TESTING DAY IS HERE
Full-of-herself teenager Lilianne Whisper thinks she's got it all figured out. For her, school is an arena to hone "socialista" techniques for manipulating the masses.
So Lilianne believes until enchanting Anton Flowers transfers...
A protector in a shiny helmet and copper uniform drives the black car assigned to my parents; a reflective visor hides his face. Appa holds my hand. Amma is up front to keep from getting car sick—that doesn't stop her from flipping through her on-the-go electronic pad.
The sky above the borough is clear. To the left, however, lightning flares and thunder rumbles. I barely notice the billowing black clouds on the other side of the chainlink security fence that separates the borough from the Yellow Zone. The storm began long before I was born, never fading, unmoved by wind, casting an eternal shadow over what's left of a doomed city. When I was younger, I would wonder what that metropolis used to be like before its towers became a sprawl of crumbling concrete, rusting cars, and faded signs advertising mystery products like "oca-cola."
The fence separating us from the broken buildings and the storm above stretches on and on, rising higher than our townhouse; guard towers staffed by protectors are spaced at regular intervals. The barrier is dotted with yellow mutant animal warning signs with the silhouettes of a growling lion, lizard, and killer bird individually framed within the crescents of the biohazard symbol.
According to our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Cranberry, genetically aberrant creatures and the atmospheric anomaly are not the worst examples of nature gone wrong from the Genetic Wars; other disturbances are scattered about the planet alongside earth turned black by atomic bombs. She says the fence with the mutant animal warnings, the crumbling city, the rumbling ever-present storm, the Yellow Zone itself, all remind us that the price of peace, however high, is small compared to the debt of war.
I'm too busy admiring my reflection in the tinted car widow to worry about that.
The car stops in front of my school. A rusted chainlink fence surrounds the pitted asphalt recreation yard where the boy-identified wear dress pants and patched-up jackets, ties flopping as they chase a kickball. A group of girl-identified jump rope in colorful dresses.
"Hens in a pen," Amma says as she considers the scene. "Be the fox, Lilianne."
"Always," I smile.
My father hugs me. I lean toward my mother. She air kisses each of my cheeks even as she turns back to her e-pad.
"Stay safe," my father says.
"Don't embarrass us," my mother adds, not looking up.
Her sentimentality is overwhelming. I savor one last inhale of their jasmine and cedar scents and clamber out. Moments later, a cloud of exhaust envelopes me as they drive away.
I cough, clear my throat, and feel Grandmother's brush in my purse. Over the school looms a billboard of a girl running impossibly fast. The phrase "BE GENERATION MANIFESTATION" is printed in all caps. Beyond the sign is Restitution River; further, are the towers of Jupitar City; Supergenics fly amidst the island's sparkling skyscrapers. Could that be me after today? It's unlikely; few pass Testing Day, but if I do—
Don't let what might be blind you to what is, I interrupt myself before I fall down that rabbit hole. More and more, it's as if Amma's wisdom jar lives in my head.
"Right," I agree.
The rumble of thunder pauses; the sound of screeching teens fills the vacuum. I walk through a gate and sashay across the pockmarked yard toward a cluster of the prettiest girl-gendered in my class. Their backs are to me, huddled in a clump. I bubble with anticipatory triumph. They are going to have an absolute meltdown when they see me. Except, as I take step after elegant step, not one of them notices. What are they all looking at instead of me?
I stop two measures from them.
I cough loudly. Anaya looks up. Her curly red hair is pinned with a plastic blue tulip that matches her dress. The color palette is a disaster with her skin tones. I tried to warn her.
Destroy her later, I tell myself. How else will she learn to do and be better? I smile and stand taller, waiting for her to draw everyone's attention my way. But, instead of gushing over my dress, nails, and, most importantly, my hair, Anaya says, "You have to see this," and turns away. My jaw juts.
This will not stand!
I abandon any pretense of poise.
"What are you looking at?" I demand.
Other kids hear, point, and—instead of focusing on me—are drawn toward the cluster of girls babbling excitedly. I force my way through and my eyes narrow at the classmate in the middle of the circle—Caitlin Feral. I should've known.
"Puddle Pants," I say. My voice carries between the booms of thunder from beyond the security fence. A hush falls over the surrounding students. I gave Caitlin the nickname Puddle Pants in second grade after she sat in a pool of water that someone (me) poured onto her seat. It was a childish prank, and I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. It's people like her, and moments like this, that make the socialistas so necessary. My words have power, freezing her body as her head cranks toward me.
Pathetic, I think. She reminds me of a rotting cantaloupe in her patched orange dress. But what catches everyone's focus is Caitlin's unnatural hue. Every square of her normally pasty white skin—from her gopher face down to her swollen ankles—looks like one massive bruise. She smiles self-consciously. Even her teeth, lips, and tongue are blue.
"Caitlin's Manifested," Anaya says. "She's Gen M." Anaya's tone is awed and reverent. Everyone's eyes are wide with wonder. No one pays any mind to my hair. Caitlin twirls slowly for the crowd, smiling oafishly as she absorbs the attention that should be mine. I fold my arms over my chest.
Un-effing-believable!
She's ruined everything! I forget every socialista lesson I've ever learned, step forward, and slap her as hard as I can. The pah-lat sound of skin on skin rings louder than thunder. Caitlin staggers back, touching her lip gingerly. My hand tingles.
"You hit me!" she croaks. Her fingers curl into a fist. I step back, not so sure of myself. She's got 20 pounds on me. I look to my pretties for support.
"You hit a Supergenic!" Anaya says with horror. The other kids back away.
Idiots! I want to shout at them. Instead, I hold up my palm; it's covered in a thin layer of blue. The assembled teens look from me to the pasty white handprint showing through on Caitlin's cheek.
"She's a fake!" I shout. Whatever she used to stain herself—wildberry juice, I'd bet—it didn't have time to fully set. "Caitlin Feral," I warn, "you are in so much trouble."
Please star this chapter.
For more Gen M adventures:
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Gen M Book 1/5: Generation Manifestation, available at your favorite bookstore.
Gen M Book 2/5: The Timematician, available at your favorite bookstore.
Gen M Book 3/5: The Girl With Green Scales, available on Wattpad.
Gen M Book 4/5: The Boy With Pink Hair, available on Wattpad.
Gen M Book 5/5: Title TBD, first draft nearly done (the grand finale to the Gen M series!!), coming to Wattpad in 2023.
