Fast-Tracked

by Tracy Rozzlynn

  The short distance from our front door to his took an eternity to cross. With each step I felt my heart rise higher and higher in my throat until I could hardly breathe. My pulse was racing and my head was spinning. Everything in my body told me to just turn around and flee from this confrontation waiting for me. I was foolish to think he would be calmed down already. How do you calm down when every one of your hopes and dreams is suddenly crushed?

  My mom could tell I was wavering, so she reached across me and rang the doorbell. I started to turn, but she placed a steadying hand on my shoulder to keep me there.

  We stood silently for a long time – then, eventually, the door opened and reaveled a very exhausted looking Camille.

  “What do you want?” she snapped and gave us both a cold glare.

  “Hi, Camille. Is your mom or dad home?” my mom whispered in the voice she usually reserved for funerals.

  “No, they both had to work,” Camille grumbled and rolled her eyes at us. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I knew in her current state she would only lash out more.

  “Oh, okay. Are you alright here by yourself, you and Byron? Or would you like some company?” my mom asked sweetly.

  “No, Byron’s not here. He had to report to his new assignment today – or didn’t Lexi tell you?” she snarled incredulously.

  I found my voice. “What? Byron’s gone already? Where did he go? He’s going to be back though, right?” I was in a panic. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but my mother squeezed my shoulder and told me to take a deep breath. So instead I pleaded to Camille with my eyes – but hers never met mine. Instead she looked straight ahead, straight through my mother.

  “No, he’s gone for good. He’s not coming back. He didn’t know exactly where he would be assigned, but he also said he wouldn’t tell us. He wants us all to forget about him and pretend he never existed so we can get on with our lives. As if that was even possible. How can we get on with life when we know everything is just so wrong?” Camille broke down into sobs, but the tears never followed. She must have cried them all out and didn’t have any more to give. My mom wrapped a comforting arm around her, but she recoiled from it and spat, “Don’t you touch me! It’s entirely his fault and you know it. If your husband just had a little bit of a spine we wouldn’t be in this situation.” The heat of her anger was rolling off her in waves.

  My mom was at complete loss for words. I couldn’t tell if it was because she knew what Camille was talking about or if she was confused as I was. Eventually she composed herself and said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I made your mom a casserole. I’m sure right now she doesn’t feel like cooking. Could you please give this to her and pass along my condolences?” My mom pressed the casserole dish into Camille’s hands. Camille didn’t say anything more, but she took the dish before closing the door on us.

  I just stood there staring at the dark blue paint of the door, until my mom gently turned me around and led me back to the house. How could I have forgotten that orange level workers report immediately to be processed and assigned their work assignments? I thought I was giving him time to cool down, but all I was doing was allowing him to slip away and disappear from my life forever. I would never even get to say my goodbye.

  My mom guided me back to our house. An unbearable ache had taken hold in my chest. It took all my energy just to breathe. I felt so defeated and tired. If I couldn’t wake up from this nightmare, then all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep for the rest of my life.

  I dragged myself back to my bedroom. I closed my blinds, turned the light off, and closed the door, leaving me in complete darkness. I hid myself under my blanket and buried my head in my pillows in a futile attempt to drown out the world.

  But as tired as I felt, my mind wouldn’t let me sleep.

  I kept replaying events in my head. What did my dad have to do with any of this? Both Byron and Camille had mentioned him, but what impact could he possibly have had on the assessment process? It just didn’t make sense. But then, nothing made sense anymore.

  Eventually the torment of my thoughts slipped into tormented dreams. I saw Byron in obvious distress. I kept trying to get to him, but no matter what I did, he remained just out of my grasp.

  It was dark outside by the time I woke up. I quietly padded downstairs towards the sound of my parents in the kitchen.

  “So what are you going to tell her?” came my mom’s voice from around the corner. Then I stepped into view. She looked up at me. “Oh, good. You’re awake in time for dinner.” Her tone was guilty. Like a little kid whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. “Let me get a plate for you.” She quickly stood and gave my dad a nervous look before heading over to the cupboard.

  “So, Dad, why do Byron and Camille think it’s your fault he got an orange letter?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but he flinched in surprise: it just came out blunt.

  He let out a long, slow, agonized breath as he attempted to regain his composure. “Byron’s father is having a hard time accepting what has happened and is looking for someone to blame. A few weeks ago an incident happened at work that made me look good but made him look bad in front of the plant’s owner. Somehow he blames everything that happened to Byron on me not agreeing with him and supporting him that day.”

  “Oh,” I breathed. Not as dramatic as I was expecting, but just what was I hoping for? It’s not like there actually was anything my father or anyone else could do that would affect Byron’s standing in the assessment testing.

  I forced myself to eat some food before returning to the darkness of my room.

  On Wednesday, my mother insisted that I get out of bed, shower, and dress. After listening to a long and drawn-out speech about how sulking wouldn’t do either Byron or me any good, I headed outside.

  I had never felt so lonely and lost as I did at that moment staring at my neighborhood. It still looked the same as it did when I was a child. Somehow that surprised me. I half expected it to reflect the bleakness I felt inside. But nothing, not a blade of grass, looked different.

  There was still a long row of rectangular houses to my left and another to my right – all of them identical. The same slate gray brick, the same black shutters, and even the same blue carpeting throughout each home. The dark blue front door of each house led to a small entryway. Immediately to the left was the living room. Behind that at the end of the hall was the kitchen, and tucked under the stairs was a small powder room. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a full-sized bathroom.

  Byron had always complained about having to share his room with his sister. Once he had even joked that it was his main motivation in school. He wanted the three bedroom home of a purple level so he’d never have to force his son and daughter to share the same space.

  In between the two rows of houses was a thin lane of grass and flowers. I stood in the worn, beaten path that divided the center of it. It was the path that everyone took to get to the trams. No one had a backyard, because right behind our row of houses was another row of houses laid out in the exact same format.

  But that didn’t mean we didn’t have an area to play. The far end of our street was bordered by a grassy field of wildflowers. Byron would sometimes pick flowers for me there. Beyond the field were the woods we had recently started disappearing into just to get a little privacy.

  The end closest to my house led to the tram. Trams came regularly and frequently; every few minutes or so. Each was covered in solar panels. Even now that I’m considered an adult, I couldn’t help but think they resembled giant black caterpillars. Trams were how everyone got just about everywhere. The only exceptions were for long distance journeys – that was when an air-tram was used.

  The city’s grid pattern made getting anywhere a lot quicker and easier. You just calculated how many stops north or south you had to go, and then transferred to an east-west tram and counted the stops in that direction.

  Our school had been two stops south and one stop east. Our favorite
pizza joint was one north. It also happened to be where the grocery store and mall was. Occasionally, I had dragged Byron there to window shop, but he never complained.

  Besides two trips to Boston, the farthest I had ever really traveled was to my dad’s plant – it was five stops north and eight stops west. I had led a very sheltered life over a very small area, but I had never needed to travel. Byron, Camille and my parents were my world. I never needed or wanted any more than them. But now that Byron was gone and Camille refused to even look at me, I was lost. I didn’t know who I was or who I was supposed to be. I didn’t even know if I wanted to even bother trying to be anyone anymore – what was the point?

  Not knowing what else to do with myself, I wandered my way onto the tram. I had no specific destination in mind. So I just kept riding it as I stared out the window. After about the eighth stop, I noticed the mix of people had changed. I was passing through a working class living area now. I couldn’t see much of their housing from the window – it was just rows of large buildings. So I started people watching. If it wasn’t for their ID badges it would have been hard to tell the difference between the blue-class and red-class workers. They all dressed similarly, and each sported the same pleasant, polite expression. But as I entered areas with even lower level classes, the differences were striking. Their faces were gaunter and their eyes were sadder. They didn’t laugh or chat, but sat in their seats looking utterly exhausted.

  As a green worker walked by me, I realized that I had never in my life seen anyone lower than brown class, and that had only been in my dad’s plant. They were our society’s dirty little secret. We lived separately, and worked separately, so the upper-class never had to lay their eyes upon their hardships and despair. I felt disgusted with myself as I spent the rest of the day riding the tram all the way to its north end and back.

  I don’t know if it was because of me scaring her by disappearing for the day, or because it was our last day together, but my mom had the entire day planned out for me on Thursday. First she woke me up early and had me shower and dress in one of my nicest outfits. Then she brought me to Claire’s for an overpriced breakfast. I still had no real appetite for food, but I forced myself to clean my plate. It was one thing leaving leftovers at home, but to waste my mother’s hard earned income credits on something that would go into the garbage – I couldn’t do that. Besides, many people would never get to eat this extravagant a meal ever again in their life.

  Gulp. Okay, I need to change my train of thought before the waterworks start up again.

  Next my mother brought me to the salon to get my hair styled and my nails manicured. Two things I never had done, or cared to have done, but I grinned and endured it for my mother’s sake.

  “So what kind of hairdo did you have in mind?” the hairdresser asked. I just shrugged in response.

  “Something elegant, but not too delicate; she needs to be able to sleep in it. My daughter’s been fast-tracked and I want her to look her best tomorrow.” Pride radiated from my mom as she bragged.

  “Mooooom,” I whined and tried to shrink into my chair and hide.

  Because of Byron, I felt horrible about my good fortune. The last thing I wanted was to have my mom bragging about it, but it was too late. The moment the words were out of her mouth, I had half the salon doting on me. They all had their own suggestions on what I should do with my hair, nails – they even wanted to do my make-up.

  “I’m not sleeping in make-up and no one is cutting, perming or dyeing my hair. Beyond that I really don’t care what anyone does,” I shouted over the chaos.

  In the end they settled on an intricate pattern of braids. It left my head a little sore with all the hands pulling at it, but I had to admit it looked really pretty. Plus so many people working on it at once made the work go by quickly.

  Next we hit the mall and all of its most expensive stores to find just the right outfit for me. I tried to protest that it wasn’t necessary and reminded my mom that all of my clothes would be provided for me. But she wouldn’t hear of it. So I tried to change strategies and gushed over the cheapest outfits I could find. She wasn’t falling for it. Instead, once again, she announced that I had been fast-tracked. Immediately, I had the entire women’s department surrounding me with clothes. They even brought in a tailor so that any needed adjustments could be made while I waited.

  The whole thing made me feel like a celebrity and I decided right then and there I would never become an actress. They seemed determined to show my mother and me every outfit in the store before allowing me to pick one. Every time I said that I liked one, they put it aside in a consideration pile and shoved another outfit at me. In the end, my mom and I decided on a pale pink suit that had a skirt and matching flats. I refused to wear heels.

  My mom tried to grab a late lunch while we waited for the alterations to be completed, but I convinced her to just get a smoothie. I still had no appetite for food and wanted to save her the credits.

  “I hate seeing you so sad,” my mom sighed as I slurped on my straw. “I wish there was something I could do about it.” She reached over and grabbed my hand.

  “After grandma died you were sad for months, weren’t you?” I asked in an attempt to have her understand how I was feeling.

  “Well, yes. But no one has died. It’s just that things are different for you and Byron now.” She patted my hand. Still trying to fix me and cheer me up.

  “Mom, different is a gross understatement. I’ll never see him or talk to him again. Do you know how painful that is? I almost think it would be easier if he had died. At least then I would be allowed to properly mourn him and I’d know he was at peace in Heaven. But to know he’s still out there, but out of my reach and miserable… right now I’m just trying to get through the day. Maybe over time the pain will fade, but I doubt it will ever completely go away. And I don’t really want it to.” I pleaded with my eyes for her to understand and just allow me to wallow.

  “You know there will be other boys, honey.” She smiled encouragingly at me.

  God. Sometimes she could be so infuriating. “Byron wasn’t… isn’t just a boy. He was my best friend growing up, and that friendship turned into love. It’s more than a silly schoolgirl crush, so don’t you dare treat it like one!” I fumed at her. Needing to get away from the conversation, I stood up, returned my half empty cup, and marched back toward the store. They better be done with the alteration by now; I can’t take much more of this.

  “Alexandria, wait,” my mom called after me as she hurried to catch up. “I’m not trying to trivialize what you feel. I just want you to know that there’s hope. One day you just might find love again.” She put her arm around me and hugged.

  “Okay, fine. I get it. But right now I need you to allow me to be sad,” I demanded as I hugged her back.

  The alterations were done, so once more they had me try on the suit, nylons and all. It fit like a glove and I had to admit it looked great on me. I went to take it off, but my mom insisted I keep it on until we got home. My dad wouldn’t get to see it tomorrow morning, and she wanted to enjoy seeing me so stunning for a little bit longer.

  I agreed to keep it on, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had an ulterior motive.

  Sometimes I hated being right. I stepped off the tram to see Mrs. White dart back down our row. She had always been a nosy body, but even for her that was strange behavior. I turned the corner and groaned. The entire neighborhood was throwing me a celebration, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a news camera crew in the center of them.

  The very thought of a celebration was distasteful. Had everyone in the neighborhood forgotten what today was? Or had they already forgotten about Byron, so it didn’t matter to them that today was his birthday?

  My mom gave me a look that asked me to at least act like I was happy. So, for her sake, I did. I acted surprised and overwhelmed by the outpouring of love shown by our fellow neighbors. I humbly gushed to the reporter about how surprised I was b
y all of this. How I never dared even dreamed of being fast-tracked. The only time I stumbled was when the reporter asked me if there was anyone I wanted to send a message to. I got choked up. I wanted to tell Byron that I would never forget him, but all I could get out was his name.

  Luckily my mom was nearby and jumped in explaining that my best friend had already left for his training and couldn’t be here today, but our thoughts were with him.

  I disappeared from the party the first chance I had. Unfortunately, that chance didn’t come until it was late at night. I said goodnight to my parents and headed up to my room to pack the few personal items I was allowed. I looked at my small carry-on full of mementos. It was hard to believe the sum of all my memories fit into such a small, sad bag.

  Chapter 5

  Thanks to a sleeping pill from my mother I had a restful, dreamless sleep and was ready to go early the next morning. Breakfast was painfully quiet. No one knew exactly what to say. I could tell my parents wanted to be excited and thrilled for me. But my vacant expression told them everything they needed to know: that I was too filled with pain to even feign excitement. I scraped most of my cereal into the disposal and said a quick goodbye to my dad. He wished me luck and hurried to the tram. He had stayed later than normal just so he could see me off. Soon after, I headed to the tram with my mom.

  She rode with me all the way to the air-tram station, putting on a brave show instead of a sappy, tear-filled one that would have more accurately reflected how she was really feeling. She said her goodbye to me at the gate. I tried to smile for her, but the rest of my face betrayed my sadness. I promised to call often, and headed to the air-tram.

  Leaving home had been made easy for me. Sure, I’d miss my mom and dad, but they really didn’t understand what I was going through. It was easier for them to think that my feelings were no more than a crush, because at lease then I had a chance of rebounding.