Question Four
On your way to work one morning, you’re involved in a two-car crash in which you hit and kill a pedestrian accidentally. As you get out of the car, you are intercepted by a tearful woman who seems to think that she hit and killed the pedestrian.
There’s only you, the woman, and the person you hit on the road; there are no witnesses. You know that whoever is deemed responsible will probably be sent to jail.
What do you do?
I blink three times, fast. It feels as though I’m looking out through a foggy window. All the sharp lines and edges have softened. I force myself to breathe.
Of the fifty students sitting here today, only five will graduate.
“Five?” Scarlett murmurs, looking absolutely terrified. “He can’t be serious.”
“How do they decide which five?” Seven wants to know. “Is it reality show rules? Will one of us be voted off the island at the end of each week?”
“Maybe there will be more tests,” Scar adds, chewing her fingernails. “I hate tests.”
“It might not be that bad,” I tell her. “They could have us fight to the death.”
Scar glowers at me in response.
The students around us all seem equally terrified, excited, and confused.
They’re talking over one another and shouting questions up at Wyatt, who’s still smiling like it’s Christmas morning.
“Will we be judged by our GPAs?” one student wants to know.
“What about extracurriculars?” another adds at the same time a third shouts, “Will we need teacher recommendations?”
I barely notice. I’m still stuck on that little perk Wyatt mentioned. Up until about thirty seconds ago, there was no way I was ever going to be able to afford even one year at a college like Blackwood—and that was if I could get in, which I couldn’t.
But now…now I have a real chance. Five students out of fifty is 10 percent, which doesn’t sound great, until you consider that Blackwood only has an acceptance rate of 3 percent.
Which makes this the best shot at a future I could ever hope for.
I don’t care how they’re planning to narrow fifty of us down to five.
I vow, right here and now, to make it to the end of the year.
But here’s the problem: In all seventeen years of my life, I’ve never once managed to avoid getting kicked out of a school.
I was kicked out of day care for stealing extra graham crackers and juice during snack time.
(They kept them in the kitchen, behind a simple door lock. It was child’s play. Literally.)
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart. There’s a first time for everything, right? I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care how hard I have to work, I will do absolutely everything in my power to be one of Luminary’s final five.
The assembly ends with Ashlyn and the other TAs collecting our electronics and leading us out of the auditorium.
We’re told to leave our luggage at the door (“It’ll be delivered to your dorms for you,” Ashlyn explains), and Scar and I are moving toward the exit with the rest of the crowd when a voice says, “Hey, don’t I know you? ”
My stomach twists unpleasantly. I’ve only ever heard Ian speak onstage before. His normal voice is deeper, and a little scratchy, like he just woke up.
Scar and I share a look, and then we turn to face him. Ian’s eyes are glacial, the palest blue. They settle on Scarlett and narrow, something like recognition flickering through them.
Here’s the obnoxious thing about him: Up close, he doesn’t look like a real person.
He has a sense of the uncanny about him, like he was designed by AI.
He looks like the trust fund kid who lives next door, but with a dark side.
His jaw is a little too defined, his hair a little too gold, and no matter how many times I’ve seen him in person, he always seems just a little taller than he was before.
If Gilmore Girls were filmed today, Ian would play all three of Rory’s boyfriends.
He snaps his fingers, as though trying to come up with Scar’s name, and says, “It’s…Madison, right?”
My lips form the scowl without consulting with my brain first. Ian has competed against Scarlett more than a dozen times over the last two years.
Scar swallows. “It’s, uh, Scarlett, actually,” she mumbles. “Hi, Ian.”
But Ian’s not finished. “No, of course,” he says, squinting. “Sorry, I had you confused with someone else, this girl I debated at Adams High last fall. But I can’t see her lasting a week at Luminary.” He says this with a little smirk.
Scar turns a deep shade of maroon. “Uh, yeah, no…That was me.”
“Really?” Ian’s smirk deepens. I want to slap it off of him.
The aisle ahead is clear now. I can feel the line behind us getting anxious, wanting us to move. But I can’t let Ian get the last word.
“I’m surprised you don’t recognize Scarlett,” I say, feigning sweetness. “Don’t you remember? She almost beat you last year at the science fair. You did the project on Nic Cage?”
Ian’s face reddens. I’m pretty proud of this prank: Ian’s actual project was about the effects of ammonium nitrate concentrations on cold pack temperatures, whatever the hell that means.
I saw him give his presentation once, and I noticed that he used a slide deck saved to the cloud and that all his images were linked online.
So, when he went to the bathroom, I “borrowed” his computer and downloaded the Nicolas Cage Chrome extension, which changed all the images in his deck to pics of Nic Cage.
When he gave his presentation, the laughter in the auditorium was so loud you couldn’t even hear what he was saying.
He still won first place, but I like to think I soured the victory for him just a little.
Ian’s eyes move from Scarlett to me, almost lazily. He blinks, recognition flashing through them. Does he remember me standing in the audience as he attempted to explain why his deck included a pic of Nic Cage dressed as a priest, screaming?
But all he says is “Nice shirt. Did you wash it after taking it out of the dumpster?”
I open my mouth, but before I can respond, Seven gives me a little shove down the aisle. “C’mon, Boat Shoes isn’t worth it,” they say under their breath. “Though he does have about the most punchable face I’ve ever seen.”
“His nose would look better broken,” I agree. But I’m assuming Luminary would disapprove of me punching another student on my first day, so I let it go and follow the others up the aisle and out the door.
After the assembly, we head to the barns for testing. These turn out to be the barns I spotted from the trolley: three massive structures of weathered wood hulking at the far edge of campus.
Scarlett and I report to Barn 3, where we’re greeted with rows of desks.
The students around us talk furtively. They mostly seem to be from Nebraska—Springfield and Lincoln and Omaha—though a few are from the more rural areas out west. A girl with red streaks in her hair introduces herself as Chloe and says her mom went to one of Wyatt Sullivan’s information sessions and couldn’t stop talking about this place.
A girl with a long brunette braid—Sofia—says she found it online while searching for the best college prep programs in the state.
A short, kinda gangly kid with glasses too big for his face introduces himself as Zachary and says he tests in the top 99 percent, but admits he’s always failing his classes.
“I have the opposite problem,” Scar says. “I fail every test even though I make straight A’s on assignments.”
“If only we could combine our brains, we’d be the perfect student,” Zachary says.
I choose a desk in the far corner of the back row, wondering if the staff has already started trying to weed a few of us out, if the tests we’re taking right now will determine whether we’re allowed to stay the night. My palms start to sweat.
As soon as the clock at the front of the classroom changes from 8:58 to 8:59, the students around me fall quiet, a kind of nervous energy filling the room.
When it switches to 9:00, my tablet screen changes.
Let’s begin, it reads. Part One: Morality.
Imagine you’re an eyewitness to a crime: A man has robbed a bank, but instead of keeping the money for himself, he donates it to a poor orphanage that can now afford to feed, clothe, and care for its children.
You know who committed the crime. If you go to the authorities with the information, there’s a good chance the money will be returned to the bank, leaving a lot of kids in need.
What do you do?
1) Turn the robber in
2) Say nothing
“The hell?” I murmur.
The TA nearest to me says, “Please refrain from talking while taking your tests.”
I take a long, slow breath, trying to steady my racing heart. I know which option I think is correct, but I still hesitate. Will I get kicked out if I select an answer that’s in a legal gray area?
For a moment, I swear I hear Hank’s voice in my ear, saying, Chaotic good.
Finally, I tap 2) Say nothing.
The question disappears, and a new one takes its place.
Each time the screen changes, I’m presented with a new dilemma: Would I turn a coworker in if I suspected they’d stolen from the company where we both worked?
No, I would not. What if they didn’t need the money?
Still no. Would I invest money with a friend if I was certain I could double it, but the friend wouldn’t tell me how?
Yes, I would. What if I suspected their methods weren’t legal?
Still yes. What if I needed the money to help a sick family member? Yes, again.
I have just selected the response stating No, I would not turn my friend in for admitting they committed a crime when my tablet screen goes blank. For a moment, there’s just a whirring sound as the device does…something. Then text appears:
Your responses are being calculated. The morality portion of your testing has concluded. Please report to Barn 2 for the mental portion of your evaluation.
The mental portion of our evaluation reminds me of the PSAT and contains questions like: