Scored (3 page)

Imani’s next class was twenty-first-century American history. The teacher, Mr. Carol, was frequently annoying and
painfully unfunny, but it was still the most interesting of her classes and, therefore, the
least
conducive to impulse control and diligence violations. In Imani’s opinion, however, it should have been renamed Mr. Carol Lectures Everybody about How Dumb They Are for Not Realizing How Dumb Things Have Gotten in This Dumb Country.

Mr. Carol was a “creeper,” someone who worried about the “creep” of surveillance and scoring into all areas of society. Like all creepers, he was fond of the phrase “slippery slope,” which, regardless of its grim intent, had always sounded nursery-rhyme-ish to Imani. Mr. Carol had tenure, so he couldn’t be fired for his beliefs, but rumor had it that the principal, Ms. Wheeler, was dying for him to hug a student or download porn to his smartboard so that she could oust him. Once, Mr. Carol had obstructed the eyeball in his classroom by draping a miniature American flag over its lens. When Ms. Wheeler found out, he had to take it down, then apologize to his students for keeping them out of coverage. It was embarrassing for everyone.

Under normal circumstances, only unscored students, of whom there were thirty-six at Somerton High, were assigned to Mr. Carol’s classes. But that year a round of layoffs had left the school one history teacher short, so Imani and two other scored kids had been assigned to Mr. Carol’s class.

Imani pitied the unscored. Though some of them attempted to dignify their status with caustic politics, Imani was convinced that was purely defensive. Most of them, she assumed, were the victims of bad parenting. In some cases, their parents had been too lazy, too drunk, or too absent to sign the consent
forms. In the absence of a score, the software assumed the worst, which made association with the unscored the severest peer group violation of all.

It was a small class. By senior year, most of the unscored had dropped out of school. Mr. Carol kept the desks in a circle to “encourage free-spirited debate,” but this merely resulted in the three scored in the class—Clarissa Taylor (74), Logan Weisgarten (93), and Imani—sitting on one side, while the four unscored sat on the other. Every day, the halves of the circle inched farther apart until Mr. Carol noticed and pushed them back together, reminding his students that classroom interaction was “score neutral.” He always used finger quotes when he said it.

Imani took her usual seat between Clarissa and her fellow 90 Logan, being careful to obey Anil Hanesh’s first-Tuesday rule. Logan ignored her expertly.

Mr. Carol arrived late and, as he did on most mornings, said, “Good evening.” No one had ever laughed at this joke, but that didn’t stop him. Mr. Carol carried a banged-up secondhand smart scroll plastered with political stickers, along with a sloppy stack of handouts he’d printed from “the great hive mind of the Web”—another of his un-laughed-at jokes.

“The curriculum Nazis tell me I have to give you guys more tests, so …” He glanced around the classroom. “Diego, think of five questions to ask your fellow students about the Second Depression.”

Diego Landis, one of the unscored, nodded, then started scribbling in his notebook. Even for an unscored, Diego was
strange. He had arrived at Somerton High late in his junior year. Imani didn’t know where he’d come from. He had straight black hair, which always obstructed half his face, leaving only one of his blue eyes visible.

Mr. Carol sat on the desk that divided the circle. “Okay, who here knows about the Otis Institute?”

No one did.

“Right,” he said. “So Sigmund Otis was this eccentric educator who founded a think tank to—”

“Mr. Carol?” Clarissa raised her hand as she spoke. They were allowed to interrupt, because Mr. Carol believed in treating students as equals. “Should we be taking notes, or is this another one of your … you know …”

“One of my tangents?” he said. “No. The Otis Institute has this brand-new scholarship. It’s for public school seniors only, and they’re judging it based on an essay. It’s for forty thousand dollars.”

“Forty
thousand
dollars?” Clarissa exclaimed. At 74, she was well below Score Corp’s scholarship line.

“I know,” Mr. Carol said. “And it’s renewable every year as long as you maintain, I think it’s a B average.”

From the way Clarissa’s shoulders straightened, it was clear that Mr. Carol’s words had opened a window of hope. Clarissa was a good student but had not managed to budge above 74 all year. It was one of the mysterious quirks of the score that dropping was easy but rising was hard.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Mr. Carol continued. “Final paper, I want you all to write an essay for the Otis Scholarship.
Two birds. One stone. What do you think?” Mr. Carol didn’t merely assign homework. He proposed it.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Rachel Sloane asked. She was unscored, with spiky orange hair and a fondness for snarky comments.

“Of course not,” Mr. Carol said.

“So they’ll actually give the scholarship to an
unscored
?”

“Only if you write the best essay,” he replied.

Rachel folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t buy it.”

“Look,” Mr. Carol said. “Believe me, I know how scarce scholarships are these days, but this one’s legit. And the best thing is, it’s brand-new. Hardly anyone knows about it yet. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if one of you won it.” Mr. Carol could not prevent his eyes from flicking to Diego Landis.

“Mr. Carol,” Logan said. “Do you really think it’s fair to hand out a scholarship to someone just for writing one good essay? Some of us have been working hard all of our lives to get over Score Corp’s scholarship line.”

“You want a medal for being a score whore?” Rachel asked. She managed to shoehorn that phrase into most class discussions.

Next to her, Diego, who’d been writing out test questions for the rest of the class, raised a finger.

“Yes, Diego,” Mr. Carol said.

Diego took his time finishing what he was writing, then looked up through his hair. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but wouldn’t it brilliantly upend everyone’s stereotype of the unscored as stupid, shiftless deviants if one of us won?” He cast
a sly smile at Rachel, who saw his point and took a moment to relish the possibility. “And as to your comment, Logan,” Diego continued, “if you think fairness has anything to do with the fact that
you’re
getting a full boat to college, then you are seriously deluded.”

Logan gazed out the window. “Sour grapes, if you ask me.”

“I don’t recall anyone asking you,” Diego responded.

“Mr. Carol.” It fell to Imani to interrupt the debate. Diego would decimate Logan. He always did. And she was in no mood for another display of his showy intellect. Besides, if Logan wasn’t careful, his antagonism of the unscored would hurt his score, and by association, hers. “Does this mean you’re assuming the unscored have a better shot at winning the scholarship?” she asked.

“Of course not, Imani.”

“So it’s not rigged?” she asked. “It’s not a creeper organization or anything?”

Mr. Carol shook his head vigorously. “The Otis Institute’s sole mission is to provide educational opportunities for kids ‘overlooked’ by the current system.” He used finger quotes again.

“Because it would be incredibly unfair,” Imani said, “and probably career-damaging for you to mislead us on such a thing.” Imani was thinking of Clarissa.

“Imani LeMonde, you are full of suspicion and mistrust,” Mr. Carol said. “I like it. Keep it up. Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking: five thousand words, and—”

“Five
thousand
words?” Clarissa echoed.

“Yes,” Mr. Carol said. “Five thousand whole words. Plus
footnotes. I’m teaching this as a college-level class, in case you hadn’t noticed. And in college you don’t take multiple-choice tests. They’re the height of stupidity, actually. Diego, how are you coming with those questions?”

“I have three,” he said. “I need two more.”

“Good. Don’t go easy on them either. Where was I?”

“The height of stupidity,” Logan said in a wounded monotone.

“Right,” Mr. Carol said. “Exactly. So, guys, this is your chance to take everything you’ve learned in class and own it.” He squeezed his right hand into a fist. “It’s your chance to shine. Okay? So think big. I want to see this thing sourced to within an inch of its life. I want breadth
and
depth. And I want counterarguments too. Don’t make it easy on yourself. Engage the opposite point of view. Oh, and feel free to collaborate with your classmates. You guys could learn a lot from each other.”

Imani could feel a collective squirm rise up from the seven students.

“Can we write about anything we want?” Clarissa asked. “Like the Second Depression or …”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “Any American high school student can write about the Second Depression. I want to do something that will really stand out. I’ve given this a lot of thought and …” He smiled deviously. “I know it’s a little out there, but …”

Imani sensed the arrival of another reckless idea, another career-threatening attempt to “subvert the dominant paradigm.”

“What I want,” he said, “is for the scored to write essays in
opposition
to the score.”

“What?” Logan said. “You can’t make us do that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Mr. Carol,” Clarissa said, “I think I have to be excused from this paper on the grounds that it could totally hurt my score.”

“No, it couldn’t,” Mr. Carol said.

“Yes, it could,” Clarissa insisted. “Because actually? There was a girl in my health class who asked to be excused from the reproductive system, because impulse control was a fitness challenge for her.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“And Mr. Concini couldn’t count that section in her grade.”

“Mr. Carol,” Imani said. “I have to agree with Clarissa. Asking us to disparage the score would be endangering us and also—”

“Not true,” Diego interrupted.

“Excuse me,” Imani said. She looked directly at him, which she usually avoided. “I was speaking.”

Diego stared back with his blue eye, unintimidated.

Regaining her composure, Imani turned away and faced Mr. Carol. “Anyway, it could also get you in trouble. You know like when you did that thing with the flag and the eyeball?”

“Why, thank you, Imani,” Mr. Carol said. “I do appreciate your concern. But you’re off the mark here.” He wagged his finger at her. “And something tells me you know that. Score Corp does not punish academic inquiry. It’s”—out came the finger quotes—“ ‘score-pos.’ ”

“Exactly,” Diego said.

“What would you know?” Logan asked without looking at him.

“More than you,” Diego said. “Most of the scored are completely ignorant about their own system.”

“
You’re
ignorant,” Logan tossed back.

“Well argued,” Diego replied.

“All right, all right,” Mr. Carol said. “Look, people, I can’t force you to write about any particular topic for the Otis Scholarship. If you want to write about the Second Depression or the Federalist Papers or any other run-of-the-mill topic, go for it. But for
this
class, the final paper will be what I say it is. I have tenure, so I can do that sort of thing. And incidentally, I happen to know a few people on the board at Otis, and I happen to know that they are very, shall we say,
open
to nontraditional thinking. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

“Are you saying you have inside information?” Imani asked.

“Only what I’ve just told you. And no, I’m not on the board, so don’t get all conspiracy theory on me or anything. Now, while the scored are writing in opposition to the score, I want the unscored to take up its defense. Its
rigorous
defense.”

“Oh, you’ve
got
to be kidding,” Rachel said.

Diego laughed quietly. “That’s brilliant.”

Rachel turned on him, eyes flashing. “Are you insane?” she said. “How are we supposed to
defend
the score? It’s blatantly discriminatory.”

“Well,” Mr. Carol said, “that’s a great argument for one of your scored classmates to use. Your job, however, is to argue the other side.”

“There is no other side,” she said.

“There’s always another side,” Diego said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Carol said. “I’m glad someone appreciates my vision. How are you coming with those questions?”

Diego ripped a page from his notebook and handed it to him.

Mr. Carol read it while nodding approvingly. “Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”

Diego sat back and glanced smugly around the room. Only one of his eyes was visible through his hair, and Imani wouldn’t look at him directly, but she could have sworn he was seeking her out.

The scores were posted after American history, and the fallout was immediate. Thessaly Morris was crying into her locker, having obviously fallen sharply from the 90s. She was a junior, though, so there was still time to work her way back up. A couple of freshman boys high-fived each other, having ascended in tandem.

Imani walked past both the library and the principal’s office, but the crowds there were so thick and the anxiety so pungent that she kept walking. She dreaded that first moment of discovery, when she found her name on the list and saw the two digits right next to it. Even imagining it sent her stomach into free fall. She preferred waiting for her gang to tell her at lunch. At least that way she wasn’t alone with the news.

She was one of the last stragglers into the lunchroom, and instead of going directly to her table of senior 90s, she hung
back and watched her fellow students reconfigure themselves. There were no outbursts, no tearful good-byes. By the end of the year, even the freshmen knew the drill. You went where the score sheet told you to go. You introduced yourself to your new gang, and you sat down. Whatever pain you felt about leaving your former gang behind, you buried it. Whatever jealousy you felt toward the ones ascending, you buried that too. The only tables that never changed were the unscored tables all the way in the back by the teachers’ lounge. Sometimes Imani envied them.