Strawberry Fields

Sixteen

The unfamiliar stinging sensation on the back of my neck constantly reminds me of what I have grown into, what all of us turn out to be when we turn sixteen. Slaves. Well, The Elders don't call it slavery, they use the clever pseudonym, "contributing to society". They started the ceremony thirty years ago when they realized kids didn't actually like to work and that we were slowly losing all of our workers. They decided the day after every child's sixteenth birthday, they would be brought to the courtroom and presented in front of the ten Elders. The child would state their family name, their first name, then if they are the eldest, second, third, youngest, excreta. Then, they would explain what job they are planning to commit to for the next ten years of their life and the backup if that occupation happens to be full or doesn't want them. From there the Elders would examine the child's physical fitness by conducting a series of tests using large machines that, when powered up, whirred and echoed through the tunnels for everyone to hear After the tests, they assigned the child their "citizen number" then tattoo the number on to the back of their neck, right below the top knob of the spinal cord.

Depending on their level of academic and athletic excellence, as well as maturity, the child was and how often their name occurred in the weekly updates, flocks of people come to stand outside and listen when their time to get evaluated comes. They press against each other, trying to eavesdrop and hear what the child's future will be and how their tests turn out. Today, there were only three people sitting outside; my mom, my dad, and my grandma.

As I approached the wide oak doors, my eyes follow the paths through the maze of vines carved deep into the ancient wood. My hands stuffed into the pockets of my jacket stayed clenched and wouldn't stop sweating. I've never wanted to not be somewhere this much in my life. My stomach somersaulted every time I stepped. The echoing of my shiny black dress shoes I borrowed from my dad reverberated through the dirt tunnel as they hit the rough, cold stone floor. The doors towered above me as if the judging had already begun. To my left, my mom gave me a thumbs-up and a smile, the stereotypical mom thing she always did, and usually, it made me laugh because it was so cheesy, but that time it didn't. I looked at my dad who just gave me a nod and I realized what a boring family I had. They hadn't given me any words of wisdom or something to ease my nerves, just a thumbs-up, and a nod. My grandma, the only one in my family who didn't have the Brand, was sitting on the dirt bench, busy knitting a new shirt for one of my siblings, or me. Her radiant yellow sweater brightened the drab dirt tunnel and her rose perfume invaded my nose and moved through me, down my throat and through my belly all the way down to my toes, the only hint of comfort I received.

The giant doors groaned as one of the assistants pulled them open and ushered me out of the light waiting area and into the dark hall, away from my parents and towards my planned future. The echoing from my shoes subsided as the gray rock transformed into a luscious maroon carpet. Dark brown, dirt walls transformed into sturdy, cream-colored painted walls, making the bright rug pop. We approached the Elder Hall and I wiped I hands on the dark cotton dress pants my mom had bought me as part of a two-piece suit. When she handed me the thick, cardboard box, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Don't ruin it, this is going to your brothers after you". I just nodded. I know how important looks are to her. She believes if we look good, we will fit in. So, when I decided to trade the normal black tie for a dark purple one, she only slightly freaked out.

A sudden burst of bright white light burned my eyes as the doors to the Elder Hall swung open. I flinched and squinted against the rays as my eyes adjusted to the foreign light. I'm used to the feeling since almost every day I find myself at the tree farm, sitting in the same bright lights.

After school, I ran straight to the farm instead of taking the train which helped me do two things; one, it kept me physically fit, and two, avoided the huge throngs of kids whose houses were further than a three-minute walk from the school. The tree farm was a twenty-minute walk, ten-minute run from the high school. When I approached the welcoming, fogged, plastic doors, I pulled the small, silver key out of my bag and pushed it into the lock, waiting for the click before I silently opening the door and sliding into the bright room undetected. At first, everything glows white as my eyes adjust to the sudden surge of light. Bright pinks and greens pushed through the blinking white light as my eyes adjusted and the looming trees finally broke through the white. The tree farm didn't look like the photos of forests I saw in books about the Surface. These trees had been planted by a machine that carefully measured the distance between each seed, making sure everything grows perfectly and everything looked perfect. The seeds, my dad said, were modified so each tree grew at the same rate and looked the same, with the same number of flowers, leaves, or fruit, depending on the tree. Everything was made to look perfect, and I hated every bit of it. The trees on the Surface grew without machines and scientists examining each seed to assure it would stay pure. Forests dominated the Surface, growing out of the ground like hair. Each tree was different and grew where it wanted, without help from humans. Many concealed the growth below them, creating houses for critters who need to hide from predators or someone looking from shelter from the Sun, a giant ball of fire that gives the Surface warmth and helps the trees grow. I glance up at the blinding white lights that are supposed to represent the Sun on the Surface. They are not how I imagine the Sun at all. The Sun gives the surface warmth, these lights are cold and exude an irritating buzzing sound. These same lights line the dirt tunnels and compose the same constant mosquito-like sound. I've asked my grandma if the noise bothers her, she just looked up from her knitting and at me.

"You get used to it." she hummed and looked back down at her knitting, ignoring me again.

The Elders and the scientists have attempted to control the trees and replicate the nature from the Surface but not everything turned out perfect. All the way back in corner of the tree farm sits a tree that has no clones. It stands only at five feet tall and its blue flowers are too heavy for the thin, feeble branches, causing them to droop slightly. Under the tree, hidden away became my favorite place to sit and do my homework. The vanilla scent reminds me of the cookies my mom baked when I was younger and when I sit under the umbrella of blossoms, the smell envelopes me and I can almost taste the warm, gooey cookies.

"Family name please" the nasally voice demands as my mind floats back down to the present.

"Gray" I replied, standing up straighter, now very aware of the then pairs of judging eyes and the eerie silence. A click and a scribble interrupted it for only a second as the scribe filled out my papers.

"First name," the same voice said.

"Ashton"

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Two younger brothers. I am the oldest."

"What occupation are going to be joining?"

"Earth History," I answered and clenched my fists tighter in my jacket pockets. Murmurs traveled through the room, slowly twisting through my legs and traveled up and around my throat like a snake suffocating its prey.