term seems familiar. “Have I done this before? Do I know you?”
The older man nods his head. “Yes, Amy, we’ve met previously. I’m Dr. Samuels. Now, try to concentrate.”
I stare at the papers. “I’ve done this. . . . I remember you.” I look up at him. “Why am I taking these tests again?”
“We need to see how your scores have changed since your treatment has begun,” he explains slowly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes. You’re seeing if I’m getting better?”
He smiles kindly. “We’re making sure you’re living up to your abilities.”
I lick my lips. “Who decides . . . if I’ve met my potential?”
Dr. Samuels looks at me curiously. “I’ll evaluate your tests and share the results with my colleagues.”
“Does that include my mother?” I ask hopefully.
“No, Amy, but I can make sure she knows how you’re doing,” he offers. “If you like.”
I nod. “Yes. Please.” I take the pencil and hold it over the papers. “I’m ready now, Dr. Samuels.”
He punches a button on a stopwatch. “You may begin.”
• • •
It wasn’t long before Dr. Samuels returned and beckoned for me to follow him. “We’ve found an advanced placement class for you. Come along.” I trailed him down the hall, where he stopped at a different red d
oor. “This is where you’ll come tomorrow,” he explained. “Advanced Theory is an unstructured program and you’ll remain here until you class out.”
“Advanced Theory of what exactly?”
“Anything and everything.” He opened the door. The room was big, with a few scattered desks and tables, and only a handful of students. One was scribbling in a notebook. He looked up briefly, squinted at me, and returned to his work. The others were talking, chairs arranged in a circle. They didn’t even glance over.
“Yes, but what if cold fusion were possible?” a petite girl with long, dark brown hair was saying. “If we figure out the results of an impossibility, maybe we can find a possible replication of those results.” I was fixated on the white scar that ran across her left cheek and down her neck.
“That’s bullshit,” a blond girl told her. “You cannot theorize based on nothing; we would just be creating a fiction. This isn’t creative writing.” A few of the students laughed, as did the girl with the scar.
She noticed me standing by the door. “Hello there.”
“Hi.” I turned back to Dr. Samuels, but he was already gone. I didn’t even hear him leave. He would have done well in the After.
“You must be Amy.” The scarred girl stood and came forward to shake my hand. “We’re just in the middle of what we like to call a ‘think tank.’ I’m Vivian; that’s Tracey.” She pointed to the blond girl, then went around the room. “Jacob, Haley, and Andrew, and Hector is the one with his face in his notebook.”
Hector looked up once again and gave me a half wave. I smiled at each person in turn. I might like being in such a small class.
“I know you’re probably baffled. I was when I first came here,” Vivian told me.
“You were out there, with Them?” I asked, examining her face. The scar was not fresh; its raised, white surface had healed as much as it ever would. I’d never seen anyone escape from a Florae once it got its claws in.
“For a little while.” Vivian looked away, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
“I’m sorry.” I tried to change the subject. Thinking of the conversation I’d just had with Dr. Samuels, I asked tentatively, “Um . . . what exactly do you do here?”
“We formulate the ideas that the scientists put into effect.” She motioned me to a table. The rest of the group had already reconvened and were continuing their conversation.
“So . . . we try to invent useful objects?”
“Objects, ideas, concepts. It doesn’t even have to necessarily be based on science. We develop the ideas that New Hope scientists implement for the good of the community.”
“Just the ideas, not the concrete things? That doesn’t seem very hard.”
“You’d be surprised. First you have to come up with a truly indispensable idea. That in itself gets most people. Then you have to take it further. How will it work, theoretically, of course. But yeah, we don’t have to make a working model. That’s someone else’s job.”
I was flooded with relief. It wasn’t literature but it was the next best thing: something based solely on creativity and imagination.
“Where do I start?”
“Anywhere you want. You can read about technological advances, or you can speak with the others about what they’re working on. Generally we like to share our preliminary ideas. It helps us figure out how to develop a concept to its fullest potential.”
“That sounds awesome. What have you come up with?” I asked.
“Tons of things, most of which are filtered out by the higher-ups. Others are in production and one of my ideas has been realized.”
“She’s being modest,” Tracey said. I noticed their conversation had stopped and they were all listening to me and Vivian now.
“What was it?” I asked.
“I conceptualized a fabric that was strong, flexible, and extremely thin. Something breathable that wouldn’t tear and could stop a bullet.”
“The suit that the Guardians wear?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes. I came up with the initial idea for the synth-suit. I can give you a copy of my proposal to use as a model so you’ll know how to submit your ideas.”
“That would be great.” The class seemed like something I might have enjoyed Before.
Vivian showed me where to get supplies: notebooks, pens, calculators. “Feel free to take a walk too, if you want. We’re encouraged to let our minds wander, try to achieve that ‘eureka’ moment, you know.”
“Won’t I get in trouble for being out of class?” I asked.
“No, everything we do is for the good of the whole. There isn’t a need to rebel.” Vivian smiled. “This isn’t like high school.”
I took my notebook to a desk and stared at it while Vivian rejoined her discussion. I needed to think of something that would benefit New Hope, something for “the good of the whole,” whatever that meant. It sounded like a slogan. I had nothing. Soon it was lunchtime and I hadn’t accomplished anything.
“Don’t worry,” Vivian reassured me. “They don’t expect you to come up with something every day. They just want us to look at situations from a different angle. The more minds contributing to our community, the stronger we all are.” Another slogan.
“But what if I don’t ever think of anything?” I mumbled.
“If you can’t generate useful concepts then you class out and only have to worry about your nonexempt job and doing a few extra chores every now and again. Amy, relax.” She laughed lightly. “Kids may call you a Dusty, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“I suppose not.” I didn’t really want to scrub toilets for the rest of my life, but I could think of some worse things.
“Come on, let’s go get some food,” Vivian suggested.
“All right . . . Do you think it’s okay if I look in on my sister, Baby? We’ve never really been separated,” I explained quickly.
“Sure, what class?”
“Three . . . I don’t know where she would be now, though.” I hadn’t thought about how to find her if I needed to. I was already losing my edge.
“I’ll help you find her,” Vivian offered. She knew some of the Class Three teachers and we learned that Baby’s class had taken a short field trip to the farm. We continued on to the cafeteria, but I was still distracted. I hoped Baby was getting along okay without me.
Inside the noisy cafeteria, Vivian and I grabbed our lunch trays and made our way through the line. I tried to restrain myself this time, but I couldn’t resist taking both a soy burger and a few helpings of vegetable stew. Most of the dishes today looked like vegetarian hippie fare, stuff my dad would have loved.
Vivian steered me to a table with more teenagers decked out in red and introduced me to the group, rattling off names. I smiled, trying to listen politely while I shoved food in my mouth and hoped no one expected me to talk. But I was not so lucky.
“Amy, what was it like seeing your mother after so long?”
“What do the Floraes look like, up close?”
“What did you eat? I’ve heard a couple post-aps exchange marinade recipes for flame-broiled rat!”
I felt light-headed and swallowed loudly. “Well . . .”
Something touched my back.
I stood in a flash and grabbed the knife from my tray in one motion. Swinging around, I knocked over my chair and crouched to a defensive position, ready to thrust the blade into my attacker.
“Whoa.” Rice held his hands in the air. “Amy, it’s only me.”
I paused, then lowered the knife, my hands shaking from the sudden surge of adrenaline. I stood, mortified. The cafeteria had gone still; everyone was staring at me. But all I could think was how I hadn’t heard him sneak up behind me. I was exposed and vulnerable in the center of the large room. It was so loud in the cafeteria, it was hard to concentrate. There could have been a Florae behind me and I wouldn’t have known.
I turned and quietly placed my knife back on my tray. The cafeteria noise picked up again as I reached
down to right the overturned chair.
“Are you okay?” Rice asked, lowering his hands and looking concerned. I could see that he was trying to minimize the awkwardness of the moment for me.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that.” I said nervously. “Do you want to sit with us?”
“Rice has already classed out,” Vivian joked, helping to break the tension. “He can’t eat with lowly Class Five kids.” Everyone at the table laughed uneasily.
I faked a smile though I really wanted to cry. “Actually, can you walk me back to class?” I asked Rice softly. I no longer had much of an appetite.
“Of course.” He put his hand on the small of my back and we left. I expected him to walk me back to the school entrance, but we took a slight detour and headed for the Quad. Rice sat on the grass and motioned for me to sit beside him. We rested there for a while, in silence.
“Rice . . . I don’t know if I can do this,” I confided as I lay back on the soft grass. “I thought things were going okay, but I keep freaking out, like last week when Baby dropped her glass and just now when I almost stabbed you. . . .” I began to tear up.
“You just have to give it time,” he said softly, laying his head down next to mine and squeezing my hand. “You’ll get used to it.”
“What if I don’t?” I asked in a whisper.
“Amy, I know what it’s like to feel out of place.” He turned his head toward me. “I told you that I was named after my father, right? Well, my parents died when I was very young and I was raised in foster care . . . until Hutsen-Prime found me.”
“Found you?”
“I won my fourth grade science fair and the next day Hutsen-Prime offered to fund my studies, to put me on a fast-track course. I finished high school when I was twelve and my undergraduate studies in a year and a half. That’s why I was here,” he explained. “I was in my second year of grad school when the Floraes arrived. In the few days it took them to reach this far into the country, a student working on a sonar project for the Navy discovered the creatures couldn’t stand the noise.”
“And that student was you?” I asked, enthralled. Rice really was a genius.
In the After Page 15
