The Predicteds (16 page)

I feel like my lips are glued together. I cannot speak.

“You better go in,” he finally tells me.

I take a long time getting out of the car—plenty of time for him to stop me, plenty of time for me to say something.

But he doesn't stop me. And I don't say anything.

Dear Mark,

Glad to know you miss me at the lab, but frankly, it's kind of a relief not dealing with the PROFILE results. My heart dropped to my knees every time I saw the data on another kid sentenced to life as a predicted.

You know my position on this, but let me repeat it: it's not that I think PROFILE is wrong, as in factually wrong—I think it's morally wrong. I don't care if the results are accurate. It's wrong to do this. They're just kids, Mark. Doesn't that bother you?

Hoping you come to your senses,

Melissa

—Email from Dr. Melissa Wright to Mark Miliken, senior researcher at Utopia Laboratories

I lean over to Hannah Cramer, this girl whose hair always looks wet even when it's dry. She's pretty much the only person in the room who is listening to Madame Ada, our French teacher. I stick my foot out in the aisle and gently nudge the side of her shoe. I note that she is wearing pink socks that perfectly match her pale pink T-shirt—she
always
matches her socks to her shirts. I imagine for a minute what it would be like to sneak into her sock drawer and mismatch all of those cute pairs. After a few nudges, she half-turns and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. Hannah Wet/Dry hates to be interrupted when she's learning. “
Quoi?
” she says in a hiss loud enough that Madame Ada pauses.

“Not in French,” I hiss back. Madame Ada has selective hearing: French words always get her attention, but as soon as she hears the obnoxious sounds of English, she moves right along in her lecture. Right now, it's something about Pierre and a
cadeau
. At Academy, I was taking Russian, a language they don't offer at QH. I jumped into French II without any prior knowledge. Whenever I hear French words now, my brain doubles over in pain and resists—and not just because Madame Ada's Oklahoma pronunciation would be enough to make anyone cringe. You don't have to know French to know that
oui
doesn't sound like “wee-ah.”

“What's going on?” I ask Hannah Wet/Dry.

She turns from me and tears a sheet of paper from her spiral notebook before flipping back to her class notes. She carefully writes on the free page, pausing periodically to etch French words in her notebook. I wait patiently for her to pass me the note, but first, she pauses to rip all the rough edges from the paper where it was attached to the spiral binding. She carefully stacks up the little pieces of paper on the corner of her desk. Finally, she hands the note across to me. I unfold it.

Mrs. Temple announced that we will have an assembly during third period. Didn't you see the reporters outside? They are here because Mrs. Temple has something really big to announce. Did you do your French homework? We had a quiz this morning. You missed it.

I smack my hand on my forehead. I'd forgotten about the quiz. And, no, I didn't do my French homework, although I had carried the book home with me and cracked it open once last night before I decided that I really didn't feel like doing French homework. A brief stab of panic infiltrates my chest. I may be looking at my first grade lower than an A since I began my education in preschool. Melissa forced me to get out of bed today, but I still missed chemistry for the second time this week—and it's only Tuesday. And now a French quiz. I put my head on my desk and zone out. Why bother trying?

I find Dizzy after class, and we head to the bathroom so she can touch up her makeup—just in case one of the reporters wants to interview her. By the time we get to the gym, it's full. The reporters have been cordoned off into the space behind the basketball hoop near the east doors. Their cameras are scanning the crowds, and we all stare back at them from the rows of hard bleachers. I feel like I'm in a zoo.

“Shhh,” Hannah Wet/Dry says to everyone behind her as Mr. A.—the gym teacher, who has never worn anything but shorts in his life, as far as I can tell—tries to get everyone to quiet down. “Mr. A. is trying to start the assembly, and I can't hear anything.” Hannah Wet/Dry puts her finger to her lips.

Dizzy rolls her eyes and makes a face with her tongue sticking out of her mouth like a thirsty dog. Dizzy thinks Hannah Wet/Dry is the most annoying person on earth. Or one of them, anyway. Dizzy gets annoyed fairly easily.

Mr. A. stands at the microphone in the middle of the gym. “Students,” he calls, “settle down!” After a few seconds, everyone gets tired of talking, and that's when Mr. A. hands the microphone to Mrs. Temple, who has managed to find an entire suit—skirt, jacket, shell—made of sweater material for the occasion. I wonder if she's been searching for sweater shoes. Those would really complete the ensemble.

“People,” she begins, in the way she begins every speech to the school, “I have some serious news to present today, and I trust that you will all be able to handle it with grace and maturity.”

Someone in the crowd makes fart noises.

“You might be wondering why we have news crews with us today.” She stretches her palm toward the group of cameras in the corner, turning to offer a posed half-smile/half-grimace. Very principal-like. “I'd like to turn the floor over to someone who can tell you.” She hands the microphone to a man in a black suit wearing a brown tie decorated with brightly colored fish.

“Who's this clown?” Josh asks.

“The superintendent,” Hannah Wet/Dry says, like she has school board trading cards and can identify any of them on command. She leans over and adjusts her pink socks, carefully comparing each foot—the folded-over tops may have been an eighth of a centimeter off.

The superintendent takes the microphone and covers it with one hand while he whispers something in Mrs. Temple's ear. She nods twice and then points at all of us. Then they nod together.

“Christ,” Josh says, “can we get this show on the road already?”

“What I have in my hands,” Fish Tie says, rattling a piece of paper, “is an extremely important document. I cannot emphasize enough the gravity of what I'm about to say. Your principal, Mrs. Temple, and I have discussed the matter, and we feel that you boys and girls are mature enough to handle the information I am about to share with all of you.” He goes on in this vein for a while longer until he can't ignore our restlessness anymore. “Boys and girls, I have here a very significant list. As you are well aware, Quiet High has been the site of some very advanced and complex trials for a program called PROFILE.”

“Oh, hell,” Josh says. “This is old news. Does he think we're dumb? Who hasn't heard about the whole PROFILE debacle?” He pronounces
debacle
like
dee-BACK-el
.

“As you are all no doubt aware, one of our Quiet High students was a victim of a ruthless attack recently.” This is news to nobody. Fish Tie continues, “Many of you know that January Morrison suffered severe injuries as a result of a brutal physical attack. We have reason to believe that she knew her attacker, although she does not remember what happened. We also do not believe that this attack is in any way connected to her brother, recently deceased. Detectives are investigating the situation. I want to reassure you, boys and girls, that you are safe here in the halls of our school.”

“Phew.” Josh breathes a fake sigh of relief.

“I know this has been a trying time for all of us. I'd like to offer up a moment of silence for the members of the Morrison family, who have endured so much.”

The gym falls silent. Someone sniffles. Josh tries to reach up Dizzy's shirt, but she swats him away. “Be respectful, Josh,” she tells him. I think of little Hillary with her Harry Potter book. I wonder if she thinks about her future. Is it ruined, just like January's and her brother's?

“Now,” Fish Tie says after a few seconds, “police believe that they have a suspect.” Dizzy and I look at each other. The sound of talking goes on instead of dissipating, as Fish Tie probably hoped it would. You can tell that he wants to deliver his big news and hear a collective gasp. The fact is, we all watch the news, we all have Internet access, for crying out loud. We know that he is going to talk about Jesse.

Because I am prepared for it, I don't cry when Fish Tie announces that the suspect is a Quiet High student. He doesn't have to say Jesse's name. And I don't cry when he announces that PROFILE predicted the suspect for violent crime—a fact that could be used as evidence against Jesse in a trial. I simply zone out for a minute, thinking about what that means. It's possible that Jesse will go to jail for a very long time. Hannah Wet/Dry gasps when Fish Tie says this. I give the side of her head a dirty look for no real reason.

“We have decided that for the safety of all students, we will publicly release the scores of the predicted.” He waits for a response, but nobody gives him one. “With this information—the predicted list—we can better serve the needs of our at-risk students. We do not bring these names to your attention in order to promote any kind of cruel or discriminatory behavior against these particular individuals. We have made this decision because we believe that this is the right choice for our school, especially in light of the January Morrison situation. We do not need more young people to get hurt. Individuals predicted to commit violent crimes and to have antisocial and persistent problematic behavior will be immediately moved into separate classes, away from the other individuals. Those of you who are not predicted to be violent criminals can rest assured that you will be safe.”

Josh begins applauding. Fish Tie, who has no sense of irony, nods in our direction, as if thanking Josh for the recognition.

“These alternative educational arrangements will be made for our predicted students with the aid of our guidance counselor, Dr. Tufte, and the students' parents or legal guardians. I must stress again that these students will be kept in Old QH classrooms; they will have a separate cafeteria, gymnasium, and facilities. All relevant classes housed in Old QH will be shifted to New QH. We ask that nonpredicted individuals refrain from visiting Old QH at any time. Our fine school security guards will enforce these rules stringently.” Fish Tie smiles at a fat guy in a uniform standing next to Temple. Everybody calls him Porkchop.

I look around the crowded gym. Everyone else is doing the same thing. We're all trying to figure out who these predicted individuals are—who among us will be relegated to Old QH?

“Our top priority is to separate these individuals out for safety purposes,” Fish Tie says. “If you have questions or comments, I welcome you to submit those in writing, either on paper or through an electronic medium.”

“Seriously?” Josh says to no one in particular. “He wants me to send him an email telling him he's a douche bag?” People around us snicker, including Dizzy.

“One final comment: I want to congratulate those of you who are not predicted. You are a team comprised of our finest students. You are Quiet High's most outstanding individuals, and we will strive to create an educational environment that will best help you reach your fullest potential.” Fish Tie applauds himself, but nobody joins in except for Mrs. Temple.

“Hannah, you're going to be awfully lonely,” somebody behind us says.

Nobody seems particularly alarmed, although we've just been told that we are going to be divided up like cattle, treated differently based on a number assigned to us by a computer. I think about what school will be like once we are divided. “This is just like summer camp,” someone says.

“Yeah,” her friend answers. “It's like color wars.”

Fish Tie senses that he's losing us, so he moves closer to the microphone and begins talking faster. “Please stay with me, boys and girls. Before we go back to our regularly scheduled classes, I want to reiterate the reasons for our decision to handle matters thusly. I'd like to stress that this measure is designed solely for the purposes of improving our fine institution. The initial implementation of our new track program, however, may be difficult. As a result, we are asking that you leave the building immediately following this presentation. We will reopen the school tomorrow with classroom assignments rearranged. Mrs. Temple and I ask that you strive to treat each other—no matter what your placement—in a respectful fashion. We also ask that you remain ever-vigilant for any criminal activity on school property and in our greater community. Individuals who have been predicted will not be excused for their behavior. Instead, they should be aware that we are watching them…” He pauses and then adds, almost as an afterthought, “In order to help them.”

Someone in front raises her hand. “Shouldn't we, like, put these predicted people in jail or something?” She's met with a small chorus of support.

“No,” Fish Tie says, “these individuals will not be charged with any crime until they actually commit it. Our job is to simply remove them from the mainstream population. We hope that further training and isolation from the general population will help them to reform.”

You can tell Fish Tie is done answering questions, but the girl keeps pushing him. “But you said that being predicted means they
will
commit a crime. How can they reform? If they weren't going to commit a crime, they wouldn't be predicted in the first place, right?”

Fish Tie clears his throat for about an hour until Mrs. Temple joins him at the microphone and takes over. “Excellent question, Ashley,” she says. “PROFILE is very complicated, and I urge all of you to read more about it and how it works. Utopia Research Laboratories has generously provided this literature”—she points to a tall stack of glossy booklets on a table by the door—“that can answer many of your questions. This situation is new to us too, and we're just going to have to work together to figure out how it will operate. I will tell you that PROFILE tests will be given across the country, starting next fall, so we here in Quiet will not be alone for long. Still, the rest of the country is looking toward us to see how we handle this situation. Let's set an example.”