by Korn, Tracy
"But—" I narrow my eyes in confusion as she pushes her braids behind her shoulder and brings her chair around to mine, then looks at me soberly.
"Jazwyn, listen, this isn't important right now," she says, glancing at the watch that has slipped around to the inside of her wrist, her tone softer but her pace quicker. "Just know that some competition is good, but for something like this, the wrong kind of competition would skew the data. I'm supposed to tell you that your natural ability is communication, you must know this by now. You understood that everything was going to be OK from the look I gave you in the corridor, didn't you—just like we talked about in the body language unit—and you knew how to tell me you understood by using the same tools."
"I did understand, but I don't understand how, or why it matters. Why does Gaia care about me understanding a look?"
"I'm sorry, we're almost out of time. It will all make sense to you soon, but you have to get ready for the interview. The students from the shuttles will be heading to their sorting rooms now, so I will need to leave to help the other communication candidates."
"But if you're leaving, which teachers are interviewing me?" I ask.
"Your interviewers are not teachers; they're from Gaia, Jazwyn," Ms. Wren says proudly after a pause. I feel the blood drain from my face and my mouth fall open. "It's OK, you don't have to know anything specific. You can't actually prepare for this interview, remember? They know you're ranked third, and they also know your predisposition for understanding people, for making yourself understood. That's what matters to them. Trust your instincts. You have to get dressed; they're through that door, so you can just go in when you're ready."
She gets up and puts the tote on the table. From inside, she pulls out a long sleeved dusty blue tunic, which is cut like hers, and a matching pair of linen pants. She pulls out blue socks and blue slipper-shoes next.
"Why do I have to change my clothes?" I ask.
"It will help you—blue helps communication, just like these classrooms. Here..." she smiles and sets the clothes and shoes next to me on the table, but doesn't sit again. I stand instead, and she hugs me.
"I'm so proud of you, Jazz," she says into my hair, hers smelling of rosewater. "Make a difference down there. Make things better." She squeezes me hard, and I feel my throat start to tighten. It hits me again, the feeling that this might be another last thing—the last time I ever see her, see this school and my friends.
"Thank you, Ms. Wren, I—" is all I can choke out. There's so much more I want to say to her, but the words won't come through. She holds me at arm's length then and smiles her perfect, bright smile.
"It's all right, Jazz, I know. Now clean up, don't try to be anything you're not. Your best asset is being exactly who you are; just remember that." I only nod because I'm afraid to open my mouth and have nothing come out, stuck behind the barricade in my chest. "All right," she says again and squeezes my shoulders. "Get dressed." She cups my face in her hands, and blinks several times before she returns to the corridor.
When she leaves, the room is silent again. Deafeningly silent. I swallow hard and blow out a heavy breath as I look over my shoulder at the door behind me. The interviewers from Gaia are waiting for me on the other side right now. I can't even imagine what they will look like. I've never met anyone from Gaia in person except for maybe the State representatives over the years who have come to tell us about Gaia and the homestead initiative, about what it's like to live on the seafloor with clean air and opportunities, and they don't look much differently than any of Liddick's or Ellis's friends from the elites in Skyboard North. This will be OK, I think. I just need to be myself.
I kick off my shoes and swap out my grey pants for the blue ones. They're thin, but warm, and the tunic is soft against my skin, much softer than my old woven shirt. I've never felt clothes like this before, and wonder if they could be from Gaia. Everything is supposed to be better there, isn't it? But despite the clothes being soft and warm and beautiful, the same sense of dread I've had for months, the same feeling that I had on the shuttle and just now with Ms. Wren creeps over me again. What if I'm not ready for this to end, or for something new to begin? I think, but then I realize I have a more important question: how do I hide this feeling before I meet the interviewers?
CHAPTER 3
The Interview
I open the door, and window light floods the room, temporarily blinding me as my eyes adjust. I raise my hand to shadow them, and a woman's sharp, cheerful voice greets me from somewhere.
"Hello, Miss Ripley. We've heard wonderful things about you."
My vision starts to acclimate, and I see three people seated at a table. In another second, I'm able to see that the one speaking, the one on the left, has short, copper red hair that slashes past her ears and narrow green eyes, which don't show evidence of her too wide and too bright smile. The dark haired, bearded man next to her is also smiling in the same exaggerated, perfect way, and so is the blonde woman sitting on his other side. But even though they're smiling, I feel my stomach start to churn, and I don't know if it's the starkness of this completely white, empty room that makes everything so intimidating, or if it's because all three of these interviewers are dressed in white military uniforms that seem to glow in the bright light. Their hands are folded in front of them, and though they're right here before me, they seem like they're a layer away.
"Hello," I manage, and swallow to stabilize my voice.
"Why don't you have a seat?" The man in the center gestures to the single chair behind the small table across from theirs, and I walk toward it. Their smiles relax at the same time, and the blonde woman on the right sets a small metal cone in the center of their table.
"Jazwyn, this is called a holographic capture; it will record our interview. Will that be all right with you?" she asks. I don't know why they would want to record this, but I can't see anything wrong with it either, so I agree. She presses a button on the device, and a blue light floods slowly from the top, then rises up and out. There's a strong hum as the umbrella of light falls down and eventually encapsulates us, but the closer it gets to the ground, the quieter the hum becomes until I don't hear it anymore.
"It says here that people call you Jazz—could I call you Jazz?" The blonde woman asks after looking down at her tablet, and I nod. "My name is Ms. Plume. I'm the careers and placement officer for Gaia Sur. With me today is Mr. Styx, our admissions officer, and Ms. Rheen, our school's chancellor. We have been looking forward to meeting you," she says, folding her hands in front of her again. She seems too delicate—too wide-eyed, like a painting from a different era than the others, who are more boldly lined and more sharply edged.
"Thank you. It's nice to meet you too," I say, and decide it's a good idea to fold my hands like they do so they can't see them shaking.
"Jazz, we'd like to start by congratulating you on your class status. You've obviously worked very hard to be third out of 458 students," Ms. Rheen says, leaning forward on her forearms and tapping her teeth with her long red fingernail, the cut of her hair shifting on her cheekbone as her bright green eyes flicker. "Could you explain your motivation to us?"
All at once my brain starts trying on possible answers. I can't tell them that living in the cramped habitat stacks of the Seaboard North quadrant is a ticket to nothing but day-to-day survival for a family, or that you can't even breathe the sulfured air for too long without getting dizzy. I can't look like I'm trying to escape. These people were probably born in the underwater homesteads, so they wouldn't appreciate my situation, and I don't want their pity.
"My family has always encouraged hard work," I say instead, which sounds safe.
"And you live with your..." Mr. Styx punches something into his tablet, "...mother and two siblings; is that correct?" he asks, angling his head to the other side as he fixes his steel blue eyes on me.
"Yes," I answer, wondering if there has ever been another person who looked more out of place in a military uniform. His e
yebrows have yet to relax from their indignant furrow, and it makes him look like he should be on a pulpit telling people how everything is their fault, or behind a podium telling them that nothing is. He nods.
"Your file says that your mother runs one of the covered greenbeds in your quadrant; that could be a comfortable apprenticeship. How fortunate that you have a fallback if you're not admitted to Gaia," Ms. Rheen says, tilting her chin down and looking at me from under a slash of eyebrows. That look paired with her condescending tone spark inside me, and I feel my teeth pressing together to contain it.
"Yes, I'm very lucky," I say, biting off the protest still knocking at the back of my teeth.
"Now your father, he was incinerated in an accident when you were 13 years old—an explosion at the hydrogen plant?" Mr. Styx continues reading from his tablet like he's reading the latest cinestar gossip, then looks up at me intently. This question hits me in the stomach, and the heated indignation I'd been feeling gives way to a pouring cold.
Ms. Rheen crinkles her eyes and pinches her red lips together in a way that makes the corners of her mouth turn down. I think this is supposed to be a smile, but her eyes are hard and anticipatory. I look over to Ms. Plume and then back at Mr. Styx, but only Ms. Plume, with her raised eyebrows and small smile, seems to sympathize with the impact this has on me. I take a deep breath, which helps, and I feel a little of the indignation restore itself. I've worked my whole life to be in here right now, I think. If they're waiting for me to crack, they can get used to disappointment.
"From what I can remember," I say, looking directly at Ms. Rheen. She forces a smile into the corners of her mouth and angles her head. She blinks purposefully, then leans forward on her elbows, resting her chin over the bridge of her interlaced fingers, to ask me the next question.
"Would you say that you are close to your brother?" she asks, narrowing her mossy eyes.
"I suppose. We get along and fight like all siblings," I reply, suddenly feeling compelled to play everything down under her scrutinous eye, to mute all my feelings about everyone and everything and appear as neutral as possible. Follow your instincts…trust yourself...Ms Wren's words echo in my head.
"But he's ranked fourth; do you feel a sense of competition with your brother?" Mr. Styx asks me this question with an edge in his voice, but he doesn't twist his expression like Ms. Rheen; he only raises his neat, dark eyebrows and leans forward in his chair. I feel my heart pounding against my ribs and take another deep breath. Calm down. Don't let them intimidate you, I think.
"Not really. We both just want to do our best," I say, to which Mr. Styx nods, expressionless, and types something into his tablet.
"Jazz, tell us what you've heard about Gaia. Why would you like to begin career studies there?" Ms. Plume's wide blue eyes are kind, and her voice is soft, which almost makes me feel safe here. Almost.
"We've all heard about the amazing opportunities at Gaia from the State representatives, and we've heard about the successes of past graduates," I say, but they all just blink at me in the hollow silence, seeming to want me to say more, so I do. "I get the impression that people there are...professionals, and I want to be a professional too." I don't consciously choose the word professional. It slips in after a brief pause because it's the first word that comes to mind when I think about the State presentations we've all seen about getting into Gaia and then being able to live in the homesteads, and about their infobit broadcasts on our neural channels, both of which make it seem like there is nothing beyond reach there. A person can study anything, can be anything, and everyone is supposedly treated with respect no matter if they were from Skyboard North or the Fringe quadrant before they were admitted.
This belief must be exactly what they need to see in my response because they all genuinely smile at me now, and I feel a dull warmth of relief spreading in my stomach. Mr. Styx arches one tailored eyebrow at me and lowers his chin. He leans into the table, stroking his short beard into a point with his fingers, and speaks in a hushed voice.
"People are indeed professionals, Jazz. I imagine it's taxing for someone like you with your obvious talents to be surrounded by so many others who have no interest in bettering themselves," he says, leaning back and brushing something from his white jacket lapels with two of his fingers. Ms. Rheen leans toward him to whisper something conspiratorially, and then turns her gaze on me.
"They simply don't want to put in the work, and maybe they just aren't capable of it because they've been conditioned by their culture that mediocrity is acceptable. But not you and your brother, Jazz. You understand the value of bettering yourself, don't you," Ms. Rheen says, ending the sentence as a statement rather than a question. I take a deep, quiet breath and try to smile at them in agreement. At this point, it's clear that the less I say, the less likely I am to change their minds about whatever lofty assumptions they're making about me, but for the record, I want to tell them all to get back in their boat. Do they really think I consider myself better than everyone in the stacks? That everyone in Gaia is better too? They'd never last a day in Seaboard North.
Ms. Plume clears her throat and interrupts the euphemism game Mr. Styx and Ms. Rheen appear to be playing. "Jazz, we just have a few more questions," Ms. Plume says. "Are you aware that if you are chosen to complete the remainder of your studies at Gaia, you may not return here to Seaboard North except in virtuo port-call transmission, and that this may only occur six times per year unless you receive special permission in the event of a death in your family?" She says this as if she wants to have it out as quickly as possible.
"Yes, I know," I respond, but what I don't know is why they insist on this, what's the problem with coming home? And before I can stop myself from asking these questions, the adrenaline from that last round has them sliding out of my mouth, which I immediately regret when I see Mr. Styx and Ms. Rheen exchange pensive, knowing glances. They breathe in quickly through their noses, and Ms. Plume looks down at the table, at the other two, and then at me. Her blonde brows draw together as she leans in. I need to get myself together. I don't know why entirely, but something in her expression tells me I can't appear to challenge things now.
"We know you've likely heard rumors, Jazz, which is one reason we like to conduct these interviews with prospective students...to dispel any fear or confusion. You understand the intensity of our four-year study program is such that students can't afford the time it would take for extended physical shore leave, not to mention the biological stress frequent topside trips could cause. Gaia Sur is nearly 5,000 meters under water, after all. But once studies are completed, and if students would like to return at that time, we do offer many career options that would accommodate that, at least periodically. We try to avoid displacing others who do not have the option of relocating to the ocean floor."
Ms. Plume's eyes widen a little with her last words as she presses her lips together and angles her chin down. This is the look Ms. Wren gave me earlier to get me to stop talking and just go with things—this body language, this way of talking without talking, she's giving me a lifeline. I understand now, I understand that she's my ally. I take a deep breath and make myself smile as genuinely as possible before I speak again.
"That makes sense. Thank you for explaining," I say confidently, as if this is exactly what I've been waiting to hear. Mr. Styx and Ms. Rheen seem to relax again, and Ms. Plume exhales quietly.
"Wonderful," Ms. Rheen says, looking at her tablet, then to Mr. Styx and Ms. Plume, then back at me. "Then there's just one more thing."
She gets up from her seat behind the table and walks over to me with something in her hand. Her thin, red lips twist into a smile, which is ugly despite how beautiful she is, and I hear her heels click and echo in the large, hollow room, the downbeat to the growing pounding in my chest.
"Wait…um…" I stumble, unsure of what to say, but feeling compelled to protest—to say something as I fight the urge to stand and run out the door.
"May I have your
left wrist?" she asks, needling her jaded eyes at me, and even up close, she really does seem to glow. My heart hammers, and I jerk my gaze from Ms. Rheen's and look to Ms. Plume because I'd felt a rapport with her just now, because I think she will help me even though I don't know why I need help, but she only nods her head at me with a crushed smile between her lips.
I have to slow this whole thing down, I think, but I can't. All right, then just breathe through it, I think, despite every feeling in my body to the contrary. She can't hurt me, especially not here or now because everyone is expecting me to come home today…at least for a while.
I look back into Ms. Rheen's eyes, which are large and anticipatory, like a cat about to bite the head off some pitiful thing it has just caught in its claws. I feel her icy, red-tipped fingers wrap around my forearm and lift it enough to close a wide metal bracelet around my wrist. I try to resist, but it all happens too fast. The seam between each of the ends seals in a flash of green light and a sliding hydraulic sound. The brushed cuff is cool and surprisingly weightless on my arm as I stare at it, then look back up to find Ms. Rheen smiling down at me, backlit by the intense, bright light.
"Welcome to Gaia, Jazwyn Ripley."
Her words hang in the air before me as she makes her way back to her seat, and the blue cast of the recording holograph dissipates.
"This bracelet now contains your medical history and your campus admittance information. You will not be able to remove it yourself, so please don't attempt it," Mr. Styx continues.
I try to think of something to say, some question to ask, but I can't seem to put any words together. There should be more to this whole process, shouldn't there? For years all we've heard is how long and exhausting these interviews are, and while this one has been a little intimidating, it was nothing like what I've heard.
