Question Four #2
The radiation that during the decay of radioactive atomic nuclei is known as gamma radiation. Which choice completes the text so that it conforms to the conventions of standard English?
A) occurs
B) have occurred
C) occur
D) are occurring
My PSAT scores were mid at best, so I don’t have a lot of hope for performing well on this, but I give it my all, and when the test has concluded, we’re all ushered into Barn 1 for the final leg of our assessment: physical tests.
This room’s filled with weight machines, treadmills, and ropes instead of desks. I don’t get it. Are we being tested on how healthy we are? Why would a school need to know that?
Some TA assigns me to a treadmill, hooks sensors up to my body, and explains it’s to calculate my blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels (since when do schools need to know your oxygen levels?), but then the treadmill starts up and my brain goes blank, my entire body focused on the task at hand. Run.
I’ve never been an athlete, but I’m in good shape. You have to be when you spend as much time as I do climbing in and out of windows or over fences or running from the security dogs that stalk the junkyard after hours (don’t ask).
I’m moved through weight machines and pull-up bars. My height and weight are taken and they test my balance by seeing how long I can stay upright while standing on a strange vibrating platform.
I manage to stay upright for five whole minutes—longer than anyone else in the barn—before losing my balance and falling onto the floor.
And there must be a stray nail in the floorboards or something, because when I stand back up, I notice a thin scratch on my knee, a tiny dribble of blood just starting to leak out.
I wince and stop the blood with my finger. And when I look up, I see that the TA’s still watching me, a slight frown on her face. She marks this on her tablet, too.
When we’ve finished the physical tests, a TA leads us down to dinner.
The cafeteria is a warm, open space filled with reclaimed wood tables and leather barstools.
Food stations line the walls, offering sandwiches, tacos, and Thai, as well as carving stations, where chefs cut thick slices of prime rib.
My stomach rumbles as I breathe it in. I’ve never been able to eat as much as I want of anything, even living with Tammy.
Sure, there was plenty of food, but it was all organic, gluten- and seed-oil-free garbage, and as much unpasteurized milk as you care to enjoy (which, in my opinion, should be no unpasteurized milk).
The thought of being able to choose a whole meal of whatever food I want makes my mouth water.
“The results of your tests will be available shortly,” Ashlyn explains. “They’ll be used to determine your dorm assignments, so be sure to check your tablets.”
Scarlett and I load up on a little of everything: carnitas tacos with chipotle mayo and bright purple cabbage, thin-crust pizza smothered with cheese and sausage flecked with fennel, thick slices of prime rib sitting in pools of jus, glazed donuts the size of our heads, still warm.
There’s even a station where you can get homemade soda in flavors I’ve never heard of before: hibiscus grape, rosemary lime, and watermelon cactus.
I feel like a little kid in a candy store.
I’m still at the soda fountain when I see two large, bully-shaped guys from the corner of my eye.
They’re both tall and burly, the kind of kids you’d assume play rugby or lacrosse or polo.
And just as I’m marveling at how guys like that all seem to look the same, I realize they don’t just look alike, they look identical. As in twins.
I watch as they flank Zachary, the nerdy kid who was nice to Scar, and my stomach clenches.
I should’ve expected this. It’s human nature.
If you put a bunch of teens together and tell them that only the smartest, strongest, and best will survive until the end, there’s no way to avoid a few of them—usually the ones used to being considered the smartest, strongest, and best—attempting to pick off the others.
One of the twins snatches a roll off Zachary’s tray and leans close to his ear, whispering something I can’t hear.
Zachary’s eyes dart around, panic setting in.
I’m just about to step in when the guy from the entrance—the hot tattooed guy who was looking at me—appears next to the twins, hands in his pockets, lazy grin on his lips.
Tattoos reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and shiny: a Swiss Army knife.
The twins go still, nerves making their lips twitch, but Tattoos doesn’t even acknowledge the tension he’s creating.
Instead, he flicks open the tiny corkscrew attachment, of all things, and examines it like he’s genuinely interested.
I hear him ask, “Did one of you drop a watch back there?”
The twins both glance at their wrists. From where I’m standing, I can see that one of them is wearing something metallic and expensive and the other isn’t.
“Shit,” says the one with the bare arm. The other shakes his head and adds, “Dad’s gonna be so pissed.”
“It was just back there,” Tattoos says, jerking his head toward the other side of the cafeteria. The twins scurry away. Tattoos reaches over Zachary, plucks a fresh roll from the pile in front of him, and places it on Zachary’s plate.
He catches my eye and drops a heavy metal watch onto my tray as he passes me. Then he winks and walks off.
It’s a nice watch. One of those sporty ones that shows what time it is in like three different places at once. I grin and leave it on the floor for the twins to find.
Scarlett has already located a table near the back of the room, along with Seven and the kid they were talking to in the auditorium, who introduces himself as Mando (and who Scar can’t bring herself to look at directly).
Seven has tarot cards spread between their plates, and they’re leaning over them, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Ten of swords,” Seven says, reading the words on a card Mando has just plucked from the deck. “It means an impending disaster. Something terrible is about to happen.”
“Bullshit.” Mando flicks the card into the center of the table. “You’re just saying that because I don’t believe in this and you want to freak me out.”
Seven flips their hands. “What do you want me to say? You chose the card. I’m just telling you what it means.”
“Hey, this seat taken?” a new girl asks.
Scar and I shake our heads, and she drops into a seat across from us.
“I’m Zo.” She’s Black, with tiny, tight black curls that nestle perfectly against her scalp, and she’s wearing truly incredible earrings: giant hunks of gold that take up half her earlobes, curved to look like croissants.
Mando suddenly leans forward, and shouts, “Death? C’mon, Seven, really?”
The card he’s holding depicts a skeleton dressed as the Grim Reaper.
“It doesn’t always mean literal death,” Seven explains. “It could mean the death of an idea or a plan…”
“If I’m going to die, you have to tell me!” Mando says.
“What do you think happens to those of us who don’t graduate?” Scarlett asks, turning back to me and Zo. Her cheeks are red, and I think she’s just searching for something to talk to us about, to keep herself from openly gawking at Mando. “Do they send us back home?”
“No way,” Zo says, shaking her head. “My mom didn’t pay for me to come here just to have me sent back at the end of the first semester.”
I picture how Tammy would react if I turned up at her house before the end of the year and have to swallow a snort of laughter. “Is that even legal?”
Mando pulls another card—the devil—groans, and flicks it back at Seven, turning to talk to us instead. “It’s gotta be legal. Otherwise, how’s Wyatt getting away with it?”
Scar nods along like this is the smartest thing she’s ever heard, then pretends to be incredibly interested in the bubbles in her soda when she catches me watching her.
“Well, I don’t know about y’all, but I’m not leaving,” Seven announces, gathering their tarot cards. “I don’t care if it kills me, but I’m going to be one of the final five graduates.”
“Same.” Zo’s got a wistful look in her eye as she adds, almost without realizing she’s doing it, “I love computers. I’ve always wanted to study comp sci at MIT.”
There’s a brief silence, and then Mando coughs and says, “Yeah…I want to go to UCLA, get the same education as Coppola and Charles Burnett.”
“I don’t care where I go, I just need it to be an Ivy League,” Scarlett says.
“You don’t need it to be an Ivy League,” I point out. “Tammy does.”
Scar sighs and adds, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s no way I’m going to be one of the final five.”
“You could be,” I say. Then, glancing around the table, I add, “There are five of us here. I don’t see why we all can’t make it to the end.”
“I’m dying to go to the Savannah College of Art and Design,” Seven adds. “It’s one of the only colleges in the country where you can get a BFA in the business of beauty and fragrance. It’s been my dream since I was twelve.”
Scarlett nearly knocks her tray of food off the table. “Oh!” she says to Seven. “I finally figured out why I recognize you! You’re that beauty influencer on YouTube.”
I glance at Seven. “You’re an influencer?”
“Seven Beauty.” They frown distantly. “It’s just a small channel, though.”
“Nah, I’ve seen your videos,” Zo says. “You have something like a hundred thousand followers.” She shifts as she talks, one foot carefully pushing a dingy backpack beneath her seat.
I stare, but it’s a beat before I realize Zo’s not pushing the backpack—she’s holding it in place. Because something inside it is moving.
“Do you ever get free samples of beauty products?” Scarlett’s asking Seven.
Seven winks at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up.”