Noology (9 page)

I let out a gut-wrenching groan of
frustration, and shove Tate towards his prize.

“Fine, you win this time, but it’s only
because you are studying so much for your SMART’s. Normally, I could take you
any day,” I reply with self-assured confidence.

“Avey! Tate! Are you ready for dinner?”
my mother beckons from below. Caught up in the dispute over our sleeping
arrangements, I totally forgot where we currently are. My family has been
waiting on us for almost a half-hour.

“We will be down in a second,” I shout
back. “Quick, Tate. I will change in the bathroom and you can stay in here. I
will meet you downstairs in a few.”

I don’t bother waiting for a response,
and scurry down the hallway to the gaping bathroom door. With soldier-like
efficiency, I strip down to my underwear and pull on my nicest crimson
crew-neck sweater and dun corduroy slacks. Prying the door open again, I
shuffle downstairs to rejoin the rest of the household.

“Oh, you look wonderful dear,” my mother
fusses. “That sweater really complements your beautiful blue eyes.”

I evaluate her full face, wrinkling with
years of beaming and undisguised worry. It’s a bizarre phenomenon: to be able
to gauge what you will look like in the distant future from the face of
another. Since the standardization of human physical forms, it has become
possible to interact with a carbon copy of yourself, save the distinct eyes, on
a daily basis. At first, the concept is highly unsettling and hair-raising, but
there is something comforting in knowing that people judge you by the fluidity
of your thoughts rather than the alignment of your corporeal features. In this
physically homogenous nation, the eyes truly become the windows to one’s soul,
since the irises and the mind are the sole distinctions in a person’s
construction.

“Thanks mom,” I reply with sincerity. I
spend so much time with Tate that I rarely receive any complements on my style
choices. It’s not like we have much freedom in that respect anyways; years of
exposure to pests and the elements have ravaged most of the clothing that
remained after the collapse, and what is left is a sparse collection of
mismatched socks and frayed denim jeans.

“Let’s go see your father.” She steers me
down the corridor to the kitchen where everyone has congregated around the cold
granite countertop.

“Dad!” I exclaim, sprinting across the
tile and throwing myself into his waiting arms.

“How’s my baby girl?” he softly murmurs
into my untamed mane, clutching me close to his chest. “I got off work early at
the hospital to come meet my girls for dinner.”

“I’ve missed you so much!” I admit,
fighting to suppress a fountain of joyful tears. We finally separate, and he
casts a critical eye over my frame. “You look gorgeous as ever, my turtledove.
Just like your mother.”

Everyone chuckles at this last remark,
rendered comical by its obvious nature. Just then, Tate surreptitiously slides
into the room, one hand buried in his hair to mask his insecurity. I size up
his wardrobe: sleek beige cargos, a heather gray sweater, and a navy blazer
with scrappily mended patches (he must have sewn them by hand). Catching his
eye, I smile deviously and he scowls in unspoken warning.

“Hey Tate!” I practically shout, ignoring
the quick frown of hatred that flashes across his face. It’s for his own good.

“Tate, my boy,” father booms, clapping
him on the shoulder with a firm grip. “How are you? How’s school?”

“I’m good. School is fine. Just studying
for my SMART’s,” Tate nervously mutters.

“You know what we used to call the
SMART’s? Some Monkey’s Absolutely Ridiculous Time-waster.” My father roars with
laughter, and Tate visibly relaxes, even managing a small grin.

It’s a matter of minutes before the two
are thick as thieves once again, and Rian joins in their conversation. Tate
simply needed to confirm that my family still considered him a second son
before he loosened into his typical happy-go-lucky self.

The three men head for the dining room,
teasing one another like the immature teenagers they think they still are. This
leaves Amy, my mother, and I to carry the humble feast to the rustic maple
table. I attempt to juggle a glass pitcher of transparent water, a ceramic dish
of crisp buttery lettuce leaves dusted with pepper, and coarse wheat rolls
shrouded in an unraveling cerulean dish rag.

“Let me take that,” Amy offers, reaching
for the jug as she balances a tray of pristine fresh fruit. It is a palette of
vibrant flushing reds, blazing oranges, mellow blues, and sunny yellows.

“Thanks,” I mumble, trying hard not to
drool as I devour the produce with my hungry eyes. Amy follows my gaze, and
cracks a smile for the first time all evening as she notes my obvious delight.

“I thought I should bring a small
contribution to our dinner since your parents have kindly allowed me to stay
for the week.”

“Amy, how did you…?” I blurt,
flabbergasted.

“It is no big deal. My father has some
connections with the local farmers. They brought us the cream of their crop
this week.” My opinion of her soars as I struggle against my carnal instincts
to greedily cram the plump berries down my throat like a starved animal.

We slip into the dining room, and all
conversations dwindle as the occupants turn to stare at Amy. Or rather the
luscious bounty she bears. My father tries to pick up his discussion with Tate
and Rian, but the proximity of such a succulent treat has overridden all
cerebral function with primitive urges to tear into the buffet.

Everyone slides into one of the
mismatched chairs, scavenged from the remnants of a myriad of dining sets
throughout the area. I select the regal cherry-stained seat with ornate scrollwork
and intricate carvings. It is blemished by scars, but in its youth it was a
sophisticate’s resting place and this distinction transcends the afflictions of
age. We eagerly await the signal to commence our meal, and look to my father
for guidance.

“I just want to quickly address the group
and express my gratitude that you have all taken the time to visit. I am
blessed to be surrounded by such intellectual yet warm friends and I savor each
minute we spend together. Thank you to Amy for her consideration in bringing
such a delightful gift for us to share in. Bon appétit!”

After a moment’s hesitation, I reach for
the dry salad just as Tate decides to do the same. Our hands brush, and he
withdraws. “Ladies first.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” I parry.

We exchange a brief grin, and I heap a
small mound of withered lettuce upon my mauve plate before passing the bowl to
Tate on my right. My mother produces the platter of scrumptious fruits on my
left, and I am unable to decide where to begin. I grab a firm ruby apple, and
am about to settle for a perfectly spherical orange when I observe the tiny
blue globes rolling across the plate.

“What are these?” I ask, pinching one
between my thumb and index finger.

“Blueberries,” Amy succinctly replies.
“Have you ever tried them? They are my favorite fruit. I used to eat handfuls
as a child.”

“Not a very creative name,” I muse,
popping the little ball into my mouth. I pierce the skin, and am shocked by a
tart rush of juices. Notes of saccharine sweetness meld with sharp acidity to
conduct a symphony of flavors across my receptive taste buds. A moan of
gratification creeps through my lips, and I open my eyes to see everyone
absorbed in monitoring my sensory journey. A hot flush migrates to my cheeks as
I become aware of my surroundings, and I turn to see Tate stifling a grin in
his palm. I recover enough to whisper, “Yeah. They’re good.”

This verdict fails to capture the
frenzied state of my palate as it tingles with pleasure, but I need to escape
the spotlight and regain my self-control. As I pass the dish to Tate, he pins me
under his arresting gaze and deliberately scoops up a handful of the indigo
berries and consumes them. He chews purposefully and meticulously, determined
to keep his expression static as he passes the fruit along the table. We fixate
on one another for one last minute before I return to my meal, and begin
chatting with my mother.

My hands are just starting to prune as I
wipe off the few soiled dishes and utensils with a damp terry cloth rag. I dip
the towel in the puddle of water remaining in the tall pitcher. Water is not
difficult to come by in Certet, but harnessing and directing it can be a
hassle. Some of the houses, ours included, still have functional plumbing
systems from before the collapse; however, without regular maintenance, the
reliability is questionable. We use the plumbing as little as possible in an
effort to preserve the archaic pipes and prevent a rupture. Most people rely on
the ancient rigging until it fails, at which point they turn to alternate means
of obtaining fresh water.

A rudimentary system of communal wells
has been implemented to transport water from the expansive lake on the southern
edge of the city. By constructing makeshift canals and troughs to divert the
water along a predetermined route, citizens have been able to provide water for
themselves. Without engineers and physicists, however, the path that the water
takes must follow a course decided by natural elements and formations such as
hillocks and valleys in order to employ gravity and other forces to move the water.
The placement of the wells is therefore arbitrarily decided by Mother Nature
rather than man, and the closest well to our house is half of a mile away. My
parents supplement the running water from the pipes with bucketfuls from the
well, hoping to prolong the operational lifespan of our plumbing, but as a
result we are prudent in our water consumption, letting no drop go to waste.

“Want some help?” I hear behind me. I
crane my neck to see Rian leaning against the doorframe.

“I think I have it under control, but I
wouldn’t mind some company,” I reply.

“So what’s new, Avey?” he questions.

“Not much. I had my midterms, obviously.
I think they went okay. It’s always just a matter of calming my nerves enough
that I can actually read the questions and demonstrate my understanding of the
material. How about you? Any more surprise exams?”

“One or two, but none from Professor
Jensen. I am actually getting quite concerned. I feel like he is getting ready
to drop the mother of all tests on us like an anvil, and it’s just a matter of
time. It’s pretty stressful actually.” I can see the traces of many sleepless
nights etched into bruise-colored bags beneath his cobalt eyes. “But I promised
myself I would take this break as an opportunity to recuperate and I refuse to
dwell on the anxieties of school while I am here.” He puts on a brave and
cheerful face, determined to disown his previously morose aura.

“And I shall do the same,” I announce
with rigid authority. Having cleansed the last of the plates, I swipe at Rian
with the sopping rag, leaving a dark splatter on his olive shirtsleeve. I wring
my hands in feigned innocence. “Oops.”

“You!” he yelps, wrestling me into a
headlock. We tussle for a bit until I demand a truce.

“Okay, okay!” I surrender as we both
pant, laboring to catch our breath. Suddenly Rian looks uncomfortable and
squirms in place.

“What is it Rian? I know there is
something on your mind, so just spit it out.”

“I was just thinking at dinner. About
you… and Tate. Is there anything, you know, going on between you two? Because
there was this moment after you tried the blueberry when you both got all
silent and were just staring at each other. And it was so… intense. The room
was almost buzzing with tension.”

I stare at my brother as if he has four
heads, and try to erase the utter astonishment from my face. “I… no! Of course not!
Me and Tate, we’re just friends. We just get each other in a way that no one
else does. I mean, I have known him forever. We were practically raised
together, but that’s it.” I cannot stop my heart from pounding and my cheeks
from burning as I fidget under my brother’s heavy appraisal.

He perks up and ceases wriggling almost
instantly, a furrowed brow replaced by an excited glow.

“Well, in that case I have something to
discuss with you. My friend, Cerebrus Lofton, asked about you. He’s a fourth
year tier one with intentions to hold a cabinet position in the future. We have
been close since he tested into tier one, and spend a lot of time together at
the university. We even try to coordinate our schedules so that we have classes
together; he’s taking a few fifth year courses already to challenge himself. He
knows I have a sister, and the other day he asked what you were like. I
basically told him you were an uglier girl version of me,” he teases.

“Anyways, he really wants to take you out
sometime. Cerebrus likes girls that challenge him with a quick wit and biting
sarcasm, so I think the two of you could be a good match. What do you think?”

I take a moment to process this new
information. A tier one wants to go out with me? Why? Couples rarely form
across tier boundaries, but I guess it isn’t unheard of that someone could ask.
Especially since Rian is an Ascender. And what kind of name is Cerebrus? How
conceited do you have to be to name your kid after the cerebrum, or cerebellum,
or whatever? I’m so busy with school, how could I possibly make time for
courtship?