Qualify (9 page)

She freezes in this position, her long hair spilling over her face and her back. I hear her trembling voice say, “Go!”

And the board begins to carry my sister, on her hands and knees, through the air across the auditorium.

I blink, and I am still not breathing, as I hear her give the other commands.

Then, Gracie reaches the end. She gets off the hoverboard, pretty much tumbling onto the linoleum floor. And she just remains there for a few seconds before going to the desk in the back.

Meanwhile, the board is returning, and so is my breath that I can finally exhale and inhale normally.

Except . . . the board is now here, for
me
.

Did it just get brighter in here? I feel like a stage spotlight is shining on me from overhead, and suddenly I am lightheaded.

Everyone in the world is looking at me.

I walk up to Principal Marksen and he gives me my token. I pin it onto my purple sweater front with icy cold fingers, since I had taken my outer jacket off and it’s lying on top of my bags somewhere below stage.

Why am I thinking about my jacket?

The hoverboard is before me. I take a deep breath and let it out. I then put my right foot on the front of the board, trying to remember the feel of the little orange skateboard I rode as a kid. This one feels more resilient, kind of like stepping onto a water surface.

This hoverboard is also so much wider than a kiddie skateboard. It’s pretty comfortable actually. I bring up my left foot in the back, and stand,
levitating
. The rubber soles of my sneakers cling to the surface of the board. And it occurs to me for a moment that I ride “goofy,” or what the boarders refer to as using my right foot to lead in the front instead of my left which is “regular” or “standard.” Yeah, I’m goofy, all right.

Now the worst part remains. The part that has me eight feet above the ground and in the air. I am terrified of heights. I can easily balance this board, but I just don’t see myself staying up on it
mentally
, simply because of the height factor. It’s going to mess with me too much, the fear of heights. . . .

I think of the amazing kid in the wheelchair.

And then I do a “Gracie.” Sort of. I get down in a crouch and hold the board on both sides with my hands. My fingers grip the cool surface of the hoverboard and I will myself to just hold on for dear life and
not let go
and
not look down
.

The worst part will come once I am high above the floor, so I resolve to look directly ahead as much as possible. I’d probably prefer to squeeze my eyes shut, but I need to see where I’m going.

“Go!” My voice sounds weird in the silence of the auditorium.

The board underneath me begins to move forward.

I focus on looking at it mostly, at my fingers gripping the sides, at the curving oval nose of the board. I also let my eyes spot the back doors, far ahead. There is no sound as I advance past the edge of the stage, and suddenly my brain is telling me I’m falling off a cliff, the edge of the world—screw you, brain—and I am now
high up
. Out of my peripheral vision, I see student faces staring at me from both sides of the aisle.

Don’t look down
.

When I am a third of the distance across the auditorium, I make myself speak the next command. “Descend!”

And then for an instant I feel the floor drop out from under me . . . but it’s only a tiny lurch, kind of what an elevator makes. Which I usually hate.

The ride itself is smooth and mind-blowing, and as I am descending gradually and approaching the gym mat surface, my fear of heights is also falling away. For the first time I can truly appreciate the amazing
alien
thing I am riding, this hoverboard. But the feeling lasts only a few seconds.

“Level!” I say before I hit the mat.

Again, a tiny lurch, and the board is moving once more in a line horizontal to the floor. Then the end of the mat looms. I pass over and beyond it, a few extra inches for good measure, then say, “Stop!”

The board freezes.

Slowly my fingers let go their white-knuckled grip. I stand up, and step off the hoverboard.

I did it
.

Relief hits me full blast. I am lightheaded and suddenly kind of hungry, as I walk to the back and approach the Atlantean at the desk.

Up-close, he is tall, young-old in a sense that I cannot be sure what age he really is. I am again fascinated by the unreality of his chiseled features, Ancient Egypt come to life. I glance at his sculpted eyebrows and wonder if they are real painted hairs or lapis lazuli inlay. . . . His eyes are black, irises and pupils appearing to run together. And, I swear, he has to be wearing kohl eyeliner.

“Your name?” Ligerat picks up a small hand-held device and looks at me.

“Gwenevere Lark.”

He passes the gadget over the ID token pinned to my sweater.

“Thank you,” I say as I meet his very dark eyes.

“Good luck,” he replies gently.

And that’s it.

S
omehow I manage to collect my backpack and duffel, then get out of the auditorium into the hallway. I attempt to look around past other jostling students to see where my brothers and sister are. The hallway is jammed with people, and there is a lot of emotional talk.

Some people are still standing in line to do the hoverboard test. Others are done like me, trying to get out. People are sitting on the floor with their feet sticking out, among bags. Some girls and guys are hugging each other, their friends, even just strangers, people they barely know or don’t know at all, people from other schools—and they are all crying.

I stare, and see a whole lot of tokens on people’s chests already lit up. And they are mostly shining
red
.

Oh no. . . . Well, it’s not exactly surprising. They did tell us that very few people would pass even this preliminary stage of Qualification.

Fear returns, gripping me in its cold abyss like an ocean wave pressing from all sides. . . . I look down at my own inactive token and feel sick to my stomach. Should I activate it? But no, I think I’ll wait to find out my stupid fate once I see a familiar face at least.

I walk a few steps and there’s Ann Finnbar. Her expression is heartbreaking. My best friend is red-eyed, and so is her token, flaming merciless red. I remember seeing Ann up there on that hoverboard half an hour ago, and she looked like she was doing so much better than me. At least she had been standing up.

“Ann!” I say, and then I am hugging her, feeling her skinny shaking form in my arms. We stand there, holding each other, and I say over and over, “Crap, crap, crap, I am so sorry!”

We break apart, and she glances at my own dead token.

“I am going to wait and do it with my sister and brothers there.” I feel guilty and rotten and I don’t even know why. “I’m sure mine will be red too, I just don’t want to find out just yet. Not until I see Gracie at least.”

“I get it,” she says. “Okay, I’m going home now. My parents are probably worried, or whatever. Yeah, they’re not going to be too surprised to see me. At least I can give my Grandpa back his wooden carvings and my Mom gets her necklace back. Yeah, whatever. Anyway, you go on. . . .”

“Look, I’ll definitely see you later!” I purse my lips. “When we get home—”

“Oh, stop it.” Ann looks at me with an intense expression. “You are probably green.” And then she pats me on the shoulder and turns away.

S
everal minutes later I run into my siblings. “George!” I cry, seeing the back of my brother’s head in the crowd.

“There you are!” George looks grim as he waves to me, and Gracie and Gordie are right behind him. It’s like a family funeral.

I notice that all their tokens are not lit up yet. So, they waited for me. GMTA. “Gee” minds think alike.

“You waited.” I look at Gracie’s pained face.

“Yeah,” Gordie says, pulling out his earbuds. “We’re gonna do it together. Right, Gee One?”

“Larks gotta stick together,” George says.

“All right.” I look at each one of them, and feel my breath stilling. “Let’s do it.”

“Ready?” George looks at Gracie. She nods.

We all put our fingers on the tokens. And we speak pretty much in unison. “Display Test Score.”

As we speak, Gracie squeezes her eyes shut. I am watching her token, not mine, and I am the first to see Gracie’s token turn a blessed
green
.

At the same time, I see my own light up, and it is green also. . . .

George’s is green.

Gordie’s is green.

Wow.

Holy amazing wow!

Gordie looks down at his chest and says, “Whoa . . .” He’s somewhat stunned. He really honestly didn’t think he was going to pass even the first stage of Qualification.

“Open your eyes, Gracie!” I exclaim. “You’re green! You made it! We all did!”

George makes a stifled sound that resembles a woot, but he’s just too cool to exclaim. Instead, grinning for the first time in days, he pounds Gordie on the back.

Gracie opens her eyes and squeals, and then she’s hanging around my neck.

“We need to call Mom!” I say, smiling, while we’re all still basking in waves of unbelievable relief. Other people in the hall are staring at us, some with open hostility.

“All right, but let’s first get out of here.” George shoulders the strap of his backpack and duffel. “We need to hurry and get outside.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to miss the
bus!
” Gracie whispers loudly, while I shove her in the arm.

“Hush! Let’s not be rude to other people, okay, let’s just go, Gracie.” I push strands of her hair behind her ears, and she jokingly wiggles away. Then I rearrange my backpack and duffel straps.

“Oh, and keep your jackets over the tokens, at least for now.” George is ever the careful one. He knows that some people are not going to react well to seeing anyone be green right now.

“Gotta stop by the bathroom first,” Gordie says. And we do.

Then we start walking and finally exit the building.

Outside the air is cold, the wind biting, and it’s early twilight. Have we been cooped up in school all day long? This is just nuts. No lunch, and now no dinner—we haven’t eaten.

As if reading my mind, Gordie says, “I’m starving.”

“We all are. Doesn’t matter. Let’s go!”

In the parking lot several school buses wait for us, and they are filling up with students. They—we—are the lucky ones.

Several teachers and security guards stand in clusters, directing us to form another line, this one much shorter, as we board the buses.

“Your tokens, please! Make sure that we can see them,” a teacher says. She glances at each person, verifying the green color of their ID token.

In the gathering twilight, it occurs to me that, as we stand there in this new snaking line, that we all wink with green dots of light, as our tokens illuminate the evening.

Like weird green fireflies. . . .

The parking lot lights come on, flaring bright and fluorescent. Then the football field lights up. It has to be past 7:00 PM.

Finally we get on the third bus, just as it’s getting cold and true dark, and we stow away our bags under seats and under our feet. Gracie takes the window seat, and I end up in the aisle one next to her, while George and Gordie get the next bench in front of us, with George at the window. The bus seats are narrow and not particularly comfortable, so good thing we are all slim and don’t take up much room, though the guys’ longer legs are sticking out into the aisles. I notice a few of the larger kids are much less happy to be squeezed in the hard seats. As I look around I see hardly anyone from my class or even from our school on this bus.

Our driver is a big thickset man in a union standard uniform and cap, but he’s wearing the Atlantis four-color armband. “Congratulations, you’re all Preliminary Qualified. Now, please keep the middle walkway clear. All your things should be out of the way, so that nobody trips, okay,” he tells us in a thick tired voice. “This is going to be a rather long drive, at least four, maybe five hours or even more—”

Groans are heard throughout our bus.

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “We’ll have several short bathroom breaks at a convenience store, and you can probably grab something to eat then. First break coming up in about an hour. I know it’s late, and you’re all hungry and tired, and I am sorry about this, but we have an end-of-the-world schedule to keep—literally.”

The driver chuckles ruefully, in a weak attempt at a morbid joke, and no one reacts. “You can sleep if you like, but the seats don’t adjust, sorry again. Also, try to keep the phone and electronic device use to a minimum, okay? Keep it quiet. If I hear you hashtagging or bothering others, I confiscate it.”

More groans.

“Can we get some water at least? Really dehydrated here,” a girl near the front says.