The Wikkeling (18 page)

30 - 10 =

Henrietta typed “20” and submitted it. To her surprise, though, her computer responded with a heart-stopping
clunk
.

Around her, other computers
clunk
ed. At the front of the room, Ms. Span's
neat bun had begun to come loose. A strand of hair hung in front of her face, and her reading glasses were askew. She typed madly at her terminal.

The next question appeared.

20 - 5 =

“Don't respond!” she said, typing furiously. “All right, everyone.
Silence.
Pay attention. Math is different now. Minus means plus now. When you see minus, think
plus
.”

“But—” began several students.

“
Minus means plus
!” Ms. Span shouted. Her voice cracked.

Henrietta looked at the problem. All right, then. “20 - 5” should be “20 + 5.” Henrietta entered “25.” Her computer
ding
ed—correct. Around her, other computers
ding
ed, although some
clunk
ed. Some of the students were evidently having difficulty thinking of “minus” as “plus.”

The next problem:

10 + 10 =

“Ms. Span, if minus is plus, is plus minus?” said Bernard Faust, a large boy whose scores were generally near the bottom of the class. He sat next to Clarence Frederick, and both of them were shooting worried glances all around, unsure what to do.

“I don't know,” said Ms. Span. Her voice had become very calm. “Answer and move on,” she said. She held up her arms, like someone making a plea for help.

Henrietta typed “20” and submitted it.
Ding
.

That was how the remainder of the math portion worked out. Minus had become plus, but plus was still plus. In other words, the test contained no subtraction problems. Once the students got the hang of it, Ms. Span seemed to recover some degree of her composure, straightening her glasses and running a hand over her black hair to smooth it. The exam ended and the bell rang for History and Nutrition.

“Everyone, Mason the bus supervisor is waiting outside to escort you today, while I stay here to collate the results.”

The students stood, some a little shakily, others wiping tears from red cheeks, and walked silently out the door. Henrietta was preparing to follow when Ms. Span's voice stopped her in her tracks. “Henrietta.” She did not sound pleased.

Henrietta approached the front as the last few students exited.

“You did well on the math today,” Ms. Span said, removing her reading glasses.

“Thank you,” said Henrietta. She could tell this wasn't going to be good news.

“But your composition. It was . . . inexcusable.” Ms. Span turned her computer screen to face Henrietta and displayed Henrietta's essay, with F
AIL
written across the top. Below, the many words Henrietta had learned in the attic were underlined in red, one after the other.

“What is this supposed to mean?” said Ms. Span, donning her glasses again to peer at the screen and then removing them as if the sight caused her physical pain. “Why are you making up words, Henrietta?”

“I didn't,” said Henrietta.

Ms. Span shook her head. “This essay decreased our class's aggregated statistic by two percent.”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Span,” said Henrietta.

“Henrietta, this essay, plus your Behavioral Citation this morning, has forced me to classify you as At Risk for the remainder of the year. If you perform like this again, you will be Finished.”

“But—” said Henrietta.

“If I don't declare you At Risk, the whole class will suffer from having your scores included. Do you want that?”

“No,” said Henrietta.

Ms. Span sighed. She massaged her plucked eyebrows with one hand. “Henrietta, I don't want to do it. I like you. Gary likes you. And I want to help you.”

“I understand,” said Henrietta, numbly. She wasn't really following the conversation anymore. Her mind had stopped at the words At Risk.

“We'll get through it if we commit to working hard. Gary will help you, too, I'm sure.”

“Okay,” said Henrietta. She looked up at the wall clock above, and observed the seconds clicking past.

“If you'd like to visit him at the nurse's office, Henrietta, I'll release you from History and Nutrition today. Ms. Morse just sent me a message that he's recovering.”

“Thank you, Ms. Span.”

Henrietta entered the hallway with her stomach clenched in a knot. Detention she could handle, but At Risk was something else entirely. Just a step away
from a lifetime in a dingy apartment in the crime-ridden Old City, collecting garbage. A step from never seeing her friends again. She blinked furiously and wiped away shameful tears as she walked to Ms. Morse's office.

Her cell phone rang, and her mother's name appeared on the screen. She knew she should answer, but she didn't. Once it stopped ringing, it rang again—her father. By now they would both have received the news that she'd been reclassified.

When she opened the door to the infirmary, Ms. Morse was behind her desk, and wasn't surprised to see her.

“Rose is already with him,” she said, gesturing.

Henrietta entered the recovery room. Gary lay on a cot, curled up with his hands loosely covering his face. He looked small. Rose sat across from him. “He'll be all right,” she said as Henrietta sat next to her. They watched Gary's still form for awhile. “Rose, I'm At Risk,” said Henrietta. “My parents are going to ground me forever. You probably shouldn't come over today.”

“I'm sorry,” said Rose. Her small face was full of sympathy, which made Henrietta feel a little better.

Henrietta's Behavioral Citation had also earned her detention, during which she typed out a long list of District-Approved Vocabulary words provided by Ms. Span that included terms such as
bucket
,
grunt
, and
rug
. By the end, Henrietta had missed her bus and had to call her mother.

Her parents were both in the car when it arrived, which was almost unheard
of. They received her with disappointed faces, told her she was grounded, supplied many unpleasant scenarios of her future life that would occur if she were Finished, and emphasized the importance of using District-Approved Vocabulary, glancing at Ms. Span's report recommendations on their phones as they spoke. Henrietta wished she could shrink into nothing. As her parents lectured, she dropped her chin to her chest.

When they arrived home, dinner was served in near-silence, and her father curtly assured Henrietta that she would get no dessert. Other grim facts were aired:

–  The amount of money Henrietta's father lost by coming home early.

–  The exact layout of the tiny, rat-infested Old City apartment where Henrietta would spend the rest of her days as a garbage collector, which did not feature a private bathroom.

–  The shame that would be heaped forever upon the name of Gad-Fly if
Henrietta were to become Finished.

Henrietta nodded when it seemed appropriate. Everything had piled on top of everything until she felt nothing. Finally, she was sent to her room to think about what she'd done. As soon as she arrived there, she climbed past the unseeing eye of the still-broken BedCam into the attic.

A luxuriant, greenish full moon shone through the large windows, reflecting perfectly in the glass top of the coffee table. The couch, ornamented with brocades of deep shadow, looked like a stone sculpture in the pale light.

On it Mister Lady reclined casually, reading
Early Town
, turning a page with a single sharp claw.

Henrietta froze when she saw this, and Mister Lady looked up abruptly. It was obvious she hadn't been expecting Henrietta at this moment.

“I'm sorry,” said Henrietta. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I just can't do
anything
right.”

The black pupils of the cat's green eyes were so large Henrietta felt swallowed by them. Mister Lady dropped the page, stood, and leaped easily to the top of a nearby bookcase, from which she looked down at Henrietta.

“I'm sorry,” said Henrietta again. She felt like she should leave, but couldn't bear to go back down. Everything was too terrible.

When she blinked, she must have missed something. She must have because suddenly Mister Lady was gone. The place she'd just occupied atop the bookcase was empty.

“Hello?” said Henrietta quietly. There was no response. The silence of the attic was oppressive.

After wearying herself with searching, Henrietta descended back to her bedroom. The day could scarcely get worse. She shoved her feet and arms into the legs and sleeves of her polyester pajamas and slipped under her bedcovers. Disheartened, she fell asleep almost immediately, retreating from it all.

It seemed like the end of an awful day, but it wasn't over yet. The world didn't stop turning just because Henrietta had gone to sleep.

At that moment, a massive, yellow truck turned onto the street outside of her house, blocking both northbound lanes of traffic. A yellow car followed it at
a walking pace. A worker emerged from the passenger side of the car with a can of spray paint in one hand, and made marks on the road—numbers and symbols of obscure meaning.

Behind the yellow car drove a yellow van with a hole in its roof, through which protruded a tall swiveling platform where a worker stood, holding a large remote control covered with buttons. When the van approached a stoplight, the worker pushed a few buttons on the control, and the light went out.

Behind the yellow van drove another yellow truck, this one dropping sawhorses at intersections. Each sawhorse featured two bright yellow, flashing lights with a sign between that read: R
OAD
C
LOSED
. Eventually, this caravan of northbound vehicles passed an identical caravan traveling southbound. After they passed one another, the street was empty.

For the first time in many years, there was silence on Henrietta's block.

T
he next morning, after a depressing breakfast of cornslaw and further remonstrances from both of her parents, Henrietta left the house to find Gary waiting outside. “Look!” he said, pointing to the street.