Mrs.
Levenson
responded by making a loud irritated noise at the back of her throat.
I immediately strode over to the two of them. “You look lovely tonight, Mrs.
Levenson
. That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing,” I gushed. I wanted to change the topic. Lately, it seemed all Byron’s father could talk about was the horrible conditions the working classes were forced to live and work in.
Byron and I had just finished our assessment test. It had been a grueling weeklong test. We had been asked to complete everything from the simplest to the most complex of tasks and problems. So, right now, all I wanted was to relax and enjoy my celebration with Byron. The last thing I wanted was to listen to his dad make everyone feel guilty about having too much.
Besides, I didn’t really believe the workers’ conditions were half as bad as he claimed. Every year, someone managed to get a bill onto the national ballot that would improve their working, living, and educational conditions. And then it was voted down again, without fail, by an overwhelming majority. The working class comprised fifty-nine percent of the votes: if things were that bad, there would be more votes in favor of a change. Some of the more radical supporters argued that many of the working class votes were manipulated by threats of harm or bribes, but I had a hard time believing that. If I were living in the squalor Mr.
Levenson
described, nothing would keep me from casting my vote.
Patting her sunflower-yellow dyed hair, Mrs.
Levenson
did a little twirl and exclaimed, “Oh, why thank you, Alexandria. I got it just for this occasion.”
Taking my cue, I added, “And your hairstyle is just
so
elegant.”
Mrs.
Levenson
responded with a beaming smile that made the laugh lines around her eyes crinkle. “Oh, you’re so sweet. I had it done special, just for tonight.”
Over her shoulder, Byron gave me a wink and a nod. We both though it was hilarious that the smallest of compliments could turn most adults into putty. His mom was definitely no exception.
“You know—” Mr.
Levenson
began, but was quickly cut off by Mrs.
Levenson’s
elbow discreetly meeting his ribs.
“And you look absolutely stunning yourself tonight. Why, that lilac dress is the perfect color for your alabaster complexion and your lovely ebony hair. I swear it just makes those sapphire eyes of yours just pop right out.” I felt Byron appear by my side, ready to rescue me before his mom drowned me to death in compliments. Whenever she was excited or nervous, she had a tendency to ramble on. “Oh my, the two of you just look so grown up, standing there together. I still remember when the two of you came home from the hospital together. You were born several days apart, but – well, then Byron had such bad jaundice, so he had to stay a bit longer.” Byron blushed and opened his mouth to complain, but I cut him off.
“Oh, come on, Byron, I just bet you had the cutest little-yellow-baby-butt in the hospital.” I reached up, and ruffled his overly neat hair.
An impish glint shone in Byron’s eyes. “Okay fine, let’s talk about my baby butt and later, over dinner, I’ll ask your mom about your first time using your potty seat.” I quickly raised my hands in a sign of surrender. I did not need that story being retold to anyone,
ever
again. Byron smiled ruefully, rubbed his knuckles on his shirt, and then blew on them dramatically.
He would have continued rubbing in his triumph, but before he could say anything more, his mom reached up and gave us both a strangling hug. “I just can’t believe my babies are all grown up and will be eighteen in less than a week,” she sobbed.
“If you keep that up,
Everly
, you’ll have the whole table crying soon,” my mom warned as she joined the table.
My mom rescued me from Mrs.
Levenson’s
grasp with a hug of her own. Before releasing me, she just held me back at arm’s lengths and smiled. I couldn’t help but smile back. My mom had one of those smiles that warmed everyone around her. Although, I am biased, of course. I’ve always held her in awe. I might resemble her, but I never had her ability to capture attention. The moment she walked into the room, everyone noticed, but it was more than just her grace and beauty that attracted their attention. She always had an unwavering confidence about her.
I couldn’t help but notice the greetings between our fathers seemed a bit stiff, as if they were forcing friendliness between two near strangers instead of two lifelong friends and colleagues. Our dads were both managers at the recycling plant. It meant they had a longer than average commute to work, but it was a well paid and well respected blue level position.
Our dinner was both a visual and delicious feast. We usually enjoyed a nice variety of foods at home, but somehow having it served on delicate little plates arranged like pieces of art made it taste even better. First there was a salad of mixed greens arranged to resemble a blossoming flower. It was followed by a split-pea soup with a star-shaped cream cheese drizzle and a variety of bread stacked in a spiral pattern. Then the main course arrived: roasted rabbit served with sweet potatoes and a steamed assortment of vegetables. The dish was arranged to look like a rabbit grazing in a field.
Unfortunately, Mr. Sumner – our tall, skinny history teacher who reminded me of a scarecrow – had taken the last available seat at our table. For some reason, the common main course of rabbit started him reminiscing about how once chicken was the meat of choice in our country. I had a hard time eating while he described the uncleanly habits of the bird compared to the hygiene of the rabbit. After that he continued on to more boring and less disgusting facts, like how a rabbit is all white meat and lower in fat than the chicken or the cow. Plus six pounds of rabbit meat can be produced on the same amount of feed and water it take to produce one pound of cow beef.
Byron looked over with a smile in his eyes and tossed his head in the direction of the dance floor. I didn’t need any more prompting. I hastily excuse myself and almost ran from the table. Camille watched us go, a pleading look on her face that begged, “Take me with you!” Looking back at her, I almost felt guilty as I wrapped my arms around Byron’s neck. Almost.
“Thanks for the rescue,” I whispered in his ear.
“Rescue? What are you talking about? Just to be clear, I was totally saving myself. If push came to shove, I would have tossed you back to the chicken lover, just so I could make a clean escape,” he chuckled back at me. “You’re just lucky he was satisfied with just Camille as his trapped, attentive audience.” He gave me a mischievous smile before twirling, dipping, and then giving me a brief but oh, so very sweet kiss.
“Ah, now I remember what first drew me to you: you’re such an adoring protective big brother,” I teased. Then I kissed him back, but my eye caught the scathing glare of Mr.
Levenson
. “Parental killjoy,” I groaned and resumed a more appropriate dancing distance from Byron.
Despite the periodic glares coming our way, we continued to dance right through to the end of dinner and most of the way through dessert. It was only when Byron noticed that it was my favorite – chocolate coated strawberries – that we returned to the table. Fortunately Mr. Sumner had wandered off to another table. By the looks of their expressions, he was retelling his chicken story.
I smiled as Byron slid one of his strawberries onto my plate. I picked it up and bit it. The juice tried to dribble down my chin and stain my dress, but I was prepared: I had a napkin ready to catch it.
“This may be the last night that many children ever get to enjoy the sweet taste of a strawberry – or any other fresh fruit for that matter,” Mr.
Levenson
interjected. “And that’s only assuming they even have any at their end of assessment year feast.” I wondered if he was determined destroy whatever enjoyment I had tonight.
“Charles, this is hardly the time or the place,” my dad warned in a stern voice that startled me. I hardly ever heard him sound cross at anyone.
Before a response came, Mrs.
Doulette
appeared at the table with a self-important smile playing across her lips. “Ah. Mr. and Mrs.
Levenson
and
Scannell
. How good it is to see all of you,” she raved in a tone that was somehow more nasal and snooty than usual. “I’d like you all to meet Senator
Nessorton
. He came all the way here from the capitol, just to help us celebrate tonight.”
I knew she was full of it, but I smiled and did my best to look impressed. The politician was probably just making his rounds to all the assessment celebrations he could. He was just ensuring that people would remember his face and name the next time they voted. What better way to make people like you than to have them associate you with a night of celebration and joy. Still, I gave him a warm smile. It didn’t matter whether I liked him or not: being a politician meant he was a gold level, a fast-tracker. So I needed to show him the proper respect.
As soon as the senator was out of earshot, Mr.
Levenson
leaned in close to me. “That, right there, is one of our biggest problems,” he grumbled as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “What chance does a working class student have of becoming gold? None, I tell you.” He looked at me expectantly, like he was waiting for me to agree or argue with him.
He had a point. Students from worker-level families lived in worker-level areas and, as a result, went to school with other worker-level children. They were usually taught by teachers who didn’t want to be there. The only reason anyone ever taught at a worker-level school was because of a demotion due to poor performance, or because it was their very first assignment, and they were still waiting for a better location to open up. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best environment to encourage children to excel.
Plus, anyone who could afford it hired additional tutoring for their children – or at least tutored what they could by themselves. Having parents with up to six additional years of career training definitely gave the upper class children an advantage. Advocates for educational reform were quick to point out that it’s hard to concentrate on learning when hunger occupies your thoughts. By law, no one under eighteen could have their rations reduced or removed, but that didn’t mean that their parents were above taking it when their rations weren’t enough.
So yeah, I got it: the system could be a self-propagating nightmare for anyone stuck in the worker-class. But short of pulling the kids away from their families and raising them as orphans, shielded from their parent’s ignorance, what could really be done about it? And even if that was done, would there really be that much of a difference. There was still a debate over nature versus nurture, and many experts believed that intelligence and skill have too much of a genetic influence to justify the expense of an educational relocation. Besides, no matter what, there would always be a need for a working class; the economic crash had shown us all that.
But I didn’t say any of that to Mr.
Levenson
. Instead, I stared blankly back at him, opened my mouth and said, “Well… uh—”
Fortunately, he provided his own answer and relieved me from my suffering. “Well, I’ll tell you, a working-class student has a better chance –” I never heard the rest of what Mr.
Levenson
had to say, because my dad grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, Charles. You and I are going home,” my dad growled in a tone that dared anyone to defy him. Not that Mr.
Levenson
really could. My dad was a good head taller and free of the pot belly that Mr.
Levenson
sported. Fortunately for me, physically Byron took after his mother’s side of the family. “Ladies. Kids. Please stay and enjoy your night. We’ll see you all when you get home.” I watched as my dad gave us a polite nod with his head, turned, and led Mr.
Levenson
out of the room.
Was Byron’s dad drunk? I don’t remember seeing him drink that much, but what other reason could there be for my dad taking him home?