Violet (2 page)

My father speaks of new starts and second
chances, but the truth is, he is not interested in starting over.
That’s what I want. All he wants is the old Violet. The Violet who
remembers my mother. I think that my mother’s memory has a lot to
do with my father’s reluctance to let me start over. If I had it my
way, we wouldn’t mention our old lives. We would just take the time
to cultivate our new ones. This is a problem for my father. If I
never regain my memory, he will be the only one who remembers my
mother. It will be like she died again; like we died together. I
recall the pictures on the mantle. I look at them every day, but
every day that nothing changes, my hope fades. I can see the
admiration on mine and my father’s faces as we gaze lovingly at my
mother. It’s one thing to know that you love someone. It’s another
thing entirely to actually love her. My father still feels that
love. He still feels the hole in his heart where she belongs. While
we are forever biologically linked, the truth is that I’m not his
daughter anymore. I’m just a stranger with Violet’s face.

As if he can read my thoughts (and in an attempt
to refute them), my father says, “You’re a lot like her, you
know.”

What he means is that I
used to be
like
her. The old Violet,
his
Violet, was like her. I don’t
respond. Anything I could say would only serve to reinforce what a
disappointment I am. I turn my attention once again to the
landscape, but I just can’t seem to enjoy it anymore. I sigh,
defeated. Again, it’s as if my father knows what I’m thinking when
he says, “I don’t mean just before the accident either, V. She was
always so self-assured, so determined. Once she set her mind to
something, she was going to do it. No matter what, she would find a
way to make it happen.”

Now I know that my father only sees her in me
because he wishes it. I can’t imagine what actions on my part he
could possibly allow his mind to warp into self-assuredness. I
don’t remember anything about myself. I’m not confident about any
aspect of my life. In fact, the opposite is true. My confidence is
constantly undermined by my injury. I am surprised to find myself a
little disappointed. I suppose I was hoping that he’d be able to
draw a true parallel between my mother and me. After all, it would
be nice to know that I share some quality, however small, with
someone my father is so affected by.

My father continues, “When you told me that you
were going to start your lessons, no matter what, I knew for sure.
You’re going to remember, Violet. The old you is still in there
somewhere.”

After such a long time trying to remember, I had
refused to compromise on the subject, it’s true. I had tried it his
way, and now I would try it mine. I told him that I was going to
begin my lessons, and essentially implied that there was nothing he
could do about it. I suppose that does take some determination.
Still, this link to my old self is tenuous at best. For now, I
think I’ll have to leave the hoping to my father. Luckily, I do not
have to respond. We have arrived.

I step out of our vehicle, and as my shoe meets
the curb, I look up. A large, dark stone building, the coldness of
this place does not match the beauty that surrounds it. The large
awning is adorned with jet black letters that read
Eligo
Academy
, and in smaller print beneath it,
Region
019.

My arrival goes unnoticed by most of the other
students, just as my presence has been mostly unnoticed since
moving here. This is not something that bothers me. I have a lot of
thoughts; when I am alone, I have ample time to think my thoughts
without interruption. I don’t have much patience for people my own
age.

As I step into the corridor, I note a very long
window in the stone. It takes up the entire right wall of the
hallway; there are only about six inches of stone near the ceiling,
and another six inches near the floor. The rest of the wall is made
of this translucent, semi-solid substance. This is very curious. As
I get closer, I realize what I am seeing. I read about this
material in one of my father’s scientific journals. The window is
made of a gel-like substance that is mostly solid, but cannot
shatter. It is a safety precaution. Ideally, this substance would
absorb the shock of any explosion from within the lab while
maintaining the structural integrity of the building. I am not sure
that it would do much for the people inside, though. I assume that
The Vox is more concerned with protecting monetary commodities than
student safety. Academic facilities are more difficult to replace
than students.

Coincidentally, this gel also has a reflective
property, which explains why males and females alike line up to
verify that their hairstyles are just as intact as they were the
last time they were checked. I do not stop to look at my own
reflection, but I do make note of it as I pass. Dark brown hair
that brushes my shoulders, fair skin, my father’s eyes. Nothing
special, though I do take pride in my eyes. The same bright blue as
my father’s, though mine are not as open, not as friendly as his.
My father’s eyes have a very charming, inviting quality. He is very
charismatic. Mine are just as bright, just as blue, but more
reserved. Perhaps this is because I am so unsure of everything. Oh,
well. My reflection is satisfactory, if not pleasing. I do not
often wonder or care whether my peers find me attractive. But
sometimes, I do.

I enter the reception area opposite the science
lab with caution, and I keep my eyes to the floor in an effort to
avoid any potential classmates who might want to make a target of
the new student. I tell the receptionist that I am unregistered,
and she sighs and hands me a card to fill out, mumbling something
like, “I don’t know why anyone would think it’s a good idea to
register on the first day.” Whoops. My father and I hadn’t really
thought about that.

When I complete the card with my personal and
residential information, I return it to the receptionist. This
time, so she doesn’t find me apathetic, I try to make eye contact.
She doesn’t notice. Without meeting my gaze, she seizes the card
from my outstretched fingertips.

“Massassi? That’s an unusual last name.” I’m not
really sure what to say. After all, it’s just my name.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to be waiting for a
response. She begins typing furiously on what I’m sure is a very
outdated computer. While she verifies my information and retrieves
the records from my previous academy, I resume my staring contest
with the floor. I begin to feel that she has forgotten that I am
waiting for her, or perhaps I am supposed to go somewhere else for
the next stage of the registration process. I use the tip of my
shoe to remove a scuff from the floor. I count three tiny insects
crawling into her waste can. Just as I am about to shuffle away in
search of someone who might acknowledge my presence, she very
curtly clears her throat and I look up. This time, we make eye
contact. Her greying blonde hair is sloppily pinned onto the top of
her head, and when she speaks I note that several of her teeth have
darkened with decay. She looks overworked, she looks exhausted, and
she looks annoyed. At me.

“Well, we can’t find your records. I swear, this
new system they’ve got us using is awful. Half the time we register
you kids, nothing comes up. Might as well just use the post if this
is how it goes.” She gives an exaggerated sigh, and I feel that her
frustration is centered on me.

I quickly try to think of something to say, but
only come up with, “Oh. Um…” and then I cough to fill the
silence.

She looks at me with narrowed eyes, as if it is
my fault that her computer system is faulty. Then she softens a
little and sighs. “Well, I guess we’ll get you started the
old-fashioned way. You’ve taken The Gilbert Griffin Graham Mental
Aptitude Examination for Appropriate Placement of Youths, yes?
Where did you score?”

“Oh, um. Well, uh, actually, no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“As in, no, you have
not
taken The
Gilbert Griffin Graham Mental Aptitude Examination for Appropriate
Placement of Youths?”

“Yes. I mean, yes, that’s correct. I have
not
taken The Gilbert Griffin Gra—”

“That test is supposed to be taken by all Level
Fives. I’d take you for a Level Seven. How many rotations are
behind you?”

“I’ve seen nine.”

“Nine! You should have taken The Gilbert Griffin
Graham Mental Aptitude Examination for Appropriate Placement of
Youths before you saw your eighth! Nine! What in Cerno were they
doing over there? Some regions are so disorganized.”

And then, under her breath, she adds, “Region
227 better hope The Vox doesn’t decide to do a surprise audit. Then
they’ll be in
real
trouble.”

After a beat, I say, “I’ve been ill.”

“Must have been some illness. Well, come on. We
can’t put you in lessons before you’ve been placed.”

She leads me down a set of stone steps. As we
descend deeper into the building, the air grows stale and damp.
Finally, we reach a doorway and she motions for me to enter. From
the looks of it, it is an abandoned classroom now used to store
student desks.

“Sorry about the room. It gets kind of musty
down here after a while. I just figured you wouldn’t want any other
students to find out you haven’t been placed. You don’t want that
getting around.”

I nod in agreement, though unsure why anyone
would care whether or not I’ve taken The Gilbert Grant… Mental…
whatever she had called it.

She begins walking back out the way we came, and
says over her shoulder, “I’ll send someone down with your exam; I’m
not certified to proctor.” A moment later, she pokes her head back
in and adds, “Better try your best; you don’t want to get stuck
with
my
job.” She rolls her eyes, and then leaves for
good.

Several minutes later, after I have become very
acquainted with the number of stones on the front wall, a small,
pudgy woman holding a stack of papers and a large red envelope
enters the room. Her eyes are so dark that they seem almost to be
empty holes in her head, and I cannot always discern whether she is
looking directly at me or not. Unlike the receptionist, her uniform
of white collared shirt and grey knee-length skirt is neatly
pressed and creased to sharp edges. Also unlike the receptionist,
she wears a nametag. Her name is Madam Fenley. She has obvious
disdain for her current location, and does not endeavor to hide her
irritation. I am so concentrated on her appearance and demeanor
that I forget myself, and I am startled when she narrows her eyes
and says, “I’m sure you have seen enough rotations to know that you
should stand when a superior enters the room.”

I move quickly to obey her, but I fail to
remember that my legs have been crossed, and so I stumble as I
stand up, but I am able to steady myself by placing my hand on the
dusty desk beside me. Madam Fenley takes in my attempt at respect
with a drawn upper lip and an expression of obvious disgust. She
scoffs as she says, “You may be seated.”

As she walks toward my desk, she separates her
stack so she holds the papers in one hand and the envelope in the
other. She then places the envelope on my desk, and as she does so,
says, “Let’s get started, shall we? Though I’m sure it won’t take
you
very long. A student from a region without enough pride
and decorum to administer The Gilbert Griffin Graham Mental
Aptitude Examination for Appropriate Placement of Youths in the
appropriate time frame will certainly not have the aptitude to
complete it.” She then smiles disdainfully and turns on her heel to
return to the front of the room.

“My name is Madam Fenley. You may
call
me
Madam Fenley. However, if you call me during the exam, I will not
answer. I suggest that you ask me any necessary questions before
the exam begins. Talking for any reason whatsoever is not
permitted. During the exam, you will not be permitted to leave the
room for any reason. Don’t even ask. If you attempt to communicate
with me, your test will be deemed invalid, and you will be given
another version to complete from start to finish. Do you understand
these regulations?”

I nod in agreement, but when she narrows her
eyes and purses her lips, I add, “Yes, Madam Fenley.”

“All right, then. Let’s begin. Please break the
seal on your envelope. Remove the electronic tablet from its casing
and verify that it powers on and that the cell has a full charge.
Be sure that the charge is complete. If it is not, and your tablet
powers down before you have completed the test, your exam will be
deemed invalid and you will be given another version to complete
from start to finish. Is your tablet in working order?”

I flip the power switch on my tablet, and the
black screen immediately lights up with a bright red. The cell icon
in the corner gives a 100 percent charge. “Yes, Madam Fenley.”

“All right. Now enter your student
identification code when the screen prompts you.”

“Student identification code? I don’t have that…
I don’t know what that is.”

Madam Fenley groans and drops her head.
Apparently, I am a lost cause.

“It’s on your envelope.”

I enter the code, and then meet her gaze,
signaling that I am ready to move on.

“Finally. Now put your tablet aside and listen
as I introduce the exam.”

I place the tablet next to the red envelope as
Madam Fenley raises the papers in her hand and begins to read:

“
The Gilbert Griffin Graham
Mental Aptitude Examination for Appropriate Placement of Youths is
an exam created to test not only a student’s current knowledge in
the academic areas of Exposition, Reading Comprehension, Scientific
Acuity, and Mathematics, but also the aptitude, that is, the
potential of said student in areas of Logic and Reasoning as well
as Problem Solving. Upon completion of The Gilbert Griffin Graham
Mental Aptitude Examination for Appropriate Placement of Youths and
based on the student’s perceived skill level, mental capacity, and
propensity for learning, the student will be placed on one of three
career tracks. The first of these tracks is Tradesmen. Male and
female students selected as tradesmen will be assigned as
apprentices to necessary trades based on aptitude in said field.
The second track is Military. Students who display an above-average
understanding of the necessity of obedience, capacity for combat,
and mental capability for strategy of war will become members of
The Vox, assigned rank by score. The final track is Academia. This
track is for students who have an above-average ability to absorb
and translate knowledge into applicable skills. These students will
continue their levels until being assigned academic careers by
aptitude in either Education, Medicine, or Research. The Gilbert
Griffin Graham Mental Aptitude Examination for Appropriate
Placement of Youths was created by Gilbert Griffin Graham,
great-great-great-grandson of one of the esteemed founders of the
planet Cerno, Gregory Gallagher Graham. Gilbert Griffin Graham
created The Gilbert Griffin Graham Mental Aptitude Examination for
Appropriate Placement of Youths as a way to streamline the
well-oiled machine that is our society here on Cerno. With this in
mind, do your best, but know that you cannot perform above your
natural aptitude, and will be placed accordingly.”