Lost in my thoughts, I wander back, and stop by Gracie’s dorm. I would really like to see my sister and the other Gees before the day is over, but I am told she’s gone to the AC Building.
Next I try Gordie’s and he’s nowhere to be found.
I return to my dorm and consider if maybe I should go look for Logan or my brother George. . . .
Where the heck is everyone?
In the Yellow Dorm Eight lounge I see maybe three people. One of them is Blayne Dubois. Blayne is sitting in his wheelchair in the corner, a few feet from the smart-board with all the scores. He appears to be reading an ebook on his tablet, and occasionally glances up to see who walks by and who checks the Standing Scores marquee.
“Hey, Lark,” he says to me, as I pause near the outside doors. And then he returns to his book.
There are so few people around that Blayne does not bother to hide the fact that he and I interact—or at least that we hang out together every night for practice. Everyone knows that I go to see the Atlantean VIP in his office on a regular basis because of my weird power voice—even though nobody knows for sure what that means and what I actually do there—but no one knows about Blayne.
I approach him, and mutter something in reply. For once I sound more like Blayne, and he sounds like me. We’ve traded our social moods apparently.
“Ready for tomorrow?” I say softly.
“I guess.” He briefly looks up from his tablet again. His expression is bland but not off-putting. “And you?”
I roll my eyes. “It can’t come soon enough. Just wish it was over already.”
“With your voice, you have a decent chance,” he says, without looking up.
“You too.” I stand there, staring at him.
“I’m not the one with the Logos voice.” He still does not look up at me.
“But you’ve got the LM Forms down,” I say, lowering my voice to a near whisper. “The way you can ride that hoverboard is—”
“Yeah, I know, I’m amazing.” His voice drips with sarcasm. He finally puts down his tablet and stops pretending to read. He looks up at me seriously with his blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again. “I think I am—I don’t know—having a bad day. Quietly freaking out. . . . I know it sounds weird, and it’s actually supposed to be a good day for everyone since we get to rest, et cetera, but I think it makes it worse, all this waiting, and the endless buildup.”
“Agreed. Waiting can psych you out.”
“The worst part is just seeing all those media people out there, and the top Candies getting interviewed and treated as if they’ve Qualified already.”
He glances at the smart wall scoreboard. “Whatever. I didn’t even bother to go and look at the media circus. Why should I? Why should you? It’s just a distraction. Nothing changed. Just because some network exec decided it’s a good idea, and now some hotshot Candy is getting interviewed on TV, means nothing. For that matter, why aren’t you getting interviewed up there? You’re the one with the crazy outlier power voice that can bring down shuttles. That kind of wildcard stuff makes for great reality TV—exactly what they’re looking for—hey, should be worth at least a thirty second newsbyte.”
I shrug. “I don’t think they know about it. And even if they did, I don’t think it matters that much to them. The media knows squat about nuances like Atlantean power voices. What they get is numbers and stats. And my Standing Score kind of sucks, at #4796. What’s yours?”
“A shocking #1,692. Have no idea how I managed that.”
My mouth falls open and I smile at him with sincere enthusiasm. “Wow! That’s crazy good!”
“You mean, crazy good for a wheelie boy.”
“No, I mean, crazy good, period! That’s better than most of the people I know!”
“You must know a whole lot of losers.” But he smiles faintly as he says this.
“Blayne,” I say. “Cut it out, okay? You are good, and it has nothing to do with anything.”
“Nothing to do with anything? Way eloquent of you, Lark. Just say it already—disabled.”
“Okay, disabled—differently abled? I am sorry, I know I have no idea how to say it correctly without coming across like a rude a-hole. . . .”
He rolls his eyes. “Too late on that account. But I’m used to you and your big ’ole foot-in-mouth.”
I take a deep breath. “In that case, why do you keep being like that? I get it, things are tough, but you don’t need to put yourself down all the time, especially since you are really strong and talented and—”
“You don’t get it. You just don’t.”
I feel my face flush then grow cold, as a wave of emotion comes and recedes. “Okay, yes, I don’t. So, then, help me get it! Tell me! Please! I want to be your friend! But you’ve got to let me—”
“Actually,” he says, beginning to frown, “I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone.”
“I know! But, please! Just give me a chance to understand—”
Blayne’s frown grows. He turns away from me, letting his hair fall into his eyes. Long seconds pass as I just stand there, staring at him as he slouches in his wheelchair, breathing fast in sudden agitation. “You really want to know why?” he mutters. “Why I am like this?”
“Yes . . . I really do!”
“Because I’m here. I’m here at the RQC, and I made it this far,” he snarls suddenly. “I made it as far as Preliminary Qualification, and my brother and my sister didn’t. They’re just the right age, falling within the Qualification range. They’re a thousand times more deserving and talented than me. I’m just a screw-up, and here I am, given a freak chance, while Laurie and Jake are back home, waiting for death by asteroid.”
I stare at him, and yeah, I finally get it.
It’s not a self-esteem issue; it’s guilt.
He continues: “Laurie was dreaming of going to medical school. Was gonna be a doctor, save people. Jake is really good at all kinds of things. He could’ve been anyone—engineer, lawyer, architect, scientist, teacher. He was going to change the world! He was going to—”
Blayne goes quiet.
My breathing has grown so faint that I cannot even hear my own pulse in my temples.
“I am so sorry,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“Well, now you do.”
“Then for their sake, Dubois, you’d better Qualify!”
At some point later, it’s dinner hour, and Blayne and I’ve been hanging out in the lounge, not particularly caring any more that anyone might see us talking. Some of the alpha crowd is now here and they’ve occupied most of the seating and the nice sofas. The noise level has risen. They’re gossiping about the media circus and about the Qualification frontrunners, discussing everyone’s chances tomorrow, and what can be expected. Everyone’s hating on Erin Tsai and her brother Roy who got #1 and #2 and are all-around amazing athletes and achievers, and on some guy from Red Dorm Nine whose name is Kadeem Cantrell and who’s supposed to be an amazing parkour or urban freerunner, and who got #3.
Olivia and Ashley give me and Blayne occasional dirty looks. Then Claudia walks up to the smart wall and starts looking up people’s Standing Scores and making snide loud comments about everyone. She is only a few steps away from where I stand near Blayne. She tosses her long, silky black mane of hair and glances occasionally at the alpha girls and sometimes at us. Her piercings glitter with silver under the overhead lights.
“So, Gwen-baby, too bad about your crummy score,” she says suddenly, and I have to glance in her direction. “Looks like your fancy Atlantis voice isn’t enough to pull you out of the four thousands dump.”
I stare, and see that Claudia’s brought up my own Standing Score for all the world to see, and she’s brought up the AT score breakdown too, in all its low-numbered glory.
“Hey, look everyone! Our Gwen’s got a 3 for Agility, Strength, Endurance, and Leadership. Way to go!”
Olivia and
Ashley put their hands over their mouths and bust out in nasty giggles.
“So?” I say. “How is that any concern of yours?”
“Awww, but we’re so concerned about you, Gwen. Concerned about you, you know—making it!” Olivia drawls loudly from her spot on the sofa, with her legs dangling down from the seat’s back as usual.
“Why don’t you worry about yourself,” I say.
“I would, except my Standing Score’s #2315.”
“And mine’s #942,” Claudia says with a cruel sneer. “You’re gonna eat my dust tomorrow.”
I shrug. “Whatever. So I eat dust.” And then I simply turn around and ignore whatever else they’re saying.
Blayne watches our exchange with a slightly craned neck. He then meets my look and smiles. It’s a very fine, light smile . . . just a hint, just barely there. But for the first time it reaches his eyes, and it makes everything easier for some reason. Easier to stand there. Easier to ignore the stupid comments and the bullies.
“I hear, dust tastes pretty good with a little mustard and ketchup,” he mutters with a slight sarcastic twist of his lips. It’s a typical dry Blayne thing to say.
Soon, more Candidates come in from the outside, and I see Dawn and Hasmik.
Hasmik waves to me, and they approach.
“So, had a good long sleep, Sleeping Beauty?” Dawn says. “You and Laronda were both still out cold, close to two PM when we got up.”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile. “For once, got enough sleep to make up for the whole month.”
“Long scary day tomorrow!” Hasmik says. “We come from Arena Commons Building, it’s crazy there! Many, many people from the outside!”
“Yeah, have you seen?” Dawn adds. “They’ve got these mega-screens and holo-projection stations all over the stadium, now. Annoying TV people everywhere you turn. They all got their media event passes, so they’ve overrun the place like sewer rats with high-end electronics. I’m kind of amazed the Atlanteans are letting them in here.”
“This is their only way to reassure the general Earth population about what’s happening with us,” I say. “So I don’t see how they wouldn’t let them.”
“Okay, ‘reassure’ is not a word I’d use to describe it,” Blayne says. “Whatever they’ll be live-streaming tomorrow during Semi-Finals is probably going to make our poor parents and the rest of the global audience crap their pants.”
“Ah, sweet.” Dawn glances at Blayne. “Now I feel even better about tomorrow. Thanks, dude.”
“Any time.”
The cafeteria eventually opens for dinner and they begin serving what smells like pizza, and let us in.
By then I am so starved I’m ready to eat three giant pizzas all by myself.
After we eat and exit the cafeteria, there’s Gracie, waiting for me in my dorm lounge. She waves as soon as she sees me.
In these last few weeks Gracie has toughened up somewhat, and I might even say, almost grown up—almost. At least she’s gotten this strange hard look in her eyes, and she walks taller now, with a tiny swagger. There’s some new muscle tone and definition in places where there used to be none. Plus she carries all these knives and sharp bladed objects constantly. I realize it’s part of her Red Quadrant “thing,” but it has added a fine layer of self-reliance to her previously anxious personality.
“Hey, Gee Four,” I say with a smile, as a bunch of us walk lazily from the cafeteria doors. “Have you rested up? Hope you slept in!”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “I totally did. Then I went to see all the setup happening for tomorrow. Can you believe the big deal they’re making about those top ten Standing Score people? There’s that jerk guy from my dorm who’s at #4, Craig Beller, who knows kickboxing and karate, so he’s all hotshot at Er-Du too, and weapons—”
I stand in front of her and look closely at my little sister. “I see. Well, screw Craig Beller and the rest of them. Don’t think about them. Just, don’t. . . . Okay, I did check up on you in your dorm, and that explains why you weren’t there. Couldn’t find any of the other Gees either. You look good!”
“Thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay—fine, I guess.”
I put my hand on her cheek and turn her face to look at a small scratch or scar that’s near her eyebrow on the left. “That’s new. When did you get that one?”
She immediately twists away from me in embarrassment. “Cut it out!”
“Sorry,” I say. “But you need to put something on it so it doesn’t get infected.”
“It’s nothing. And I know. . . . Stop fussing!”
I smile. “Not fussing. Just making sure you’re okay.”
Gracie rolls her eyes. But she looks at me with a familiar old nervousness peeking through. I know she’s thinking about the Semi-Finals in less than 24 hours from now. And she’s thinking about home and Mom and Dad. . . .
Meanwhile Dawn and Hasmik are chatting with a few people from our dorm, standing aside to give my sister and me some privacy.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” I say, “just do the best you can, and you will do fine. I have absolute trust in your super awesome abilities. Just keep going, keep doing what must be done, and never, ever, ever give up—”
“I know,” she says. “Like Dad told us.”
“Exactly like Dad told us.”
“If they make us choose weird, scary, dangerous things tomorrow,” I continue, “take a deep breath and make the best choice you can out of sucky choices. Do not hesitate too long. There’s always a best choice, even when all seemingly sucks.”
“I know.”
“You’ll Qualify, Gracie.”
“You’ll Qualify too. You’d better! You have that crazy magic voice!”
“It’s not magic. But I will, I promise.” I smile again. Even though I don’t for a moment believe it, for Gracie’s sake I have to sound confident. “Now, be sure to use your strengths tomorrow, you have an excellent weapons score, and a pretty good agility one—”
Gracie bites her lip and winces. “It’s okay, but not that great.”
“Better than mine!” I punch her arm lightly, and again she moves away from me in a semblance of annoyance.
And then I remember other things. “Okay, are your running shoes in good condition? Got clean undies for tomorrow? What about socks? Remember, we have to put on our grey uniforms for the first time, and you know how to tie the armband, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, and yeah, Mom!” she says, punching me back on my arm. “I think you need to go tell this to Gordie, he’s the one who always has gross socks and underwear!”
“Eeeew!” I cringe half-jokingly at the thought of my younger brother and his messy habits.
Eventually Gracie leaves, promising me she will go to bed early. I manage to give her a hug that’s more like a close squeeze, before she twists away from me with a little smile.
“See you tomorrow, after Semi-Finals!” I say in her wake.
And then I wonder, with a sickening sudden feeling, if I will in fact ever see my sister again.
Chapter 32
Today is Semi-Finals Day.
The early morning alarm claxons cut through my crazy stress dream of running through tall grass from some unnamed pursuers in great robot vehicles equipped with searchlights while giant evil alien ships close in from above, filling the night skies overhead with more terrible blinding lights. . . .
I blink, moaning from not enough sleep, while a familiar, sickening, queasy feeling comes to grip my gut. At the same time I realize it’s the overhead dormitory bright lights that have come on and mingled with my nonsense dream.
I have no idea how I’ve managed to fall asleep last night. Like most of us, I’ve gone to bed early, promptly by ten PM, back on training schedule hours, in a dormitory of suddenly quiet, serious girls. Before bed, some were meditating, others praying quietly. Only a handful continued to giggle and chat, up to the very last moment of lights out.
/> In that sudden darkness I vaguely remember lying awake for hours, tossing and turning, my mind burning in anticipation. Somehow I must’ve dozed off eventually. . . .
And now, it’s here.
The big horrible day.
I take a deep breath and sit up.
Laronda makes agonized noises in her own bed on one side of me, Hasmik on the other, and everyone is stirring.
“Good luck!” we mutter to each other.
A minute later, we hear the voice of Dorm Leader Gina Curtis, who blows her whistle and barks her commands at us. “Okay, Yellow Dorm Eight, it’s Semi-Finals Day, rise and shine! Rise and shine! Quick bathroom time, then uniforms and armbands! Downstairs in twenty minutes to get your numbers scanned! Go! Go! Go!”
As she is haranguing us, I quickly grab my neatly folded uniform that’s been lying next to my bed, ready from the night before, plus my shoes, socks, underwear—and I rush to the bathroom. It’s a zoo, everyone elbowing each other, girls fighting for showers and toilet stalls. Claudia Grito manages to kick me in the shin as I move past her, but I avoid the worst of it by moving out of the way quickly. . . .
I make it downstairs, one of the first from my floor. The unfamiliar grey uniform fits too loosely on me. It’s a generic large size that sort of hangs in an unflattering way over my torso and I end up tying it around my slim waist with the provided belt. At least the pants are the right height so I don’t have to fold them around the ankles like some of the shorter girls.
The cafeteria line is moving extra-fast, and there are additional guards strolling all around the dorm. Meanwhile our three Dorm Leaders stand in the Common Area, watching us anxiously. “Quickly, now!” they say. “Come up here, get your tokens scanned with your Standing Score Number, then go line up! Line starts at the doors of the AC Building!”
And suddenly we understand exactly what they mean, about getting our numbers scanned. . . . As Candidates come up to the Dorm Leaders and their tokens are scanned by the hand-helds, a large black number against a square white background appears on the front and back of each person’s grey uniform. It looks like a number that marathon runners and other athletes get assigned in sports, except these numbers are not stuck on but “insta-printed” somehow on the fabric surface of our uniforms, which I am guessing is photo-sensitive or otherwise sensitive to image display.