Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would I want to sit over there?”

  “I heard she’s got a thing for you.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because she only cakes on that lipstick before the progressions that you’re in.”

  “That field trip’s ancient history,” he said, leaning over the table toward her.

  “I don’t know Mr. Cooley … normally, schoolgirl crushes die hard.”

  “Miss Chapman, the schoolgirls around this place aren’t any more normal than the school itself.”

  “So why’d you save her then?” Sadie asked. “You know at…” She faltered, not wanting to call it Guernica in front of him because she didn’t want him to think she was like everyone else.

  “She was with us. Someone’s got to look after our own. God knows the meds aren’t teaching anyone to do it.”

  “Our own? I thought you hated this place.”

  “I do. But it’s the only place any of us have at the moment.”

  “So you’d have thrown yourself into the street at those guys for anyone?” At that moment, Goldsmith—at the time just an anonymous junior specimen—walked past their table.

  “Sure,” he said, nodding in Goldsmith’s direction. “Probably even for that kid.” It was then that Sadie distinctly remembered giving him the first consciously seductive smile of her life. It made him blink and he looked down, bashful, like he just lost a high-stakes staring contest.

  “Would you do it for me?” she asked, knowing what an indulgent, loaded question it was. “You know, if I needed protecting.” Then she felt his hand on hers—it was warm and surprisingly soft—right there out in the open on the tabletop for anyone to see.

  “I can’t wait to do it for you,” he grinned. Suddenly Sadie felt dangerous and safe all at once. She was not sure what sort of fine, upstanding young men she would have met in the years that followed Saint Cecelia’s or Westerly, but was certain that none of them would’ve been like William Cooley.

  Sadie finished off her cigarette and tossed it into a toilet, listening to the satisfying sizzle. Shannon and Katie tossed theirs as well and began to primp their hair in the mirror. Shannon, to her credit, never held the Cooley matter against Sadie. Every now and then Sadie would catch her sending forlorn gazes his way but was never too concerned, for rejection was a thing of her past. After all, at that particular stage in her young life even Daddy would have admitted it: she was nothing if not spectacular in a room.

  6

  While the conventional use of the word atrium evokes images of a soaring, wide-open space filled with sunlight, the one located on the 125th floor of Stansbury Tower was—as one might expect by this point—anything but conventional. The walls indeed stretched up several hundred feet toward a domed ceiling that did, in fact, soar. The surface stretched far and wide enough to allow every specimen, professor, administrator and security guard in the school to traverse the space comfortably at once. The hum of seventy-eight strategically placed holographic projectors was muffled by sound experts. All that was left was the smell of freshly cut green lawns and the sweet wetness of flowers in March melting into the air. It was enough to make a kid forget what kind of place he really lived in.

  Scores of specimens stepped out of their elevator pods and into the space, greeted with a sight that was nothing short of breathtaking: a golden sun hanging in a blue morning sky delicately frosted with wisps of clouds. They moved onto an expanse of lush grass with carefully manicured paths that intertwined into minimalist, elegant loops and curves. Oak trees reached upward with their huge, newborn leaves still wet with dew. The sound of a stream twinkled around a bend and into the forest. The atrium was Nature & Co.’s crowning achievement, a multimillion-dollar work of interactive art that the San Angeles Times described as “more natural than nature.”

  Even after twelve years it took Goldsmith’s breath away on a daily basis. He surveyed the land ahead of him: hundreds of uniformed specimens carrying their books to progressions across the greatest campus in the world. Just look at the group of juniors quizzing each other with flash cards before Calculus 4. And there was Professor Schultz leading the second graders across the bridge over the river to the med tech bay. They held hands in a perfectly straight line, quietly pointing out a deer grazing over yonder through the trees. And there was Mr. Charles Edgar Shapiro up on the hill, his easel out, the paintbrush a blur in his hand, getting in some inspiration before the day began. Goldsmith strode down the path leading toward the med tech bay, catching the glances of Misters Nathaniel DeShawn Green, Howard John Spencer, and Gerald Michael Simmons—fellow Stansbury lifers who were scheduled to graduate along with him.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Goldsmith.

  “Whatever,” said Green.

  The rest glanced around and averted their eyes. Goldsmith had gotten used to it: no one wanted to be seen getting friendly with the valedictorian. It still gnawed at him. After eleven years of anonymity, he thought that being officially named as the top specimen would finally turn him into one of the faces of the Class of 2036, a well-known character like Cooley, Camilla, Sadie, or Mr. Shapiro (even if Shapiro was, in Goldsmith’s opinion, a little on the artsy-fartsy side). But winning the Selmer-Dubonnet test did the opposite. Whereas before the specimens looked through him, now they looked away, attempting to hide any traces of guilt in their eyes.

  The headmaster warned him from the start that no valedictorian was ever loved by his peers, but Goldsmith honestly believed he’d be the exception. He tried being chummy. He played up his humble origins. And yet, his entrance into a roomful of specimens never failed to cast a chill over the natural joking and flirting of high school life. Just once, Goldsmith thought, he’d like to be invisible. He only wanted to know what the room was like before he came in and spoiled everything. He’d be happy to go back to being ignored, unnoticed, if only to hear one or two of the punch lines he always missed. And if he was invisible, he could smile as big as he wanted and not worry about anyone thinking he was playing an angle or being unfair. For all the knowledge in Goldsmith’s head, he was never able to get the joke in time to laugh with the kids who were supposed to be his friends.

  “Good morning, specimens,” chirped Mrs. InterAct with her morning announcements. “Final exams begin tomorrow and round-the-clock study halls commence after today’s progressions. After you’ve picked up your meds, don’t forget to stop by the tech bay for your Stimulum injection.”

  A cloud sailed past the sun, then abruptly disappeared. Then it appeared again, passing the sun like it did before, but this time freezing in midair before disappearing and reappearing. It zinged back and forth, right to left over the sun again and again. And then a flock of birds froze in midflight. A herd of deer started to flicker. Nature went several shades off color, grays and browns where whites and oranges should have been.

  “Oh my God,” shouted Cooley, loud enough for everyone to whip their heads over in his direction. “We’re not really outdoors! I had no idea!” The specimens chuckled and continued on their paths. Cooley looked over at two big security detail officers in their Tac IX vests, their Nomex balaclavas hanging from their belt loops. He’d gotten accustomed to feeling their eyes on him. One of them had slapped a bandage over his swelled, obviously broken nose to go with a lazy eye sporting a wicked shiner. Cooley wondered which specimen decided not to go down without a fight.

  “I’m going on eleven years now and these kids still give me the creeps,” said Officer Jamison.

  “You’ve just got hard feelings because your face got rearranged,” said Officer Jackson. “Or maybe you’re just jealous because they’re smarter than you’ll ever be?”

  Jamison chuckled. His hand instinctively touched the Colt M-8 on his belt. “Shhhh,” he said. “School’s probably got ’em reading minds by now.”

  A chubby silhouette strolled in front of Officers Jamison and Jackson. Pudgy Mr. Hurley, the yearboo
k professor, unknowingly blocked Cooley’s view. As usual, he had that old-fashioned camera around his neck and was kissing specimen ass. He cornered a group of sophomores by the stream.

  “Last minute call for yearbook photos,” Hurley said. “I don’t want you to be left out and you don’t want to be forgotten! Smile!” The specimens stood there, stone-faced, as the flash went off one, two, three, four times.

  “Hurleee!” shouted Mr. Bunson. “You’re a rock star!”

  “Hurleeeeeee!” shouted specimens all over the atrium. Hurley saw Bunson and rushed over to him, Cooley, and Sadie, panting from the exertion.

  “Miss Chapman, don’t you look lovely today! Mind if I take a photo?”

  Sadie hid her face behind her hands. “No … I was up late studying and…”

  “Please? Just take a second…” She dropped her hands and gave him that smile. Cooley watched the way her face lit up with that up-from-under-the-lashes look and felt his stomach get all soft and queasy. The flash blinked brightly. “Gorgeous! Gorgeous!” Hurley cooed. “Mr. Cooley? A shot of the Class of 2036’s most popular couple?” He aimed the camera at Cooley, who covered the lens with his hand. Undaunted, Hurley whirled around just in time to see Goldsmith pass by. “Mr. Goldsmith, sir! A candid of the class of 2036’s valedictorian?” Goldsmith turned his face to the camera while walking, giving the lens his best side. The flash went off. “Beautiful! Get this kid to Capitol Hill! Get him an agent! Get him…”

  Hurley’s voice disappeared into the crowd as Goldsmith got in line at the med table along with the rest of the specimens. One by one, they stepped up to the stainless steel counter where two overseers clad in sterilized white jumpsuits distributed individually customized pill packs. Goldsmith stepped up and was handed the pack with his name printed on it. Eight pills: two multinutrient/hormone capsules, two of the standard Stansbury blend, one antianxiety tablet, and three antidepressants. Weird. Up until last week Goldsmith was only taking one of those. Someone high up must have thought he needed extra help easing his conscience. He swallowed four pills at a time, washing them down at the counter’s built-in water fountain.

  Cooley stepped up to the counter as Goldsmith walked off. An overseer handed Cooley his med pack and watched him stick it in his blazer pocket.

  “Never seen you take your meds, Cooley,” he said. “You save them for later or what?”

  “I feed ’em to the birds.” On cue, a holographic blue jay sailed down from the atrium’s engineered sky and flew through Bunson like a ghost.

  “There’s no birds around here,” said the overseer. “Not real ones, anyway.” Bunson took his pack and washed his pills down.

  “Meds make you smarter, partner,” he said. “And they’re so tasty.”

  “I’m on a diet,” Cooley said. “They go straight to my thighs.”

  Sadie glanced over at Camilla 2.0 as she washed down her meds. She remembered that Katie was the one who came up with that cruel yet perfect nickname for her during second grade. For a good week or two Katie encouraged everyone in their progressions to speak in a dull, robotic monotone that was an extreme caricature of Camilla’s uniquely controlled manner of speaking. It was quite funny, actually, listening to a room of twenty little specimens droning out routine conversations like miniature versions of Mrs. InterAct. When it became clear that Camilla was not about to burst into tears or even acknowledge the phenomenon, Katie and her friends took the abuse to the next level and began moving around her in exaggerated herky-jerky motions as if they were stiff automatons that needed a good dose of oil. But it was all for naught, as young Camilla’s steely gaze just seemed to cut right through them. It was as if she knew even then that the antics of mean children relied upon an appropriately hysteric reaction from the victims in order to perpetuate themselves with any effectiveness, and she had resolved to deprive Katie of the satisfaction. Soon, the robot routine petered out and the only option left to Camilla’s antagonists was to shun her with a collective cold shoulder. But even back then, Sadie remembered, she knew that they were playing right into her hands, that that was how she wanted it from the beginning. No shoulder in the entire tower, after all, was colder than Camilla 2.0’s.

  The only time that Sadie saw her betray anything remotely close to a moment of weakness was in eighth grade. They were using the communal showers in the girls’ locker room on Level 42 following their Core Cross-Training B progression—approximately twenty-five fourteen-year-old girls self-consciously scrubbing themselves clean as quickly as possible, their haste due to the unforgiving, roving eyes of their peers—when a stream of bright red blood appeared on the white porcelain tile directly underneath Camilla’s showerhead. Sadie remembered being the first one to see it only seconds after Camilla noticed it, and how she quickly but calmly examined herself for cuts or injuries, clearly a bit confused about what was happening to her. Soon enough, the sound of whispers and giggles mixed in with the pattering of water against the floor until, one by one, each showerhead was turned off. The only one that remained on was Camilla’s, probably because she preferred to wash the blood away as soon as it emerged.

  “What’s the matter with you, Camilla?” a girl asked.

  “What are you, stupid?” asked Katie, her loud, high voice echoing against the tile. “It means you’re pregnant!” She started laughing. “You’re gonna have a baby!” Other girls started to laugh, too.

  “Camilla 3.0 is on the way!” someone else cried as the girls began to file out into the locker room to get dressed. Sadie wrapped herself in her white towel and walked over to her. They were the only ones left. Camilla finally turned off her own showerhead and cinched a towel around her small frame.

  “I’ll walk with you to the infirmary if you want,” offered Sadie.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what if you’re—”

  “The only problem I have, Miss Chapman, is the absurd similarity of my life to a Stephen King novel.” Sadie blinked. Later, she figured out that King was a famous horror author of the late twentieth century. Even today Sadie wishes she would have laughed at what passed for Camilla’s attempt at sarcastic humor, showing her that she wasn’t as dense as the other girls. Sadie, Katie, Shannon, and the rest all experienced their own periods for the first time in the months that followed. As would become more and more apparent over the proceeding years, Camilla never had any fear or apprehension about coming in first place, far ahead of the timid little children that surrounded her.

  Camilla bent down to sip from the med table’s water fountain and Sadie tried not to be intimidated. “Um, hi,” she stammered. “Miss Moore?” Camilla leaned up from the fountain and looked her in the eye. Sadie found it difficult to return her gaze and focused on the three-dimensional, replicated grass at her feet instead. “Look … you know I’d never ask you this but … well, we’ve both got Harking’s first-hour progression and I was swamped last night and didn’t—”

  “Have a chance to do your work for today?”

  “I just need one answer. Come on, help me out. You’re the smartest one in this whole place and—”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  “Number two in our class is a lot higher than I ever was.”

  “Which one, Miss Chapman?”

  “What?”

  “Which answer do you need?”

  “Number four. The long-form essay.” Sadie pulled out her iPro Tabula and flipped it on, the blue light from the small monitor matching the color of her eyes. She extended the antenna and got ready to type.

  “Question number four,” began Camilla. “The Puritanical notion of the Elect was based in the concept of a select, inherently elite few who would save the human race from itself, primarily…”

  “So it’s true.” Sadie couldn’t help but stare.

  “What?”

  “You really do have a photographic memory. I guess I always thought it was one of those urban le
gends.”

  “Type faster, Miss Chapman. I don’t do reruns.” Sadie started typing as Miss Moore recited the question’s answer at a slow, deliberate pace so she could keep up. While she spoke, her eyes followed Goldsmith as he walked down the more-natural-than-nature path through the grass toward the med tech bay. Camilla saw the look on his face and placed it, wondering if he still felt guilty about what happened during the Selmer-Dubonnet exam and if he’d still want to hold her hand if she was the one who won. She watched the way Goldsmith moved: a boy in a man’s armor.

  Goldsmith got in line at the med tech bay. A tech in a blue jumpsuit tapped a set of laser syringes. The line moved forward, one by one. One of the specimens in front of Goldsmith rolled up his sleeve and didn’t bat an eye at the sight of the red pulsing laser beam. He, like everyone else, had gotten used to it. There was that quick burning sensation followed by a series of cool blips, almost like water dripping onto the skin, as the serum’s molecules transferred their payload into the physiology. No blood, no needles, no nasty welts or bruising left from daily injections.

  “What’s on the menu today?” he asked the med tech.

  “Stimulum,” he said. “The perfect cocktail of stimulants and nutrients to keep you up—and most important—coherent for sixty-eight to seventy-two hours, depending on your body weight. Fortified with subtle neutralizers, so it won’t interfere with the med cycle’s calming agents. The ultimate study aid. Only the best for you kids. Just like the commercials say: ‘Because you deserve to live in a future perfect.’”

  “Is this the stuff they give to the marines during long missions?”

  “It’s what we give the marines. Stimulum was developed in Stansbury labs,” he said. He pulled the laser out of the specimen’s arm with ease. “Like taking a hot knife from butter.”