Type (7 page)

—Margaret Wise Brown

As I sit
down to breakfast one day, I notice a small piece of paper jammed under my cereal bowl. It’s been folded over a few times and has my name written across the top. I quickly open it, hoping for a message from Aaron. When I read what it says, my heart does a flip inside my chest.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

I glance over at Jana, but she is busy talking to Heather and doesn’t have a guilty look about her. I’m usually good at sniffing out guilty looks. I crumple up the paper into a ball and stuff it into my blazer pocket. I want to glance around the room but I’m too afraid to. Better not to know.

A few days later at breakfast, there it is again. A note, shoved under my bowl. This time I’m not so excited to see what it says. I grab it and unfold it under the table.

I STILL KNOW

Again, I look over at Jana, but she’s busy putting jam on her toast. Still.
If this is someone’s idea of a joke, it’s not funny
.

After thinking about it more, I realize that it could be Aaron’s way of getting back at me for what I did. It would be just like Aaron to need to punish me in some way in order to ease his own conscience.
Just like what he’d probably do to some stupid criminal, before telling the police or even worse, the Dean
! Thinking about him tattling in that way makes me angrier and angrier, until I feel ready to explode. He doesn’t know who he’s messing with!

I wait outside our History of Type room before class and grab Aaron’s arm before he walks into the room.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a bad or a horrible person or whatever for what I did. I don’t even care if you don’t want to be my friend anymore. You better stop leaving me those stupid notes, or you’ll be in trouble!” My words spill out quickly, like a red-hot flood. My throat feels tight and I can tell that tears are building right behind my eyes.

“Talk softer!” Aaron whispers. “Someone might hear you!”

“So you care about someone hearing me but you don’t care about someone seeing your stupid-head notes?” I say. My tears spill over and I wipe at them angrily with my sleeve.

“Shhhh!” he whispers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I think you’re going crazy!”

“Yes you do know, so stop lying! The notes!”

“I didn’t leave you any notes! And don’t you ever say I’m lying. Unlike you, I
never
lie! Now just leave me alone!” Aaron pulls away from me and rushes into the classroom. I lean against the wall, wiping at my eyes.
Why can’t I stop crying already?
Noah, the boy whose father died, walks by, staring at me. I glare at him in response, before heading into class.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws…

—Maurice Sendak

“Good to see
you all again, First Years,” Dr. Witmer says. “I trust you have all done your readings for today?”

Over thirty heads nod up and down in unison.

“Of course you have,” Dr. Witmer smiles. “Such a silly question to ask my ISTJs!” He laughs and over thirty voices join him. “Now, to get back to where we left off last time. As I said, children in the Era of Social Media were highly dissatisfied by the society they lived in, a society that was filled with corruption, heightened sexuality, and acts of violence seemingly around every corner. Bullying in schools had become epidemic, despite the policies set in place by politicians. It is little surprise that your grandparents as children sought solace in the so-called dystopian novel genre. These novels tended to focus on bleak, post-apocalyptic futures, yet offered children a simpler alternative to what must have seemed like a topsy-turvy, overwhelming world ruled by technological advances but few morals. Have any of you heard about these books?”

For a moment, the classroom is filled with the sound of textbook pages being turned.

“The answer you are seeking is not there, First Years,” Dr. Witmer says. “Anyone? Anyone at all?” He surveys the room, a satisfied look on his face. “As I was saying…”

“
The Hunger Games, The Uglies,
and
Maze Runner,
” Noah calls out. “And before that, for my great-grandparents, I guess, books like
The Long Walk, 1984,
and
Neuromancer
.”

Dr. Witmer turns his attention to the back of the room, to where the curly-haired boy is sitting, then begins walking towards him. A shiver runs up and down my back. “And how, pray tell, did you create this little list, Mr. Philips?”

I turn to look at the boy, too. He’s slouching in his chair, his curly hair falling into his face. He shrugs. “My dad.”

“Your dad? Care to explain, further?”

“My dad let me read them when I was younger. Some of them were his father’s from before, some belonged to his grandfather, I think. Not sure exactly.” Another shrug.

“Are you telling me that you read these books, these novels that have all been banned for children by The Association?” Dr. Witmer stops in front of Noah’s desk and raps at the wood with his knuckles.

“Yep,” Noah says.

“You mean,
Yes, sir.”

“Sorry. Yes, sir, I read the books.”

“And your father gave them to you to read?”

“Yep. I mean, yes, sir.”

“And why would he have done this, exactly, given that I am sure the good man knew the law as well as anyone else?”

Noah shrugs again. “I dunno. You could ask him.”

Another rap on the desk. “That will be enough insolence for today, Mr. Philips. I’m well aware of your father’s…untimely death. A brain tumour, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Noah says softly.

Dr. Witmer leans his face closer to Noah, so close that their noses almost touch. “And how are those headaches of yours doing?”

“Much better. The protocol at Temporary made all the difference. Thank you for asking, sir.”

“Good, good.” Dr. Witmer draws back and straightens himself. “Well, class, Mr. Philips here was correct with his little list. The books he mentioned were some of the dystopian tales that proliferated in the pre-Type era. While these books described societies that were…primitive at best, they did serve a purpose of feeding the hunger of the youth for better order and structure in society.”

I raised my hand. “Dr. Witmer?”

“Yes, Ms. Jenkins?”

“If these books were so good, why can’t we read them now?”

“Before I answer your question, Ms. Jenkins, I would like you to answer one for me. How does that sound?’

“Okay,” I say.

“Excellent,” Dr. Witmer says. “What I would like to ask is the following—as far as you know, does your family own any of the novels listed by Mr. Philips? Before you answer, I would like to remind the class that Ms. Jenkins’s family is headed by one of the upstanding Psychologists of The Association.” He smiles at me and another shiver goes up and down my back.

I look at Noah, who seems to be trying to tell me something with his eyes.
If only he was Aaron, I’d know what he was saying
. “I’ve never heard of them before,” I say honestly.

“Thank you, Ms. Jenkins, for your illuminating answer.” He nods at me and I look at my desk. “First Years, if you get nothing else from today’s lecture, I hope you’ll absorb this—while the popularity of these books did help to point the pioneering Psychologists of The Association to develop a better alternative to what existed in society, they themselves are all drivel and even dangerous, most implying that an apocalypse of some sort has to occur before lasting change can take place. While of course we live in a free society in which adults may apply to any branch of the Association Library to obtain a license in order to borrow these novels, we now know that they only do harm to vulnerable, developing minds. Just like how the use of any tool involving the internet or mobile communication is now restricted to members of The Association, to industries for whom such technology is essential, and to any adult who has undergone a thorough evaluation and obtained the appropriate license.” He coughs. “Such restrictions are necessary in order to prevent the Social Media Era from ever occurring again. History has witnessed first-hand the implications of having technology set the pace for society, rather than ethics. While there are those among us who might pine for our forbearers’ more technologically sophisticated, but morally empty past, those numbers are few.”

“But what does the internet have to do with those novels?” I ask, forgetting to put up my hand.

Dr. Witmer frowns at me.

“Um, it’s just that I’ve always been told by my dad about how dangerous unauthorized internet use can be, so I
get
that, but I still don’t see what that has to do with these books?”

Dr. Witmer shakes his head a few times, then draws in a deep breath. “To answer your question, Ms. Jenkins, the
danger
of these books is that they have the unfortunate ability of influencing vulnerable minds of the possibility of utopias that just cannot exist. We now know that only our current Type system, a system that all of the countries in the Free World have agreed to follow, is based on solid science and rigorous research, not some novelists’ fancy of what might sell at a bookstore. Is that understood, Ms. Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir,” I murmur, still confused.
The Hunger Games, The Uglies, The Long Walk. The Hunger Games, The Uglies, The Long Walk. The Hunger Games, The Uglies, The Long Walk. Remember, remember, remember.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it?’ ‘Supposing it didn’t,’ said Pooh…

—A. A. Milne

As soon as
the bell rings, I’m already half-way out of my seat. I want to get out of this class as quickly as possible, to get away from Aaron as fast as I can. I don’t wait for the line to form but instead race out of the room. I don’t care if I lose points for Ribbon Day. I don’t care about anything except the fact that I’ve somehow lost my very best friend.

As I run down the hall, I hear footsteps racing after me
. Could it be
? I stop and turn to look at who’s there. Instead of Aaron, I come face to face with Noah.

“Oh, hey,” I say, forgetting about Aaron for a moment. “Those books you talked about sound good. Do you still have any?”

“I might, I might not. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno,” I shrug. “Just curious.”

“Now, Ms. Jenkins, I thought you
understood
that these are dangerous novels that could influence your oh-so-vulnerable mind?” he sneers.

I pull back, suddenly remembering that I find this kid strange. “Forget it. I’ve got to go anyway, or I’ll be late for French class.”

“You want to hurry to French class?” Noah snorts. “Fun times!”

“What’s your problem, exactly?” I cross my arms and stare at this boy, this cocky, not-Aaron kid.

Noah smiles at me for a moment, without saying anything. After a few seconds he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I was going to put this under your bowl tomorrow, but you’ve saved me the trouble.”

I stare at the piece of paper, knowing but not knowing, before grabbing it from him. I quickly open the note.

I’M WAITING

My hands start to shake and I drop the paper on the floor, before stepping over it with my shoe. “You? But why? How? Why?” I can feel my cheeks get hot and my whole body start to tremble.

“You mean, how did I find out about your little secret?” he asks, grinning.

I nod, my hands tightening into fists at my sides.

“It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out,” he says, leaning against the wall. “Let’s just say that ever since your little buddy Aaron arrived, he’s been driving everyone in the dorm nuts about his little best friend, Sophie. How much he misses her, how much he wishes he could talk to her. What she was like, how different she was from all of the boring ISTJers here. How you’d always get in his face, all hyper and wanting to do stuff, like put on little skits for people or go to some party. Constant excitement, that’s how he described you!” He grins again. “Little girl, I knew you were an Extra before I even saw you. We all did.”

“All of you?”

“Yeah, our whole floor did. At least until you showed up here and then all the guys thought that Aaron must have been crazy. Because how could a little ISTJer ever do all of the things he said you did?”

“You thought Aaron was crazy?”

“Not me, little girl, the other idiots here. As I said, I knew you were an Extra before I even saw you. And now that I’ve seen you, I know for sure.”

“But, how?” my voice comes out as a whisper, even softer than the shyest girl in our class, Heather.

Noah shrugs. “It takes one to know one,” he says.

I feel my cheeks get even redder and my mind go blank. “But…you, too?”

“You didn’t invent the art of lying, kiddo,” he says. He sticks out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome to the club. I’ve been waiting for you.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It is safe to predict that in the near future intelligence tests will bring tens of thousands of…high-grade defectives under the surveillance and protection of society… This will ultimately result in curtailing the reproduction of feeble-mindedness…

—Lewis Terman

For the next
few days, I try to keep my distance from Noah, only glancing his way when I’m sure he’s not looking. While there’s a little part of me that’s relieved there is someone here that knows (other than Mr. Smug/I’m So Superior Aaron, that is), most of me is terrified. Noah isn’t someone you can trust. He’s a wild card.

I sit down next to Emily for History of Type and try and concentrate on what she’s telling me. I’ve never met someone so excited about learning before. If nothing else, listening to her talk about what she just read in the textbook is distracting.
She’s someone to trust, at least. If only I could tell her.

Dr. Witmer walks into the room and writes MENTAL ILLNESS across the blackboard. He then turns to face the class, his stomach greeting us first. “Today I would like to discuss with you the differences between what we refer to as
psychogenic
mental illness and the more sinister
genetic
disorder. As I’m sure most of you are aware, by psychogenic I mean those illnesses that originate from psychic or psychological factors, rather than organic or genetic ones. In other words, these are mental illnesses which tend to be triggered by someone’s personality, or by the uncertainties, vagaries, and stressors of daily life.”