Question Three #3
The crowd erupts into fresh cheers, but I’m distracted by Ashlyn, who’s handing a stack of slim black tablets and key cards to the student nearest the aisle. Scarlett hands both the tablets and key cards to me, and I take one of each off the top and pass the rest to the student beside me.
“Before we officially get started, you’ll notice that my TAs are handing out tablets,” Wyatt announces.
“We’re paper-free here at Luminary, so these tablets will be your best friends for the year.
You’ll be able to download whatever textbooks you need once your classes have been finalized, and you’ll also find an individualized schedule, a school email account, and an interactive map of the grounds.
There will be plenty of time for you to explore the devices once you’re back at your dorms, but for now they’ll remain locked so I can have your undivided attention while I outline what you can expect throughout the year.
“Luminary is the first school of its kind,” Wyatt continues. “Our cutting-edge curriculum is set to completely disrupt the state of modern education. Ultimately, I hope to expand with similar institutes all over the country, but for now…”
I try to follow along as Wyatt puts up chart after chart on the screens surrounding him, displaying everything from student test scores and percentage of acceptances at top universities, to the prevalence of active shooter drills and metal detectors at school entrances.
After about twenty minutes, I find my attention ebbing.
I try to mess around with my new tablet, but the screen stays frozen.
“But what good is learning in the abstract?” Wyatt says.
He seems to be drawing to some sort of a conclusion, so I try to start listening again.
“It’s my firm belief that the best learning comes from doing.
There need to be real stakes and real consequences to everything you do.
We know reading a recipe isn’t the same as cooking, that learning the history of art isn’t the same as making a sculpture.
So why do we think memorizing a bunch of formulas can teach you math?
How can you understand the Civil War if you’ve never experienced it? ”
I frown. Huh. What an odd thing to say. How exactly are we supposed to experience the Civil War?
“Finally, I’ll be unlocking your tablets so I can draw your attention to our official code of conduct. It should be appearing on your screens now,” Wyatt says, and every tablet in the auditorium lights up at once.
Luminary Preparatory Academy Code of Conduct, reads the document on my screen. Below, there’s a list of rules.
I stop reading almost immediately.
No cell phones, laptops, or similar technologies are permitted on campus.
“No phones?” I murmur. I’ve never spent more than a few hours without my phone.
They even let me keep it at juvie. I’ve used it to look up everything from how to break into a file cabinet with a paper clip to how to tell if milk’s gone bad.
It’s basically my brain. I glance at Scarlett. “They can’t be serious.”
“We’re to volunteer our electronics after the assembly,” Scarlett reads, nose wrinkling. “That sounds pretty serious.”
Behind us, Seven scoffs. “Have you gotten to the part about the NDA?”
That’s the first rule: Upon admission, all students will be required to sign a Nondisclosure Agreement (NDA) provided by the Institute’s legal counsel.
“This is ridiculous,” I murmur. “Since when does a school expect you to sign a nondisclosure agreement?”
“And safety waivers,” the kid sitting next to Seven adds. “Keep reading.”
We’re not the only students who are shocked.
Whispers have erupted around us as people read sections of the code out loud and turn to their neighbors to discuss.
The vibe in the auditorium has totally shifted.
Two burly brown-haired boys near the front of the auditorium even stand, like they’re going to leave.
“I understand these rules may seem daunting,” Wyatt announces, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.
“But they’re intended for your benefit. Phones and other electronics prevent students from fully engaging in their studies.
Your parents and guardians have all been informed of this and are aware that their ability to communicate with you over the semester will be limited to—”
“What about the NDAs?” someone near the front row interrupts. A guy behind me mutters that this must be a joke. Another kid shouts that he’s not signing anything.
Wyatt’s expression tightens for a moment—it’s clear he wasn’t expecting so many interruptions—but he quickly recovers.
“Luminary’s strategies are proprietary. We’re doing something really special here, and it’s important to the integrity of the school to keep all information on our curriculum limited to our current class. ”
“In other words, he doesn’t want some other school to swoop in and steal his ideas,” Seven mutters from behind us.
“I’ll be the first to admit that this place isn’t for everyone,” Wyatt says.
“The classes here will be difficult beyond anything you’ve experienced before, but I urge you to stick it out and work through the curriculum.
You get out of this place what you’re willing to put into it.
” Wyatt smiles, and I’m momentarily reminded of Willy Wonka—the classic Gene Wilder Wonka, not Depp or Chalamet.
He has the same slightly unhinged giddiness to him, the kind of guy who’d happily watch a kid drown in a vat of chocolate. A shiver inches down my spine.
“We will commence our academic journey with a series of tests designed to measure your skills, your weaknesses, and how you think,” Wyatt continues.
“They’re going to test us?” Scarlett whispers. Scarlett hates tests. I try to give her a comforting smile.
Wyatt says, “Following your tests, you will be sorted into one of five dormitories based on how you learn and retain information.
Strategists are practical and calculated, while Connectors prioritize relationships over rigid rules.
Visionaries are big-picture thinkers, Protectors have a strong moral compass, and Innovators would rather rewrite the rules than play by them.
Sorting you into these separate groups helps us design a unique curriculum tailored to how you learn best. No two students at Luminary have the same classes, teachers, or assignments.
Here, we aim to home in on exactly what makes you special and create an individualized education that includes everything you need to be successful.
“Finally, I don’t believe students should be expected to work hard for nothing,” Wyatt continues.
“That’s one of the primary ways in which our school differs from any other before it.
I believe in innovation, in competition.
We’re training you all to become our country’s next great generation of thinkers.
It is my firm belief that we’ll get the best from you if we offer an incentive. ”
My ears prick. Incentive? Does he mean like a reward?
I’m clearly not the only one interested. The entire auditorium is suddenly silent, every single student waiting to hear what Wyatt’s going to say next.
“With that in mind, Luminary would like to make sure that each member of its graduating class is able to continue their education beyond this year.” Wyatt pauses, his gaze sweeping the now-silent crowd.
He seems delighted to have our undivided attention as he adds, “We’ve partnered with top universities all over the world—Princeton, MIT, Johns Hopkins, Pratt, SCAD, the Sorbonne—as well as local colleges like UNL and Blackwood University. ”
Something strange happens to my vision. The auditorium blurs.
Did he just say Blackwood University?
Wyatt continues, “I’m happy to announce that these schools have all agreed to admit any graduating senior from Luminary Academy, and to waive all fees associated with continuing their education—for however long they choose to continue their education.”
Excitement spreads through the auditorium, whispers erupting like tiny fires, followed by a few murmured expletives, nervous laughter. No one seems to know how to react to Wyatt’s announcement.
I get it. A free education has the power to change your life, to shape your entire future.
Images flash through my head, real as memories: the Blackwood campus in the fall, trees bursting with red and orange and yellow leaves.
I picture myself walking down the same stone pathways I’ve spent hours studying online, the same pathways my mother walked down seventeen years ago.
The inside of my mouth feels hot and dry. It takes me a second to realize that’s because it’s hanging open. I snap it closed, swallow a few times to get the saliva flowing.
“I should clarify,” Wyatt says, raising his voice to be heard above the whispers and laughter.
“This perk is only for graduating seniors. You’ll soon find that Luminary is different from any other school you’ve attended.
We don’t expect everyone sitting in this auditorium to graduate.
Far from it, actually. Most of you won’t even make it to the next semester. ”
That shuts us up. Stunned silence fills the auditorium. Someone sitting in the row behind me coughs. It’s a faint, breathy sound that echoes in the quiet.
Wyatt seems to be loving this, because his smile gets even wider, bordering on giddy.
And then, he drops the bomb: “Of the fifty students sitting here today, only five will graduate.”