Rated

by Melissa Grey

  Melody leaned closer to whisper her next words. “Or an Unrated. I heard the cops arrested some at the park trying to protest.” She leaned back against the lockers and blew an errant lock of her hair off her forehead. “Can you imagine? Standing outside all day like that, advertising how much you’ve failed at life. I honestly feel kind of bad for them.”

  “I don’t know why they bother,” Bex said. “The protesters, not the police. Maybe if they’d spent the amount of time working on their own ratings as they did whining about them, they wouldn’t be in that situation to begin with.”

  Melody raised her eyebrows. “Getting a little frosty there, Ice Queen Rebecca? That’s not like you.”

  Bex zipped up her backpack and hefted it over her shoulder. “I know it sounds unkind.” Especially from someone who volunteered every Saturday morning at a soup kitchen for the local Unrated. “I’m just stressed out. School stuff.”

  “Always, with you,” Melody said, but there was no venom in the words. Melody was the fun one. Bex was the smart one. Their relationship had been based on that divide ever since they’d exchanged sloppily made friendship bracelets in first grade. Bex pulled Melody up beside her—getting her to study when she’d rather procrastinate, and dragging her to help out at volunteering opportunities—while Melody softened Bex’s harder edges. The arrangement worked for them.

  Sometimes, though, Bex envied Melody. Her mother was a sculptor and her father did graphic design. In all the time Bex had spent at Melody’s house, she’d never once heard them discuss their daughter’s schoolwork or prospective colleges. During one memorable dinner, Melody’s mother had described grades as demoralizing. The concept was utterly foreign to Bex, that life could exist without an array of numbers to quantify every facet of it.

  The bell rang, signaling the three-minute mark until the beginning of first period. Bex slammed her locker door shut and began striding down the hall. Melody kept pace with a skip in her step.

  Bex would have to stop by her locker after second period to pick up her bio textbook. An image flitted through her mind: small unborn pigs, their sightless eyes filmy and half-closed, all packed into a tub. A shiver danced along her spine. Science. It was just science. And science was Bex’s thing. She could do it and do it well. She had to do it.

  Her rating depended on it.

  Her life depended on it.

  There was a certain beauty to being invisible.

  Noah found that it was easy to see people—really see them—when they didn’t see you back. When you were invisible, you had the luxury of witnessing people in their natural habitats, unguarded and unpolished. When people knew they were being watched, they behaved differently. They performed.

  But Noah preferred truth to performance. And he didn’t just want to see it. He wanted to record it, to seal that one perfect moment in celluloid and silver. He hefted the camera he never went anywhere without—a vintage Leica gifted to him by his father—and framed the shot.

  He stood under the shadow of a copse of trees, within comfortable viewing range of Maplethorpe’s front doors, but well outside the uncomfortable viewing range of the headmaster’s office. The windows overlooked the school’s entrance, but a towering oak blocked the line of sight at a certain angle. It was within that angle’s protection that Noah camped.

  THE RATINGS ARE NOT REAL.

  The graffiti wouldn’t last long. Imperfection had a short shelf life at Maplethorpe. Desks that had been marred by sloppily etched declarations of love (D J 4EVER) were carted out of the building in the dead of night, replaced by brand-new ones come morning. Imperfect students, whose ratings fell below Maplethorpe’s bare minimum allowance of 20, were whisked away to reform schools to be melted down and remolded in society’s image. In theory. Noah had never seen anyone return from expulsion. He had his own ideas about what happened to those kids. His current favorite was that they were turned into some kind of Soylent Green–type meal replacement drink. It was a little ghoulish, but there was no harm in a good conspiracy theory.

  Already, a member of the school’s janitorial staff was hurrying to the scene of the crime, arms laden with cleaning supplies. The wooden doors and marble steps would be pristine by the end of first period.

  The student body wouldn’t be as easily scrubbed of its memory. Several teachers were trying to corral stragglers into the building, reminding them that missing morning assembly was an offense punishable by a full point shaved from their rating. But it was thankless work. This single act of vandalism was probably the most exciting thing to ever happen on a first day at Maplethorpe Academy. People would drink it up, savoring its illicit flavor as long as they could.

  And Noah would photograph it, as he did all things worth recording. He would treasure the preserved image, would puzzle over its hidden meaning from the comfort of the darkroom his father had helped him construct in their basement. He’d develop it later, after he visited his little sister in the hospital. She’d never forgive him if he failed to pass on this juicy bit of gossip as soon as possible.

  None of the teachers noticed Noah. If they saw him standing by the trunk of the massive oak, their minds erased the image as soon as it developed. Noah had refined the art of casual anonymity over the course of his young life. His invisibility was both a blessing (people didn’t see him if he didn’t want to be seen) and a curse (people didn’t see him when they really ought to).

  Noah was about to press down on the camera’s shutter release when a much larger, broader body slammed into his shoulder. The camera slipped from his nerveless fingers to land in the grass at his feet.

  “Watch where you’re going, creeper.”

  A clump of baseball players passed Noah by, following in the wake of their leader, Reeve or Steve, or whatever his name was. One of them shot Noah an apologetic look over his shoulder as he mouthed the word sorry. Noah was pretty sure that one’s name was Chad or Chase. The uniforms made them blend together.

  Noah watched them walk away, the maroon of their letter jackets bright in the morning sun. Technically, the school had a dress code, not a uniform. Ninety percent of the student body wore blue blazers with a nice pair of trousers or a skirt, and a button-down shirt. The athletes, especially the male ones, opted for their letter jackets. Since they bore the emblem of Maplethorpe on their breasts, this fell within the limits of allowable outerwear. And there was a certain prestige that accompanied a letter jacket. Noah tried not to be jealous of the privileges afforded Maplethorpe’s star athletes, but sometimes it wasn’t easy. Nobody ever purposefully collided with somebody wearing one of those jackets.

  With a sigh, he knelt down to pick up his camera. But a quick pair of hands beat him to it. Hands with long, elegant fingers, like a pianist might have.

  “Jocks, am I right?”

  Noah’s eyes darted up to the owner of those hands.

  Javier Lucero.

  Those four words were the first Javier had ever spoken to him. Noah’s long-standing shyness didn’t exactly invite conversation.

  “I …”

  Noah’s voice came out in an embarrassing croak, as if it had fled at the sight of this very good-looking human taking notice of Noah when he least expected it.

  Javier’s hazel eyes danced with commiseration and amusement.

  The boy was holding the Leica out to Noah, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Noah hadn’t yet reached out to accept it. He blinked. Noah blinked. After a second that stretched to its fullest capacity, Noah took the camera, giving it a cursory examination for dents or scratches. It seemed fine.

  Noah cleared his throat before attempting to speak again. “Thanks … Javier.”

  A smile worked its way across Javier’s lips, stretching along his bronze skin like a charmed snake. “Call me Javi.”

  He didn’t wait for Noah to call him Javi. Or to call him anything. He winked. He winked. And then he left, ambling toward the school with a quick, unselfconscious glance back at Noah.

  Without pausi
ng to think about it, Noah raised his camera and snapped a picture of Javi.

  Only when Javi smiled at him, raising his hand in a jaunty little salute before turning away, did Noah realize how taking the other boy’s picture like that was probably a weird thing to do. Capturing candid photographs of people when they weren’t looking was one thing. But this was different.

  He hadn’t bothered framing a shot. He hadn’t worried about lighting or f-stops or apertures. He’d just seen something—someone—beautiful and wanted to remember the moment, even if the picture wasn’t perfect.

  An unfamiliar sensation marched across Noah’s skin.

  He hadn’t simply observed Javi out in the wild, capturing an image with his subject none the wiser. Noah himself had been seen.

  And not just seen the way Reeve-or-Steve’s eyes had glanced off Noah at the moment of impact. Javier—Javi—Lucero had looked at Noah in a moment when he’d felt thoroughly invisible. And Javi had even engaged him in a brief but meaningful dialogue. It made Noah feel utterly exposed.

  For the first time in his life, he wished his camera was digital. Javi was gone. He’d entered the school with a cluster of other students. Noah couldn’t look at him anymore. If he had a DSLR camera instead of the Leica, he’d be able to gaze upon the photo he’d just taken. His satisfaction wouldn’t be delayed by the need to develop film. He’d probably be able to find Javi again at assembly, but it wouldn’t be the same. Noah wanted to relive that exact moment again. Now.

  “Are you planning on standing out here all day, Mr. Rainier?”

  Noah jumped a little. His eyes had been trained on the figure of Javier—Javi—disappearing into the school. He hadn’t heard the soft steps of Ms. Stevens, his chemistry teacher, sneaking up behind him.

  “Sorry, Ms. Stevens, I was just …”

  Staring at a boy who had seen me when I sincerely believed I was invisible seemed like a bad follow-up to those words, but so did skipping morning assembly so that I could photograph an act of vandalism that’ll be hushed up and forgotten come morning.

  He opted for silence.

  “Don’t much care why you’re out here, Rainier. I do care that you are out here. Instead of”—she dipped her head in the direction of the school—“in there, where all good boys and girls are meant to be. I’m sure Headmaster Wood has a few choice words prepared for”—another inarticulate gesture, this one seeming to encapsulate the graffiti and the jester stickers and the societal discontent that had led to their placement—“all of this.”

  “Of course, Ms. Stevens.” Noah hurried to put his camera in his backpack. He’d gotten some okay shots of the graffiti at least. He wanted one without students, janitors, or teachers blocking any of the letters, but these would have to do.

  Ms. Stevens watched him fumble with his bag, tapping her foot against the grass in impatience. “You have thirty seconds before I dock your rating, champ.” Her finger was poised for the strike, hovering over the smartwatch at her wrist.

  Noah spared a thought for his rating. It wasn’t entirely shameful, but it was far from respectable. But so long as he hovered somewhere in the middle of the pack, attracting neither notoriety nor celebrity, he was perfectly content. That didn’t mean he wanted to incur a deduction if one could easily be avoided.

  “Right, right, sorry.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder. The Leica thudded against his spine, a staccato beat that mirrored the hammering of his heart. The hammering had little to do with Ms. Stevens’s threat to dock his rating and a lot to do with the memory of hazel eyes and a wink and a smile and a gaze he couldn’t escape.

  Maplethorpe Academy prided itself on its ratings. This sense of accomplishment didn’t limit itself to the numerical displays on its students’ smart devices—mostly watches, but pricier bespoke accessories like rings or necklaces were also available. Rather, it reflected every aspect of academic existence that could be codified and quantified.

  The academy boasted a matriculation rate of 100 percent. By the time senior year rolled around, the students Least Likely to Succeed had already been culled, either shipped off to reform schools out west or politely expelled, left to live among the unwashed and Unrated.

  The academy also laid claim to an admission rate of less than 5 percent. Students either had to prove themselves as truly exceptional or come from truly exceptional stock, the latter of which was a mixed bag when it came to individual achievement. It was an honor to attend Maplethorpe Academy, which is why their attendance rate was also—almost—100 percent.

  Almost, because one student was determined to tank that statistic.

  Tamsin Moore popped her artificially sweet bubble gum, the flavor of which could best be described simply as blue. Her hiding spot—a music building that had been out of commission for decades after the new, state-of-the-art facility was constructed—was far enough from the main school building to evade detection; no faculty member could be bothered with the trek to the campus’s outer edges. Especially not for one wayward student who’d probably never make it to graduation anyway.

  She peered down at her watch, sparing a sliver of a thought for the rating it displayed. If it dipped much lower, her less than esteemed career at Maplethorpe would come to a premature end even sooner than she’d expected.

  Once upon a time, Tamsin had been exceptional. So exceptional, perhaps, that it was unsustainable. The novelty of Maplethorpe had worn off a few months into her freshman year, and the school had yet to regain its luster. She scraped along for her mother’s sake. Ms. Moore’s disappointment was harder to bear than anyone else’s, to Tamsin’s eternal chagrin.

  With a tap, Tamsin switched the watch’s display from rating to clock. First period was well underway, and her clients were late.

  Clients, she supposed, was a generous term for the bright young things she led off the beaten path, but she liked that it made her business seem official.

  Just as she was about to call it a day and depart, a red ponytail emerged from the other side of the ridge between Tamsin and the rest of Maplethorpe.

  A smile stretched her Atomic Purple lips.

  By the time the red ponytail and the person—people, really—attached to it arrived, the scene was set. Candles sat in puddles of melted wax, as many as Tamsin could salvage from the reject pile at her mother’s new age apothecary/general store. A black square of fabric, peppered with golden stars, lay on the floor. On top of it lay a well-worn deck of tarot cards, their edges softened by years of shuffling.

  Tamsin watched the trio enter the building from her perch at the window. Their footfalls were loud as they climbed the stairs to the second floor, but their voices were louder. She took her place, sitting cross-legged by the cards, her spine straight, her long black sweater pooling around her like a cloak.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “I bet it was the weird kid with the camera. What’s his name? Noel?”

  “Did you see the way he was creeping in the bushes this morning, taking pictures? Bet he wanted trophies of his handiwork.”

  The boy’s name was Noah, Tamsin knew. She made it her business to know the other outcasts and misfits at Maplethorpe. A small part of her acknowledged that she did this because she was curious if she would develop the type of bond among weirdos she read about in books, where friendships formed between those on the periphery. But so far, she hadn’t approached any of them and none had approached her. No one wanted to be associated with the lowest-rated student at the academy. Tamsin was poison. Most of the time, she liked it that way.

  But strange as Noah was, Tamsin would have bet her most valuable possession—a pristine limited-edition hand-painted Rider-Waite deck accented with real gold foil—that he was innocent. Tamsin hadn’t bothered attending the mandatory school assembly that morning, but even she had seen the graffiti emblazoned on the school’s polished doors. It didn’t seem like Noah’s style. That boy was all crisp edges and clean corners. There was a violence to the way that red paint had been sl
ashed onto the wood. It had dripped onto the pale marble like blood, as if the words were an open wound. They contained a rage Tamsin didn’t think Noah possessed. He seemed eccentric but not privately furious at the arbitrary chains that held their society prisoner.

  She wished she knew who had done it, even if just so she could shake the perpetrator’s hand. Vandalism like that wasn’t for the faint of heart. Speaking truth to power took balls.

  The ratings were a sham. A farce, forced on the masses so that they all danced like obedient little marionettes. Sometimes, Tamsin felt like she was the only soul at Maplethorpe who saw the strings. It gladdened her to know she wasn’t alone in her disdain.

  The footsteps fell silent when they reached the door to what Tamsin had come to consider her office, though the term didn’t seem witchy enough. Parlor. Now that was a word with personality.

  “I can hear you,” Tamsin called. “Come into my parlor. I don’t bite.”

  Three girls entered the room, two flanking the one with the red ponytail. The two other girls had names, but Tamsin couldn’t remember them. Sasha and Sarah, maybe. The alliteration sounded vaguely familiar. While she cataloged the weird and the whimsical, she took little stock of the painfully ordinary. Usually, knowing their type was enough. More often than not, they were satisfied with some vaguely mystical reading, paraded with the right amount of ambience. So long as she read the cues people so rarely realized they were broadcasting, Tamsin could spin a yarn worth the price of admission to her candlelit parlor.

  “Welcome, Summer,” Tamsin said, injecting as much mystique into the words as she could. She motioned to the three flat cushions across from her cards. The bangles on her wrist jingled as her arm moved. “Sit.”

  The girls hesitated, the two looking to their leader for a sign. After a moment, Summer Rawlins nodded. As one, they sank onto the cushions, tucking their identical pleated skirts around their thighs, as if they were proper ladies visiting Tamsin for tea and cakes.