The auditorium is heavy with apprehension. It’s too quiet, too devoid of life, and the only sights are blurs of uniform clad-students anxiously gripping the edge of their seats. Just when I think my insanity has peaked, the ticking of the Clock of Providence emerges.
Tick-tock-tick-tock — the incessant sound of mockery.
“One more minute left,” whispers the student in the aisle behind me.
Although I turn around to glare at “Sherlock,” who can’t contain his astute observation, his teeth gnashing and knee quivering gives him away—I don’t blame him. How could I, when the gravity of this situation is so heavy? When our livelihoods, our ranks, are decided on this very day? With every eye now glued to the Clock of Providence, its ticking comes to a sharp stop, as it robotically voices its final command: “Your classifications will now be distributed.” Within seconds, the room that was once as silent as the dead awakens into an anxious and deafening roar; a wave of anticipation, shock, and sorrow seeps into all four corners of the room. Secretly wishing that my name began with “A,” I bite my fist in hopes of calming down. However, when I see the buried heads and downcast expressions of those who aren’t fortunate — the Boors, the Clerks, and the Low Laborers — I know that my habit isn’t working.
“Ding,” the virtual portal echoes in my ears and I retrieve the blue envelope in desperation.
Ironically enough, the high nobility had chosen the color blue, because it calms the mind and stimulates concentration; they embossed it with floral decor and an image of a dove. If I weren’t so stressed, I would’ve found it comical. Tearing the envelope open with the ferocity of an animal, I skim ahead of the dreary regulations only to find my sector. I can’t believe it.
“I’m a Gentry!” I squeal, ignoring the venomous looks shot at me from the students contained in that drab, small, room.
I told myself that I wouldn’t let my results dictate my reaction, that I wouldn’t let it change me – but I don’t live up to that promise. Still, it’s nice to experience the relief that comes with validation.
“That sure wasn’t how you behaved five minutes ago,” says Rue, a mixture of joy and amusement in her voice.
As usual, she was right.
“Did you know that the probability of being a Gentry is 4.7%? And even then, the majority of Gentries gain borrowed status from a relative.”
“Rue…”
“On top of this, only the—”
“Are you planning to keep spewing out statistics, or will you open your results already?” I say, interrupting her little spiel.
Her eyes wallow on her customized golden envelope—a gift for those who hold favorable fates, a cruel stunt for those who don’t. She makes a slight tear on one side of the envelope, holds it up to the ceiling, looks around, and tears again. She’s stalling for time. After closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she whispers,
“I’m ready.”
From the way she forcefully squeezes my hand, I know she’s not.
Who ever is? Luck is forbidden in our society, but I secretly cross my fingers behind my back, hoping that it’ll contribute in some way. As her eyes move across the little margin below, I scan Rue’s face in hopes of seeing her usual grin—the same grin that spreads whenever she passes her advanced assessments, or whenever John meets her eye from across the dining hall. But, the color drains from her face and her hands immediately turn pale, as if she’s just seen a ghost.
I know I won’t see her grin.
Published February 5, 2022
Written by Nana Opare-Addo ~ Edited by Anjali Pathmanathan ~ Graphics created by Hana Eisa
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