Scored (7 page)

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 tell 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.”

“Yeah, I know,” Imani said. “Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Always.”

“Well, I was just wondering. You know when you said we should feel free to collaborate on it?”

Mr. Carol nodded while popping a potato chip in his mouth.

“Did you mean that the scored should collaborate with the unscored?” she asked.

Mr. Carol swallowed. “Would you
like
to collaborate with an unscored?”

Imani shook her head. “I just didn’t know what you meant, that’s all. I want to make sure I do what you want.”

“I see. Imani, are you asking me to
assign
you to collaborate with an unscored?”

The eyeball was directly behind his head, so there was no way it could read his lips, something Imani was certain he knew. She could answer yes or no to his question without implicating herself in any way.

Mr. Carol put his bag of chips down, wiped his hands on his pants, and leaned forward. “Believe you me,” he said, “I would like nothing better than to order you to cross the scored-unscored divide to write these papers, but I’m pretty sure that would get me fired. There are places you can go. You know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“The library, for one,” he said. “Not the school library but the one on the Causeway. God bless your local librarians for keeping at least that public space free of spies. And there are other places too. Certain cafés, bars. Safe zones. I’m just putting it out there. You know, in case you
did
want to collaborate with an unscored, which, of course, I’m not assigning, but … well … you know what I’m saying.”

“Right.” Imani knew exactly what he was saying. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, and don’t be so quiet in class tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Shoot. Did I assign reading over the weekend?”

Imani shook her head.

“I really do have to get my act together, don’t I?” Mr. Carol picked up the bag of chips and offered her one again.

“No thanks,” she said.

When Imani left him, there were still forty minutes of study period remaining, plenty of time to make her confession. But as she paced the empty hallways beneath eyeball after eyeball, with the note in her pocket and her confession ready for airing, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was another way of looking at things.

THAT NIGHT, IMANI
told her parents she was going to the library to meet up with her new gang. It was only a five-minute bike ride, and as she rode beneath the eyeballs, she concluded that there was nothing incriminating about the journey.

The library itself was a different matter. Imani knew that the absence of eyeballs and the presence of unmonitored tablets were an open invitation to every lowbie who wanted to get away with something. They’d go there to download porn or make out in the stacks. It was a den of secret iniquity that even had its own code: “What happens at the library stays at the library.” Whether this code was actually followed, however, was doubtful. Most likely, the kids not committing flagrant fitness violations themselves could be found later reporting unfit activities
to the nearest eyeball in the hope of improving their own scores. Lowbies were notoriously treacherous.

Imani stood outside the entrance, her bike chained to the rack. There were no other bikes, just one scooter, and in the staff parking area, one small car. Imani had Diego’s note in her pocket, and there was an eyeball across the street—the one that would see her enter the library.
If
she entered. It wasn’t too late to change her mind. She could cross the street and make her confession right there.

Or she could hear Diego out.

Imani pushed the library doors open. Inside, it was shockingly quiet. Behind the curved main desk, a librarian stacked books, her silver hair pulled into a low ponytail. The rest of the empty room yawned in hollow, suffocated silence.

“Can I help you with something?” the librarian asked.

“Just here to browse,” Imani lied.

It was hotter than it should have been. The back of Imani’s neck dampened beneath the weight of her braid. She unzipped her coat and walked into the low-ceilinged room. Books and papers littered the tables, but there was not a soul in sight. Above a water fountain, an ancient clock ticked clunkily.

In the back, by the fire exit, a black leather jacket was slung over a chair, the only sign of other people. Imani moved toward it, carefully scanning for witnesses. The stacks to her right
appeared
empty, though she couldn’t be sure. There was a dance that night, so most likely everyone who would have been committing fitness violations at the library was committing
them in the remaining blind spots around the school gym. Diego must have known the library would be empty.

When Imani got to the table where the black jacket hung, she saw Diego a few feet away, leaning against the doorjamb of the fire exit. The door itself was propped open by a trash can, allowing fresh air in. Diego rested one foot on the opposite doorjamb while reading a small, yellowed paperback edition of
1984
.

Without taking his eyes off the book, he said: “You must really want it.” He wore a loose white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His bangs were pushed behind his ears, revealing, for the first time, his right eye.

“The scholarship, I mean.” He shook his hair free so that it fell back over half his face. Only then did he look at Imani. “You skipped the dance to be here.”

“I don’t go to dances.”

“Me neither. The music sucks.” He folded the page down in his book.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Imani said. “I think they have bookmarks at the front desk.”

“It’s my own copy,” he said. Then he stared at her with that one visible eye. “So.”

“So?” she asked.

“Should we go to the stacks?”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed. “I meant for
privacy
.”

Imani looked around. As far as she could see it was just the two of them, plus one old librarian, who didn’t know her.

Imani took off her coat and put it on the edge of the table. “Here’s fine.” She pulled out a chair and sat down, ensuring a sight line to the entrance.

As he walked past, Diego nearly brushed against her, then grabbed his black bag from a chair and dragged it across the table to the other end. He pulled out a curved state-of-the-art smart scroll, a massively expensive hookup.

“Nice tech,” Imani said.

“Stolen,” he said, then noting her expression added: “Kidding.”

“Funny.”

“All this tech is just a way station,” he said. “Before long, we’ll all have a chip in the brain. Actually, we won’t even need a brain. Score Corp will do our thinking for us.”

“Is that your thesis?”

He laughed, but to Imani it sounded joyless.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

Imani nodded.

“Why is this okay for you? How are you justifying it?”

“It was your idea.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got nothing to lose. I can hang out with the scored anytime I want. Not that I’d want to.”

“Don’t worry. We don’t want to hang out with you either.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because I want that scholarship,” she said. “Why do you think?”

“Well, you do have a reputation for self-destruction.”

“I have a reputation?”

“It’s a gossipy town,” he said.

“What are you, from the dark ages or something?” Imani said. “I don’t have a reputation. I have a score.”

“Hold on.” He snapped his scroll open, then raced his long fingers across it. “ ‘I don’t have a reputation. I have a score.’ Can I quote you?”

Imani pushed her chair back and stood up.

“Wait,” he said. “Before you storm out of here in protest, take this.”

Imani remained standing, one hand on her coat and both eyes on the door, while he pulled a sheet of paper from his bag and slid it toward her. It was neatly designed, like something you’d find in a textbook.