As he finishes speaking, the door opens again and old Mrs. Parker enters, a stack of envelopes in her hands. One by one, she hands them to the professor, and he then reads the name on the front.
Nearly all the results have been handed out when I finally hear him say, “Denny Younger.”
I shoot out of my seat and take the steps two at a time. I know I’m not going to like what’s inside that envelope but I want to get it over with.
After Mrs. Parker confirms I’ve been given the correct results, I exit the room. I’m sorely temped to open the envelope in the hallway, but too many other students are already doing that and I’d rather express my anger privately.
I leave the school grounds and don’t stop until I reach my house. A part of me is worried that my father has decided to stay home today to learn my results as soon as possible, but the house is thankfully empty.
I stand at the kitchen table, envelope in hand, hesitating before I rip open the top. I’m hovering at the demarcation point of when my childhood ends and the rest of my life begins. Given the importance of the moment, I decide to use a knife to slice a clean cut through the flap. The envelope contains a single sheet of paper.
Why would there be more? I think. It doesn’t take a thick sheath of documents to tell me when to report to the plant.
The embossed symbol centered at the top and highlighted with gold ink surprises me. It’s not from my father’s power plant. In fact, I don’t recognize it at all. Printed below this are a few lines of black type:
Report to Building J at the New Cardiff Civic Testing Center at 2 p.m. this afternoon. Share this with no one and bring your belongings with you.
I turn the paper over but the other side is blank.
Is this a joke?
One of the associate professors carefully went over all the possible results we might receive, but he never mentioned this option.
I stuff the message back into the envelope and turn for the door. There must be someone at the school who can tell me what this is all about. But as I put my hand on the doorknob, I pause.
Share this with no one. Does that include the school administration?
I pull the letter out again and reread it. It’s very clear. No one. I wonder for a moment if there’s a problem with my test and I need to retake it. But why am I being told to bring my belongings?
What finally keeps me from returning to the school is my realization that this can’t possibly have anything to do with a job at the power plant. The last thing I want to do is blow an opportunity by not honoring the letter’s request.
I rush to my room, grab my bag, and shove in the things I’ve been planning to take with me when I run away. Worse-case scenario, the trip to the testing center delays my departure by an hour or two. Best case? Who knows?
Bag over my shoulder, I retrieve my N-CAT pass and leave the house for the last time.
At the tram stop, I run into a classmate named Nancy Cooper who’s waiting there with her mother.
“Off to your assignment already?” she asks with a glance at my bag.
I almost say yes, but the words share with no one flash in my mind again, so I tell her, “Uh, going to visit my aunt…before I start. She’s been ill.” I do have an aunt who lives in New Cardiff, but I haven’t seen her in years and have no idea what her health status is.
“That’s very kind of you,” Helen’s mom says.
“So, what did you get?” Helen asks.
I give her the answer everyone is likely expecting. “There’s a management trainee opening at the power plant. I’ve been assigned there. What about you?”
“Accounting assistant,” she says happily. “I’ll be working at Lord Carlson’s estate in Coventry.”
“Wow, that’s great. I hear it’s beautiful there.” Coventry is only an hour up the coast but, like with most places other than the Shallows, I have never been there.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Is that where you’re headed?” I ask, hoping so.
“Oh, no. I don’t start until next week.”
“We’re heading downtown to find Helen some work clothes,” her mother says. “Have to look the part.”
Helen rolls her eyes so only I see, and then smiles.
I smile back, but inside I’m cringing. As I feared, we’ll be traveling together, at least as far as the northwest terminal at Simi Station. I’m saved from further conversation by the arrival of our tram. I take my time getting on, pretending there’s something in my bag I need to check. Once I see Helen and her mother take seats in the forward-most carriage, I hop on in back and drop down next to an old woman who’s fast asleep.
It takes twenty-five minutes to reach Simi station. When I disembark, I check to make sure Helen and her mother have stayed on board, and am relieved to see them still in their seats.
I wait until the train has left and then find the tunnel that takes me down to the ocean line. This is a straight shot south from Simi Station, across the San Fernando Valley, and through the mountains to the Coastal District.
I arrive at the testing center a whole hour before my appointment. Though this is now my second time here, it seems like a completely different place. Before, there were hordes of students being led to whichever building they’d been assigned. Now there isn’t a soul around except me.
I walk toward Building J, thinking if I show up early, maybe the person I’m supposed to meet will already be there and I’ll be able to find out what the big mystery is. But when I reach the building, the door’s locked and no one answers when I knock.
The wait feels like the longest hour of my life. When two p.m. finally approaches, I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against so I won’t look lazy or disinterested. I have no idea who I’m meeting, but it seems smart to give the best impression possible. I look back and forth along the walkway as the final minutes tick off, but see no one. It’s as if the whole facility is deserted.
Maybe it is a joke, I think, and someone switched my real results with the letter I received. If so, I don’t feel much like laughing.
But as my watch changes from 1:59 to 2:00, the door to Building J opens.
I twist around and find a middle-aged, bald man wearing a dark blue suit standing in the entryway.
“Mr. Younger?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. That’s me.”
“This way, please.”
He gestures inside and waits for me to enter first.
CHAPTER THREE
THE INTERIOR OF Building J looks exactly like that of the building where I took the test the previous week—only the rows of tables are missing. In their place is a single table set up in the center of the room with one chair on one side and three on the other, two of which are already occupied.
“Follow me, please,” the bald man says, leading me to the table.
He gestures to the chair sitting by itself, and waits for me to take it before lowering himself into the empty one on the other side. His companions are a man and a woman, both older than the bald man by at least a decade. The second man wears a gray suit, while the woman is in an elegant but businesslike dress. They all must be Fours at the very least, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were Threes or even Twos. Four is the highest caste I’ve ever talked to and that was only once, so the three upper-caste people in front of me are more than enough to send a tremor through my hands.
Several seconds pass without anyone saying a word. All three faces tell me nothing, displaying the very definition of neutral. I wonder if they’re waiting for me to speak. If so, they’re out of luck because I have no idea what to say.
Finally, the woman sets a thin sheath on the table, unties the string holding it closed, and pulls a booklet from inside.
A test booklet.
For a moment, I think it’s the one I filled out, but I then realize the color of the printed ink on the front is different. She pulls a pen from her pocket, and places it and the test booklet in front of me.
“You hav
e sixty minutes,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound as contrite as possible. “I don’t understand. What’s going on here?”
“I would think that’s obvious.”
“There must be a mistake. I took my test last week.” As I’ve been taught to do with those in castes above me, I make the tone of my voice clear that if there’s a mistake, it’s most likely mine.
“And you will take this one today.” She leans back. “You have fifty-nine minutes. I suggest you begin.”
I want to ask if there was a problem with my previous exam, but I’ve already pushed more than I should, so I pick up the pen and open the booklet.
At first I’m a bit unnerved, not only by the nature of the test but also by the fact the woman and her colleagues remain in their chairs, watching me. But as I read the questions, I soon forget I’m not alone.
Nearly three quarters of the test consists of the same odd questions that were at the end of the last test. The rest is divided between practical knowledge and history. There are no mathematical questions. No language questions. And no questions even remotely connected to power-plant maintenance.
I finish with six minutes to spare.
As I close the booklet and set my pen down, the woman says, “Are you sure you don’t want to use the remaining time to check your answers?”
I’ve already checked my answers, so I say, “Thank you, but no. I’m done.”
“Very well, then. Please step outside.”
I reach down to pick up my bag.
“Leave it and wait outside the door,” she says. “We’ll retrieve you when we’re ready.”
I walk out of the building, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Of all the stories I’ve heard about the transition from school to an adult trade, none has included a second test. And yet, here I am.
A warm breeze blows between the buildings as I exit, bringing with it the smell of the ocean and a memory of sand slipping through my toes while walking on a beach. Closing my eyes, I can see my sister and me holding my mother’s hands as she leads us into the crowded section of the beach reserved for Sevens and below. Ellie and I used to love visiting the ocean. She’d help me dig in the sand and build forts that the waves would eventually wash away. We’d laugh and run and get wet and…
I know we didn’t always get along, but the memories of the times we fought are hazy now, and it’s the good that’s clear.
I miss her. So very much. It was somehow always easier being a lowly Eight with her around.
As my eyes begin to water, the door opens and the bald man beckons me in again. This time, he doesn’t accompany me all the way to the table. The only one still sitting there is the woman, and on the table in front of her sits my test booklet.
I take my seat, not sure if I should be scared or excited, then notice my bag is gone. “My things.”
“Don’t worry about them,” she says.
“But—”
“Don’t waste my time on unimportant matters.” The tone of her voice is more than enough to convince me to drop the subject.
She taps my exam. “Congratulations, Mr. Younger. You did very well.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve passed.”
“Passed?” For the last two years, it’s been hammered into our heads that the test is not a pass/fail exercise. It’s a diagnostic tool to determine where we can best serve the empire.
“After consultation with my colleagues, it’s been decided that we will offer you the choice.” She shoots a quick glance past me toward where the bald man is standing, and I get the impression that whatever was decided was not unanimous. Before I can ask her what I’m choosing, she says, “Here is what you need to know. If you had not been brought to our attention, and had we not then intervened, your original exam results would have placed you as an assistant librarian in the central branch of the New Cardiff library. This is one of your choices.”
This revelation is stunning. I’ve never even allowed myself to hope for such a position. “What’s the other?”
“A job considerably better than that, and one I can guarantee you’ll never regret.” Again she taps my exam. “One for which you’re apparently well suited.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you for now.”
“But how am I supposed to decide?”
“That’s up to you. But I need your answer now.”
“Now?”
“I can give you a few minutes, but that’s all.”
My gaze drifts to the wall far behind her. On the one hand, if I say no, I’ll be assigned to work in the central library, surrounded by the books I love so much. And on the other, an unknown job I’ve been personally selected for. The library makes the most sense, but I can’t deny the pull of this mysterious path.
“Is the job here in New Cardiff?”
Her lips curl in a faint smile. “Though I can’t tell you exactly where, I can say that if you choose to join us, you will leave your old life behind and never see your family or friends again.”
Words my sister said when she was sick suddenly come back to me. There’s got to be more than this. There’s got to be something better. Promise me you’ll try to find it.
“Your job,” I say. “I choose yours.”
“Well, I can’t deny that I’m surprised.” She looks past me again. “You were right.” When she looks at me again, she says, “Welcome to the institute.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“MR. YOUNGER, IF you could please come this way,” the bald man says.
He leads me outside and down the pathway between the test buildings. The area is no longer unoccupied. At least a dozen men in dark suits are spread evenly along the sidewalk, each holding a powerful-looking gun.
“They’re here for our protection,” my escort says, no doubt noticing my wary look.
“From what?”
The only answer I get is a smile and another “This way.”
We round the corner of Building L and enter a smaller structure that has no identifier above the door. Waiting inside are a man and two women.
“Lady Williams would like to depart in twenty minutes,” my escort tells them.
The trio studies me for a moment. Though the women aren’t identical, they look like sisters. The man is older than they are. Mid-thirties, maybe. From the slightly Asiatic look of his eyes, I wonder if he traces his ancestors back to the Hong Kong province.
The older of the two women turns to my escort and says, “No problem, Sir Gregory. We’ll be done by then.”
Sir Gregory? The man escorting me is a Three and has been knighted by the king. Not only that, he called the woman Lady Williams, which means she’s at least a Three, if not higher. I’m shocked, even more so by the fact Sir Gregory doesn’t exude the sense of entitlement I expect from those in his position.
“You’re what? Six feet?” the male of the trio asks.
“Um, just over,” I stammer.
He pulls out a sizing tape and holds it up to various parts of my body, pausing between measurements to enter his findings into a palm-size notebook.
“And, let’s see…thirteen stones.”
“Twelve and a half.”
“Ah, right. Your clothes don’t do you any favors,” he says, then orders, “Off with them.”
One of the women starts pulling my shirt over my head, while the other goes to work on my pants.
I try to push their hands away as I say, “What are you doing?”
“You can’t travel in these,” the woman with her hands on my pants says. “You aren’t a commoner anymore.” Her hands move to my belt, but then she stops and looks at me again. “May I?”
I barely get an “uh” out before she yanks my pants down to my ankles, and soon I’m standing there only in my underpants and socks. Apparently, the man left the room while I was being stripped down, because he now walks back in carrying several items of clothing.
“Your undergarments will have to go, too,” he says.
He tosses me an undershirt, a pair of black underwear, and matching black socks. As I catch them, I’m captivated by how soft the fabric is.
“Come on,” the man says. “On with them.”
“But…” I say, glancing at the women.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Samantha, Rebecca, would you turn around so Adonis here doesn’t expose you to his greatness?”
“He’s just a kid, Leo,” the older one says. “Ease up on him.”
Both women turn away.
I stare at Leo.
“What?” he asks. “You’re kidding, right? Fine.”
He turns, too, and I quickly change into my new underpants. They’re so comfortable it almost feels like I’m wearing nothing at all.
After I don the shirt, I say, “All right,” and then pull on my socks.
The other items Leo brought are a white shirt and a black suit, similar in cut to the one worn by Sir Gregory. These, too, are made of a much higher quality material than one would ever find in the clothes markets of the Los Angeles district.
Once I’m dressed, Leo has me sit on a waist-high stool, and Rebecca and Samantha spend several minutes rearranging my hair.
“A cut is what you really need,” Samantha says. “But we can do that when you arrive.”
They’re just finishing up when my escort returns.
“He’s all set, Sir Gregory,” Leo says.
“Excellent,” the older man says. “Come, Mr. Younger. We have little time.”
He takes me to the parking area next to the highway where four Hayden-Norris carriages are waiting.
I’ve been in carriages before—beat-up things my father borrowed from coworkers—and twice in funeral carriages provided by the mortuary. But none was manufactured by Hayden-Norris, which produces some of the most elegant and expensive carriages on the planet.
Sir Gregory leads me to the second one and opens the doors. “Inside, please.”
Rewinder Page 2