Qualify

  “It’s almost two, and no lunch,” someone says. “This really blows. How much longer is this going to be? I need a smoke.”

  “So, yeah, I’m bored.” George turns around, glancing once at me and Gracie, then turns away again, speaking to his bud whose name I think is Eddie. I know for a fact he is not bored and freaking nervous, but there’s no way he or his buddies would stop to admit it—that all of this is terrifying.

  “Are they gonna feed us, ever? Someone order a pizza!” Eddie cracks, drumming his fingers like crazy against the strap of his backpack. “Maybe starvation is part of Qualification.”

  I try to ignore Eddie and watch my sister.

  Gracie has a few girlfriends who are BFFs, but right this moment she does not bother to search the crowd for anyone. She just stands there dejectedly, even after I try to say something typical to make her crack a smile. Gordie the loner is happily oblivious as usual. And as for me, I momentarily give up on Gracie and look around the room to see if Ann Finnbar is anywhere, but don’t see her. And then I automatically do the other secret visual scan that I always do at school mass gatherings, for a glimpse of Logan Sangre.

  About five minutes later Principal Marksen gets up on stage. He’s wearing a headset mike, and he looks frustrated and tough at the same time. The stage smart wall behind him remains off, so apparently it’s all going to be live and we’re not getting a thrilling instructional video.

  “May I have your attention,” he says and his voice booms through the packed auditorium. “Please move as far as you can to the right and left walls, and clear the center. I repeat, clear the center. And please form rows.”

  As the Principal is speaking, I see security guards and teachers start herding us closer to the walls, until there is a long narrow path of about twenty feet across, stretching from the stage to the back of the large auditorium space. We are pressed closely so it’s standing room only, and those of us who are shorter have to stand up on tiptoe to see what’s in front. Good thing I’m reasonably tall, and so is Gracie, and so are my brothers.

  A few minutes later, gym mats are brought out, with the P. E. teachers and sports coaches directing. Several other teachers and administrators work together to unroll mats and place them in a long strip in the center of the cleared space, all the way from the beginning of the stage to the back of the auditorium.

  “Oh, [email protected]#$%!, it’s gonna be a P. E. test,” a boy whispers behind me.

  “We better not have to do forward rolls to Qualify for Atlantis, cause then I’m toast . . .” a girl’s voice sounds.

  “Hey, check this out—” I can hear one of George’s friends speaking—“they can’t even fit everyone in this auditorium. There are people spilling over into the hallway, and it looks packed there too, from what I can tell. Man, must be at least five schools packed in here. . . .”

  “This is the final part of Qualification for today,” the Principal says. “It determines whether you will get on a bus and be taken to the Regional Qualification Center in the next few hours—or, if you get to go home. Your tests that you took earlier today are being scored and analyzed right now, even as I speak, and the results should be ready by the time we are done here. The total scores will be combined and tallied, and you will be informed immediately after this final portion of preliminary Qualification. For those of you who will be told to go home, I am very deeply sorry. There are no words adequate to express how much I wish all of you could Qualify uniformly. The unfortunate reality is, less than one tenth of you gathered in this room will Qualify. And now, I will let the Atlantis representative Ligerat Faroi explain to you this last portion for today.”

  The Principal remains standing on the stage, and now a slim tall man in dark form-fitting clothing and with bright hair that is a shocking metallic yellow joins him. He looks gaunt and it’s hard to tell how old he is because his features look somewhat peculiar. But it’s hard to place a finger on it, what exactly is it about him that makes him weird.

  And then it strikes me and Gracie at the same time. “The dude looks kind of Egyptian!” Gracie whispers loudly. “And I don’t mean like some guy from Cairo, but from King Tut’s tomb! He looks as if that bust of Nefertiti came to life, sort of chiseled and pretty and weirdly plastic. Maybe he needs a tall rounded helmet thing to cover his head like some kind of ancient pharaoh with, supposedly, an elongated skull—except he definitely doesn’t have an elongated skull—”

  I stare, and although she is being silly, Gracie is amazingly spot-on. The Atlantean looks to be a living version of someone from an Ancient Egyptian burial site. Even his skin is deeply bronzed, and his prominent eyebrows and eyes appear to be darkly outlined. Not sure if it’s natural or makeup. Except for his metallic hair, which has to be dyed. Weird! None of the other few Atlanteans I’ve seen on TV make you think so strongly of old Egypt like this guy does. Maybe the others were made to look more “contemporary Earthlike” to appear on camera?

  The Atlantean is holding some kind of long, flat object upright in one hand, resting it against the floor. It’s hard to tell what it is from the distance, but it looks like a board of some sort. It is nearly as tall as he is, about two inches thick and perfectly flat.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” the Atlantean says. He is speaking calmly and does not raise his crisp, smooth voice, yet it carries particularly well because of its precision. “I am pleased to be with you, and I want to see you succeed. This part of the Qualification process involves seeing how well you can handle and how familiar you can become with a very important tool of daily life which is extremely common in our society on Atlantis.”

  He easily moves the object forward, turning it on its vertical axis so that the true width of the board becomes apparent, about twelve inches across. It appears to be lightweight, made of matte, non-reflective material, charcoal grey. The top and bottom do not extend straight across into a cutoff like a rectangle but instead are curved smoothly, oval and tapered off, so there are no hard edges.

  “This,” Ligerat the Atlantean says, “might seem familiar to some of you, especially here in Vermont. Yes, it looks very much like your own snowboard.”

  Waves of interested whispers run through the auditorium.

  “However, it is not the same thing. This is a hoverboard.”

  The voices in the auditorium become louder, exploding into more waves of excited whispers.

  Ligerat takes the board and suddenly lets it fall flat before him, at the same time as he says a hard verbal command: “Ready!”

  The board falls forward, then immediately an amazing thing happens. Just before it hits the floor of the stage, it bounces up six inches from the surface of the floor.

  And it stays there, sitting suspended in the air, without any support or power source, perfectly soundless.

  It levitates in place.

  The auditorium erupts in hoots and whistles and applause. For a moment, everyone has forgotten what is happening on this day, because this thing is just so unbelievable, so awesome!

  My brother George forgets himself and cusses. Gracie laughs and exclaims, “Oh my God, how cool!” And Gordie just stares with a big grin and says, “Whoa!”

  Everyone around us is chattering, while Ligerat stands motionless, letting us have our crazy reaction. Then Principal Marksen has to cut in with an “All right, everyone, quiet please!”

  “The hoverboard has been programmed with simple commands in English.” Ligerat takes a step with his left foot onto the board near the front of its nose. He pushes down to demonstrate. The board gives slightly under his weight, maybe a fluctuation of half an inch, but remains airborne and supports him. He steps on with his other foot, so that he is standing in a loose snowboarder or skateboarder balancing stance, legs slightly apart . . . and now he is suspended in the air.

  “Notice, please, there are no bindings to hold my feet and shoes in place. I must stand lightly to keep my balance and be ready to jump off at a moment’s notice. In that sense this is more
like your Earth surfboard or skateboard than a snowboard. Now, I will use a few simple commands. To make it move forward, simply say ‘Go!’”

  As soon as the word is spoken, the hoverboard begins to float forward, still soundless, and very slow, at about the speed of a person walking. As the auditorium watches in transfixed fascination, the board floats past the edge of the stage, and suddenly it is eight feet over the auditorium main floor. The Atlantean is sailing gently and effortlessly like a cloud over the gym-mat-lined empty strip that had been cleared of all people. Students in rows stare up at the board’s underside as it passes them smoothly.

  “Descend!” says Ligerat. And the board starts to come down at a very gradual slope incline of descent. All the while it remains perfectly horizontal and is still continuing to advance forward, until he is only five feet, then three, then just a foot above the mat-lined floor. “Level!” And the board tapers off at about six inches from the surface of the mat and continues moving forward until it passes the last mat and reaches the bare linoleum floor tiles.

  All this time, the board has moved along the entire length of the auditorium. Just before it approaches the rear doors, Ligerat says, “Stop!”

  The board freezes and levitates in place.

  Everyone claps and hoots loudly.

  Ligerat raises one hand for silence and then says with precision and in staccato, “Reverse, Rise, Return!”

  The board does a smooth 180, and he is turned around. He is once more rising in the air and moving back toward the auditorium stage. Seconds later, the board is back in its starting position six inches above the stage floor. The Atlantean hops off lightly and stands next to the Principal.

  “Now,” he says. “This is your last portion of Preliminary Qualification for today. Each one of you will come up here on the stage, next to Principal Marksen. He will hand you a token pin with your name and other test scores flash-encoded. The token is your new identification. You must keep the token with you, attach it anywhere on your person, such as your clothing, and do not drop or lose it.

  “Next, you will step on the board and simply ride it across the length of this room, using the four simple commands—‘Go,’ ‘Descend,’ ‘Level’ and ‘Stop.’ When you reach the end of the room, step off and direct the board to perform the ‘Reverse, Rise, Return’ sequence, without you. It will return here on its own and wait for the next person. Meanwhile you will come up to me, as I will be standing at the desk in the back near the exit, evaluating your performance. I will scan your ID token with the final score. At this point you will take the token with you, pick up your bags, and exit the auditorium.

  “Once you are outside this room, you are permitted to find out your final Preliminary Qualification score. Simply place your fingers on the token pin and say “Display Test Score.” The token will turn one of two colors. Green means you have passed Preliminary Qualification and are advancing to the next stage of the process. Red means you have not passed, and you are returning home. Note—we ask you to please respect your fellow classmates and not attempt to learn your score while still inside this auditorium. You may activate your score only after you exit into the hallway. If you are green, please proceed outside to any of the designated buses in the parking lot, and board, first come, first served. Do not hesitate, and do not be late, otherwise you will miss the bus and your opportunity to Qualify. Final note—if anyone else other than yourself handles your token and attempts to activate or display your score, the token will turn yellow. Do not attempt to cheat this process, it will not work.”

  Ligerat pauses, and observes the turbulent auditorium. “And now, please proceed.” He nods to Principal Marksen to begin. While several administrators carry a series of large plastic containers up the stage stairs, the Principal calls us to order once again.

  I watch the Atlantean descend the stage and walk toward the back of the auditorium, moving through the empty strip in the center, along the edge of the mats, past all the rows of students staring at him from both sides.

  “All right, everyone, line up in rows! Start moving, please, use both sides of the stage, and wait your turn.”

  Next to me, Gracie is whimpering.

  I turn to stare into her tear-streaked face. “What, Gracie?”

  “I can’t!” She wipes her nose, and she is terrified. “I can’t do it! You know I don’t know how to balance or ride any snowboard thing or anything, and especially not like this! You know I’m afraid of heights! At least you used to ride that little plastic skateboard back in California—”

  I feel my breath catching in my throat and I am very, very cold . . . I am numb. Both for Gracie’s sake and for myself. Yes, I used to ride a little kiddie skateboard, badly. Back when I was ten. And these days I am the last person people pick for team sports. Klutz has become a part of my daily persona, together with bad stooping posture, hunched shoulders and general physical awkwardness.

  Furthermore, I am out of shape. I get winded when I try to run around the track, even after just fifty paces. And I am terrified of heights, probably even more so than Gracie.

  “Are you guys okay?” George has put his hands on both our shoulders.

  “I don’t know.” I look at my brother. “What are we going to do?”

  “Remember what Dad said? We’re going to try, do the best we can, and never ever give up.”

  “Huh!” I say. “So you were paying attention.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But I just can’t do it!” Gracie clutches her hands together and wipes them against her jeans. I take her hand with my own shaking clammy one, and press it really hard.

  As we are shuffled into some semblance of a line, and start moving, Gordie kicks his bags along the floor. “I’ve never ridden any board either,” he says. “Never really wanted to. But this is totally different. This is intense! It’s like flying! I want to do it.”

  I glance at him, and Gordie has a blissful grin on his face.

  “Please try to keep in a straight line,” says a teacher, passing our row.

  “What—what if I fall?” Gracie whispers, pulling my hand. “From that height? I have no balance!”

  To be honest, I am pretty terrified right now myself, so I have very little with which to respond. “Okay . . . they do have mats. So even if you fall, it shouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Just stay on the board,” George says evenly to everyone in general, glancing from us to his buddy before him. “No one says we have to look pretty doing it. Just hold on somehow, and stay on the damn board.”

  “Good point,” Gordie says. “For that matter, do we even have to stand up straight? I bet you can just crouch down and hold on to it with both hands, all the way!”

  “But—” Gracie turns to him, “don’t you think that will mean some points taken off or something? They will probably reduce your score for bad form and posture!”

  “Says who?” I press her hand again, with sudden relief. “That’s a great idea! It’s definitely better than not trying at all, and way better than falling off because you try too hard to balance like you’re a snowboarding pow pro, ‘tearing it up’ and ‘shredding the gnar.’”

  Gracie finds enough energy to roll her eyes at me.

  While we are saying all this stuff to keep the nerves down, people up in the front of the line are already up on stage. The Principal asks their name, grade level, school of origin. An assistant teacher reaches in a box to pick up a blank token, which is basically a round colorless plastic button with a chip, and it gets scanned with a special encoder machine to transfer the student ID and test score data. Then the girl student—an unfamiliar middle school seventh grader—gets the button.

  This girl is up first, and she looks just as terrified as Gracie. Her hands are shaking as she attaches the token button to her shirt. She then stands there and stares down at the hoverboard. She takes a deep breath and puts her foot up on the surface of the board. The board wobbles, and immediately the girl gives a small shriek.


  “Steady, honey, you’re doing fine,” a sympathetic woman teacher says. “Just put your other foot up there and relax, take a few breaths, and don’t look down.”

  The girl takes a few seconds, then puts her other foot on the board and balances with both hands. “Go!” she says in a thin raspy voice that carries all the way across the very silent auditorium.

  The hoverboard begins to float forward. The girl squeezes her eyes, utters another shriek, then a few stifled noises, and then fixes herself in the posture stiffly. She is floating eight feet over the floor mats, her hands balancing outward like airplane wings, but she manages to remain standing. “Descend!” Again, her tiny voice sounds. The board obeys and begins the incline.

  The girl suddenly wobbles and exclaims, “Stop!” The board freezes in the air, in the middle of its gradual descent. She is suspended halfway between the floor and the stage, flailing her hands wildly. And in the absolute silence she begins to cry.

  The auditorium is silent as the grave. I stare with transfixed sympathy, and see the equally emotional faces of those around me—students, teachers, security guards, everyone.

  A few seconds later the girl steadies herself somehow, stops the sniffles and with another determined breath says, “Go!” The board resumes moving, and this time she says “Descend!” in a more steady voice.

  When almost on the mats, she says, “Level!” and continues floating silently to the end of the line. “Stop!” She steps off and stands in one spot, dazed. She looks around. “Um, what do I say now?”

  “Reverse, Rise, Return . . .” someone whispers.

  “Reverse, Rise, Return!” the seventh grader repeats in a voice of relief. The hoverboard rises and floats away while the girl heads to the back desk toward Ligerat Faroi. The Atlantean nods at her and scans her token, as everyone watches.

  Oh, to be her at this point! I think with envy. To just be done with it!

  “See, that wasn’t so bad,” George whispers to Gracie. “Look at her, she’s a bigger wimp than you. . . . You can do it!”