Dizzy rolls her eyes and makes a face with her tongue sticking out of her mouth like a thirsty dog. Dizzy thinks Hannah Wet/Dry is the most annoying person on earth. Or one of them, anyway. Dizzy gets annoyed fairly easily.
Mr. A. stands at the microphone in the middle of the gym. “Students,” he calls, “settle down!” After a few seconds, everyone gets tired of talking, and that’s when Mr. A. hands the microphone to Mrs. Temple, who has managed to find an entire suit—skirt, jacket, shell—made of sweater material for the occasion. I wonder if she’s been searching for sweater shoes. Those would really complete the ensemble.
“People,” she begins, in the way she begins every speech to the school, “I have some serious news to present today, and I trust that you will all be able to handle it with grace and maturity.”
Someone in the crowd makes fart noises.
“You might be wondering why we have news crews with us today.” She stretches her palm toward the group of cameras in the corner, turning to offer a posed half-smile/half-grimace. Very principal-like. “I’d like to turn the floor over to someone who can tell you.” She hands the microphone to a man in a black suit wearing a brown tie decorated with brightly colored fish.
“Who’s this clown?” Josh asks.
“The superintendent,” Hannah Wet/Dry says, like she has school board trading cards and can identify any of them on command. She leans over and adjusts her pink socks, carefully comparing each foot—the folded-over tops may have been an eighth of a centimeter off.
The superintendent takes the microphone and covers it with one hand while he whispers something in Mrs. Temple’s ear. She nods twice and then points at all of us. Then they nod together.
“Christ,” Josh says, “can we get this show on the road already?”
“What I have in my hands,” Fish Tie says, rattling a piece of paper, “is an extremely important document. I cannot emphasize enough the gravity of what I’m about to say. Your principal, Mrs. Temple, and I have discussed the matter, and we feel that you boys and girls are mature enough to handle the information I am about to share with all of you.” He goes on in this vein for a while longer until he can’t ignore our restlessness anymore. “Boys and girls, I have here a very significant list. As you are well aware, Quiet High has been the site of some very advanced and complex trials for a program called PROFILE.”
“Oh, hell,” Josh says. “This is old news. Does he think we’re dumb? Who hasn’t heard about the whole PROFILE debacle?” He pronounces debacle like dee-BACK-el.
“As you are all no doubt aware, one of our Quiet High students was a victim of a ruthless attack recently.” This is news to nobody. Fish Tie continues, “Many of you know that January Morrison suffered severe injuries as a result of a brutal physical attack. We have reason to believe that she knew her attacker, although she does not remember what happened. We also do not believe that this attack is in any way connected to her brother, recently deceased. Detectives are investigating the situation. I want to reassure you, boys and girls, that you are safe here in the halls of our school.”
“Phew.” Josh breathes a fake sigh of relief.
“I know this has been a trying time for all of us. I’d like to offer up a moment of silence for the members of the Morrison family, who have endured so much.”
The gym falls silent. Someone sniffles. Josh tries to reach up Dizzy’s shirt, but she swats him away. “Be respectful, Josh,” she tells him. I think of little Hillary with her Harry Potter book. I wonder if she thinks about her future. Is it ruined, just like January’s and her brother’s?
“Now,” Fish Tie says after a few seconds, “police believe that they have a suspect.” Dizzy and I look at each other. The sound of talking goes on instead of dissipating, as Fish Tie probably hoped it would. You can tell that he wants to deliver his big news and hear a collective gasp. The fact is, we all watch the news, we all have Internet access, for crying out loud. We know that he is going to talk about Jesse.
Because I am prepared for it, I don’t cry when Fish Tie announces that the suspect is a Quiet High student. He doesn’t have to say Jesse’s name. And I don’t cry when he announces that PROFILE predicted the suspect for violent crime—a fact that could be used as evidence against Jesse in a trial. I simply zone out for a minute, thinking about what that means. It’s possible that Jesse will go to jail for a very long time. Hannah Wet/Dry gasps when Fish Tie says this. I give the side of her head a dirty look for no real reason.
“We have decided that for the safety of all students, we will publicly release the scores of the predicted.” He waits for a response, but nobody gives him one. “With this information—the predicted list—we can better serve the needs of our at-risk students. We do not bring these names to your attention in order to promote any kind of cruel or discriminatory behavior against these particular individuals. We have made this decision because we believe that this is the right choice for our school, especially in light of the January Morrison situation. We do not need more young people to get hurt. Individuals predicted to commit violent crimes and to have antisocial and persistent problematic behavior will be immediately moved into separate classes, away from the other individuals. Those of you who are not predicted to be violent criminals can rest assured that you will be safe.”
Josh begins applauding. Fish Tie, who has no sense of irony, nods in our direction, as if thanking Josh for the recognition.
“These alternative educational arrangements will be made for our predicted students with the aid of our guidance counselor, Dr. Tufte, and the students’ parents or legal guardians. I must stress again that these students will be kept in Old QH classrooms; they will have a separate cafeteria, gymnasium, and facilities. All relevant classes housed in Old QH will be shifted to New QH. We ask that nonpredicted individuals refrain from visiting Old QH at any time. Our fine school security guards will enforce these rules stringently.” Fish Tie smiles at a fat guy in a uniform standing next to Temple. Everybody calls him Porkchop.
I look around the crowded gym. Everyone else is doing the same thing. We’re all trying to figure out who these predicted individuals are—who among us will be relegated to Old QH?
“Our top priority is to separate these individuals out for safety purposes,” Fish Tie says. “If you have questions or comments, I welcome you to submit those in writing, either on paper or through an electronic medium.”
“Seriously?” Josh says to no one in particular. “He wants me to send him an email telling him he’s a douche bag?” People around us snicker, including Dizzy.
“One final comment: I want to congratulate those of you who are not predicted. You are a team comprised of our finest students. You are Quiet High’s most outstanding individuals, and we will strive to create an educational environment that will best help you reach your fullest potential.” Fish Tie applauds himself, but nobody joins in except for Mrs. Temple.
“Hannah, you’re going to be awfully lonely,” somebody behind us says.
Nobody seems particularly alarmed, although we’ve just been told that we are going to be divided up like cattle, treated differently based on a number assigned to us by a computer. I think about what school will be like once we are divided. “This is just like summer camp,” someone says.
“Yeah,” her friend answers. “It’s like color wars.”
Fish Tie senses that he’s losing us, so he moves closer to the microphone and begins talking faster. “Please stay with me, boys and girls. Before we go back to our regularly scheduled classes, I want to reiterate the reasons for our decision to handle matters thusly. I’d like to stress that this measure is designed solely for the purposes of improving our fine institution. The initial implementation of our new track program, however, may be difficult. As a result, we are asking that you leave the building immediately following this presentation. We will reopen the school tomorrow with classroom assignments rearranged. Mrs. Temple and I ask that you strive to treat each other—no matter what
your placement—in a respectful fashion. We also ask that you remain ever-vigilant for any criminal activity on school property and in our greater community. Individuals who have been predicted will not be excused for their behavior. Instead, they should be aware that we are watching them…” He pauses and then adds, almost as an afterthought, “In order to help them.”
Someone in front raises her hand. “Shouldn’t we, like, put these predicted people in jail or something?” She’s met with a small chorus of support.
“No,” Fish Tie says, “these individuals will not be charged with any crime until they actually commit it. Our job is to simply remove them from the mainstream population. We hope that further training and isolation from the general population will help them to reform.”
You can tell Fish Tie is done answering questions, but the girl keeps pushing him. “But you said that being predicted means they will commit a crime. How can they reform? If they weren’t going to commit a crime, they wouldn’t be predicted in the first place, right?”
Fish Tie clears his throat for about an hour until Mrs. Temple joins him at the microphone and takes over. “Excellent question, Ashley,” she says. “PROFILE is very complicated, and I urge all of you to read more about it and how it works. Utopia Research Laboratories has generously provided this literature”—she points to a tall stack of glossy booklets on a table by the door—“that can answer many of your questions. This situation is new to us too, and we’re just going to have to work together to figure out how it will operate. I will tell you that PROFILE tests will be given across the country, starting next fall, so we here in Quiet will not be alone for long. Still, the rest of the country is looking toward us to see how we handle this situation. Let’s set an example.”
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.”
chapter 19
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 s
peaking 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.
The Predicteds Page 17