Around me, others shuffle in their chairs as they pull themselves from their own daydreams.
The professor returns to the desk and says, “Mrs. Parker is fetching your results now. When I call your name, you will come down. Once you’ve received your envelope, you are dismissed. Please don’t open your results in the classroom, as this might interfere with others coming down to get theirs.” He pauses. “Finally, I want to finish by saying it’s been a privilege to instruct you. I wish you all good health and productive lives in the years ahead.”
As he finishes speaking, the door opens again and old Mrs. Parker enters, a stack of envelopes in her hands. One by one, she hands them to the professor, and he then reads the name on the front.
Nearly all the results have been handed out when I finally hear him say, “Denny Younger.”
I shoot out of my seat and take the steps two at a time. I know I’m not going to like what’s inside that envelope but I want to get it over with.
After Mrs. Parker confirms I’ve been given the correct results, I exit the room. I’m sorely temped to open the envelope in the hallway, but too many other students are already doing that and I’d rather express my anger privately.
I leave the school grounds and don’t stop until I reach my house. A part of me is worried that my father has decided to stay home today to learn my results as soon as possible, but the house is thankfully empty.
I stand at the kitchen table, envelope in hand, hesitating before I rip open the top. I’m hovering at the demarcation point of when my childhood ends and the rest of my life begins. Given the importance of the moment, I decide to use a knife to slice a clean cut through the flap. The envelope contains a single sheet of paper.
Why would there be more? I think. It doesn’t take a thick sheath of documents to tell me when to report to the plant.
The embossed symbol centered at the top and highlighted with gold ink surprises me. It’s not from my father’s power plant. In fact, I don’t recognize it at all. Printed below this are a few lines of black type:
Report to Building J at the New Cardiff Civic Testing Center at 2 p.m. this afternoon. Share this with no one and bring your belongings with you.
I turn the paper over but the other side is blank.
Is this a joke?
One of the associate professors carefully went over all the possible results we might receive, but he never mentioned this option.
I stuff the message back into the envelope and turn for the door. There must be someone at the school who can tell me what this is all about. But as I put my hand on the doorknob, I pause.
Share this with no one. Does that include the school administration?
I pull the letter out again and reread it. It’s very clear. No one. I wonder for a moment if there’s a problem with my test and I need to retake it. But why am I being told to bring my belongings?
What finally keeps me from returning to the school is my realization that this can’t possibly have anything to do with a job at the power plant. The last thing I want to do is blow an opportunity by not honoring the letter’s request.
I rush to my room, grab my bag, and shove in the things I’ve been planning to take with me when I run away. Worse-case scenario, the trip to the testing center delays my departure by an hour or two. Best case? Who knows?
Bag over my shoulder, I retrieve my N-CAT pass and leave the house for the last time.
At the tram stop, I run into a classmate named Nancy Cooper who’s waiting there with her mother.
“Off to your assignment already?” she asks with a glance at my bag.
I almost say yes, but the words share with no one flash in my mind again, so I tell her, “Uh, going to visit my aunt…before I start. She’s been ill.” I do have an aunt who lives in New Cardiff, but I haven’t seen her in years and have no idea what her health status is.
“That’s very kind of you,” Helen’s mom says.
“So, what did you get?” Helen asks.
I give her the answer everyone is likely expecting. “There’s a management trainee opening at the power plant. I’ve been assigned there. What about you?”
“Accounting assistant,” she says happily. “I’ll be working at Lord Carlson’s estate in Coventry.”
“Wow, that’s great. I hear it’s beautiful there.” Coventry is only an hour up the coast but, like with most places other than the Shallows, I have never been there.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Is that where you’re headed?” I ask, hoping so.
“Oh, no. I don’t start until next week.”
“We’re heading downtown to find Helen some work clothes,” her mother says. “Have to look the part.”
Helen rolls her eyes so only I see, and then smiles.
I smile back, but inside I’m cringing. As I feared, we’ll be traveling together, at least as far as the northwest terminal at Simi Station. I’m saved from further conversation by the arrival of our tram. I take my time getting on, pretending there’s something in my bag I need to check. Once I see Helen and her mother take seats in the forward-most carriage, I hop on in back and drop down next to an old woman who’s fast asleep.
It takes twenty-five minutes to reach Simi station. When I disembark, I check to make sure Helen and her mother have stayed on board, and am relieved to see them still in their seats.
I wait until the train has left and then find the tunnel that takes me down to the ocean line. This is a straight shot south from Simi Station, across the San Fernando Valley, and through the mountains to the Coastal District.
I arrive at the testing center a whole hour before my appointment. Though this is now my second time here, it seems like a completely different place. Before, there were hordes of students being led to whichever building they’d been assigned. Now there isn’t a soul around except me.
I walk toward Building J, thinking if I show up early, maybe the person I’m supposed to meet will already be there and I’ll be able to find out what the big mystery is. But when I reach the building, the door’s locked and no one answers when I knock.
The wait feels like the longest hour of my life. When two p.m. finally approaches, I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against so I won’t look lazy or disinterested. I have no idea who I’m meeting, but it seems smart to give the best impression possible. I look back and forth along the walkway as the final minutes tick off, but see no one. It’s as if the whole facility is deserted.
Maybe it is a joke, I think, and someone switched my real results with the letter I received. If so, I don’t feel much like laughing.
But as my watch changes from 1:59 to 2:00, the door to Building J opens.
I twist around and find a middle-aged, bald man wearing a dark blue suit standing in the entryway.
“Mr. Younger?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. That’s me.”
“This way, please.”
He gestures inside and waits for me to enter first.
CHAPTER THREE
The interior of Building J looks exactly like that of the building where I took the test the previous week — only the rows of tables are missing. In their place is a single table set up in the center of the room with one chair on one side and three on the other, two of which are already occupied.
“Follow me, please,” the bald man says, leading me to the table.
He gestures to the chair sitting by itself, and waits for me to take it before lowering himself into the empty one on the other side. His companions are a man and a woman, both older than the bald man by at least a decade. The second man wears a gray suit, while the woman is in an elegant but businesslike dress. They all must be Fours at the very least, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were Threes or even Twos. Four is the highest caste I’ve ever talked to and that was only once, so the three upper-caste people in front of me are more than enough to send a tremor through my hands.