Fast-Tracked

by Tracy Rozzlynn

  “Come on, Charles. You and I are going home,” my dad growled in a tone that dared anyone to defy him. Not that Mr. Levenson really could. My dad was a good head taller and free of the pot belly that Mr. Levenson sported. Fortunately for me, physically Byron took after his mother’s side of the family. “Ladies. Kids. Please stay and enjoy your night. We’ll see you all when you get home.” I watched as my dad gave us a polite nod with his head, turned, and led Mr. Levenson out of the room. Was Byron’s dad drunk? I don’t remember seeing him drink that much, but what other reason could there be for my dad taking him home?

  I gave Byron a confused look. He just grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor. Finally, he mumbled, “He’s been under a lot of stress recently. I think the excitement of our graduation was a bit too much on top of it all.” I hated seeing the pained and embarrassed expression on Byron’s face.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. Having Mr. Levenson upset could only worry and bother Byron. So if there was anything I could do about it, I would.

  “Nah. I can hardly get him to talk about it. Apparently some bigwig at work has been riding him pretty hard. It’s just a matter of time until it blows over, but in the meantime, the jerk is making my dad feel like a lowly orange worker. I think that’s why he’s been harping on the conditions of the working class so much.” Byron was trying to act like it didn’t bother him, but I could feel his muscles tense as he talked about it.

  Unable to say or do anything to help him, I just leaned my head on his chest and squeezed him tight against me. I felt his muscles relax as his body received my silent message that I would always be there for him.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I woke the next day, it was almost lunchtime. Byron and I danced until the last song of the night, without stopping. So I was grateful that my mother decided to let me sleep in. Plus she actually did all of my Saturday chores for me. I tried to thank her, but she just waved me away with tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t need to say anything else.

  While the end of the assessment testing was treated as a time of celebration, it was always lined with unspoken fear and dread. Yes, I had always been a good student and yes, I felt confident that I had performed well on all of my tests, but there was always the possibility that I hadn’t done as well as I thought. Right up until the moment I opened the letter, there was a possibility that I could have scored low enough to fall into a working-class level.

  It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. When I was ten it had happened to the Swanson family who lived one row over. Their son had always been a bit of a goof-off, but he was still a bright kid. So no one ever really worried about him. But then Rebuilding Day arrived. I was riding my bike down his row when I heard his mother begin to wail.

  Soon nearby neighbors emerged to see what the commotion was. When one rang the doorbell, Mrs. Swanson emerged sobbing, “No, it can’t be. It’s not possible. Not my son. Not my son!” Other mothers in the neighborhood did their best to comfort her.

  I could see Mr. Swanson in the living room window pacing back and forth angrily. He looked like he wanted to scream at someone, but didn’t know who.

  I parked my bike and slowly wiggled my way through the crowd. I was worried about Jace. He had always been nice to the neighborhood kids, including me. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. I found him sitting in his kitchen. Both his elbows rested on his knees as he held up his drooped head. I didn’t know what to say, so I just rested my small hand on his shoulder.

  I remember thinking how old he suddenly seemed as he briefly looked up at me and said, “I just didn’t think it could happen. Not to me.” He dropped his head back down and I felt him silently cry.

  I watched a big fat tear drop from his chin and splash onto the iridescent envelope lying on the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over. Now I understood why everyone was so upset. Still folded inside the envelope was a red letter.

  Jace had scored low enough to be demoted to the working-class. Granted it was the highest level of the working-class, but it might as well been the lowest as far everyone he once knew was concerned. The difference between a fifty-ninth and a sixtieth percent score was a universe in distance. Socialization and marriage between levels was rare, but it was allowed, except for one distinct division that could never be crossed. Anyone of fifty-nine percent or lower could not marry anyone higher than that. And unofficially it was scandalous for anyone above the sixtieth percent tile to ever get caught socializing with anyone below.

  So it was no surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Swanson relocated as soon as it was possible. In my younger years I deluded myself into believing they moved to be closer to him. Now that I was older, I had to admit the truth to myself. They moved to escape the humiliation and shame associated with their son’s failure. At least in another state they could focus their attention on their remaining son’s education, and pretend that Jace had never existed.

  I knew that my mom’s watery eyes tried to hide her fear of me sharing Jace’s fate. When I thought of Jace I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents’ response would be the same. Due to Mother Nature’s decision, I was an only child. Without a replacement, would my parents be as quick to forget me?

  I didn’t want to think about such depressing things. So I was relieved when my tablet chirped. Byron’s name appeared on the screen. I darted up to my bedroom for some privacy.

  Byron’s face greeted me the moment I touched the screen. “Are your parents weirding you out as much as mine are?” he grumbled.

  “Weird? No. Not a bit. My mom always does my chores, lets me sleep in and almost cries over me every weekend,” I prattled as I tried to straighten my hair. I knew I must have terrible bed-head right now. So much for subtlety: Byron guffawed at me.

  “Hurry up and shower; I’m taking you and Camille out to lunch,” he generously offered.

  “Byron,” I protested. He knew I preferred to split the bill. I didn’t think it was fair for him to spend all of his allowance credits on me and never allow me to return the favor. Besides, we had always gone Dutch before we started dating.

  “My dad just gave me a bunch of extra income credits on top of my usual allowance.”

  I bleated in shock. His dad was usually an utter tightwad when it came to money. “Wow. Okay, your parents definitely win this week’s weirdness award. I bow to their superior level of weird.” I waved my hands up and down in exaggerated worship.

  “Just be ready in twenty,” he chastised with an overly serious glare.

  “Make it thirty,” I snickered before I tapped my tablet off and skipped toward the shower.

  The three of us spent the majority of the weekend finding activities that kept us away from our parents. The way they were acting just made us feel too anxious and scared. We pretended we were continuing our assessment celebration, but we really weren’t fooling anybody. We knew we were taking the easy route, keeping ourselves too busy to think about Rebuilding Day.

  But the three of us still had a lot of fun. It was one of the few times in our lives that we didn’t have to endlessly study and learn – even Camille. She had a full week until school started back up. So we visited all of our old haunts plus a few new ones. We snapped pictures of ourselves on each other’s tablets like there was no tomorrow. Even in our intentional state of denial we realized it might be a while until the three of us were together again. Camille had starter school to complete and there was no guarantee that Byron and I would have career training at the same location.

  Both Saturday and Sunday nights the three of us arrived home just in time for curfew and passed out in our beds from exhaustion.

  Despite my exhaustion from the night before, I still woke bright and early on Monday. Most years the assessment letters didn’t arrive until early afternoon. But I didn’t want to take any chances. It would be just my luck to sleep in the one year they decided to change the delivery route and arrive early. So I rushed to the bathroo
m, quickly showered, and dressed in one of my nicest outfits. It was a coral colored blouse with black trim and a matching black skirt. I didn’t have to dress up, of course, but it just felt right seeing how special today would be.

  “Hey, sweetie,” my dad greeted me as I sat down at the kitchen table. He rubbed a hand over his chin, drawing my attention to a blotchy bruise. The deep purple was turning a sickly yellow about the edges. I had asked him Saturday morning what had happened, but he had just given me a dismissive wave and mumbled something about hitting himself. I doubted I would get a better answer out of him now, but I suspected it had happened while he was escorting Byron’s dad home.

  My mom stifled a sniffle and placed a plate in front of me. She had made all my breakfast favorites: mixed berry compote drizzled over her homemade pancakes and an onion and pepper omelet. I smiled and did my best to eat some, but I was just too nervous. Besides, staring at the omelet, all I could think about was Mr. Sumner telling me how we used to use chicken eggs instead of protein supplement to make omelets. Definitely information I would have rather lived without.

  But I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings, so I pushed my food around my plate and took a miniscule nibble once in a while. To distract her, I made small talk the entire time.

  “So how far away is the nearest purple neighborhood?” I asked. Unfortunately all I could think about this morning was assessment placement, and my small talk reflected that fact.

  “About twenty minutes north. Why?” my dad asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Oh, no reason,” I replied, but I could tell by his unchanged expression that he wouldn’t let me get away with such a vague answer. Suddenly, I realized that I had probably insulted both of them. Both my parents were blue-level and they had great jobs. “It’s just that I was hoping to teach like mom, but I’d really like to teach science to the older children instead of foundation skills,” I quickly explained. I hoped my dad would understand and not take offense that I wanted to be a higher level than him.

  I relaxed as my dad gave me a wink and said, “I can easily see you teaching all the children how to build their own robots and wind turbines from scratch.”

  I let out a relieved sigh and said, “I’ll make sure to invite you on those days so we can relive some of my childhood memories together.”

  My dad smiled warmly back at me, probably remembering the day I came home demanding he teach me to make a robot like the big kids could. I was only six at the time, but he patiently indulged me. The only restriction he imposed was that he had to do the soldering himself – I just had to show him what and where to solder. It had taken several months and more mistakes than I could count, but eventually we had it working and over the next year we perfected it so it easily outperformed all the other kids’ robots. Well, except Byron’s. We had eventually conceded to call it a draw between each other.

  Eventually my dad took pity on my unwilling stomach and when my mom wasn’t looking he scraped my plate into his. That gave me the freedom to excuse myself and call Byron. At least when I was talking to him, time wouldn’t feel like it had frozen on me.

  “Hey, Lexi,” Byron greeted me a bit too exuberantly. I immediately knew he was feeling as excited, nervous, and anxious as I was. “I wish we could leave for just the morning and go outside. This endless waiting is going to kill me,” he moaned.

  “Do you want to chance the consequences of not being here when the letters arrive?” I asked. Not that I had to. It was mandatory that the assessed student be at his or her home at the time of delivery. Part of the reason it was delivered on Rebuilding Day was because our entire family was given the day off so they could rejoice in our excitement as we discovered what our futures held. But over the years too many families had used it as an actual vacation day and went out, away from their homes. It led to a nightmare of delays and mix-ups. Families would return home to discover they had John B. Smith’s envelope and not Jon B. Smith’s. In some cases legal battles ensued as the family who mistakenly received the higher color refused to return the letter.

  So in the end a law was passed that made it necessary for the student to be home at the time of delivery. That way an iris scan could be performed to make sure all letters went to the proper recipients. The penalty for missing delivery was an automatic drop of a class level – even if it meant you dropped from blue to red.

  “I just wish I could see you while we wait. That’s all. We’re two houses apart, but it might as well be the other side of the country today,” he grumbled. I shared his frustration. Since we first kissed, hardly a day had gone by when we weren’t together.

  “I know, but it’s just until we get our letters. Then we can see each other every day without our parents complaining about it. Hey, maybe they’ll finally give us a little privacy.” I wanted to comfort him, but feeling as I did, I doubted it helped. I was ready to crawl out of my own skin just to shed the anticipation I was feeling, and I’m sure he could tell.

  “Well if they follow the same delivery route as last year, I should get my letter first. As soon as I get it, I’ll head over to your house to test that theory,” he teased. Then he gave me a smile that made my insides melt.

  “Okay.” I smiled back at him. “I…”

  “Alexandria, come say hello to your Aunt Irena,” my mom yelled upstairs to me.

  “Great, this just might take all day. I gotta go.”

  Byron waved goodbye and I tapped the tablet off.

  “Alexandria,” Mom called impatiently.

  “I’m coming.” I rolled my eyes as I headed down the stairs. The only reason my mom wanted me to talk to Aunt Irena was so that she didn’t have to. Irena was Dad’s little sister. Whenever she spoke to him she was as sweet as pie – but she was beyond catty the second he turned away. Despite my mom never participating, she constantly competed to one-up her on everything. Even the fact that she had two children was some kind of victory to her. Like a fertile womb was something she had any control over.

  Two years ago, her oldest son Leroy had received a purple letter. Since then she had simply been unbearable. Every word out of her mouth was ‘Leroy this’ or ‘Leroy that’. Once I had asked my mom how she could stand even a minute of talking to the insufferable woman. My mom simply explained that through all the years of Aunt Irena trying to one-up her, she had yet to come up with a real one-up that was something she, and not Mother Nature or someone else around her, had accomplished. Aunt Irena managed a sandwich shop and didn’t even like eating sandwiches. My mom theorized that the only reason Aunt Irena enjoyed thinking she’d one-upped her is because she was so unhappy with her own life.

  I tried to remind myself of that conversation as I took the tablet from my mother’s hand.

  “Oh. Hi, Alex,” she purred at me in her usual snooty tone.

  “It’s Alexandria or Lexi. I don’t go by Alex,” I calmly explained for what must be the millionth time.

  “You must be so nervous right now. Don’t you worry: Leroy and I both have our fingers crossed for you, and we keep thinking ‘blue, not red’.” She looked to her right and started rubbing her finger against her teeth. The woman didn’t even have the common courtesy to look at me when she talked. She’d rather pick at her breakfast in the mirror.

  Eventually, she realized I wasn’t responding, so she continued talking as if I had. “Now, Leroy and I didn’t get the tiniest bit nervous as he waited for his letter. But we knew he had tested better than any of his classmates. We weren’t about to waste energy fretting over it. Of course, his letter just showed that we were right. But don’t you feel bad that you’re nervous; most students are.” She started fluffing her over-processed hair in the mirror, still not looking at me.

  I began to wonder if she was even listening to me. “Actually, I got my letter this morning. It was rainbow striped and it said I could pick the level and job of my choosing. So of course I chose to be gold level hippopotamus trainer.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see
my mom’s face wavering between stern disapproval and hysterical amusement.

  My aunt stopped applying her bright red lipstick and looked at her mirror confused. “What did you say, Alex?”

  “My name is Alexandria or Lexi. I don’t go by Alex,” I responded flatly.

  “Oh, that’s nice, Alex. Oh, Leroy’s trying to call me now. I have to go. Tell your mom to call me after you get your letter.” She gave a half-wave and tapped the connection off. Well at least Leroy was good for something.

  Shaking my head, I turned to my mom. It looked like laughter had won: she convulsed with silent hysterics. “Mom, promise me one thing. If by some miracle I get a gray or silver letter, can you call up Aunt Irena every day and show it to her?” My mom responded by shaking her head and audibly laughing as the tears streamed down her face. I was momentarily grateful for my aunt. She had given my mom a well needed break from her worry. Too bad she hadn’t done a thing for mine.

  I went back upstairs, grabbed my tablet. As much as I wanted to call Byron back, I resisted. His parents already gave him a hard time about how much we talked. On a day like today it might be enough to push his stressed-out dad over the edge. So instead, I searched through the day’s broadcasts. I found a news report following the reaction of celebrities and their children as they received their assessment letters last year. I watched as kid after kid opened their letters and squealed in delight. The reporter interviewed each one afterward and they all said they had gotten the color they expected.

  I was getting bored and was about to change the channel when the reporter announced that they were at the home of Krystal Skye and her son Damie. Krystal was a washed-up actress that hadn’t been in an actual movie for over ten years now. The only thing that kept her in the spotlight was the constant scandals she kept getting herself into. Most recently she had produced pictures of herself entwined with a Senator from California. He had been outraged and demanded a national apology from her for presenting such hurtful, altered photographs.