Qualify (21 page)

But seriously, what are they gonna do if they catch me walking outside, put me in an Atlantean jail? On the other hand, I suppose, if they are super harsh, they could just Disqualify me on the spot. . . .

I blink, and suddenly there is a streak of light in the dark indigo of sky, right over the top of the buildings up ahead. . . . It hangs there momentarily, a spot of bluish-violet radiance low in the sky. To my mind it resembles a gaudy winter holiday ornament framed against the velvet box of heaven. And then it sweeps upward at an amazing speed, and there’s a brief low harmonic sound that makes the ground rumble. The deep chord is a C Major, I am almost sure, and I can hear the glass windows all around rattle before it goes ultrasonic. The Atlantean shuttle disappears up in the clouds, shrinking from the size of an ornament to a white dot.

And then it’s gone. And the harmonic rumble all around has faded, except for an echo in my mind.

I wonder who it was, in that shuttle. Aeson Kass, maybe? Or some other VIP?

T
he Lounge Area of Yellow Dorm Eight is filled with people. I make my way casually, not looking around. The sick feeling in my stomach is back as I silently pray the popular crowd is not here. Lucky for me, I see no sign of either Claudia or her friends. A couple of older boys, whom I vaguely recognize as part of the hashtagging crowd, give me nasty looks, which I ignore.

It’s almost Homework Hour. Okay, what should I do? Homework for me usually means reading and schoolwork involving books and lessons, not gym class. Ugh. . . .

As I stand there at the edge of the Lounge Area, I see our Dorm Leader Gina Curtis enter. She blows a whistle, and the hum of conversation drops into quiet.

“Attention, Candidates! Okay, time to get to work! You all have things to go over from your classes today. A reminder, the Training Hall gym downstairs remains open until 10:00 PM, so if you need to work out, now’s a good time. And now—no more chatting, time to go over your notes! If I hear you talking, demerit! You can stay down here in the lounge, or go up to your dormitory, but stay indoors. Got that? The other Dorm Leaders and I will be checking to make sure—”

A few groans are heard, and then a few people get up from their seats while Gina is still talking.

I briefly consider what to do. I probably should go and try to run a lap or two down in the Training Hall gym. On the other hand, I feel blisters starting on my feet, and my legs are shaky. Truth be told, I am about to keel over.

And so I decide, screw it, it’s only day one, and I am going upstairs to bed. I can flip through my Culture class notes instead and review the geography of Atlantis.

I can always run in the morning.

O
kay, remember how they told us that we’re going to be really sore the next day? And by “they” I mean Oalla Keigeri?

Well, yeah—that was one big, ugly, filthy lie of an understatement.

Sore?
Sore?
The 7:00 AM morning claxon alarm peals, and I am in blazing agony.

As I’m thrown out of a dead dreamless sleep, I realize my body is not my own. In the first moments of consciousness, every muscle I try to move is on fire. I
hurt
all over, in places I didn’t think I had nerve endings. I am one sorry human teenage girl-shaped ball of Pain.

“Oww!” I groan as I turn over and carefully contort myself into a fetal position and try to pull the thin blanket over my head. Outside the windows, the morning sky is turning pale blue, plus the dormitory overhead lights are on, killer-bright.

In the cot next to me I hear Laronda. “Oww! Awww! Noooo. . . .”

And over on the other side, the girl whose name I never bothered to ask, is moaning like a beached whale. Okay, honestly, strike that—I have no idea if beached whales moan or even make sounds out of water. But if they did, it would sound something like what that poor girl is doing. . . .

“Rise and shine, girlfriends!” someone says a few cots down the line. “Time to get cracking, Qualify or Die!”

“Screw you . . .” Laronda mutters. “Asteroid! Come to Mama! Just please, take me out of my misery now!”

I drag myself up in a seated position. I wonder how the guys are faring. Not much better than us, I bet. George’s probably not at his best this morning, even if he may not admit it to anyone. And oh, my poor little bro Gordie who’s about as athletic as a turtle! I really should go find them today. . . . On the other hand, I wonder if Logan Sangre’s amazing toned runner body feels even the slightest discomfort as he gets up this morning. Except for these athletic jock types, all the rest of us are all just quivering gelatinous messes.

Somehow I manage to dig in my duffel bag and pick out clean underwear and the same clothes from yesterday. My sneakers and socks sit deep underneath the cot. It hurts just to stretch my arm to reach them. . . .

Laronda watches me with an expression that’s part bemused and part tormented. “You know, they gave us those grey uniforms for a reason. I’m pretty sure we should wear them at some point. Now’s as good as any.”

I pause my rummaging and look up at her. (Oww, my neck!) “Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe they’re for special occasions? Did they mention anything in Agility or Combat, that we should wear them? I don’t remember—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Laronda says, still not getting up. “Hey, where were you last night?”

“I went to see my sister in Dorm Five.”

“Oh. Next time let me know and I’ll tag along.”

“Okay.” I briefly consider if I really should wear the grey uniform that’s lying folded on top of my stuff, where I placed it on the first night here. “You planning to get up any time soon?”

“Nah, I think I’ll beauty-sleep in for a few more hours.” Laronda rolls her eyes, groans and finally gets up. She’s wearing a small pastel pink T-shirt nightie over her underwear bottoms, and her dark brown skin is puckered in goose bumps from the slightly chill room. They must’ve turned the heat down in the middle of the night. “O-okay.” Laronda rubs her arms then leans forward over her own bags. “Where, oh where, are my pants?”

“I need to go run some laps,” I admit grudgingly, more to myself than to anyone else in the range of hearing. “Should I bother with a shower now or later?”

Laronda snorts. “What difference does it make? You and I’ll be dripping new sweat in another hour or two again after classes. They should just hose us down every few hours all day long.”

“Agreed. In that case, I’ll go run first, then shower.”

A
nd so, I find myself five minutes later, down in the basement Physical Training Hall. I am wearing my jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt. And the blisters on my feet, oh, lord, they hurt!

A few other people are in the gym. I see Jai Bhagat, Janice Quinn, and Mateo Perez, all three of them on top of the second level scaffolding, attempting the hand bars. I also see Claudia, on the weights near the front. She is pumping the resistance machine easily, and her muscular sleeveless arms glisten with sweat. Olivia and Ashley are here too.

Great. . . .

“Hi, Gwen!” Jai yells out at me, waving from the scaffolding.

Awesome, now the bullies will see me. Thanks a lot, Jai.

I wave back without much enthusiasm, and then take a big breath, and try not to look at anyone, as I begin to run around the perimeter of the gym. My cheeks are flaming in embarrassment, because I know I look like a total dork who has no idea how to run. Each step I take hits my blisters hard. My leg and thigh muscles are screaming in agony. Moments later my body remembers that I simply cannot do this. I am panting hard as I come around the first lap.

Two more
, I think.
Just two more, and that’s enough for now
.

After all, talking about “two more,” I have to conserve strength for two more hellish gym classes today.

I am on my second lap when I feel that my legs have turned into noodles and are going to buckle. I slow down, and walk a few steps, then bend over, to rub my knees. Then I think, if I cannot do this second lap, what remote chance do I have of Qualifying?

So I force myself to resume running. . . . Past the people on the scaffolding (probably staring down at me in pity—but no, never mind, they’re too preoccupied with not falling off the parallel bars themselves). . . . Past the mean girls near the weights equipment (probably pointing at me and snickering). . . . Past lord knows who else might walk in any moment and see Gwen Lark, the saddest klutz in New England, trying to pretend she can do this thing. . . .

By the end of the second lap, I don’t think I can feel my legs. I am running very slowly, technically I am barely jogging. Compared to yesterday, I can hardly move. This is terrible! Overnight I’ve been reduced to a weakling invalid. It seems I am doing
worse
now than yesterday when I got the demerit!

One more. . . . Just one more.

I turn the corner and begin on the third lap, barely dragging each leg and foot forward, arms pumping, lungs choking for air.

About halfway around, I feel someone running beside me, and then a leg flashes in front of me, and my foot snags and trips.

I fall down hard, landing on my knees painfully, and instantly one of my wrists is aching from having reached out clumsily for the floor with my hand. I look up, and see Claudia Grito’s retreating back. She is running smoothly and powerfully around the room perimeter, as though nothing has happened. Her silk black ponytail is swinging.

The evil bitch tripped me!

I get up, and my knees are singing an Aria of Pain from the Opera of F— Me. My face is flushed red and my eyes sting with tears of humiliation.

So much for even completing three pathetic laps.

Without looking around me, I half walk, half limp out of the Training Hall.

A
shower and fifteen minutes later, I sit in the cafeteria next to Laronda, before a plate of breakfast pancakes drenched in maple syrup. This is the real deal—not artificially flavored sugar goo, but actual maple juice—and I should know, since St. Albans, Vermont is the maple syrup capital of the country, so I know real syrup when I see it.

“This is real maple syrup, you know?” I point with my fork, then swirl a piece of pancake in rich amber goodness so that it makes a slow whirlpool on my plate. “Wonder how come they’re giving us the good stuff.”

But Laronda is not buying my evasion. “So the
bruja
tripped you. Did you at least tell her off? Listen, you can’t just let them walk all over you all the time. Bullies totally feed off that kind of weakness. They’re like vampires—they suck your fear and your loser vibes and grow stronger.” She stares at me seriously with her head leaning sideways, so that her relaxed hair slides out of place where it’s parted to the side today, and goes over her nose.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? What can I do? I admit it, I
am
afraid. My loser vibes are too extra-strength, or something.”

Laronda lets out a sigh. “You can start by getting a different attitude.”

“Like what?”

“You’re the smarty-pants, you figure it out.”

“I’ll get killed first.” I laugh ruefully.

“Nuh-huh. No, you won’t.” Laronda does a side-to-side thing with her neck and wags her finger in the air then stabs my hand with it. Her nails are painted dark red, and ouch, but they’re hard. “Just think, all you have to do is survive this Qualification thing. Nothing else matters. No bullies, no nothing. Who cares what they try to do? You just do your own thing and
live
. Stay out of their way as much as possible and watch those witches screw themselves up. Meanwhile, you figure out their weakness. You know what I’m saying?”

“Okay, O Wise One,” I say. “But—”

“But what? Just stay out of their way! But if you can’t, figure out how to stand your ground, girlfriend.”

W
e leave the cafeteria, get our tokens scanned for the day’s schedule, and looks like both Laronda and I have Atlantis Culture first thing. “Thank God,” she and I both mutter. “At least we get to sit on our behinds for an hour.”

We go up to the fourth floor and find our classroom, which is already full. As I take a seat close to the front, I notice once again the pile of fascinating old books and scrolls on the teacher’s desk. I examine them with hungry curiosity.

Soon, judging by the sudden shift in the noise level, Nefir Mekei, the Atlantean with the mesmerizing voice, enters the room. I hope that today he actually uses the ancient objects in his presentation.

As I continue to stare wistfully at the faded scrolls, the classroom gets noticeably quieter. Laronda sitting next to me nudges my foot with her own, hard.

I tear my eyes away and look backward to where everyone else seems to be staring.

Nefir Mekei stands in the back of the classroom. The expression of his kohl-enhanced eyes is wise, alert, and hard to read. Before him, floating in the air,
levitating
five feet above the floor, is a bright golden object.