You may wonder why the change in the qualifying percentile should be the inciting element when so very few of our children will ever attain it, the likely difference being one or two promotions a year, if any. Aren’t we, as is oft noted, a most practical group? For a couple of generations there was no means of promotion at all, which our forebears didn’t question, and once the chance was introduced by the directorate it was a double gift, for (1) being begun at all, and (2) rare enough that the character and constitution of B-Mor would not be eroded, say, by all of us constantly striving and angling as to how our children might leave. It is a lottery, aptitude based, of course, but a lottery nonetheless, and therefore functions primarily in the realm of imagination and dreams. We have already noted how the winners are feted, memorialized, and then duly consigned to a status like that of the heroic dead, shed of body, ethereal, mythically sublime.
But with this newly raised bar we can only ask: What else must we do? If someday not a single one of our very best can venture beyond the gates then the bargain is too skewed. Enough is enough. And it makes clearer now that the addition each year of those few hard-emblazoned names serves less to mark our progress or manifest our hopes than to parch the bitter seeds lurking beneath our endeavors, which is that where we are does not wholly comfort us. And perhaps never truly has.
Bo Liwei
Like the rest of us, Fan must have at some point gone by the monument and plumbed the etch of those letters with her fingertips, never thinking he was anything but a glimmer in the firmament. But here he was, as Oliver, though not in the least trying to hide himself from her. They were still standing on his lawn, the noise of the party briefly escaping whenever the front door was opened by someone going to their car or a child being trailed by his nanny. They would see her and Oliver, and wave, and he’d wave back, suggesting with his gestures that he was explaining something about the new house to Fan. But as he did, she thought he could not truly be Liwei, for she had been certain she would sense it the very moment she came upon him, that a certain feeling would overwhelm her, but there was no tightened roping in her chest now, no flitting chill across her skin. He didn’t much look like her parents, either, or any mixing of them, though in truth she herself could hardly remember their faces or those of the rest of the household, which made her wonder if she’d looked at them much at all. But then we know arduous journeys can make a blur of heart, and home.
Seeing her skepticism, Oliver asked her if Old Yellow was still there, something he could have viewed but could not have known the name of; it was what all the children of the household called the ancient lion-head knocker on their front door, and always would, as long as it was there. But if he was Liwei, maybe she couldn’t know, for she had never known him and had never seen his picture. And then it was generally acknowledged that those promoted changed profoundly after leaving (and rightly should), that they became thoroughly transformed, just as happens, say, if you let a pink farm pig out into the wild, they grow hairy and tusked and feral, though people will say perhaps the opposite holds here, any B-Mor coarseness and deference subsumed under the pressure of Charter stresses and expectation, which not only clarified one’s character and views of self but recast your very posture, your color, the now ever-fronted way you held your chin.
You want to know why Vik left without you? Oliver said, the question clearly still evident on her face.
She nodded.
I told him to. I said, You should leave her here with me. She’s my sister, after all. Plus, you’ll probably only get in trouble.
There was no trouble, Fan said.
I didn’t mean that, Oliver said. I know that. He told me you were from B-Mor. But it’s funny, and totally Vik. How many people does one ever encounter from B-Mor? He didn’t even know that people were talking about you back there. You and this “Reg.”
Fan didn’t reply.
But that’s the thing about Vik. He’s as smart as anyone I know. Probably the smartest. He could have done anything he wanted. But he can’t do something as simple as say your name to a handscreen. Oliver showed Fan his, her name and household address and then countless links to discussion strings about their whereabouts, to all the theories and rumors about Reg and the directorate.
It would never occur to Vik. That’s why he’ll always be stuck in the ER. He gets on to something particular, and if he’s satisfied, he won’t bother to look up, he won’t go beyond.
Fan said: Maybe he doesn’t want to go beyond.
Oliver sort of chuckled, or suppressed a chuckle, as if to say where should he begin. There was a long-seeming moment in which they simply stood there, these putative siblings, the straight roofline of the brand-new house framing them, if Fan could see it, in a way that indeed suggested like blood, perhaps the shared squareness of their shoulders. But he was looking at her now as he did when Vik was driving away, a pain bubbling up.
You know about them, don’t you? he said. He was about to say something else when his expression changed, and she turned to see Betty behind the glass storm door. Betty opened it enough to poke out her head, wave her hand.
Would you come in now, Ollie! We’re nearly done with the presents and everyone is wondering where you are!
He called, All right, and Betty smiled, and gave them another hurry-up wave. Then she disappeared back inside.
Oliver rubbed his chin. He said: I discovered it last month, just as we were setting up for the sale. Her handscreen must have fallen out of her bag in the kitchen and it was buzzing below the chair because it was nearly out of power. I plugged it in and a message from Vik came up. I know his number. Then I found all the rest, hundreds and hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand. It was amazing. Do you know how innocent most of them were?
Fan shook her head.
They were. They were almost all like that. Essentially just versions of What are you doing, I’m fine, This is on my mind. Truly nothing. You would think that would count. But of course, there were other kinds.
He paused, letting out a trapped breath.
Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s over between them. At least Vik made that clear. Over for good. It’s nothing that should be thought about again, right?
He wasn’t really asking, but nevertheless Fan did not know what to say. And whether or not Oliver was truly her brother didn’t seem paramount at the moment, either, for how stricken he was, if almost undetectably. He just kept slowly blinking, like his eyes were too dry, the sole stirring in the impassive pane of his face. Did our Fan wish to reach out? Did she want to comfort him with an embrace? Of course, yes. So she did. It took him by surprise, but then he reciprocated with a firmness that surprised her.
When he let her go, he started heading toward the house, but Fan simply stood there.
Oliver turned to her. What are you doing?
She said she thought she should go.
What do you mean, to Vik’s?
She said yes, though in truth she didn’t quite know. Hadn’t she seen him drive off like he wouldn’t ever be coming back? The curving street before her, which led somewhere deeper into the development, was densely quilted by kempt lawns and houses, by cars and tidy young trees. No one else was around.
Listen, Oliver said. You should at least spend the night with us. There’s no place else to go right now. You can stay with us, with Josey and the twins. Josey would love it, I bet. I’ve been thinking about something since the sale. We can do whatever we want now. We can make everything happen. We can look after our family, our kin, all the time. I don’t want only helpers around us, not anymore. Now you’re here. Of course, it’s up to you. But think about it. Whatever the reasons that you’ve come out from the walls. Who else would ever help you? Who else would ever care?