“I said, get to it,” she tells me again.
I open my booklet and begin.
There are questions on mathematics and language and the sciences and four whole pages on history. The last, of course, I breeze through, wishing the whole test focused on the past. There are other questions, too, ones that have nothing to do with what we’ve learned at school, that have us comparing ideas and ranking items and generally probing into areas society frowns on discussing. If they’re designed to make us feel uncomfortable, they’ve done their job with me. I rush through these sections and soon find myself at the end of the test. As I close my booklet, I notice that despite my delayed start, I’m one of the first to finish.
There’s no clock to tell me for certain, but it feels as if nearly a half hour passes before the head proctor announces, “Time. Close your booklets and put down your pens.”
After the exams are picked up, we’re dismissed with only a “You will receive your results at your school on Monday.”
Relieved chatter fills the room as we file out. Even I can’t help but feel a bit of elation, and I end up laughing and joking with my fellow classmates. On the tram ride home, we compare notes and realize we weren’t all given the same test. Several had questions on farming techniques and others on food preparation or carpentry or gardening. None other than I had more than a handful of questions on history, which makes me wonder if each exam was tailored to test our perceived strengths.
There are four pegs on the wall in the entryway of the home I share with my father in the western part of New Cardiff known as the Shallows. His work coat hangs from his. I place my school jacket on mine. The other two pegs, Mother’s and Ellie’s, have been empty for years.
I find my father in the kitchen eating some of the stew I made several days ago. More is warming on the stove, so I fill a bowl and join him. Quietly, we have our meal together in the same way since it’s been just the two of us. What wasn’t gutted out of my father when my mother died was ripped away when Ellie finally succumbed to her disease.
My sister was his favorite. The oldest child. His only daughter. I’ve always known it. She knew it. Even Mother knew.
Since Ellie’s death, my father has stewarded me into adulthood by doing only what’s absolutely necessary. I tell myself it’s because he fears losing me, and has built up a wall so that if anything happens to me, he can go on living. But whatever his reason, I hate him for being this way. I have, however, come to accept the status quo of our emotionless coexistence.
I’m halfway through my stew when he gets up from the table and carries his bowl to the sink.
“Test day, wasn’t it?” he says.
“Yes,” I reply, mildly startled by the question. This is already the longest conversation we’ve had at mealtime in six months.
He nods to himself. “When do the results come in?”
My wishful thought that maybe the ice has finally broken vanishes as I realize the true meaning of his question. What he really wants to ask is, when am I moving out and relieving him of his parental duties? “Four days,” I say, trying not to let my scorn show.
“Monday, then.”
“Uh-huh.”
He finishes cleaning his bowl, puts it on the rack to dry, and leaves without another word.
I wonder what conversations are like in the homes of the other test takers. I imagine nervous excitement, planning, and maybe even a little dreaming as parents hope their child might be able to achieve more than they did. Something my mother would be doing if she were still here.
I decide then and there that if I’m assigned to a position even remotely connected to the power plant where my father works, I’ll run away. I don’t care if it means I have to become a casteless vagabond. The drop to the bottom of society will be worth not having to ever see him again.
Suddenly having no desire to finish my stew, I toss it in the trash, wash out my bowl, and retreat to the sanctuary of my room.
School is still held on Friday and Saturday, but since the test has been taken, there’s little for us to do but help our professor prepare her classrooms for her next group of students.
Like on the trip home from the testing facility, everyone wants to talk about the exam. Unfortunately, the conversation I had with my father has soured me on the topic. If fate is as cruel as I’ve been brought up to believe, I’ll be assigned to the power plant, so I spend my time thinking about where I’ll escape to. A large city would probably be the best idea. New Cardiff, for example, but since we live just within the city’s boundaries, it’s a little too close for me. San Francisco to the north would work or even all the way up to Georgetown, but east seems like a better bet. St. Louis, perhaps, or Chicago, or even as far as the city of New York.
Once I get wherever it is I go, I’ll find work that’ll earn me enough to survive. That’s all I need, I tell myself. Just enough so I can afford food and a place to stay.
Sunday, I go to church as I always do. I’m not particularly religious, but after my mother died, my father stopped going. So it’s a few hours on my only day off that I don’t have to spend cleaning our home while he checks everything I do.
When Monday finally arrives, I’ve pretty much settled on Chicago as my initial destination. If I don’t like it there, I can continue east to the Atlantic coast. What it gives me is a starting point I can hold on to for now.
There are thirty-two students in my group. My assigned spot in our classroom is in the third row, off to the side. When I walk in for my last day ever of school, the room is already half full. This is unusual. We still have thirty minutes until the start of class. Typically, most students arrive a few minutes before the top of the hour, but of course this is not a typical day.
Professor Garner walks in right at eight o’clock and takes his place behind his desk.
After shuffling through some papers, he looks up and says, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Professor,” we reply in well-practiced unison.
“A big day,” he says, as if we don’t already know that. “I’m sure you’re all wondering about your results.”
A few of the other students nod as he looks around, but most of us are too nervous to move.
“You’ll be happy to know they arrived thirty minutes ago and will be brought out shortly.”
A murmur of excitement runs through the room. I don’t partake in this, either.
The professor raps the top of his desk with the stone he always keeps there. “This may be your last day with me but I will not tolerate interruptions.”
Once the room quiets down, he says, “Before your results are handed out, I’d like to take a few minutes to express my thoughts on your time here and how you may use it in the future.”
If not for the earlier admonishment, his announcement probably would’ve been met by a collective groan. As it is, shoulders sag and jawlines tense, but all stay quiet.
The few minutes he promised for his lecture has so far turned out to be nearly an hour of self-indulgence. Somewhere around “…discipline, such as you’ve learned here, will be invaluable to…” I tune out and turn my thoughts back to plans on how best to leave town.
I’ll go home right away, where I’ll grab whatever I need, and leave before my father returns from work. After that, a tram to the Los Angeles district in the center of New Cardiff, where I can buy a third-class ticket on a train heading east with the money I’ve been saving in an envelope under my desk. Not sure how far that will get me, but it’s a start.
I’m deep in these thoughts when I realize the professor has stopped talking and is walking toward the door. He pulls it open and says, “We’re ready,” to someone outside.