Rewinder (2 page)

He nods to himself. “When do the results come in?”

My wishful thought that maybe the ice has finally broken vanishes as I realize the true meaning of his question. What he really wants to ask is, when am I moving out and relieving him of his parental duties? “Four days,” I say, trying not to let my scorn show.

“Monday, then.”

“Uh-huh.”

He finishes cleaning his bowl, puts it on the rack to dry, and leaves without another word.

I wonder what conversations are like in the homes of the other test takers. I imagine nervous excitement, planning, and maybe even a little dreaming as parents hope their child might be able to achieve more than they did. Something my mother would be doing if she were still here.

I decide then and there that if I’m assigned to a position even remotely connected to the power plant where my father works, I’ll run away. I don’t care if it means I have to become a casteless vagabond. The drop to the bottom of society will be worth not having to ever see him again.

Suddenly having no desire to finish my stew, I toss it in the trash, wash out my bowl, and retreat to the sanctuary of my room.

__________

S
CHOOL IS STILL
held on Friday and Saturday, but since the test has been taken, there’s little for us to do but help our professor prepare her classrooms for her next group of students.

Like on the trip home from the testing facility, everyone wants to talk about the exam. Unfortunately, the conversation I had with my father has soured me on the topic. If fate is as cruel as I’ve been brought up to believe, I’ll be assigned to the power plant, so I spend my time thinking about where I’ll escape to. A large city would probably be the best idea. New Cardiff, for example, but since we live just within the city’s boundaries, it’s a little too close for me. San Francisco to the north would work or even all the way up to Georgetown, but east seems like a better bet. St. Louis, perhaps, or Chicago, or even as far as the city of New York.

Once I get wherever it is I go, I’ll find work that’ll earn me enough to survive. That’s all I need, I tell myself. Just enough so I can afford food and a place to stay.

Sunday, I go to church as I always do. I’m not particularly religious, but after my mother died, my father stopped going. So it’s a few hours on my only day off that I don’t have to spend cleaning our home while he checks everything I do.

When Monday finally arrives, I’ve pretty much settled on Chicago as my initial destination. If I don’t like it there, I can continue east to the Atlantic coast. What it gives me is a starting point I can hold on to for now.

There are thirty-two students in my group. My assigned spot in our classroom is in the third row, off to the side. When I walk in for my last day ever of school, the room is already half full. This is unusual. We still have thirty minutes until the start of class. Typically, most students arrive a few minutes before the top of the hour, but of course this is not a typical day.

Professor Garner walks in right at eight o’clock and takes his place behind his desk.

After shuffling through some papers, he looks up and says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Professor,” we reply in well-practiced unison.

“A big day,” he says, as if we don’t already know that. “I’m sure you’re all wondering about your results.”

A few of the other students nod as he looks around, but most of us are too nervous to move.

“You’ll be happy to know they arrived thirty minutes ago and will be brought out shortly.”

A murmur of excitement runs through the room. I don’t partake in this, either.

The professor raps the top of his desk with the stone he always keeps there. “This may be your last day with me but I will not tolerate interruptions.”

Once the room quiets down, he says, “Before your results are handed out, I’d like to take a few minutes to express my thoughts on your time here and how you may use it in the future.”

If not for the earlier admonishment, his announcement probably would’ve been met by a collective groan. As it is, shoulders sag and jawlines tense, but all stay quiet.

The few minutes he promised for his lecture has so far turned out to be nearly an hour of self-indulgence. Somewhere around “…discipline, such as you’ve learned here, will be invaluable to…” I tune out and turn my thoughts back to plans on how best to leave town.

I’ll go home right away, where I’ll grab whatever I need, and leave before my father returns from work. After that, a tram to the Los Angeles district in the center of New Cardiff, where I can buy a third-class ticket on a train heading east with the money I’ve been saving in an envelope under my desk. Not sure how far that will get me, but it’s a start.

I’m deep in these thoughts when I realize the professor has stopped talking and is walking toward the door. He pulls it open and says, “We’re ready,” to someone outside.

Around me, others shuffle in their chairs as they pull themselves from their own daydreams.

The professor returns to the desk and says, “Mrs. Parker is fetching your results now. When I call your name, you will come down. Once you’ve received your envelope, you are dismissed. Please don’t open your results in the classroom, as this might interfere with others coming down to get theirs.” He pauses. “Finally, I want to finish by saying it’s been a privilege to instruct you. I wish you all good health and productive lives in the years ahead.”

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

T
HE 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 have 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.”