CHAPTER THREE

 My heart starts hammering as I walk behind the partition. Mrs. Bayard is sitting at a large table that appears to have all kinds of things and equipment on it. “Gwenevere Lark?” she confirms, glancing at a sheet.

“Yes.”

“Take a seat please, right here, and try to relax. This will be very quick and painless, I promise. I will ask you to perform several brief tasks, some of which may seem a little odd or unusual. Just do them to the best of your ability.”

“Okay. . . .” I head over to the empty chair next to her. My hands rest in my lap, and I feel them clamming up.

Mrs. Bayard places a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of me, and a pencil. “Please write your full name on top of the page, on the left.”

I do as she asks, making a painful effort to print my name as clear and large as possible, since usually my handwriting is messy and kind of unreadable.

When I look up, Mrs. Bayard is holding up a white plastic object in her palm. I recognize it as some kind of geometrical 3-D shape.

“This is a regular dodecahedron,” says the teacher, putting the object down on the table before me. “It’s a polyhedron with twelve faces, each face being a pentagon. Basically, it’s just a shape with five sides, rendered in three dimensions.”

“Okay,” I say. “Yes, I know.”

“Good. Now, I want you to draw it.”

“What?”

Mrs. Bayard sighs. I imagine she’s had to deal with a similar reaction far too many times today.

“Simply think of it as art class. Just draw this item the best you can, a quick sketch.”

“I am not a good artist—”

“It doesn’t matter. Just do the best you can.”

“Okay.”

I glance at the dodecahedron, and feel a burst of panic. Drawing is just not my strength, although I don’t suck at it completely. I try to imagine my brother Gordie in my place, and how he would smile and sketch a masterpiece in thirty seconds.

I try to channel Gordie as I draw a five-sided figure, then lamely try to add 3-D sides at various angles, and then some shading to it to make it fancy.

“That’s fine now.” Mrs. Bayard reaches forward and takes the paper away from me as I am still shading a side. In its place she slides a tablet computer before me.

“Now, I want you to look at some pictures on the touch screen. There are four images displayed at a time. Quickly choose one of these images that appeals to you most. Keep going until the program ends.”

I see the screen is divided into four, and each quadrant shows a natural landscape in distinct colors. There’s a turquoise-blue island beach scene, a green forest meadow, an orange sunset, and a rosy mist-covered mountain range. I pick the sunset, and the screen shuffles and displays a new set of four images. I pick a moonlit night. Another four pops up, I choose the shady forest. Then, I pick a red canyon.

This keeps going for at least a minute. Series of landscapes with different color schemes, sunset, night, green forest, blue sky, ocean, all come at me in a barrage. Finally the screen goes blank grey and it’s done.

Mrs. Bayard removes the tablet and pushes a strange piece of equipment before me.

I stare at it, and suddenly I get the strongest feeling it is not from Earth.

I’ve never seen any Atlantean technology up close in real life, only whatever occasional gadgets they show on TV. This gadget before me is definitely alien looking.

First of all, the thing is a shapeless lump. It’s about ten inches wide and five inches tall, and perfectly seamless. It’s all smooth, silvery rounded surfaces, and an incomprehensible irregular shape, somewhat like a naturally occurring water-smoothed rock with bumps and ridges and indentations.

In the middle there’s a flat spot that appears somewhat translucent. As I stare closer, it’s as if some kind of faint light source is hiding just underneath the surface of an iced-over frozen pond.

Mrs. Bayard watches tiredly as I try to make sense of this thing. “I am not sure what it is either,” she says, “except it’s some kind of audio recording equipment. It’s a sound test.”

As she speaks, I notice how the frosted light in the middle of the object pulses suddenly, coming alive like a heartbeat, responding in time to the words. The light pulses pale ghostly white, then subsides as Mrs. Bayard goes silent.

“Oh . . . what should I do?” I say.

The light immediately responds to my voice and fluctuates at my words.

“Touch it with your hand until you see the light flare up blue. That means it’s ready for you. It will then play a series of very simple musical tones. You need to repeat each one of them exactly as played, and watch the color of the light. As you sing back the notes, be sure to use the vowel “E.” If it’s red, you are doing something wrong. If it turns green, then it’s correct, and it will play the next one. Keep going until it stops and the light turns blue once again.”

I nod, then reach for the silvery object with my finger.

The moment I touch it, it vibrates under my fingertips. The center of it flashes a bright circle of blue under the frosty surface. And then three very soft notes sound. I take a breath and sing back, “Eeee-eee-eeeee.”

The object lights up reddish as my first note is a bit flat, and then it goes green as I improve. From there on it’s easy. I sing the simple notes and think how the remaining students on the other side of the partition are probably snickering nervously at the stupid sounds I’m making.

“Eeee-eeee-eeeeee.  Eeee-eeee-eeeee.” Over and over, my voice is generally clean and steady, and I am green all the way.

Eventually the light goes blue. I am apparently done.

“Good,” says Mrs. Bayard, removing the weird Atlantean sound gadget out of the way. “Now, just one more thing for you to do, and you’ll be done.”

I watch as she fumbles around with some stuff on the table, and takes things out from silvery anti-static bags that crinkle as she rummages inside.

I am absolutely fascinated as she places four very unusual things on the table surface before me.

The first is a hunting knife. It is long, scary looking, with an eight-inch serrated blade and a wood-and-metal studded handle. The second item is a pen, thick-barreled, elegant and expensive looking, with a roller ball tip and a gold and pearl inlay. Next comes a weird, round flattened plate-like thing that has a handle grip on the interior, and is reinforced metal on the outside. It looks like a small old-fashioned shield that I recognize from history books as a medieval buckler. Last of all, the teacher places on the table a folded rectangle of paper that looks like some kind of map.

“Weird . . .” I mutter.

Mrs. Bayard nods sympathetically. “Yes, honey, I know. All right, this is the last part. I am supposed to ask you the following. You are alone in a strange location. Choose one of these four objects.”

I stare at the things before me.

“Uhm . . .” I say. “What kind of location?”

The teacher sighs. “They don’t tell us. Just pick one, please.”

“Okay. . . . Well, it really depends on what it’s all about. This is very strange. I mean, if I knew I was lost in the wilderness or something, it would be one thing. But if I was stuck in a shopping mall elevator—” My attempt to be sarcastic is pretty much lost on the very tired teacher.

And so I take a big breath and try to think what this is really about. I remind myself that when it comes down to it, this really is life and death.

Qualify or die.

I consider the knife, the pen, the shield, and the map. I try to think as the Atlanteans might think—or as they might want me to think. Do I need to think Darwinian, survival of the fittest? Or altruism? Or what’s honorable? Or—drat, okay I honestly have no frigging idea what they’re looking for. 

If it’s cutthroat survivor instinct they want, I need to take the knife. I really, really should take the knife.

On the other hand, if everyone else decides it’s a deadly jungle out there and arms themselves, I might be better off with a shield. Because honestly, I have no idea how to fight with a knife. At least with a shield I might keep myself intact, and save my hands from getting all cut up.

Now, if it’s a civilized situation, I might be considerably better off with a pen. I could use it to keep records, to write down important things, to communicate. And if I am stuck alone on a desert island, I could even entertain myself.

But, what about the map? If I’m genuinely lost, then wouldn’t a map be the most logical and useful thing to have with me? Not to mention, it’s reading material.

I bite my lower lip, and pick the map.

The teacher nods and records my answer on her papers.

“That’s it,” she says. “You are all done with this portion of Qualification. You can take your things and proceed to the auditorium for the next part. If you’re unfamiliar with the school, any teacher or security guard in the hallway can guide you.”

 * * *

I pick up my stuff and head for the auditorium. On my way out of the classroom I look up and finally find the wall clock, which shows one-forty-five. Wow, so we don’t get a lunch break after all. This is hardcore.

The hallways are not crowded but they are not empty either. Students are making their way up and down stairs, from room to room, and quite a few are headed my way.

I pass a few familiar people from my class, and finally make it to the auditorium. Inside, I am surprised to see it not set up for assembly, as I thought it might be. All the folding chairs are stacked away, and the large hall is filled with students from all grades, milling about, and it’s pretty crowded already. The noise level is unusually subdued, and no one is really laughing. People are seated on the floor against the walls or on top of their bags like weird refugees, and there is plenty of whispering, but it’s all hush-hush. A few people are secretly fiddling with micro electronics installed in discreet smart jewelry but the overt standard phones are mostly out of sight because the last thing anyone wants is to have their phone confiscated today of all days. No cell phone use on school premises is a hard rule, and absolutely no hashtagging, even though the wireless internet blocking filter is on in every classroom.

I look around and see a number of teachers, mostly circulating and watching the room, and some of them standing in clusters talking. Armed security guards are pacing quietly. Near the front of the stage, there are a few unfamiliar teachers and other administrators. I recognize Principal Marksen. He is talking to some people whose backs are turned. They are wearing four-color Atlantis armbands. One of them has distinctive golden-blond hair that glitters uncommonly bright under the overhead lights.

A real Atlantean.

My stomach lurches with fear. Again, everything hits home. This is real, this is happening.

Qualify or die.

As I pause for a moment, frozen with the cold incapacitating uncertainty, I hear my name being called.

“Gwen! This way!”

I turn to look, and it’s my brother George. He’s waving and I see Gracie is with him, looking nervous and wide-eyed. Gordie is there too, sitting hunched forward on the floor, surrounded with bags.

I head over to them. “How did you do? What did you think of it?” Gracie pounces all over me with stress questions.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably okay on the written stuff, but maybe not so well on the weird stuff. How did you do?”

“I don’t know!” Gracie gesticulates with her hands in frustration.

“Yeah, that’s the idea.” George glances around the auditorium as he is speaking. He is probably looking for his friends. “No one knows anything.”

“Wasn’t the ‘Eeee’ test fun?”

“Oh yeah. That was amazingly stupid.”

“Hey, what object did you pick?” Gordie looks up from the floor with a dorky half-smile. “I picked the pen. I wonder what that was about. It was kind of interesting.”

“That was crazy!” Gracie stares suddenly intense and wild-eyed. “I picked the knife!”

George stops scanning the room and looks at her. “No way, Gee Four.”

“That’s badass!” Gordie snorts.

“Yes it is, and I am willing to use it.”

“No, you’re not.” George raises one brow and smiles.

“You have no idea!”

For the first time, seeing the serious intensity in my sister, I can believe it. Something has happened to Gracie, because she is scaring me.

I tell them I chose the map, because it was kind of the reasonable thing to do.

“So much like you, Gee Two,” George says casually. “If anyone’s going to be reasonable, it’s you—”

The bell rings, and suddenly the auditorium is full of extra noise that surges in waves. Someone in administration picks up and tests a microphone. “Please settle down and pay attention, everyone,” a voice says. “We’ll begin shortly, in about ten more minutes as we wait for more people to arrive. There are no chairs because we need you to clear the center of the auditorium. Soon we are going to be full to capacity. Everyone please move off to the sides and near the walls. You can sit on the floor, but only close to the walls. Also, please do not leave any bags unattended and lying underfoot—”

In the chaotic mess of people, we pick up our stuff and approach the walls. Some guy who is a friend of George’s joins us, and then another, and together we all jostle, but George sticks with us. Usually during school, George would never be seen with the other “Gees.” He’d go off to hang with his friends instead of his lame younger siblings, but this is different. This is family protective instinct kicking in. Possibly it’s the last time we might all be together in one room, and George understands this. So he stands next to us and keeps one eye on us, even as he chats and smirks and acts all senior-cool with his buddies, and talks trash about Qualification and the Atlanteans and the impending destruction of the Earth as if it’s just last night’s basketball game.

“It’s almost two, and no lunch,” someone says. “This really blows. How much longer is this going to be? I need a smoke.”

“So, yeah, I’m bored.” George turns around, glancing once at me and Gracie, then turns away again, speaking to his bud whose name I think is Eddie. I know for a fact he is not bored and freaking nervous, but there’s no way he or his buddies would stop to admit it—that all of this is terrifying.

“Are they gonna feed us, ever? Someone order a pizza!” Eddie cracks, drumming his fingers like crazy against the strap of his backpack. “Maybe starvation is part of Qualification.”

I try to ignore Eddie and watch my sister.

Gracie has a few girlfriends who are BFFs, but right this moment she does not bother to search the crowd for anyone. She just stands there dejectedly, even after I try to say something typical to make her crack a smile. Gordie the loner is happily oblivious as usual. And as for me, I momentarily give up on Gracie and look around the room to see if Ann Finnbar is anywhere, but don’t see her. And then I automatically do the other secret visual scan that I always do at school mass gatherings, for a glimpse of Logan Sangre.

About five minutes later Principal Marksen gets up on stage. He’s wearing a headset mike, and he looks frustrated and tough at the same time. The stage smart wall behind him remains off, so apparently it’s all going to be live and we’re not getting a thrilling instructional video.

“May I have your attention,” he says and his voice booms through the packed auditorium. “Please move as far as you can to the right and left walls, and clear the center. I repeat, clear the center. And please form rows.”

As the Principal is speaking, I see security guards and teachers start herding us closer to the walls, until there is a long narrow path of about twenty feet stretching from the stage to the back of the large auditorium space. We are pressed closely so it’s standing room only, and those of us who are shorter have to stand up on tiptoe to see what’s in front.  Good thing I’m reasonably tall, and so is Gracie, and so are my brothers.

A few minutes later, gym mats are brought out, with the P. E. teachers and sports coaches directing. Several other teachers and administrators work together to unroll mats and place them in a long strip in the center of the cleared space, all the way from the beginning of the stage to the back of the auditorium.

“Oh, !@#$%!, it’s gonna be a P. E. test,” a boy whispers behind me.

“We better not have to do forward rolls to Qualify for Atlantis, cause then I’m toast . . .” a girl’s voice sounds.

“Hey, check this out—” I can hear one of George’s friends speaking—“they can’t even fit everyone in this auditorium. There are people spilling over into the hallway, and it looks packed there too, from what I can tell. Man, must be at least five schools packed in here. . . .”

“This is the final part of Qualification for today,” the Principal says. “It determines whether you will get on a bus and be taken to the Regional Qualification Center in the next few hours—or, if you get to go home. Your tests that you took earlier today are being scored and analyzed right now, even as I speak, and the results should be ready by the time we are done here. The total scores will be combined and tallied, and you will be informed immediately after this final portion of preliminary Qualification. For those of you who will be told to go home, I am very deeply sorry.  There are no words adequate to express how much I wish all of you could Qualify uniformly. The unfortunate reality is, less than one tenth of you gathered in this room will Qualify. And now, I will let the Atlantis representative Ligerat explain to you this last portion for today.”

The Principal remains standing on the stage, and now a slim tall man in dark form-fitting clothing and with bright hair that is a shocking metallic yellow joins him. He looks gaunt and it’s hard to tell how old he is because his features look somewhat peculiar. But it’s hard to place a finger on it, what exactly is it about him that makes him weird.

And then it strikes me and Gracie at the same time. “The dude looks kind of Egyptian!” Gracie whispers loudly. “And I don’t mean like some guy from Cairo, but from King Tut’s tomb! He looks as if that bust of Nefertiti came to life, sort of chiseled and pretty and weirdly plastic. Maybe he needs a tall rounded helmet thing to cover his head like some kind of ancient pharaoh with supposedly an elongated skull—except he definitely doesn’t have an elongated skull—”

I stare, and although she is being silly, Gracie is amazingly spot-on. The Atlantean looks to be a living version of someone from an Ancient Egyptian burial site. Even his skin is deeply bronzed, and his prominent eyebrows and eyes appear to be darkly outlined. Not sure if it’s natural or makeup. Except for his metallic hair, which has to be dyed. Weird! None of the other few Atlanteans I’ve seen on TV make you think so strongly of Egypt like this guy does.

The Atlantean is holding some kind of long flat object upright in one hand, resting it against the floor. It’s hard to tell what it is from the distance, but it looks like a board of some sort. It is nearly as tall as he is, about an inch thick and perfectly flat.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” the Atlantean says. He is speaking calmly and does not raise his crisp, smooth voice, yet it carries particularly well because of its precision. “I am pleased to be with you, and I want to see you succeed. This part of the Qualification process involves seeing how well you can handle and how familiar you can become with a very important tool of daily life which is extremely common in our society on Atlantis.”

He easily moves the object forward, turning it on its vertical axis so that the true width of the board becomes apparent, about twelve inches across. It appears to be lightweight, made of matte, non-reflective material, charcoal grey. The top and bottom do not extend straight across into a cutoff like a rectangle but instead are curved smoothly, oval and tapered off, so there are no hard edges.

“This,” Ligerat the Atlantean says, “might seem familiar to some of you, especially here in Vermont. Yes, it looks very much like your own snowboard.”

Waves of interested whispers run though the auditorium. 

“However, it is not the same thing. This is a hoverboard.”

The voices in the auditorium become louder, exploding into more waves of excited whispers.

Ligerat takes the board and suddenly lets it fall flat before him, at the same time as he says a hard verbal command, “Ready!”

The board falls forward, then immediately an amazing thing happens. Just before it hits the floor of the stage, it bounces up six inches from the surface of the floor.

And it stays there, sitting suspended in the air, without any support or power source, perfectly soundless.

It levitates in place.

The auditorium erupts in hoots and whistles and applause. For a moment, everyone has forgotten what is happening on this day, because this thing is just so unbelievable, so awesome!

My brother George forgets himself and cusses. Gracie laughs and exclaims, “Oh my God, how cool!” And Gordie just stares with a big grin and says, “Whoa!”

Everyone around us is chattering, while Ligerat stands motionless, letting us have our crazy reaction. Then Principal Marksen has to cut in with an “All right, everyone, quiet please!”

“The hoverboard has been programmed with simple commands in English.” Ligerat takes a step with his left foot onto the board near the front of its nose. He pushes down to demonstrate. The board gives slightly under his weight, maybe a fluctuation of half an inch, but remains airborne and supports him. He steps on with his other foot, so that he is standing in a loose snowboarder or skateboarder balancing stance, legs slightly apart . . . and now he is suspended in the air.

“Notice, please, there are no bindings to hold my feet and shoes in place. I must stand lightly to keep my balance and be ready to jump off at a moment’s notice. In that sense this is more like your Earth surfboard or skateboard than a snowboard. Now, I will use a few simple commands. To make it move forward, simply say ‘Go!’”

As soon as the word is spoken, the hoverboard begins to float forward, still soundless, and very slow, at about the speed of a person walking. As the auditorium watches in transfixed fascination, the board floats past the edge of the stage, and suddenly it is eight feet over the auditorium main floor. The Atlantean is sailing gently and effortlessly like a cloud over the gym mat-lined empty strip that had been cleared of all people. Students in rows stare up at the board’s underside as it passes them smoothly.

“Descend!” says Ligerat. And the board starts to come down at a very gradual slope incline of descent. All the while it remains perfectly horizontal and is still continuing to advance forward, until he is only five feet, then three, then just a foot above the mat-lined floor. “Level!” And the board tapers off at about six inches from the surface of the mat and continues moving forward until it passes the last mat and reaches the bare linoleum floor tiles.

All this time, the board has moved along the entire length of the auditorium. Just before it approaches the rear doors, Ligerat says, “Stop!”

The board freezes and levitates in place.

Everyone claps and hoots loudly.

Ligerat raises one hand for silence and then says with precision and in staccato, “Reverse, Rise, Return!”

The board does a smooth 360, and he is turned around. He is once more rising in the air and moving back toward the auditorium stage. Seconds later, the board is back in its starting position six inches above the stage floor. The Atlantean hops off lightly and stands next to the Principal.

“Now,” he says. “This is your last portion of Preliminary Qualification for today. Each one of you will come up here on the stage, next to Principal Marksen. He will hand you a token pin with your name and other test scores flash-encoded. The token is your new identification. You must keep the token with you, attach it anywhere on your person, such as your clothing, and do not drop or lose it.

“Next, you will step on the board and simply ride it across the length of this room, using the four simple commands—‘Go,’ ‘Descend,’ ‘Level’ and ‘Stop.’ When you reach the end of the room, step off and direct the board to perform the ‘Reverse, Rise, Return’ sequence, without you. It will return here on its own and wait for the next person. Meanwhile you will come up to me, as I will be standing at the desk in the back near the exit, evaluating your performance. I will scan your ID token with the final score. At this point you will take the token with you, pick up your bags, and exit the auditorium.

“Once you are outside this room, you are permitted to find out your final Preliminary Qualification score. Simply place your fingers on the token pin and say “Display Test Score.” The token will turn one of two colors. Green means you have passed Preliminary Qualification and are advancing to the next stage of the process. Red means you have not passed, and you are returning home. Note—we ask you to please respect your fellow classmates and not attempt to learn your score while still inside this auditorium. You may activate your score only after you exit into the hallway. If you are green, please proceed outside to any of the designated buses in the parking lot, and board, first come, first served. Do not hesitate, and do not be late, otherwise you will miss the bus and your opportunity to Qualify. Final note—if anyone else other than yourself handles your token and attempts to activate or display your score, the token will turn yellow. Do not attempt to cheat this process, it will not work.”

Ligerat pauses, and observes the turbulent auditorium. “And now, please proceed.” He nods to Principal Marksen to begin. While several administrators carry a series of large plastic containers up the stage stairs, the Principal calls us to order once again.

I watch the Atlantean descend the stage and walk toward the back of the auditorium, moving through the empty strip in the center, along the edge of the mats, past all the rows of students staring at him from both sides.

“All right, everyone, line up in rows! Start moving, please, use both sides of the stage, and wait your turn.”

Next to me, Gracie is whimpering.

I turn to stare into her tear-streaked face. “What, Gracie?”

“I can’t!” She wipes her nose, and she is terrified. “I can’t do it! You know I don’t know how to balance or ride any snowboard thing or anything, and especially not like this! You know I’m afraid of heights! At least you used to ride that little plastic skateboard back in California—”

I feel my breath catching in my throat and I am very, very cold . . . I am numb. Both for Gracie’s sake and for myself. Yes, I used to ride a little kiddie skateboard, badly. Back when I was ten. And these days I am the last person people pick for team sports. Klutz has become a part of my daily persona, together with bad stooping posture, hunched shoulders and general physical awkwardness.

Furthermore, I am out of shape. I get winded when I try to run around the track, even after just fifty paces. And I am terrified of heights, probably even more so than Gracie.

“Are you guys okay?” George has put his hands on both our shoulders.

“I don’t know.” I look at my brother. “What are we going to do?”

“Remember what Dad said? We’re going to try, do the best we can, and never ever give up.”

“Huh!” I say. “So you were paying attention.”

“Naturally.”

“But I just can’t do it!” Gracie clutches her hands together and wipes them against her jeans. I take her hand with my own shaking clammy one, and press it really hard.

As we are shuffled into some semblance of a line, and start moving, Gordie kicks his bags along the floor. “I’ve never ridden any board either,” he says. “Never really wanted to. But this is totally different. This is intense! It’s like flying! I want to do it.”

I glance at him, and Gordie has a blissful grin on his face.

“Please try to keep in a straight line,” says a teacher, passing our row.

“What—what if I fall?” Gracie whispers, pulling my hand. “From that height? I have no balance!”

To be honest, I am pretty terrified right now myself, so I have very little with which to respond. “Okay . . . they do have mats. So even if you fall, it shouldn’t be so bad.”

“Just stay on the board,” George says evenly to everyone in general, glancing from us to his buddy before him. “No one says we have to look pretty doing it. Just hold on somehow, and stay on the damn board.”

“Good point,” Gordie says. “For that matter, do we even have to stand up straight? I bet you can just crouch down and hold on to it with both hands, all the way!”

“But—” Gracie turns to him, “don’t you think that will mean some points taken off or something? They will probably reduce your score for bad form and posture!”

“Says who?” I press her hand again, with sudden relief. “That’s a great idea! It’s definitely better than not trying at all, and way better than falling off because you try too hard to balance like you’re a snowboarding pow pro, ‘tearing it up’ and ‘shredding the gnar.’”

Gracie finds enough energy to roll her eyes at me.

While we are saying all this stuff to keep the nerves down, people up in the front of the line are already up on stage. The Principal asks their name, grade level, school of origin. An assistant teacher reaches in a box to pick up a blank token, which is basically a round colorless plastic button with a chip, and it gets scanned with a special encoder machine to transfer the student ID and test score data. Then the girl student—an unfamiliar middle school seventh grader—gets the button.

This girl is up first, and she looks just as terrified as Gracie. Her hands are shaking as she attaches the token button to her shirt. She then stands there and stares down at the hoverboard. She takes a deep breath and puts her foot up on the surface of the board. The board wobbles, and immediately the girl gives a small shriek.

“Steady, honey, you’re doing fine,” a sympathetic woman teacher says. “Just put your other foot up there and relax, take a few breaths, and don’t look down.”

The girl takes a few seconds, then puts her other foot on the board and balances with both hands. “Go!” she says in a thin raspy voice that carries all the way across the very silent auditorium.

The hoverboard begins to float forward. The girl squeezes her eyes, utters another shriek, then a few stifled noises, and then fixes herself in the posture stiffly. She is floating eight feet over the floor mats, her hands balancing outward like airplane wings, but she manages to remain standing. “Descend!” Again, her tiny voice sounds. The board obeys and begins the incline.

The girl suddenly wobbles and exclaims, “Stop!”  The board freezes in the air, in the middle of its gradual descent. She is suspended halfway between the floor and the stage, flailing her hands wildly, and in the absolute silence she begins to cry.

The auditorium is silent as the grave. I stare with transfixed sympathy, and see the equally emotional faces of those around me—students, teachers, security guards, everyone.

A few seconds later the girl steadies herself somehow, stops the sniffles and with another determined breath says, “Go!” The board resumes moving, and this time she says “Descend!” in a more steady voice.

When almost on the mats, she says, “Level!” and continues floating silently to the end of the line. “Stop!” She steps off and stands in one spot, dazed. She looks around. “Uhm, what do I say now?”

“Reverse, Rise, Return . . .” someone whispers.

“Reverse, Rise, Return!” the seventh grader repeats in a voice of relief. The hoverboard rises and floats away while the girl heads to the back desk toward Ligerat. The Atlantean nods at her and scans her token, as everyone watches.

Oh, to be her at this point! I think with envy. To just be done with it!

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” George whispers to Gracie. “Look at her, she’s a bigger wimp than you. . . . You can do it!”

Meanwhile the next kid is already up in the front of the stage, his ID token scanned. The moment the board arrives, he hops on with a practiced snowboarder stance and with a grin makes a shaka hand sign, then says, “Go!” In moments he sails past the stage, descends smoothly, levels off, and then jumps off at the stop. As the board returns, the kid stares after it with admiration and says, “That was sick! I want that board.” He is then ID-scanned at the desk in the back.

“Okay, this is looking more and more like it’s gonna take forever,” mumbles Gordie.

Suddenly everyone is itching to advance, to get it over with. We move forward a few steps and wait, and watch teens of all ages and from all the schools get onto the board. Some are terrified, other absolutely loving it. Most are more or less in-between, cautious, but grimly determined, since after all, it’s Qualify or die.

It gets sad however, a few times. A few of the younger kids, both girls and boys, and even a few of the older ones, balk completely as they stand next to the board. Two end up bawling, and just shake their heads negatively and refuse to get up on the hoverboard, even after a teacher comes to hug them and takes them off to the back of the stage to try to speak to them quietly. One girl is unable to put her second foot up. She just stands there, and then a teacher says, “why don’t you take a few minutes, try again later?”

And the next name gets called.

I watch the whole thing, as I slowly inch closer to my turn. Gracie is very quiet and subdued, and she keeps grabbing my hand, then letting go.

“Oh man! Oh no! Look!” George’s bud Eddie says, and we all stare as Archer Richards, an older boy from our school, my year, suddenly slips and ends up hanging off the board with both hands. . . .

Just wow.

Archer is hanging by his hands then arms, hugging the board, and he cries out, “Stop!” The board freezes eight feet up in the air, just a few feet away from the stage. All Archer needs to do is just let go and he’ll be standing on the mat. It’s only a few inches to the floor from where he is hanging.

But somehow Archer Richards knows. If he lets go now, he fails the stupid hoverboard test.

And so everyone holds their breath and watches as Archer grunts and switches his grip with both hands, and then suddenly he pulls himself up and lies on his stomach on top of the board.

There are whispers of relief.

Archer lies there for a few seconds. He’s a short, stocky guy with powerful arms that look like he works out regularly, and obviously it has helped. He then carefully stands up and resumes the movement of the board, finishing his pass without further mishap. When he gets off, everyone claps and hoots. And apparently the Atlantean in the back has noticed too, and looks well pleased as he scans Archer’s token.

“I bet that guy just Qualified,” says Gordie, as we take another few steps closer to the stage.

And then, a few minutes later, just as it looks like it can’t get any more heartbreaking, I look up on stage and there’s a kid in a wheelchair.

* * *