To Save Just One

Chapter 1

If you're a teenage boy joining a rebel cause, the leaders are probably still gonna make you go to school. It's a very disappointing fact, but still, sadly, true. Of course the "big men in charge" are going to stuff you full of inspirational sayings like, "you're destroying the system from the inside out," "High school is your niche. It's where you change your own little corner of the world," or, my personal favorite, "it's just something you gotta deal with, kid." In reality, I think it's really them just trying to get me out of their way.

Not today though.

Today I'm part of something big. Granted, I'm only the distraction, but finally being able to do something still makes me swell with pride. Or maybe it's nervousness. The thing the movies never tell you about the distraction is that, although it gets the real deal in and out without getting caught, the distraction's role usually ends up with himself reaping the consequences. By tomorrow morning I'll probably either be in jail or dead.

But hey, I'm excited.

My task: get myself admitted to the hospital, make a big enough scene to call all the security guards to me and away from the research wing, and hold their attention long enough to let my colleagues steal the cure for the bio-weapon the government guards like its first born son. Simple, right?

But right now I'm sitting in a very boring history lesson about how cruel and uncivilized the old America was. Bogus. They want cruel and uncivilized? All they need to do is look around them. But they're too busy calling slavery the most humane thing they can do. And the people don't rise up, not out of blindness but out of the kind of unconquerable fear that results in muteness.

When the teacher turns his back to write some vocabulary word on the board I quickly pop a multicolored pill into my mouth. I expect some kind of fanfare, a "small step for man . . ." moment, but it doesn't come. Maybe this is what history feels like as it's being made, but I don't think so. Somehow, I doubt it feels much like swallowing a bitter-tasting pill dry and getting it lodged sideways in your throat. I gag silently for a few seconds, swallowing as hard as possible trying to get it down, before finally giving up and resigning myself to pain until it either dissolves and slips down by itself or the bell rings and I can go get a drink. The pill is a high-power tranquilizer that will slow my heartbeat to a crawl, essentially throwing me into unconsciousness and hopefully a hospital bed. I cradle my head in my hands and do my best to look queasy. Soon I won't have to act—the medicine will take over.

I raise my hand and Mr. Whitree glares at me and grunts, probably irritated I've interrupted his fascinating lecture.

"Yes?" He says, not even deigning to say my name.

I fake a grimace. "May I go to the restroom? I think I'm gonna be sick."

Old Whitree gets a disgusted look on his face. He turns back to the whiteboard. "Stop by the nurse's on your way back. I don't want any Un-Id germs in my classroom."

I grit my teeth and bear the insult. There's nothing I can do. Self-control and anger management come with the territory when you're an Un-Id. Unidentifieds, as they're called when people are actually being respectful, are all people who have somehow slipped from the good graces of the people in charge. Without actually having earned the role of a Criminal, Un-Ids are suspended in a kind of limbo, probation as they call it in the higher ranks. One slip-up and I fall to the level of Criminal, when I start my "correctional criminal service," otherwise known as slavery. So that's why people always feel the need to insult me: I can't do anything to defend myself. One trip to the principal's office and I'm done for. It's ironic, I'm probably the most well-behaved kid in my class.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder without even acknowledging Mr. Whitree has said anything rude. A few kids snicker and one even spits on my beat up sneakers as I maneuver my way down the aisle. I know I'm not angry at these kids, I'm angry at the situation, but I can't help the swell of anger in my chest. On my way out I slam the door. He'll probably give me a citation for that if I ever come back to his classroom, but I have no intention of doing so ever again.