Fast-Tracked (2 page)

I couldn’t help but notice the greetings between our fathers seemed a bit stiff, as if they were forcing friendliness between two near strangers instead of two lifelong friends and colleagues. Our dads were both managers at the recycling plant. It meant they had a longer than average commute to work, but it was a well-paid and well-respected blue level position.

Our dinner was both a visual and delicious feast. We usually enjoyed a nice variety of foods at home, but somehow having it served on delicate little plates arranged like pieces of art made it taste even better. First there was a salad of mixed greens arranged to resemble a blossoming flower. It was followed by a split-pea soup with a star-shaped cream cheese drizzle and a variety of bread stacked in a spiral pattern. Then the main course arrived: roasted rabbit served with sweet potatoes and a steamed assortment of vegetables. The dish was arranged to look like a rabbit grazing in a field.

Unfortunately, Mr. Sumner – our tall, skinny history teacher who reminded me of a scarecrow – had taken the last available seat at our table. For some reason, the common main course of rabbit started him reminiscing about how once chicken was the meat of choice in our country. I had a hard time eating while he described the unclean habits of the bird compared to the hygiene of the rabbit. After that he continued on to more boring and less disgusting facts, like how a rabbit is all white meat and lower in fat than the chicken or the cow. Plus six pounds of rabbit meat can be produced on the same amount of feed and water it takes to produce one pound of beef.

Byron looked over with a smile in his eyes and tossed his head in the direction of the dance floor. I didn’t need any more prompting. I hastily excused myself and almost ran from the table. Camille watched us go, a pleading look on her face that begged, “Take me with you!” Looking back at her, I almost felt guilty as I wrapped my arms around Byron’s neck.
Almost.

“Thanks for the rescue,” I whispered in his ear.

“Rescue?
What are you talking about? Just to be clear, I was totally saving myself. If push came to shove, I would have tossed you back to the chicken lover, just so I could make a clean escape,” he chuckled back at me. “You’re just lucky he was satisfied with just Camille as his trapped, attentive audience.” He gave me a mischievous smile before twirling, dipping, and then giving me a brief but oh, so very sweet kiss.

“Ah, now I remember what first drew me to you: you’re such an adoring protective big brother,” I teased. Then I kissed him back, but my eye caught the scathing glare of Mr.
Levenson
. “Parental killjoy,” I groaned and resumed a more appropriate dancing distance from Byron.

Despite the periodic glares coming our way, we continued to dance right through to the end of dinner and most of the way through dessert. It was only when Byron noticed that it was my favorite – chocolate coated strawberries –
that
we returned to the table. Fortunately Mr. Sumner had wandered off to another table. By the looks of their expressions, he was retelling his chicken story.

I smiled as Byron slid one of his strawberries onto my plate. I picked it up and bit it. The juice tried to dribble down my chin and stain my dress, but I was prepared: I had a napkin ready to catch it.

“This may be the last night that many children ever get to enjoy the sweet taste of a strawberry – or any other fresh fruit for that matter,” Mr.
Levenson
interjected. “And that’s only assuming they even have any at their ‘end of assessment year’ feast.” I wondered if he was determined to destroy whatever enjoyment I had tonight.

“Charles, this is hardly the time or the place,” my dad warned in a stern voice that startled me. I hardly ever heard him sound cross at anyone.

Before a response came, Mrs.
Doulette
appeared at the table with a self-important smile playing across her lips. “Ah.
Mr. and Mrs.
Levenson
and Mr. and Mrs.
Scannell
.
How good it is to see all of you,” she raved in a tone that was somehow more nasal and snooty than usual. “I’d like you all to meet Senator
Nessorton
. He came all the way here from the Capitol, just to help us celebrate tonight.”

I knew she was full of it, but I smiled and did my best to look impressed. The politician was probably just making his rounds to all the assessment celebrations he could. He was just ensuring that people would remember his face and name the next time they voted. What better
way to make people like you than to have them associate
you with a night of celebration and joy. Still, I gave him a warm smile. It didn’t matter whether I liked him or not: being a politician meant he was a gold level, a fast-tracker. So I needed to show him the proper respect.

As soon as the Senator was out of earshot, Mr.
Levenson
leaned in close to me. “That, right there, is one of our biggest problems,” he grumbled as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “What chance does a working class student have of becoming gold? None, I tell you.” He looked at me expectantly, like he was waiting for me to agree or argue with him.

He had a point. Students from worker-level families lived in worker-level areas and, as a result, went to school with other worker-level children. They were usually taught by teachers who didn’t want to be there. The only reason anyone ever taught at a worker-level school was because of a demotion due to poor performance, or because it was their very first assignment, and they were still waiting for a better location to open up. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best environment to encourage children to excel.

Plus, anyone who could afford it hired additional tutoring for their children – or at least tutored what they could by themselves. Having parents with up to six additional years of career training definitely gave the upper class children an advantage. Advocates for educational reform were quick to point out that it’s hard to concentrate on learning when hunger occupies your thoughts. By law, no one under eighteen could have their rations reduced or removed, but that didn’t mean that their parents were above taking it when their rations weren’t enough.

So yeah, I got it: the system could be a self-propagating nightmare for anyone stuck in the worker-class. But short of pulling the kids away from their families and raising them as orphans, shielded from their parents’ ignorance, what could really be done about it? And even if that was done, would there really be that much of a difference? There was still a debate over nature versus nurture, and many experts believed that intelligence and skill have too much of a genetic influence to justify the expense of an educational relocation. Besides, no matter what, there would always be a need for a working class; the economic crash had shown us all that.

But I didn’t say any of that to Mr.
Levenson
. Instead, I stared blankly back at him, opened my mouth and said, “Well… uh...”

Fortunately, he provided his own answer and relieved me from my suffering. “Well, I’ll tell you, a working-class student has a better chance –” I never heard the rest of what Mr.
Levenson
had to say, because my dad grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on, Charles. You and I are going home,” my dad growled in a tone that dared anyone to defy him. Not that Mr.
Levenson
really could. My dad was a good head taller and free of the pot belly that Mr.
Levenson
sported. Fortunately for me, physically Byron took after his mother’s side of the family.
“Ladies.
Kids.
Please stay and enjoy your night. We’ll see you all when you get home.” I watched as my dad gave us a polite nod with his head, turned, and led Mr.
Levenson
out of the room.
Was Byron’s dad drunk? I don’t remember seeing him drink that much, but what other reason could there be for my dad taking him home?

I gave Byron a confused look. He just grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor. Finally, he mumbled, “He’s been under a lot of stress recently. I think the excitement of our graduation was a bit too much on top of it all.” I hated seeing the pained and embarrassed expression on Byron’s face.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. Having Mr.
Levenson
upset could only worry and bother Byron. So if there was anything I could do about it, I would.

“Nah.
I can hardly get him to talk about it. Apparently some bigwig at work has been riding him pretty hard. It’s just a matter of time until it blows over, but in the meantime, the jerk is making my dad feel like a lowly orange worker. I think that’s why he’s been harping on the conditions of the working class so much.” Byron was trying to act like it didn’t bother him, but I could feel his muscles tense as he talked about it.

Unable to say or do anything to help him, I just leaned my head on his chest and squeezed him tight against me. I felt his muscles relax as his body received my silent message that I would always be there for him.

Chapter 2

By the time I woke the next day, it was almost lunchtime. Byron and I danced until the last song of the night, without stopping. So I was grateful that my mother decided to let me sleep in. Plus she actually did all of my Saturday chores for me. I tried to thank her, but she just waved me away with tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t need to say anything else.

While the end of the assessment testing was treated as a time of celebration, it was always lined with unspoken fear and dread. Yes, I had always been a good student and yes, I felt confident that I had performed well on all of my tests, but there was always the possibility that I hadn’t done as well as I thought. Right up until the moment I opened the letter, there was a possibility that I could have scored low enough to fall into a working-class level.

It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. When I was ten it had happened to the Swanson family who lived one row over. Their son had always been a bit of a goof-off, but he was still a bright kid. So no one ever really worried about him. But then Rebuilding Day arrived. I was riding my bike down his row when I heard his mother begin to wail.

Soon nearby neighbors emerged to see what the commotion was. When one rang the doorbell, Mrs. Swanson emerged sobbing, “No, it can’t be. It’s not possible. Not my son. Not my son!” Other mothers in the neighborhood did their best to comfort her.

I could see Mr. Swanson in the living room window pacing back and forth angrily. He looked like he wanted to scream at someone, but didn’t know who.

I parked my bike and slowly wiggled my way through the crowd. I was worried about
Jace
. He had always been nice to the neighborhood kids, including me. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. I found him sitting in his kitchen. Both his elbows rested on his knees as he held up his drooped head. I didn’t know what to say, so I just rested my small hand on his shoulder.

I remember thinking how old he suddenly seemed as he briefly looked up at me and said, “I just didn’t think it could happen. Not to me.” He dropped his head back down and I felt him silently cry.

I watched a big fat tear drop from his chin and splash onto the iridescent envelope lying on the floor. I picked it up and flipped it over. Now I understood why everyone was so upset. Still folded inside the envelope was a red letter.

Jace
had scored low enough to be demoted to the working-class. Granted it was the highest level of the working-class, but it might as well been the lowest as far everyone he once knew was concerned. The difference between a fifty-ninth and a sixtieth percent score was a universe in distance. Socialization and marriage between levels was rare, but it was allowed, except for one distinct division that could never be crossed. Anyone of fifty-nine percent or lower could not marry anyone higher than that. And unofficially it was scandalous for anyone above the sixtieth percent tile to ever get caught socializing with anyone below.

So it was no surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Swanson relocated as soon as it was possible. In my younger years I deluded myself into believing they moved to be closer to him. Now that I was older, I had to admit the truth to myself. They moved to escape the humiliation and shame associated with their son’s failure. At least in another state they could focus their attention on their remaining son’s education, and pretend that
Jace
had never existed.

I knew that my mom’s watery eyes tried to hide her fear of me sharing
Jace’s
fate. When I thought of
Jace
I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents’ response would be the same. Due to Mother Nature’s decision, I was an only child. Without a replacement, would my parents be as quick to forget me?

I didn’t want to think about such depressing things. So I was relieved when my tablet chirped. Byron’s name appeared on the screen. I darted up to my bedroom for some privacy.

Byron’s face greeted me the moment I touched the screen. “Are your
parents
weirding
you out as much as mine are?” he grumbled.

“Weird?
No
. Not a bit. My mom always does my chores, lets me sleep in and almost cries over me every weekend,” I prattled as I tried to straighten my hair. I knew I must have terrible bed-head right now. So much for subtlety: Byron guffawed at me.

“Hurry up and shower; I’m taking you and Camille out to lunch,” he generously offered.