Fast-Tracked

by Tracy Rozzlynn

  Fast-Tracked

  by

  Tracy Rozzlynn

  Copyright © 2011 by Tracy Rozzlynn

  http://TracyRozzlynn.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  * * * * *

  Fast-Tracked

  Chapter 1

  While Mrs. Doulette’s graduation speech droned on, I naively gobbled every word of it up. Study hard and you’ll be rewarded. It had been drilled into me my entire life, and I wholeheartedly believed it. Our system was simple and straightforward – a high assessment score guaranteed a great career and a great life. I had no idea that, in just a few days, I would find out exactly how screwed up that thinking was.

  I glanced to my right and noticed Byron sitting just a few seats over. He looked impatient to get on with the party portion of the evening. It struck me just how handsome he was in his charcoal gray suit and tie. I watched as he ran a hand through his wavy, light brown hair. To me Byron’s face had always been honest, kind, and loyal, but recently it had become ruggedly handsome. But it wasn’t his looks that had changed. He had always been considered handsome. With his mesmerizing blue eyes, perfectly balanced features, and athletic build, I was used to other girls fawning all over him. I found it amusing. Or, at least, I had – before my feelings for him had changed.

  He caught me looking and smiled, before miming hanging himself from boredom. I smiled back and pretended to fan myself, hoping he’d think my sudden redness was a result of the heat.

  Byron and his younger sister Camille had been my neighbors and best friends since we were little kids. We had shared everything together from scraped knees to our recent first kiss. Well, the kiss had been just me and Byron. Thankfully, Camille had been nowhere in sight for that. But she didn’t need to be there; the second she caught sight of us, she had known our relationship had been irrevocably changed, and she couldn’t have been happier.

  Of course, I suspected that Camille knew what was happening between Byron and I long before the two of us ever had a clue. During the year, Camille had constantly made plans for all of us to get together. Then, at the last moment she would cancel, conveniently leaving the two of us alone. Coincidentally, throughout the entire experience, the venue of each excursion kept getting more romantic, until the night we finally kissed. After that, all of Camille’s planning ceased. She must have figured that we were finally able to come up with secluded and romantic places all on our own.

  That wonderful night had been just over two months ago. But still, all it took was Byron’s smile to make me blush and wonder just how the heck I had been so lucky to fall in love with my best friend.

  “Miss Alexandria Paige Scannell.” Mrs. Doulette had finally reached the end of her prattling, and began calling everyone’s name – alphabetically by first name. She never made anything simple. Quickly I hopped up. I made my way across the stage and shook Mrs. Doulette’s bony, skeleton-like hand. In return, I received what appeared to be a warm, friendly smile – but I knew better. Mrs. Doulette looked down on all the students and couldn’t wait for a position to become available at a silver or gray level school. I returned the smile with an equal amount of insincerity. Then I proceeded to the cafeteria.

  I barely recognized the room when I entered. Long ribbons of blue, purple, silver, and gold fabric had been hung from the center of the ceiling and attached to the walls. It created a tent-like canopy. The silk fabrics diluted the usually harsh florescent lighting and gave the room a soft multicolored glow. The long benches and tables we usually sat at had been replaced with round tables draped in a cream and gold cloth with matching chairs. The scene had been described to me by previous graduates, but seeing it firsthand was so much more amazing.

  “I didn’t think it was possible, but in this lighting, you look even more beautiful,” Byron purred as he gently kissed my neck and wrapped himself around me. A shiver ran up my spine as his teeth accidentally grazed my earlobe.

  “Flatterer.” I turned and kissed him gingerly on his lips, before our parents could enter and ruin the moment. He eagerly returned my affections. Pressing me closer to him, he kissed me back. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the familiar warmth of his touch and the surge of heat that filled me.

  Pre-assessment relationships were frowned upon in general. Until assessments were finalized, there was always a chance that one person could be assigned to a working class, making the relationship impossible. Our parents explained the risks to both of us when our romance was first discovered. Definitely not one of my best days, as far as memories go. Our parents treated our kissing like a criminal act. I could have burnt the house down and still wouldn’t have evoked as strong a response as I got then. After what felt like hours of endless lectures and ranting they finally calmed down enough to listen. We assured them that we understood the risk, and promised that it only made us more determined to succeed on our assessment tests. Eventually, they backed down. Most likely it was because they figured it was a battle they couldn’t win. But, for some unknown reason, over the last two weeks, both of our fathers had become extra critical of our romance.

  We claimed an empty table for our families and continued to take advantage of our moment of solitude. Camille was the first to arrive, bounding into the room with her light brown waves bouncing on her shoulders. Camille shared her brother’s coloring: the same sun-kissed skin, pale blue eyes, and hair – but that’s where the resemblance ended. Her delicate but striking features contrasted Byron’s rugged, broad ones. Camille was as sweet and delicate as she looked. And, though she would never dare admit it aloud, it was obvious to everyone that she looked up to and adored her big brother.

  “Hey, Lexi. Hey, Smellyron,” she greeted us, earning herself a noogie from her brother. Breaking free of his grasp, she announced, as if it had just occurred to her, “Next year all of this will be for me.”

  Camille hated being younger. She hated the fact that she had to wait a whole year to find out her fate, while Byron and I would already be training for our careers and living our lives.

  Mr. and Mrs. Levenson entered the cafeteria. Mr. Levenson looked particularly grumpy, wiping a handkerchief across his sweaty, balding head. “Just look at this extravagance, Everly. The decorations alone could pay for a month’s worth of income for at least a hundred orange levels,” Mr. Levenson ranted to his wife.

  Mrs. Levenson responded by making a loud irritated noise at the back of her throat.

  I immediately strode over to the two of them. “You look lovely tonight, Mrs. Levenson. That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing,” I gushed. I wanted to change the topic. Lately, it seemed all Byron’s father could talk about was the horrible conditions the working classes were forced to live and work in.

  Byron and I had just finished our assessment test. It had been a grueling weeklong test. We had been asked to complete everything from the simplest to the most complex of tasks and problems. So, right now, all I wanted was to relax and enjoy my celebration with Byron. The last thing I wanted was to listen to his dad make everyone feel guilty about having too much.

  Besides, I didn’t really believe the workers’ conditions were half as bad as he claimed. Every year, someone managed to get a bill onto the national ballot that would improve their working, living, and educational conditions. And then it was voted down again, without fail, by an overwhelming majority. The working class comprised fifty-nine pe
rcent of the votes: if things were that bad, there would be more votes in favor of a change. Some of the more radical supporters argued that many of the working class votes were manipulated by threats of harm or bribes, but I had a hard time believing that. If I were living in the squalor Mr. Levenson described, nothing would keep me from casting my vote.

  Patting her sunflower-yellow dyed hair, Mrs. Levenson did a little twirl and exclaimed, “Oh, why thank you, Alexandria. I got it just for this occasion.”

  Taking my cue, I added, “And your hairstyle is just so elegant.”

  Mrs. Levenson responded with a beaming smile that made the laugh lines around her eyes crinkle. “Oh, you’re so sweet. I had it done special, just for tonight.”

  Over her shoulder, Byron gave me a wink and a nod. We both though it was hilarious that the smallest of compliments could turn most adults into putty. His mom was definitely no exception.

  “You know…” Mr. Levenson began, but was quickly cut off by Mrs. Levenson’s elbow discreetly meeting his ribs.

  “And you look absolutely stunning yourself tonight. Why, that lilac dress is the perfect color for your alabaster complexion and your lovely ebony hair. I swear it just makes those sapphire eyes of yours just pop right out.” I felt Byron appear by my side, ready to rescue me before his mom drowned me to death in compliments. Whenever she was excited or nervous, she had a tendency to ramble on. “Oh my, the two of you just look so grown up, standing there together. I still remember when the two of you came home from the hospital together. You were born several days apart, but – well, then Byron had such bad jaundice, so he had to stay a bit longer.” Byron blushed and opened his mouth to complain, but I cut him off.

  “Oh, come on, Byron, I just bet you had the cutest little yellow baby butt in the hospital.” I reached up, and ruffled his overly neat hair.

  An impish glint shone in Byron’s eyes. “Okay fine, let’s talk about my baby butt and later, over dinner, I’ll ask your mom about your first time using your potty seat.” I quickly raised my hands in a sign of surrender. I did not need that story being retold to anyone, ever again. Byron smiled ruefully, rubbed his knuckles on his shirt, and then blew on them dramatically.

  He would have continued rubbing in his triumph, but before he could say anything more, his mom reached up and gave us both a strangling hug. “I just can’t believe my babies are all grown up and will be eighteen in less than a week,” she sobbed.

  “If you keep that up, Everly, you’ll have the whole table crying soon,” my mom warned as she joined the table.

  My mom rescued me from Mrs. Levenson’s grasp with a hug of her own. Before releasing me, she just held me back at arm’s length and smiled. I couldn’t help but smile back. My mom had one of those smiles that warmed everyone around her. Although, I am biased, of course. I’ve always held her in awe. I might resemble her, but I never had her ability to capture attention. The moment she walked into the room, everyone noticed, but it was more than just her grace and beauty that attracted their attention. She always had an unwavering confidence about her.

  I couldn’t help but notice the greetings between our fathers seemed a bit stiff, as if they were forcing friendliness between two near strangers instead of two lifelong friends and colleagues. Our dads were both managers at the recycling plant. It meant they had a longer than average commute to work, but it was a well-paid and well-respected blue level position.

  Our dinner was both a visual and delicious feast. We usually enjoyed a nice variety of foods at home, but somehow having it served on delicate little plates arranged like pieces of art made it taste even better. First there was a salad of mixed greens arranged to resemble a blossoming flower. It was followed by a split-pea soup with a star-shaped cream cheese drizzle and a variety of bread stacked in a spiral pattern. Then the main course arrived: roasted rabbit served with sweet potatoes and a steamed assortment of vegetables. The dish was arranged to look like a rabbit grazing in a field.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Sumner – our tall, skinny history teacher who reminded me of a scarecrow – had taken the last available seat at our table. For some reason, the common main course of rabbit started him reminiscing about how once chicken was the meat of choice in our country. I had a hard time eating while he described the unclean habits of the bird compared to the hygiene of the rabbit. After that he continued on to more boring and less disgusting facts, like how a rabbit is all white meat and lower in fat than the chicken or the cow. Plus six pounds of rabbit meat can be produced on the same amount of feed and water it takes to produce one pound of beef.

  Byron looked over with a smile in his eyes and tossed his head in the direction of the dance floor. I didn’t need any more prompting. I hastily excused myself and almost ran from the table. Camille watched us go, a pleading look on her face that begged, “Take me with you!” Looking back at her, I almost felt guilty as I wrapped my arms around Byron’s neck. Almost.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” I whispered in his ear.

  “Rescue? What are you talking about? Just to be clear, I was totally saving myself. If push came to shove, I would have tossed you back to the chicken lover, just so I could make a clean escape,” he chuckled back at me. “You’re just lucky he was satisfied with just Camille as his trapped, attentive audience.” He gave me a mischievous smile before twirling, dipping, and then giving me a brief but oh, so very sweet kiss.

  “Ah, now I remember what first drew me to you: you’re such an adoring protective big brother,” I teased. Then I kissed him back, but my eye caught the scathing glare of Mr. Levenson. “Parental killjoy,” I groaned and resumed a more appropriate dancing distance from Byron.

  Despite the periodic glares coming our way, we continued to dance right through to the end of dinner and most of the way through dessert. It was only when Byron noticed that it was my favorite – chocolate coated strawberries – that we returned to the table. Fortunately Mr. Sumner had wandered off to another table. By the looks of their expressions, he was retelling his chicken story.

  I smiled as Byron slid one of his strawberries onto my plate. I picked it up and bit it. The juice tried to dribble down my chin and stain my dress, but I was prepared: I had a napkin ready to catch it.

  “This may be the last night that many children ever get to enjoy the sweet taste of a strawberry – or any other fresh fruit for that matter,” Mr. Levenson interjected. “And that’s only assuming they even have any at their ‘end of assessment year’ feast.” I wondered if he was determined to destroy whatever enjoyment I had tonight.

  “Charles, this is hardly the time or the place,” my dad warned in a stern voice that startled me. I hardly ever heard him sound cross at anyone.

  Before a response came, Mrs. Doulette appeared at the table with a self-important smile playing across her lips. “Ah. Mr. and Mrs. Levenson and Mr. and Mrs. Scannell. How good it is to see all of you,” she raved in a tone that was somehow more nasal and snooty than usual. “I’d like you all to meet Senator Nessorton. He came all the way here from the Capitol, just to help us celebrate tonight.”

  I knew she was full of it, but I smiled and did my best to look impressed. The politician was probably just making his rounds to all the assessment celebrations he could. He was just ensuring that people would remember his face and name the next time they voted. What better way to make people like you than to have them associate you with a night of celebration and joy. Still, I gave him a warm smile. It didn’t matter whether I liked him or not: being a politician meant he was a gold level, a fast-tracker. So I needed to show him the proper respect.

  As soon as the Senator was out of earshot, Mr. Levenson leaned in close to me. “That, right there, is one of our biggest problems,” he grumbled as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “What chance does a working class student have of becoming gold? None, I tell you.” He looked at me expectantly, like he was waiting for me to agree or argue with him.

  He had a point. Students from worker-level families lived in
worker-level areas and, as a result, went to school with other worker-level children. They were usually taught by teachers who didn’t want to be there. The only reason anyone ever taught at a worker-level school was because of a demotion due to poor performance, or because it was their very first assignment, and they were still waiting for a better location to open up. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best environment to encourage children to excel.

  Plus, anyone who could afford it hired additional tutoring for their children – or at least tutored what they could by themselves. Having parents with up to six additional years of career training definitely gave the upper class children an advantage. Advocates for educational reform were quick to point out that it’s hard to concentrate on learning when hunger occupies your thoughts. By law, no one under eighteen could have their rations reduced or removed, but that didn’t mean that their parents were above taking it when their rations weren’t enough.

  So yeah, I got it: the system could be a self-propagating nightmare for anyone stuck in the worker-class. But short of pulling the kids away from their families and raising them as orphans, shielded from their parents’ ignorance, what could really be done about it? And even if that was done, would there really be that much of a difference? There was still a debate over nature versus nurture, and many experts believed that intelligence and skill have too much of a genetic influence to justify the expense of an educational relocation. Besides, no matter what, there would always be a need for a working class; the economic crash had shown us all that.

  But I didn’t say any of that to Mr. Levenson. Instead, I stared blankly back at him, opened my mouth and said, “Well… uh...”

  Fortunately, he provided his own answer and relieved me from my suffering. “Well, I’ll tell you, a working-class student has a better chance –” I never heard the rest of what Mr. Levenson had to say, because my dad grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.