“How do you know?”
The teacher up in the front looks up and says, “Quiet, please.”
I sit and mostly stare ahead of me, running my fingers against the surface of my desk, sticky in places with old gum residue. And I throw occasional glances at Logan Sangre. He is leaning on one elbow and his posture is relaxed and casual, as if he’s not nervous in the least. He turns his head occasionally, and his gorgeous face is almost sleepy looking, that’s how calm he seems. His grey outer jacket is off, hanging from the back of his chair.
I examine his long black sports bag on the floor next to his backpack, and wonder what personal things are inside. One of his guitars? If my baby brother managed to stuff his skinny portable guitar in a duffel, I wouldn’t be surprised if Logan did the same thing.
A couple of minutes later, a funny noise comes from beyond the partition. Everyone immediately stares and the classroom goes really, really quiet as we all strain to listen.
The weird noise comes again and it sounds like Mindy Clarence’s voice. She is saying “Eeee” or maybe singing. Weird! “Eeeee, eeee-eeee-eee, eee-eee. . . .”
“What did I tell you?” the same boy hisses from the back. “They’re sucking her dry!”
“Shut up!” someone else says in a genuinely frightened voice.
The silence in the classroom is overpowering. Even the teacher in the front frowns and turns her head, appearing to listen.
I watch and listen, transfixed. Even now I cannot help noticing the angular lines of Logan’s profile as he partially turns around then looks forward again. Just for a moment, our eyes seem to meet. . . .
Mindy’s voice stops. A few seconds later, Mindy Clarence emerges from the partition, looking ordinary, if somewhat troubled, and heads back toward her empty desk. She picks up her stuff, shoulders the backpack and heads out the classroom door without a glance.
The teacher up in the front marks down something on her paper, then calls out the next name.
The next student to go up is an unfamiliar guy, probably a senior, and probably from another school. He walks with a swagger, but you know it’s all for show. He disappears behind the partition and again everyone’s staring and the whispers are down to a minimum. About two minutes into his test, we hear the boy’s voice. It cracks on a laugh at first, then he sings badly, “Eeeee-eeee, eee-eeee.”
Someone in the back of the class snickers, and it starts a minor wave.
A few girls in the front turn around with affronted looks.
Soon the senior comes out, with a sheepish expression, then also goes for his bags and leaves the classroom.
The next name is called. This goes on for about forty minutes, maybe an hour, maybe more, like an eternity—I can’t tell since the classroom clock is out of my line of sight—and by now the room is getting sparse, as people take the test and leave somewhere. The general classroom whispering resumes, but it keeps to regular levels. Except for a few stifled giggles, there’s no unusual reaction whenever a student being tested sings “Eeee-eeee” in a particularly awful way.
I tense up when I hear the name “Logan Sangre” getting called. He gets up, tall and sleek, and calmly walks to the partition. Wow, I so envy him. If only I could bottle all that cool attitude and smear it all over me. . . .
A few minutes pass and I hear Logan’s voice. It is confident and smooth, and has a nice velvety quality of a real practiced singer. It actually sounds good. I remember that Logan not only plays guitar but frequently sings vocals for his band, taking turns with the regular lead singer and his good bud, Josh Merrow.
If Logan doesn’t ace Qualification, I don’t know who can.
Soon Logan is done and I am gifted with the sight of him standing there for a moment as he emerges and looks around the classroom, then goes for his seat to grab his things. I watch him put on his grey windbreaker jacket, and sweep the black hair out of his eyes as he moves. He carries the large sports bag with ease, and for another moment I again wonder what’s inside.
Logan’s gone and the room suddenly loses all its leashed electricity, like an energy balloon deflating in my mind. I am suddenly bored, and the nervous worry surges back full force, to sweep me in its relentless ocean. I return to staring at the front of the classroom, and listen to some poor girl sing “Eeeee-eeee,” terribly off-key.
In some ways this feels like the longest class period of my life.
At last, when the room is nearly empty, my name is called.
Chapter 3
My heart starts hammering as I walk behind the partition. Mrs. Bayard is sitting at a large table that appears to have all kinds of things and equipment on it. “Gwenevere Lark?” she confirms, glancing at a sheet.
“Yes.”
“Take a seat please, right here, and try to relax. This will be very quick and painless, I promise. I will ask you to perform several brief tasks, some of which may seem a little odd or unusual. Just do them to the best of your ability.”
“Okay. . . .” I head over to the empty chair across from her. My hands rest in my lap, and I feel them clamming up.
Mrs. Bayard places a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of me, and a pencil. “Please write your full name on top of the page, on the left.”
I do as she asks, making a painful effort to print my name as clear and large as possible, since usually my handwriting is messy and kind of unreadable.
When I look up, Mrs. Bayard is holding up a white plastic object in her palm. I recognize it as some kind of geometrical 3-D shape.
“This is a regular dodecahedron,” says the teacher, putting the object down on the table before me. “It’s a polyhedron with twelve faces, each face being a pentagon. Basically, it’s just a shape with five sides, rendered in three dimensions.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yes, I know.”
“Good. Now, I want you to draw it.”
“What?”
Mrs. Bayard sighs. I imagine she’s had to deal with a similar reaction far too many times today.
“Simply think of it as art class. Just draw this item the best you can, a quick sketch.”
“I am not a good artist—”
“It doesn’t matter. Just do the best you can.”
“Okay.”
I glance at the dodecahedron, and feel a burst of panic. Drawing is just not my strength, although I don’t suck at it completely. I try to imagine my brother Gordie in my place, and how he would smile and sketch a masterpiece in thirty seconds.
I try to channel Gordie as I draw a five-sided figure, then awkwardly try to add 3-D sides at various angles, and then some shading to it to make it fancy.
“That’s fine now.” Mrs. Bayard reaches forward and takes the paper away from me as I am still shading a side. In its place she slides a tablet computer before me.
“Now, I want you to look at some pictures on the touch screen. There are four images displayed at a time. Quickly choose one of these images that appeals to you most. Keep going until the program ends.”
I see the screen is divided into four, and each quadrant shows a natural landscape in distinct colors. There’s a turquoise-blue island beach scene, a green forest meadow, an orange sunset, and a rosy mist-covered mountain range. I pick the sunset, and the screen shuffles and displays a new set of four images. I pick a moonlit night. Another four pops up, I choose the shady forest. Then, I pick a red canyon.
This keeps going for at least a minute. Series of landscapes with different color schemes, sunset, night, green forest, blue sky, ocean, all come at me in a barrage. Finally the screen goes blank grey and it’s done.
Mrs. Bayard removes the tablet and pushes a strange piece of equipment before me.
I stare at it, and suddenly I get the strongest feeling it is not from Earth.
I’ve never seen any Atlantean technology up-close in real life, only whatever occasional gadgets they show on TV. This gadget before me is definitely alien looking.
First of all, the thing is a s
hapeless lump. It’s about ten inches wide and five inches tall, and perfectly seamless. It’s all smooth, silvery rounded surfaces, and an incomprehensible irregular shape, somewhat like a naturally occurring water-smoothed rock with bumps and ridges and indentations.
In the middle there’s a flat spot that appears somewhat translucent. As I stare closer, it’s as if some kind of faint light source is hiding just underneath the surface of an iced-over frozen pond.
Mrs. Bayard watches tiredly as I try to make sense of this thing. “I am not sure what it is either,” she says, “except it’s some kind of audio recording equipment. It’s a sound test.”
As she speaks, I notice how the frosted light in the middle of the object pulses suddenly, coming alive like a heartbeat, responding in time to the words. The light pulses pale ghostly white, then subsides as Mrs. Bayard goes silent.
“Oh . . . what should I do?” I say.
The light immediately responds to my voice and fluctuates at my words.
“Touch it with your hand until you see the light flare up blue. That means it’s ready for you. It will then play a series of very simple musical tones. You need to repeat each one of them exactly as played, and watch the color of the light. As you sing back the notes, be sure to use the vowel “E.” If it’s red, you are doing something wrong. If it turns green, then it’s correct, and it will play the next one. Keep going until it stops and the light turns blue once again.”
I nod, then reach for the silvery object with my finger.
The moment I touch it, it vibrates under my fingertips. The center of it flashes a bright circle of blue under the frosty surface. And then three very soft notes sound. I take a breath and sing back, “Eeee-eee-eeeee.”
The object lights up reddish as my first note is a bit flat, and then it goes green as I improve. From there on it’s easy. I sing the simple notes and think how the remaining students on the other side of the partition are probably snickering nervously at the stupid sounds I’m making.
“Eeee-eeee-eeeeee. Eeee-eeee-eeeee.” Over and over, my voice is generally clean and steady, and I am green all the way.
Eventually the light goes blue. I am apparently done.
“Good,” says Mrs. Bayard, removing the weird Atlantean sound gadget out of the way. “Now, just one more thing for you to do, and you’ll be done.”
I watch as she fumbles around with some stuff on the table, and takes things out from silvery anti-static bags that crinkle as she rummages inside.
I am absolutely fascinated as she places four very unusual things on the table surface before me.
The first is a hunting knife. It is long, scary looking, with an eight-inch serrated blade and a wood-and-metal studded handle. The second item is a pen, thick-barreled, elegant and expensive looking, with a roller ball tip and a gold and pearl inlay. Next comes a weird, round flattened plate-like thing that has a handle grip on the interior, and is reinforced metal on the outside. It looks like a small old-fashioned shield that I recognize from history books as a medieval buckler. Last of all, the teacher places on the table a folded rectangle of paper that looks like some kind of map.
“Weird . . .” I mutter.
Mrs. Bayard nods sympathetically. “Yes, honey, I know. All right, this is the last part. I am supposed to ask you the following. You are alone in a strange location. Choose one of these four objects.”
I stare at the things before me.
“Um . . .” I say. “What kind of location?”
The teacher sighs. “They don’t tell us. Just pick one, please.”
“Okay. . . . Well, it really depends on what it’s all about. This is very strange. I mean, if I knew I was lost in the wilderness or something, it would be one thing. But if I was stuck in a shopping mall elevator—” My attempt to be sarcastic is pretty much lost on the very tired teacher.
And so I take a big breath and try to think what this is really about. I remind myself that when it comes down to it, this really is life and death.
Qualify or die.
I consider the knife, the pen, the shield, and the map. I try to think as the Atlanteans might think—or as they might want me to think. Do I need to think Darwinian, survival of the fittest? Or altruism? Or what’s honorable? Or—drat, okay I honestly have no frigging idea what they’re looking for.
If it’s cutthroat survivor instinct they want, I need to take the knife. I really, really should take the knife.
On the other hand, if everyone else decides it’s a deadly jungle out there and arms themselves, I might be better off with a shield. Because honestly, I have no idea how to fight with a knife. At least with a shield I might keep myself intact, and save my hands from getting all cut up.
Now, if it’s a civilized situation, I might be considerably better off with a pen. I could use it to keep records, to write down important things, to communicate. And if I am stuck alone on a desert island, I could even entertain myself.
But, what about the map? If I’m genuinely lost, then wouldn’t a map be the most logical and useful thing to have with me? Not to mention, it’s reading material.
I bite my lower lip, and pick the map.
The teacher nods and records my answer on her papers.
“That’s it,” she says. “You are all done with this portion of Qualification. You can take your things and proceed to the auditorium for the next part. If you’re unfamiliar with the school, any teacher or security guard in the hallway can guide you.”
I pick up my stuff and head for the auditorium. On my way out of the classroom I look up and finally find the wall clock, which shows 1:45 PM. Wow, so we don’t get a lunch break after all. This is hardcore.
The hallways are not crowded but they are not empty either. Students are making their way up and down stairs, from room to room, and quite a few are headed my way.
I pass a few familiar people from my class, and finally make it to the auditorium. Inside, I am surprised to see it not set up for assembly, as I thought it might be. All the folding chairs are stacked away, and the large hall is filled with students from all grades, milling about, and it’s pretty crowded already. The noise level is unusually subdued, and no one is really laughing. People are seated on the floor against the walls or on top of their bags like weird refugees, and there is plenty of whispering, but it’s all hush-hush. A few people are secretly fiddling with micro electronics installed in discreet smart jewelry but the overt standard phones are mostly out of sight because the last thing anyone wants is to have their phone confiscated today of all days. No cell phone use on school premises is a hard rule, and absolutely no hashtagging, even though the wireless internet blocking filter is on in every classroom.
I look around and see a number of teachers, mostly circulating and watching the room, and some of them standing in clusters talking. Armed security guards are pacing quietly. Near the front of the stage, there are a few unfamiliar teachers and other administrators. I recognize Principal Marksen. He is talking to some people whose backs are turned. They are wearing four-color Atlantis armbands. One of them has distinctive golden-blond hair that glitters uncommonly bright under the overhead lights.
A real Atlantean.
My stomach lurches with fear. Again, everything hits home. This is real, this is happening.
Qualify or die.
As I pause for a moment, frozen with the cold incapacitating uncertainty, I hear my name being called.
“Gwen! This way!”
I turn to look, and it’s my brother George. He’s waving and I see Gracie is with him, looking nervous and wide-eyed. Gordie is there too, sitting hunched forward on the floor, surrounded with bags.
I head over to them. “How did you do? What did you think of it?” Gracie pounces all over me with stress questions.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably okay on the written stuff, but maybe not so well on the weird stuff. How did you do?”
“I don’t know!” Gracie gesticulates with her hands in fru
stration.
“Yeah, that’s the idea.” George glances around the auditorium as he is speaking. He is probably looking for his friends. “No one knows anything.”
“Wasn’t the ‘Eeee’ test fun?”
“Oh yeah. That was amazingly stupid.”
“Hey, what object did you pick?” Gordie looks up from the floor with a dorky half-smile. “I picked the pen. I wonder what that was about. It was kind of interesting.”
“That was crazy!” Gracie stares suddenly intense and wild-eyed. “I picked the knife!”
George stops scanning the room and looks at her. “No way, Gee Four.”
“That’s badass!” Gordie snorts.
“Yes it is, and I am willing to use it.”
“No, you’re not.” George raises one brow and smiles.
“You have no idea!”
For the first time, seeing the serious intensity in my sister, I can believe it. Something has happened to Gracie, because she is scaring me.
I tell them I chose the map, because it was kind of the reasonable thing to do.
“So much like you, Gee Two,” George says casually. “If anyone’s going to be reasonable, it’s you—”
The bell rings, and suddenly the auditorium is full of extra noise that surges in waves. Someone in administration picks up and tests a microphone. “Please settle down and pay attention, everyone,” a voice says. “We’ll begin shortly, in about ten more minutes as we wait for more people to arrive. There are no chairs because we need you to clear the center of the auditorium. Soon we are going to be full to capacity. Everyone please move off to the sides and near the walls. You can sit on the floor, but only close to the walls. Also, please do not leave any bags unattended and lying underfoot—”
In the chaotic mess of people, we pick up our stuff and approach the walls. Some guy who is a friend of George’s joins us, and then another, and together we all jostle, but George sticks with us. Usually during school, George would never be seen with the other “Gees.” He’d go off to hang with his friends instead of his uncool younger siblings, but this is different. This is family protective instinct kicking in. Possibly it’s the last time we might all be together in one room, and George understands this. So he stands next to us and keeps one eye on us, even as he chats and smirks and acts all senior-cool with his buddies, and talks trash about Qualification and the Atlanteans and the impending destruction of the Earth as if it’s just last night’s basketball game.