Qualify

  Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see Blayne Dubois. He is also in this class today apparently, and I haven’t noticed, because he is body-surfing the hoverboard high up overhead, higher than the highest level of scaffolding, almost near the ceiling.

  Wow. . . . In my daze of exhaustion it occurs to me—how easily he handles the turns, and he is flying fast, super-fast, like a pro, easily, fearlessly. His dark hair is sleeked back from air resistance, and I see his body is arranged flat and compact on the hoverboard, his legs and feet fixed straight, without slipping.

  For someone who cannot walk, this boy has remarkable balance. And the sleek way his hands extend at his sides resemble an Olympic skeleton rider hugging the sled with his body.

  I stare at Blayne flying overhead and almost get knocked off the scaffolding as the person behind me runs into me, because apparently I’ve stopped to gawk.

  “Sorry . . .” I gasp to the boy behind me and then continue my teetering run forward to the end of the scaffolding where the ladder begins.

  “No slacking! Keep going, everyone!” On the ground Oalla is looking up at me, and her voice rings through the Training Hall.

  This goes on for several more interminable minutes.

  Next up, Oalla gathers us on the ground and calls down the hoverboards. We stand upright, some of us looking dazed like zombies. Jack Carell, the large heavy boy with blond curly hair, is wiping rivulets of sweat from his reddened face.

  “This time you will ride the hoverboards in a wave pattern,” Oalla says, looking at the sorry lot of us, while the hoverboards line up, levitating in rows, six inches above the floor.

  “Huh?” Mateo Perez says gruffly, blinking sweat away from his eyes.

  “Yesterday you rode the boards along a flat plane, never rising or falling,” Oalla says. “Today we ride a vertical wave, constantly rising and descending, so that you learn to keep balance on an incline slope.”

  Oalla then looks around and up, noting Blayne Dubois who is making a circle pass about twenty feet up in the air, near the ceiling. “Blayne!” she says loudly. “Please come down here for a moment.”

  We all stare, some in greater amazement than others, as the “wheelchair guy,” as some of the whispering Candidates refer to him, calls out a series of confident commands. Suddenly his hoverboard nosedives, at the same time as it is sliding closer to our group. In the next blink he comes to a stop before Oalla.

  Blayne raises himself up on his hands, so that his upper body is elevated while his lower body and legs remain stretched flat on the board. I can see the muscles in his upper arms tense up. He then looks up at her in expectancy, head turned to the side, with a cool expression on his face. His hair is falling over his blue eyes, and his breathing is elevated, but only slightly. “Yeah?”

  It occurs to me, Blayne does not seem to be particularly affected by the hot Atlantean girl’s stunning good looks. . . . He appears to be rather indifferent, and you might even say, annoyed. Not much surprise there—Blayne is apparently annoyed by most people.

  “Blayne, please demonstrate the wave pattern as I showed you earlier,” Oalla says, looking down at him. Her tone of voice actually goes mild compared to what she uses with the rest of us. Does she feel sorry for him, I wonder?

  “Ride the hoverboard from here to the end of the room and back. Use the Rise-Descend-Level command pattern on repeat. Candidates, observe!”

  Oh, yeah, the sergeant bark is definitely back in that last sentence.

  “Sure,” Blayne says. He lowers himself flat, chin to the board, arms and hands stretched out at his sides, tight against his body, assuming an aerodynamic position—and I can see from up-close he is in fact gripping the edges of the board with his fingers.

  Then he commands the hoverboard to do a 180 turn to face the back of the room. And then, “Go! Rise!” The board pounces forward and immediately starts sloping up until it is ten feet over our heads—“Descend!” The board is now falling—“Level!” It levitates forward for about five feet.

  And then Blayne repeats the command sequence. He is rising and falling like a moving sine wave, a vertically undulating snake, a sleek dolphin gliding through an airy ocean. . . .

  Candidates watch with slack jaws as he travels the length of the hall, comes to the end, then returns.

  “Nicely done!” Oalla points to the other boards hovering at ready. “Now, all of you, do the same, except you will be standing up.”

  “Yeah, right,” a girl mutters.

  The class lines up and we begin. The first few hoverboard riders flail wildly, and there are undignified yells as teens barely hang on during the rising and falling stages.

  There’s one boy ahead of me in line for the hoverboard, and I stand waiting, with quaking knees, and think about how I am afraid of heights.

  This is about to get really bad.

  My turn is here. I get up on the hoverboard and find my basic stance. The rubber soles of my sneakers dig into the charcoal gray surface of the board, as if that’s going to help once I start the up-and-down rollercoaster. . . . Ugh.

  I take a deep breath. “Go! Rise!”

  The board underneath me lurches, and I feel myself lifting up, and at the same time moving forward. I lean in, pressing forward, with my knees bending to maintain the horizontal balance. Three feet, five feet, eight. My sneakers dig into the board and I am wobbling like crazy, hands apart for balance. “Descend!” I speak through my teeth and at the same time squeeze my eyes, as I feel the floor drop out from under me as the rollercoaster plunges. . . . The rubber soles of my footwear begin to slip. . . .

  Hold on, hold on, hold on . . . just hold on!

  I open my eyes, and it’s a good thing too, because I am about to crash into the floor—“Level!” I cry out in panic, then take deep calming breaths, as I now glide on even ground, six inches above the floor.

  And then I do the whole thing over again.

  The pattern of rising and falling is strangely hypnotic, and by the fourth time, I still haven’t fallen off, and I am almost beginning to relax—almost. At the apex of each rise, I simply squeeze my eyes shut every time, then say the “Descend” command, then give myself over to whatever universal deity is watching (and probably laughing its head off—if that particular deity has a head, that is—okay, sorry, I am babbling, as you can tell).

  Anyway, somehow I turn myself around, arms and hands flailing wildly, and I come back to the starting spot. I stumble off the hoverboard and let the next person get on. At last I let my intense concentration slip . . . and as I do, suddenly I see that people have fallen off their hoverboards all over the room.

  Holy moly! There’s Jai, sitting down on a mat and nursing a hurt knee, while his hoverboard levitates crookedly next to him, spun out at a 140-degree angle. A few feet away, further along the mats, I see another kid whose name I don’t know, also off his board and rubbing his legs. Across the room, there’s a dark-skinned girl with braided cornrows who limps and tries to stand up.

  And there’s Claudia Grito. She crouches on the edge of a mat, apparently tying her shoelaces, while her board is hovering two feet over her head.

  Claudia went down! Yes!

  Okay, I allow myself one mean moment of triumph, and then I try to look away, but I think there’s a little smile now that’s stuck on my face.

  In that exact moment, Claudia looks up, and I swear, she is staring directly at me. Oh, crud! Did she see me smile?

  I pretend I am fiddling with my ponytail, while I notice that Oalla has turned to me with a nod of approval. Amazingly, it occurs to me, I am one of the few people who have not fallen off their hoverboard during the wave ride.

  A few minutes later, the last person ends their hoverboard turn, and class is dismissed.

  “I will see you here tomorrow, and I want you to practice the things that give you the most trouble,” Oalla says loudly.

  I watch Blayne Dubois come down from riding near the ceiling on t
he hoverboard, and there’s his wheelchair, pushed up against the wall. While the other teens are turning in their hoverboards and walking past him, he directs the hoverboard to stop and levitate higher up than normal, about two feet off the ground and nearly level with the seat of his wheelchair. He pushes himself off the board with both hands, then drops himself into the chair from above, cleverly landing in a seated position.

  Next, he arranges his lifeless legs and feet in the chair, and commands the hoverboard away.

  I watch as he just sits there, paused, thinking about something. . . .

  And then I go up to him. “Hey,” I say. “Did you ever ask them about letting you keep that hoverboard outside of class? You really should. . . .”

  Blayne looks up at me. His expression is startled, as if I’d woken him up from a daydream. “Hey,” he says. “Oh, it’s you. Um, no. I am not going to ask.”

  I feel an immediate jolt of frustration. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of your business!”

  Okay, what is it with this guy?

  “Sorry,” I say. “But—look, all I am saying is, this is a great opportunity. And you are kind of good on this hoverboard thing. I mean, really good. You know, you could maybe ask them to borrow it for a little bit each day—”

  “Gwen Lark,” he says my name with emphasis, while a frown grows on his face. “You are really getting on my nerves, you do realize? Why don’t you get lost and leave me the hell alone!”

  I bite my lip, and shrug. “Okay, sorry . . . whatever. . . .”

  And then, because an unexpected lump starts to form in the back of my throat, and I suddenly feel a familiar pressure in my eyes, I quickly turn around. Before I start crying, I get out of the gym hall and race up the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  After that, lunch hour pretty much sucks. I find Laronda in the cafeteria, and she’s sitting all the way in the back, so that I have to carry my tray with its slice of pizza and glass of juice past several tables filled with the popular mean crowd.

  It’s only day two, and Yellow Dorm Eight has already established a social pecking order, and they are center stage, here in the cafeteria. All the in-crowd has occupied the best tables. This grouping of alphas now includes in one category the hashtaggers, and a number of other athletic-looking jocks and cheerleader types, or simply big and tough teens, many of whom seem to be well-off, sporting expensive smart jewelry and gadgets. In another category there are the scary street-tough guys and girls that look like they are gang-affiliated.

  The rest of us, kids who are ordinary beta types, geeks and nerds, the weirdoes, or the invisible loners, are relegated to the secondary, more-or-less “loser tables” at the periphery, the farthest ends of the room, and pressed against the walls and cafeteria backroom doors.

  As I pass the loudest table in the middle, I hear laughter and hoots, and then someone says, “Gwen Lark, baby, why you ask such difficult questions?” I pause and a new wave of laugher hits me.

  I turn.

  The big dark-haired guy with the creepy neck tattoo, who pinched and elbowed me the other day, is staring directly at me. His grin is hard and terrible. Again, he shapes his lips into an air kiss and I feel a wave of cold fear sweep through me. . . .

  “Where you going, baby?” he says loudly, leaning his muscled body in my direction. “Looking for some more Atlantis homework? I got some for you right here!” He makes a gesture at his crotch.

  “Owww, Derek! You show her, man!” More hoots, crude gestures, and guffaws break out. There’s Olivia, hanging on to Wade’s arm, and making more disgusting gestures, then covering his ear with her hands to whisper something. Both of them bust out laughing.

  My head feels like it will explode from a mixture of sudden rage and fear. But fear wins out and makes me stiffen and turn away and pretend to ignore them—especially this tattooed Derek guy who scares the crap out of me in a serious way, with his bulk and his hardcore attitude, and the aura of street-tough meanness.

  I quickly rush past their table, barely keeping the tray in my hands, and make it to Laronda’s table.

  “Ooooo, girl, they really have it in for you!” Laronda looks at me worriedly. “See, that’s what you get for not keeping your mouth shut and talking so much in class. All these jerks notice you!”

  “I know. . . .” I slam my tray down, because I am still shaking in anger. “I can’t help it. I always talk in class. Way too much.”

  “Then cut it out!” Laronda nibbles at the crust remains of her pizza slice.

  I sit down and stare at her. “It’s just how I am. I dunno, I always have this need to answer everything—I know, it’s crazy, I guess. It’s automatic—”

  “See, even now you’re talking too much. Just, zip it. Shush!”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Nuh-uh!” Laronda lifts her hand palm up in my face, then mimes closing a zipper with her fingers across her lips.

  I take the hint and chew some pizza instead.

  Meanwhile Laronda tells me stuff—first about her horrible Combat class over at the huge Arena Commons building, then about her Auntie Janice back in Buffalo with whom she lives, and about how her six-year-old baby brother Jamil loves pizza, any pizza no matter how awful, and too bad she couldn’t give him some of this crappy cardboard kind from the cafeteria, because he’d eat it for sure. . . .

  I listen and nod, and think about saying something about how sorry I am that her aunt and her brother Jamil cannot be here with us, cannot Qualify, just like my parents cannot be here.

  But I say nothing, because, of course speaking about any of it is too horrible. . . .

  “So hey, how was Agility?” Laronda twirls and folds a drinking straw wrapper into an accordion on her tray.

  I tell her about it, and then mention Blayne last, and how he basically cut me off in the end.

  “Boy’s got issues, that’s for sure.” Laronda chews the straw wrapper. “So, you’re never going to talk to him again now, right? Right? Cause that would be the smart thing to do.”

  “I don’t know, I guess not. . . . Still, I feel so bad for him, for some reason, as if I am supposed to do something—as if I could do something to help him.”

  “Well, you can’t. And he doesn’t want help. Stop being a pushy fool, and get it through your thick smarty-pants skull. Some people just don’t like it when others fuss at them. Let the man have his pride.”

  The claxon bell rings to indicate the end of lunch hour and five minutes before next class.

  Today Laronda and I share this one also, and it happens to be Atlantis Tech.

  “All right, move your booty, girl, time for us to go get all ‘techie.’”

  I nod and pick up my tray. Then we go to unload the remains of our lunch, and I pause momentarily and take Laronda’s elbow. “Wait a little. Let those jerks clear out first, I don’t want to pass by that table again. . . .”

  Laronda glances to where I am motioning with my eyes, and she sees the alpha crowd near the doors, clearing out their trays and leaving the cafeteria.

  “Okay, but you can’t just avoid them all the time. Remember what I told you, you gotta cultivate an attitude. And I mean, Attitude with a capital A.”

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe next time. . . .” And I continue waiting a few more seconds, while the majority of them leave the cafeteria.

  “Chicken!” Laronda says.

  “And proud of it!” I smile at her.

  Mr. Warrenson is already in the classroom when we get there, and he is setting out a bunch of gadgets on the large surface of the teacher’s desk.

  “Hurry, hurry, take your seats please, everyone!” he repeats every few minutes, as Candidates fill up the empty seats in the classroom. “So much to do today, and no time to waste. . . .”

  Laronda knows me well already, because she plunks down on a seat in the second row, giving me the “primo” spot closer to the middle.

  I purse my lips to hold back a
nother smile.

  And then the nerves kick in again. I remember this is the “singing class.”

  Mr. Warrenson begins class with a demonstration.

  “Today,” he says, “is very exciting! As you recall, in yesterday’s class I demonstrated to you some basic sound-based levitation. Well, today, you are going to learn how to do it yourself—you’ll make the sounds that levitate objects! Yes, all by yourself!”

  Okay, Mr. Warrenson is being way too geeky and way too optimistic in thinking we actually “recall” anything from yesterday’s class. Because, to be honest, he does ramble on a whole lot, which makes it hard to follow him. And that’s saying a lot, coming from me.

  “OMG!” Laronda whispers. “Isn’t it like in those really old kids’ books about a boy wizard who goes to magic school and they do all these funky spells? I want me some magic wand!”

  “Except, this is not magic,” I whisper back. “At least I don’t think so. . . .”

  “Ladies, quiet, please!” Mr. Warrenson turns in our direction then continues. “Now, the fact that we are using the Yellow Quadrant as our basic approach, makes it a bit more complicated. The Majors and Minors—Red Quadrant and Blue Quadrant—have it easy. Their sound controls are based on common musical scales. Yours, on the other hand, are based on relativity, and so are the Green Quadrant’s. Yellow is Sharp, while Green is Flat, so basically you don’t really have your own reference points, as much as you have to riff off the others. To put it simply, in a musical piece, Red is the melody line, Blue is the harmony, and Yellow and Green are the counterpoints, with Yellow rising and Green falling. But—we’ll get to that later, today is just the general basics common to all Quadrants—”

  The class appears somewhat dazed at this musical theory explanation. Seriously, a few people are already flatlining from boredom. And it’s only been, like, thirty seconds of class. I mean, we’re supposed to be levitating stuff, for goshsakes! Where is Nefir Mekei and his mesmerizing Storyteller voice when you need it?

  Fortunately Mr. Warrenson gets a clue and gets practical. He picks up a small lump of charcoal gray material from the surface of the desk and displays it to the class. “This—this right here is the basic metal alloy that Atlanteans have developed to resonate to sound. It’s the same material that hoverboards are made of. There are so many other uses—”