“Give it a shot, come on now.”
“I really don't know.”
“What's gotten into you? This is basic stuff for you.” He peers at me. I'm one of the smarter students in school, and he knows that.
Truth is, I could easily be the top student if I wanted to— grades come that easily to me, I don't even have to study— but I deliberately dumb down. There'd be too much attention at the top. “Look here.
Let's work together on this. Just read the question fi rst.”
Suddenly the situation has intensifi ed. But nothing to panic over. Yet.
“Guess my brain's not quite awake yet.”
“But just read the question. That's all .” His voice now holds an edge of sternness.
Suddenly I don't like this at all . He's beginning to take it personal y.
More eyes start to peer back at me.
Out of ner vous ness, I begin to clear my throat. Then catch myself. Just in time. People never clear their throats. I breathe in, forc-ing myself to slow down time. I resist the urge to wipe my upper lip where I suspect smal beads of sweat are starting to form.
“Do I need to ask you again?”
In front of me, Ashley June is staring more intently at me.
For a moment, I wonder if she's staring at my upper lip.
Does she see a slight glisten of sweat there? Did I miss shaving a hair? Then she puts up an arm, a long slender pale arm like a swan's neck arising out of the water.
“I think I know,” she says, and gets up from her seat. She takes the chalk from the teacher, who is taken aback by her forthrightness.
Students don't usual y approach the board uninvited. But then again, this is Ashley June, who pretty much gets by with what ever she wants. She gazes up at the equation, then writes with a quick fl ourish in large letters and numbers. Moments later, she's done and adds her own check mark and an “A+” at the end. Dusting off her hands, she sits back down. Some of the students start scratching their wrists, as does the teacher. “That was pretty funny,” he says. “I like that.” He scratches his wrist faster, demonstrably, and more students join him. I hear the rasp rasp rasp of nails scratching against wrists.
I join them, scratching my wrists with my long nails, hating it.
Because my wrists are defective. They don't itch when I fi nd something humorous. My natural instinct is to smile— smiling is this thing I do by widening my mouth and exposing my teeth— and not to scratch my wrist. I have sensitive nerve endings there, not a funny bone.
A message on the PA system suddenly sounds over the loud-speakers. Instantly, everyone stops scratching and sits up. The voice is robotic, man- female, authoritative.
“An important announcement,” it blares. “To night, in just three hours at two A.M., there will be a nationwide Declaration made by the Ruler. all citizens are required to participate. Accordingly, all classes held at that time will be canceled. Teachers, students, and all administrative staff wil gather in the assembly hal to watch the live broadcast from our beloved Ruler.”
And that's it. After the sign- off chimes, nobody speaks.
We're stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in stunned by this news. The Ruler— who hasn't been seen in public in decades— almost never makes a TV appearance. He usual y leaves Palatial and other administrative announcements to the four Ministers under him (Science, Education, Food, Law) or the fi fteen Directors (Horse Engineering, City Infrastructure, Heper Studies, and so on) under them.
And the fact that he is making a Declaration is missed by no one. Everyone starts speculating about the Declaration.
A nationwide Declaration is reserved for only the rarest of occasions. Over the past fi fteen years, it's happened only twice. Once to announce the Ruler's marriage. And second, most famously, to announce the Heper Hunt.
Although the last Heper Hunt occurred ten years ago, people still talk about it. The Palace surprised the public when it announced it had been secretly harboring eight hepers. Eight living, blood- fi l ed hepers. To lift morale during a time of economic depression, the Ruler decided to release the hepers into the wild. These hepers, kept under confi nement for years, were fattened and slow, bewildered and frightened. Cast out into the wild like lambs to the slaughter, they never had a chance. They were given a twelve- hour head start. Then, a lucky group chosen by lottery were permitted to give chase after them. The Hunt was over in two hours. The event generated a surge in popularity for the Ruler.
As I walk to the cafeteria for lunch, I hear the buzz of excitement. Many are hoping for an announcement of another Heper Hunt. There is talk of a lottery for citizens again. Others are skeptical— haven't hepers become extinct? But even the doubters are drooling at the possibility, lines of saliva dripping down their chins and under their shirts. Nobody has tasted a heper, drunken its blood, feasted on its fl esh, for years now. To think that the government might be harboring some hepers, to think that every citizen might have a shot at winning the lottery for the Hunt . . . it sends the school into a tizzy.
I remember the Hunt from ten years ago. How for months afterward I didn't dare fal asleep because of the nightmares that would invade my mind: hideous images of an imagined Hunt, wet and violent and ful of blood. Horrifi c cries of fear and panic, the sound of fl esh ripped and bones crushed puncturing the night still ness. I'd wake up screaming, inconsolable even as my father wrapped his arms protectively around me in a strong hug. He'd tel me everything was all right, that it was just a dream, that it wasn't real; but what he didn't know was that even as he spoke, I'd hear the lingering sounds of my sister's and mother's wretched screams echoing in my ears, spil ing out of my nightmares and into the darkness of my all - too-real world.
The cafeteria is packed and boisterous. Even the kitchen staff are discussing the Declaration as they scoop food— synthetic meats— onto plates. Lunchtime has always been a chal enge for me because I don't have any friends. I'm a loner, partly because it's safer— less interaction, less chance of being found out. Mostly, though, it's the prospect of being eaten alive by your so- called friend that kil s any possibility of shared intimacy. Cal me picky, but imminent death at the hands (or teeth) of a friend who would suckle blood out of you at the drop of a hat . . . that throws a monkey wrench into friend-ship building.
So I eat lunch alone most of the time. But today, by the time I pay for my food at the cash register, there's barely a seat left. Then I spot F5 and F19 from math class sitting together, and I join them.
They're both idiots, F19 slightly more so. In my mind, I cal them Idiot and Doofus.
“Guys,” I say.
“Hey,” Idiot replies, barely looking up.
“Everyone's talking about the Declaration,” I say.
“Yes,” Doofus says, stuffi ng his mouth. We eat silently for a while. That's the way it is with Idiot and Doofus. They are computer geeks, staying up into the wee hours of the day.
When I eat with them— maybe once a week— sometimes we don't say anything at all . That's when I feel closest to them.
“I've been noticing something,” Doofus says after a while.
I glance up at him. “What's that?”
“Somebody's been paying quite a bit of attention to you.”
He takes another bite into the meat, raw and bloody. It dribbles down his chin, plopping into his bowl.
“You mean the math teacher? I know what you mean, the guy won't leave me alone in trig—”
“No, I meant somebody else. A girl.”
This time, both Idiot and I look up.
“For real?” Idiot asks.
Doofus nods. “She's been looking at you for the past few minutes.”
“Not me.” I take another sip. “She's probably staring at one of you.”
Idiot and Doofus look at each other. Idiot scratches his wrist a few times.
“Funny, that,” Doofus says. “I swear she's been eyeing you for a while now. Not just today. But every lunchtime for the past few weeks, I see her watching you.”
“What ever,” I say, feigning disinterest.
“No, look, she's staring at you right now. Behind you at the table by the window.”
Idiot spins around to look. When he turns back around, he's scratching his wrist hard and fast.
“What's so funny?” I ask, taking another sip, resisting the urge to turn around.
Idiot only scratches his wrist harder and faster. “You should take a look. He's not kidding.”
Slowly, I turn around and steal a quick glance. There's only one table by the window. A circle of girls eating there. The Desirables.
That's what they are known as. And that round table is theirs, and everyone knows by some unwritten rule that you leave that table alone. It is the domain of the Desirables, the pop u lar girls, the ones with the cute boyfriends and designer clothes. You approach that table only if they let you. I've seen even their boyfriends waiting dutiful y off to the side until granted permission to approach.
Not one of them is looking at me. They are chitchatting, comparing jewelry, oblivious to the world outside the sphere of their table. But then one of them gives me a lingering look, her eyes meeting, then holding, mine. It is Ashley June. She looks at me with the same kind of wistful, longing glance she's shot at me dozens of times over the past few years.
I fl ick my eyes away, spin back around. Idiot and Doofus are scratching their wrists maniacal y now. I feel the heat of a dangerous blush begin to hit my face, but they are thankful y too busy scratching to notice. I quel my face, taking deep, slow breaths until the heat dissipates.
“Actual y,” Idiot says, “didn't that girl have a thing for you before? Yeah, yeah, I think that's right. A couple of years back.”
“She's still pining after you, she's got the hots for you after all this time,” Doofus wisecracks, and this time the two of them start scratching each other's wrists uncontrol ably.
