The Predicteds (17 page)

Mrs. Temple hands the mike back to Fish Tie, and I'm pretty sure that it's not lost on anyone—except for maybe Josh, who is updating his Facebook page from his phone now—that she never answered the original question:
Can a predicted person change?
I get the eerie feeling that they don't know.

“Now,” Fish Tie resumes, “as you file out of here today, you will be given a copy of the predicted lists. That way, you will be aware of which students are in which category. Your fine teachers are stationed at the doors with printouts.” He waves at the teachers, who are standing at each set of double doors leading out of them gym. He flashes us a brilliant smile and closes with a friendly, “Have a productive rest of the year!”

“Oh, this is sooo going to work,” Josh says sarcastically.

We file out together, and while some people are talking, it is mostly quiet. The mood is somber, and we all stand in line patiently and politely to receive our copies of the predicted lists. Dizzy begins to read it aloud, but I slip away and find a vacant classroom just off the gym. I absorb the numbers before I get to the names.

PROFILE Results for Quiet High

Total number of students at Quiet High: 341

Sophomore Class: 123 students

Junior Class: 115 students

Senior Class: 103 students

Total number of students predicted for violent crime: 7

Sophomore Class: 2 students

Junior Class: 2 students

Senior Class: 3 students

Total number of students predicted for antisocial and persistent problematic behavior: 68

Sophomore Class: 23 students

Junior Class: 26 students

Senior Class: 19 students

I stare at that piece of paper until the black ink turns into swirls that make no sense to my watery eyes.

So there we are—reduced to numbers. We are eighty-seven juniors against twenty-eight others who are no longer one of us. I read the list of names, scanning for ones I recognize. Jesse's name pops out at me first. The other junior predicted to commit violent crime is Nate Gormley, my tutoring project. No big surprise there.

I move to the antisocial/problematic behavior list. I remember my grandmother telling me about how she went to the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C., years after the war, and she scanned the black granite, looking for the names of the men she knew. Maybe this is how she felt. Kelly Payne is on the list. And January, of course. I'm surprised when I see Lexus. Next to Dizzy, she is probably the most popular girl in the whole school. Sam, Dizzy, Cuteny, Josh, Hannah Wet/Dry—almost everyone I know—is on the “good” list. Report to New QH, the paper tells me. I am one of the impressive students, the pride of Quiet High that Fish Tie was talking about.

Dizzy finds me in the deserted classroom. “There you are. What are you doing?” I don't have to answer, because she keeps talking. “Josh and I are going to The Mall. You have to come. I'm dying to show you this dress I absolutely have to have. It's eighty dollars, but it'll be worth every penny once you see how much cleavage it gives me. Wowza!” she exclaims.

“Dizzy?” I ask her, without getting up from the desk I'm sitting at. “Aren't you scared?”

“Scared of what?”

“What's happening here?”

She smiles, her teeth as white as the picture on a box of tooth-whitening strips. “What's happening here is what's
meant
to happen. Roll with it, Daph.”

Let's just divide them into two groups: those who are worthy and those who are worthless. Seems pretty simple to me.

—Joanna Heller, mother of Josh Heller

Melissa and I eat bowls of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches before walking back to school for a seven o'clock meeting. The PTA called an emergency evening meeting with parents and students to
address ongoing concerns about school safety
. That's what they told us all this afternoon, our first day in our new classrooms. It was weird knowing that just on the other side of the building, the predicteds were in class. I wonder what it feels like to be them. Jesse is temporarily suspended, but he hasn't been arrested. It's all anyone can talk about. The general atmosphere at school is weird, like everyone is waiting for something terrible to happen but pretending that everything is fine. It's like when you watch a horror movie, and you know that the helpless babysitter is going to eventually bite it, but you hold out hope for her anyway.

The PTA meeting is in the choir room—the largest classroom in the school. Regardless, we are wedged together in extra chairs brought from other rooms. The music stands are lined up neatly in the dark corners of the room. I note that most of my classmates have brought larger, older versions of themselves who turn out, naturally, to be their parents. Brooklyn Bass is sitting with a short, squat mother who looks exactly as I imagine Brooklyn will look ten years and thirty pounds from now. Her dad wears a short-sleeved dress shirt and an old burgundy tie. His hair is slicked back on his head and he breathes with his mouth wide open. Hannah Wet/Dry sits next to her mother, who has a short pixie haircut, presumably to take care of the wet/dry problem.

I feel bad momentarily that Melissa and I look absolutely nothing alike. Maybe looking like your parents provides some kind of psychological comfort. I read once that if people are told other people have the same birthday as them, they are more likely to like each other. Maybe it's the same with parents—it's easier to understand each other if you have the same pug nose or the same out-of-control eyebrows.

We sit next to Hannah and her mom, who Melissa apparently knows. “Can you believe this, Marsha?” Melissa says to Hannah's mom. “It doesn't take much to whip a mob into a frenzy, does it?” Hannah's mom nods in agreement.

Sam Cameron's mom, a varnished-looking woman, enters from the side door and goes to stand in front of the room at the choir director's music stand. Sam sits down behind her, looking bored, next to a man who has a full beard so fair that I have to squint to see that it's a beard and not just bad skin. This must be his dad. Mrs. Cameron is wearing a red suit so bright that she looks like a radish in heels. Her hair is a shellacked bob swinging in one big piece when she moves her head. “Good evening,” she says quietly, leaning forward as if she is speaking into a microphone. “I'm glad that so many of you were able to attend this informal discussion on such short notice. Thank you.”

Brooklyn's mom says, “You are so welcome,” very loudly. Mrs. Cameron looks over her tortoise-shell glasses with a disapproving expression.

“Some of you know my son, Sam Cameron,” she continues, pointing at Sam, who waves halfheartedly. “And my husband, Dan Cameron.” The man smiles and then scratches his beard. His teeth are tiny, which make his gums seem huge. “And I'm Jillian Cameron, president of the Quiet High PTA.” She pauses as if she expects applause. “Undoubtedly, most of you have heard about what happened to your children's classmate, January Morrison.” She sniffles and reaches for a tissue out of her suit sleeve. “I'm sure the family would want to thank all of you for your good wishes and prayers. January is still in the hospital, but I am happy to report that she will be able to come home soon. With the help of her dedicated care team, doctors are positive that she will make a full recovery.”

Brooklyn's mom claps now, but it takes awhile until anyone else joins in. “Thank you,” Jillian Cameron says. “I'm sure Mrs. Morrison finds it gratifying to know that we are all such supportive friends, family, and neighbors. We are the reason that Quiet is such a wonderful community, and I can't tell you proud I am to live here and raise my children in this fine town.” It feels like she's getting ready to announce her candidacy for mayor. Melissa must feel that too, because she sighs while crossing and uncrossing her legs three times in a row, a sure sign that she's getting bored.

“A lot of you are wondering what's going on with the investigation of Miss Morrison's attacker.” She says
attacker
with a low grunt, as if the word almost sticks in her throat. “The police do have leads, and they are questioning various individuals. I don't want to alarm you tonight. That's not why we're here.”

I watch Brooklyn's mom nodding vigorously, hanging on every word coming from Mrs. Cameron's mouth. Brooklyn's dad holds his hand in front of his face and tries to surreptitiously pick his nose. “We are here tonight because of PROFILE. Every one of you here has a child who was PROFILEd in his or her sophomore year. As controversial as those tests might be, we cannot overlook the possibility that certain terrible and tragic events could be prevented if we have the appropriate information. An ounce of prevention, as you all will agree, I'm sure, is worth a pound of…” She trails off here, seemingly unable to find the right word.

“Cure,” Melissa whispers to me. She can't help herself.

“That boy attacked my Brit,” a rat-faced woman says. Nate's mom. “She was darn lucky it wasn't worse.” Then she hacks with a smoker's cough and clears her throat of the world's thickest phlegm.

“Excuse me,” Melissa says loudly now, raising her hand. “I'm very sorry about what happened to January, and we all want to keep our children safe, but what exactly are you proposing here tonight?”

“Well, Mrs.—?” Mrs. Cameron waits for Melissa to fill in the blank.

“
Doctor
,” Melissa says. “It's Dr. Wright, but you can call me Melissa.”

There's quiet murmuring throughout the room. Everybody knows who Melissa is now because the paper mentioned that she's the original inventor of PROFILE. They crane their necks to get a good look at her, this woman who brought PROFILE to little old Quiet High.

“Well, Melissa,” Mrs. Cameron replies, “I wouldn't say that I'm proposing something. Rather, I'm presenting options for us to consider. In the interest of keeping the children safe, of course.”

“Of course,” Melissa says, and I elbow her because it sounds like she is mocking Sam's mom. Which she probably is.

“I do understand a parent's urge to keep those results private,” Mrs. Cameron says. “Our first instinct is to believe that the results must be wrong in cases where we find out something we don't want to know. But in addition to isolating those people who may be dangerous and who may be putting our children at risk, we need to know exactly what each predicted child is capable of doing.”

Brooklyn's mom erupts in applause again. A handful of people join in.

Melissa talks over the clapping. “And what exactly do you want to do? Should we lock up the violent predicteds and throw away the key? Should we put a list of future teen mothers on Facebook so nobody asks them to prom? How can you in good conscience do that?” I slink down in my chair. Melissa is right, but I never stop being embarrassed by how blunt she is.

“Mrs. Wright,” Mrs. Cameron says, “I do think that you of all people would understand the importance of taking PROFILE scores seriously.” She surveys the crowd with a smug look on her face. “Many of you probably know that Mrs. Wright used to work for Utopia Laboratories, the company who developed and executed the PROFILE tests in our community.” Everyone turns to look at Melissa. Of course they know her.

“It's
Doctor
,” Melissa says amiably. “And I do have a connection to Utopia Labs. I was part of the team of scientists who read and interpreted the PROFILE scores we collected at Quiet High for the past few years. I am not, however, prepared to support any initiative that would in any way ostracize or detain any student based on a PROFILE prediction. I'm against these classroom separations. It's simply a violation of an individual's rights. And I don't want my daughter making decisions about people based on what a test said they might do at some future point.”

Brooklyn's mom raises her hand. “I completely disagree with what that woman is saying.” She points at Melissa. “These PROFILE tests can help us sort out the bad kids—even better than we already have. We have the information right at our fingertips. If the attacker was a student at QH, and if the student was a sophomore or older, we can find him. We just need to find out who was predicted for attacking a girl with a bat, right? I think we all know who that is.” She looks around her, searching for some kind of validation.

“I'm sorry,” Melissa says. “I have to correct you here. PROFILE doesn't exactly work that way. The test can't reveal what
exact
crime someone may commit. It can only tell you the predisposition someone has toward violent personal crimes. Determining the actual crime is part of Phase II of the research.”

I look at her searchingly. There's a Phase II of research?

Hannah's mom jumps in. “I'm Marsha Cramer,” she says in the same weepy voice Hannah has. “I'm a psychologist at Quiet State College, and I happen to be familiar with Melissa's work.” They smile at each other. “Melissa is trying to explain that while PROFILE does provide data about a person's possible future actions, that data should not necessarily be used to make important decisions about our children.” Melissa nods in agreement.

“Well, I disagree,” Brooklyn's mom says.

“A lot of scientists have said—”

Brooklyn's mom cuts off Hannah's mom. “I don't care what scientists say. My opinion is equally valid, and I think the results should be public. I just feel it's the right thing to do. I feel it in my heart.”

Melissa snorts loudly.

Sam's dad stands up and moves to the podium, putting his arm around Mrs. Cameron's shoulders. He is shorter than she is. “Can I say something here, honey?” She steps aside and gives him the podium. “I may not be a ‘scientist.'” He uses air quotes. “I may just be a guy who can give you a hell of a deal on some great import cars.” He flashes a grin, but nobody laughs. He forges on. “I may be just a simple guy who still believes in family, church, and country, but I know one thing for sure: an innocent girl is in the hospital because some animal beat the crap out of her. And not too long ago, our kids were held hostage in this school by a crazed shooter. That shooter could've killed my boy.” Mrs. Cameron looks adoringly at Sam. “Well, that girl is in the hospital, and I want to find the bastard who did it. If that means violating the rights of some criminal, well, so be it.”

Brooklyn's mom begins clapping, but this time, most of the room joins with her. Sam's dad stands a little taller, talks a little louder. “What good are these tests if we can't use them? It's time to put a label on these kids who aren't going to be good, productive citizens. Let's prevent another Columbine. Hell, let's prevent another Quiet High shooting. Let's prevent another girl being viciously attacked. Let's not take the side of the criminals.”

The crowd roars—it feels like a football game. I half-expect the room to begin a round of the wave. Melissa stands up and waves her tiny hand in the air, calling for attention. “I'm not saying we should take the side of the criminals. I'm just saying we need to think about this.” She practically has to yell to be heard over the noise in the echoing room.

Mrs. Cameron pushes her husband to the side and moves back to the podium. “I think we've all thought about this. We've all prayed about it. We all love our children. It's time to smoke out the rotten apples. The time is long overdue.” Melissa is too angry to even snicker at the ridiculous expression—how do you smoke out apples?

She and I leave before the meeting officially ends.