“I know!” Ms. Wheeler laughed. “Well, they should try August in Wakachee. That’ll cure ’em.” She flashed Imani her dazzling smile. It was infectious, and Imani found herself warming to her principal and wishing she’d exploited the open-door policy earlier. What an opportunity it was to have direct access to a high 90! And Ms. Wheeler was so friendly.
“So let me guess,” Ms. Wheeler said. “You’re here because you need to get back over the scholarship line, and you want to know if discarding Cady Fazio will do it.”
Imani had been smiling along with Ms. Wheeler, but now her smile collapsed as she tripped mentally on the word “discarding.” It made Cady sound like a gum wrapper or an apple core.
“It’s just that I’ve been doing some research,” Imani said. “And apparently it’s much harder to rise quickly than it is to fall quickly.”
“Oh, it’s not just harder,” Ms. Wheeler said. “It’s almost impossible.”
Imani felt a catch in her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was fragile, almost falsetto. “But why?”
Ms. Wheeler smiled sympathetically. “You see, the software understands human nature much better than we do. It understands how quickly we can destroy ourselves and how long it takes to improve.”
“But I didn’t even do anything. It was Cady who did it, and I didn’t even know about it.”
Ms. Wheeler sucked in air through her teeth. “Are you beginning to understand how disempowering loyalty can be?”
Imani slumped in her chair. Of course she understood. Peer group was the first element, and she’d been violating it flagrantly. It’s not that she hadn’t been aware of the risk, but she’d never dreamed Cady would sink so low as to date an unscored. “Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Without that scholarship—” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She dropped her head in her hands.
“Okay.” Ms. Wheeler gripped the edge of her desk, then stood up. “There are, of course, many opportunities for the non-college-bound, Imani.”
Non-college-bound? The words were like a dagger to Imani’s heart. For as long as she could remember, she had planned to go to college. She’d never even considered anything else. Ms. Wheeler regarded her with pity, and Imani sat upright, trying to control her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Ms. Wheeler said. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Imani. It’s just that I respect your intelligence, and I don’t want to sugarcoat things.”
Imani realized she was breathing heavily.
“Okay, Imani?”
“Okay.”
“The thing is,” Ms. Wheeler continued, “you might need to forget about the scholarship line. Now …” She sat down and resumed typing. “Have you thought about the military?”
Imani’s stomach lurched. The military had a true open-door policy. They took anyone.
“You’re sixty-four now,” Ms. Wheeler said. “If you can rise just one point, that qualifies you for officer training.”
“I don’t want to go to war.”
“It’s not war, Imani. It’s peacekeeping.” Ms. Wheeler’s tone lightened as if she were describing a bake sale.
“I want to stay in Somerton.”
“Fine. So let’s talk about seventy,” Ms. Wheeler said. “That’s six points. It’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s not out of the question. At seventy you have real options: child care, health services, management training at any number of retail establishments. Not in Somerton, of course. Nobody’s hiring here.”
“I really want to stay in Somerton.”
“Imani, what I’m trying to tell you is that you need to reevaluate your options. You’re not a ninety anymore. I know this is a difficult adjustment, but you need to face it.”
Imani’s head spun with the unraveling threads of her life. The only solid notion she could keep in focus was her family’s bait shop. It plunked down in the middle of the maelstrom like Dorothy’s shack into Oz. Imani worked there with her mother every summer. She didn’t mind it for a few hours a day, a few months a year. She knew all the customers by name, knew exactly which bait to sell for which type of fish. But at the end of each shift, she couldn’t wait to get out of there. It was cramped, plagued by wood rot and greenheads. Even after she left, it was a good five minutes on the river before she got the smell of bug spray and bait worms out of her nose. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life there, and she’d never thought she’d have to.
“If you really focus,” Ms. Wheeler said, “you can get your score back up a bit, get a decent job somewhere, start saving. Who knows. Maybe a few years down the line …” She let the fantasy trail off. Such optimism, she had to know, was beyond Imani’s means. College was the destiny of the rich and the 90s. Imani’s was a destiny of worms. “There are opportunities for self-improvement everywhere,” Ms. Wheeler went on. “You just have to keep your eyes open for them. Little opportunities here and there. You’ll see.”
Imani had no idea what Ms. Wheeler was saying now, but she was afraid to speak up, lest her emotions spill out again.
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Bronson peeked in. “It’s him,” she said.
“Okay,” Ms. Wheeler said. She waited for Mrs. Bronson to close the door. “I’m going to have to take this call, Imani. Are you going to be okay?”
It was a question too weighty for Imani to answer honestly, so she nodded evasively.
Ms. Wheeler leaned across the desk and took on a conspiratorial tone. “This next month is going to be critical, Imani. Don’t let despair get the better of you. Work the five elements. Work them hard.” There was a trace of optimism on Ms. Wheeler’s face, which Imani clung to like a drowning person.
“Little opportunities,” Ms. Wheeler said. “Keep your eyes open for them.” She disappeared once again into her specs, lights flashing, peacock fingers flying. “And drop in anytime,” she said. “My door is always open.”
After school, it was violently sunny. Imani walked home along the Causeway beneath the eyeballs, and when she met the gentle whish of her marsh reeds at Marina Road, she breathed in deep and hard. She paused to listen to the distant caw of seagulls, reminding herself that this was her sanctuary, her escape. But it felt different now.
Beyond the marsh reeds, the bait shop waited. It was shuttered for the off-season, but it would open soon enough. Then it would swallow her whole.
And that was her best option.
5. the proposal
THE NEXT MORNING, Isiah snubbed her at the end of Marina Road, followed by a hearty glower from his gang buddy Max as the middle school bus carried them both away. But these insults barely registered. Despite Ms. Wheeler’s warning, Imani had let despair get the better of her. It was warm finally, but it had rained overnight, forcing her to dodge puddles on her way to school. She made only a halfhearted effort, arriving at her school’s entrance with sludged shoes and dampened cuffs that perfectly represented how she felt inside.
While she was at her locker, gathering her books, a crowd of unscored came sauntering down the hallway, laughing and cutting a fat wake among the scored they passed. It seemed to Imani that the unscored loved to take up space that way, reveling in their toxicity. Diego Landis was among them, and at one point he walked backward so that he could whisper something to Rachel. To avoid being sideswiped by him, Imani had to press herself against her open locker. But Diego crashed into her anyway, and, to her great embarrassment, a squeal escaped her lips.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
He grabbed Imani’s hand to avoid falling, and when he regained his footing and rushed off with the others, her skin tingled as she felt the small piece of paper in her hand. Diego had passed her a note. Worse still, he had touched her! Imani hadn’t been touched by a boy since Malachi Beene had tried to put his hand up her shirt sophomore year. Now, as then, she could feel the shame blossoming red-hot all over her face. She knew it was unwarranted, because she hadn’t done anything wrong. But her eyes shot to the nearest eyeball,
and it took a few deep breaths to reassure herself that she wouldn’t be punished for it.
It wasn’t until she closed her locker that Imani unfolded the piece of paper. In the tiniest handwriting Imani had ever seen were the words:
Sorry for the subterfuge, but I have a proposal to make and this was the only way I could think of that wouldn’t compromise your score. I want that scholarship, and I suspect you do too. This makes us competitors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other. What I’m proposing is a discreet collaboration. If you’re not interested, say nothing and do nothing. If you are, meet me at the library tonight at 7.
DL
When Imani looked up from the note, Diego was disappearing around a corner with his friends. The hallways gradually drained as students made their way to homeroom. With the note in her hand, Imani let her eyes drift to the eyeball just above and to the right of her. It didn’t have a view of the words on the note itself, and, even if it had, the writing was probably too small for it to read. Still, she felt implicated by it. When the late bell rang, she shoved it in her pocket and rushed to homeroom.
I suspect you do too.
As her teacher, Mrs. Ruskin, took attendance, Imani wondered what Diego could have meant by those words. He didn’t know her. Since when did he “suspect” things about her? And why had he chosen her rather than Logan or Clarissa?
Did he think she was the smartest in the class?
Or the most likely to stray?
In American history, Diego avoided looking right at Imani. Still, she sensed his awareness of her in the way his blue eye would graze her knee, her shoes. The eyeball above the American flag felt more imposing than ever, and Imani couldn’t help but wonder if it detected her nervousness. Did it connect that nervousness with Diego? Did the note itself, folded over twice, leave an indicting mark on her jeans?
Was she being paranoid?
Was paranoia score negative?
If so, which of the five elements did it violate?
Imani dreaded being asked a question by Mr. Carol for fear of a red-hot blush that would give her away. But Mr. Carol got so worked up by a rant on civil liberties he didn’t ask any questions at all. When class was over, he realized he’d forgotten to cover the material they’d be tested on, made another remark about the “curriculum Nazis,” and told the class they’d have to “really do some plodding” the following week.
Imani rushed out as quickly as possible.
There was no good reason to feel guilty about Diego’s note, she told herself. It represented an inappropriate overture on his part, not hers. But the longer it remained in her pocket, the guiltier she felt. She could have thrown it away, and every time she passed a trash can she meant to, but something stopped her.
In third-period English, she found herself asking “What would Ms. Wheeler do?”
Imani tried to imagine her principal as a teenager again, receiving Diego’s note. She’d unfold it, read it, perhaps pause for a moment to think about it. Then what? Imani pictured her standing in the hallway as everyone rushed to homeroom, an eyeball overhead, Diego disappearing around a corner. When she moved the picture forward, she saw Ms. Wheeler walk purposefully to the eyeball and speak quietly to it. High 90s often spoke to the eyeballs. Imani had seen Chiara Hislop and Alejandro Vidal doing it lots of times. She’d heard that the high 90s viewed the eyeballs as trusted confidants rather than fearsome spies, which was how most people saw them. Imani couldn’t imagine precisely what Ms. Wheeler would say to the eyeball. But the next part was clear. She would unfold the note for the eyeball to read, then tear it up and toss it into the nearest trash can. Ms. Wheeler would not have felt guilty about receiving it. As a high 90, she would be totally congruent. All of her values would be in sync, the fit course of action always apparent. That was why she’d wound up with a final score of 98.
Now Imani regretted not taking this course of action right away. By holding on to the note, she’d turned Diego’s offense into her own. She’d have to confess now. It was the only way to salvage the situation. She’d wait until study period, when the hallways were empty. Then she’d march straight up to the nearest eyeball, disclose her congruence violation, and put Diego Landis and his unfit proposal behind her.
“Can we at least discuss going to the dance tonight?” Amber’s whine was at full throttle.
The rest of the 60s ate their lunches in relative quiet while she and Connor argued about the fitness of dances. Connor was of the opinion that dances, like dating, were a minefield of score peril and, therefore, to be avoided at all costs. But Amber argued that avoiding social interaction was itself unfit. As reference, she shot an unsubtle sideways glance toward Deon, the patron saint of social isolation. Deon either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge it. Eventually, the others chimed in with their opinions. Imani stayed out of it.
In the far corner of the lunchroom, by the teachers’ lounge, Diego sat at a table of unscored. There was a clear line of sight between him and Imani, and Imani repeatedly stole glances at him, but he never looked over.
Amber and Connor’s debate devolved into a verbal slugfest over the hazards of dating in general, a subject much written about and on which Imani had already made up her mind.
Though it was possible, in theory, to date someone in your own score gang without committing fitness violations, such successes were rare. Dating threatened all of the five elements of fitness: peer group, because there was always the risk that one of you would ascend or descend; impulse control, because you had to keep your hands off each other at least some of the time; congruity, because physical desire often conflicted with one’s morals; diligence, because it was easy to be distracted by sexual longing at the expense of other priorities, like homework; and rapport, because when you were in the throes of affection, it was common to neglect your other gang members entirely.
Despite all of these hazards, Imani had dated exactly one time. It was sophomore year, and she and her fellow 90 Malachi Beene had been gang buddies for six months. He began flirting with her at lunch, and they commenced what they both agreed would be a score-positive relationship that would avoid all of the well-known hazards.
Then one Friday night at a dance, they’d ended up in a blind spot in the gym behind some risers. The space was already filled with lowbies making out, and Imani had meant to resist. But Malachi, taking her silence for acquiescence, plastered his mouth over hers while putting one hand down the back of her jeans and the other one up her shirt. As she pushed him off, he whispered proclamations of physical need so explicit they seemed, to Imani, almost medical. But when he realized she was beyond persuasion, not to mention strong enough to fend him off, he apologized in such a heartfelt way—even thanking her for neutralizing his most unfit tendencies—that she’d forgiven him immediately.
Four days later, their new scores were posted.
LeMonde, Imani: 93
Beene, Malachi: 71
The space behind the bleachers hadn’t been a blind spot after all. The school had recently convinced Score Corp to spring for an additional eyeball, which hung between two basketball championship banners.
Imani made three decisions that Tuesday: (1) it was over between her and Malachi; (2) that would be her last dance; and (3) she would never date again.
Amber and Connor’s debate went nowhere, and, after a while, they resorted to mere repetition of the same themes. When both of them paused for a breather, Deon, fulfilling his quota of unsettling non sequiturs for the day, said: “And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed?”
The gang fell into a stunned silence. Then Amber tented her hands over her nose and said: “Oh my God, you are such a freak.” The eyeball wouldn’t detect her words, but that didn’t mean she’d get away with it.
“Deon,” Imani said, “is that a quote from something? Like a book, maybe?”
“Yup,” he said.
Amber and Connor resumed their debate, and Deon returned to his sandwich, feeling no need to te
ll Imani which book the quote was from.
When study period finally arrived, Imani lingered at her locker. The first bell rang, clearing the hallway of most of its students. Note in hand, she glanced up at the nearest eyeball and started to sweat. The late bell rang, and she was alone at last. Imani took a deep breath and prepared to begin her confession. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Carol through the open door of his classroom. It was a free period for him, and he sat with his feet up on his desk, reading his banged-up tablet while eating potato chips. She shoved the note back in her pocket, wandered over to his doorway, and stood there until he noticed her.
“Imani,” he said. “Aren’t you going to be late for class?”
“I have study period.”
He extended his bag of chips toward her.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Did you want to speak to me?” he asked. “Did I forget something in class?”
Mr. Carol routinely forgot things in class, specifically the subject matter he was supposed to be teaching.
“No,” Imani said. “I just …”
He waved her in while taking his feet off his desk. “Have a seat. You’re making me nervous.”
Imani glanced back at the eyeball, thought about returning to it, then decided to join Mr. Carol instead. She sat on one of the desks in the circle and let her legs dangle off the edge.
“You seemed preoccupied in class today,” he said. “Anything wrong?”
“Nope,” she said.
Behind Mr. Carol an eyeball dangled, inches from the top of the American flag.
“Good,” he said. “Because I rely on you and Diego in that class, so don’t flake out on me. It’s depressing enough being a teacher in this day and age. Having a few students with brain cells left is the only thing that keeps me going. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You look pale.”
“Do I?” Her hand went to her cheek.
He nodded. “It’s not this final paper, is it? Clarissa’s brought in a note from her parents. I’m not caving, by the way. I’ve done my research. It is in no way score negative.”
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