Twisting Topeka (5 page)

“
And so we must choose.
Maize, or wheat? Beans, or barley? Sorghum, or rye? Do we stay at
five million cattle, or should we replace some with sheep or goats?
And on top of it all, we must choose where these things will go. Do
we plow more fields in the east, or do we let fields lay fallow for
a season? Do we build more pumps in the west, or do we turn fields
over to ranching?

“
These are the questions
the Party Committee was supposed to debate today. And they
are
serious
questions.” The Secretary rapped his knuckles on Grigory’s
papers in emphasis. “We must have a proposal for the Central
Committee to review, as must the other Oblasts. We must play our
part here in the heartland, for the good of the Republic. Do you
understand?”

Of course he did. The system wasn’t
perfect, but it prevented the bubbles and price collapses that had
driven the economy to the verge of collapse countless times before.
“I didn’t sleep last night,” he offered.

“
Neither did I.” The
Secretary’s response was almost kind.

“
I only meant—”

“
I know exactly what you
meant, Comrade. You were frustrated. You had every right to be. But
your work is serious. You must be serious about it. Do you
understand?”

“
Yes.”

“
Very well then.” The
Secretary pushed the papers back across the desk. “I’ll need a
finished draft before noon. You did good work on the bridges bill
last fall. Let’s get a little more of that out of you, shall we?”
He smiled in a way that told Grigory the discussion of his
transgression had come to an end.

Is that all? A stern
warning and a pat on the back?
Grigory
stood, and offered a feeble smile in return. An aide showed him
out.

He had to admit, he
had
done good work on
the bridges bill last fall. But was that all it took? To put him in
his place, to turn him back into a good little soldier?

Of
course
the bill debate was just a
show. Of
course
it was designed as a source of sound bites to distract the
dirt-poor farmers whose standard of living had actually decreased
since the so-called “People’s Party” had swept them up in its
fervor. The Central Committee had already decided who would grow
what, and where.

But maybe there was another
truth buried in what the Secretary had told him. Maybe the system
was fragile enough they needed him—yes,
him—
to write another piece of
legislative poetry like the bridges bill, the kind with lofty
language that would inspire the kind of debate that would get
endless replay on the evening news.

Maybe the Party would eventually
crumble under the weight of its central planning and forced
employment and social artifice and revolving patronage. Or maybe
those were the only things to keep it from disintegrating. Grigory
feared what would happen if there wasn’t at least a debate before
the Central Committee issued its planting maps, the kind of debate
that would remind the farmers how important they were to this grand
new Republic while distracting them from the wealth that never
seemed to flow farther than the outskirts of Lewellingrad. He felt
sick to his stomach.

But duty called. And he knew he would
feel better when he fixed his draft.

Test Year

Jamie Crispin

“
You are our most
successful patient yet. You have exceeded your predecessors by over
two weeks. We are very proud of you.”

Today, Dr. Malcolm’s words sting my
heart more than usual. I know I should be happy. Most patients
would be thrilled receiving high praise from their doctors. But, to
me, exceeding Dr. Malcolm’s goals is actually terrifying. If I
weren’t so angry, like massive temper tantrum anger, then I would
be crying inconsolably. I would be crying like when my best friend,
Inara, moved to Omaha. I can still see the moving van disappear
down the street. The farther it got from me, the more I cried.
Until recently, I considered Inara leaving the worst day of my
life. Now, I wake up and believe every day is the worst day ever.
So, the closer Dr. Malcolm gets to me, the angrier I
get.

The anger has been building. In the
beginning, there was a flash of hatred that surged through my
stomach when I saw a white lab coat. A few weeks ago, my hands
trembled when I heard the keys unlock my door. Now, the anger has
taken over my head. It pounds on my temples at night and screams
inside my brain during the day.

Dr. Malcolm likes to say to me, “You
are extremely valuable to the plan.”

This little mantra is so insulting and
“the plan” is insane. What I hear instead is “you are extremely
helpless.” I know I will never see the outside of this room. I am
hooked up to wires, machines and monitors continuously. Each day,
some scientist or doctor or both visit me in my room. They ask me
questions about my health, my family and Topeka. At first, I didn’t
talk. I just pretended that the person wasn’t in the room with me.
But, they had ways to change that behavior. Now, I talk. I talk,
and I journal. These days, the writing is the only thing that keeps
me sane.

The only feeling that cuts this deep
anger is the pain I feel thinking of my family back home. I miss
hearing my dad yell at the TV during a Kansas City Royals game. I
ache to see my mom reading in her special chair. I even miss my
brother, Nathan. What I wouldn’t trade for one day with him, even
if it meant he was throwing his socks at me.  

I have been here for 76 days. The
researchers have told me that no one has made it past 61 days. I
assume that is the reason for my quality visits from Dr. Malcolm.
Lucky me! I know it might seem silly; but I feel that if I write
this down, then, I existed. I am not sure if anyone will read this.
But, I can’t bear to think that I will be so quickly forgotten. So,
I guess I will just start at the beginning.

My name is Turia Shepherd Nation and
on September 9, 2046, I attended my first day at school. Yes, I did
say AT school. I have been attending online school for many years,
but this year was the start of my Test Year. Back home, students go
to school online with the exception of the 10th grade. The country
decided in 2025 to change the education system due to safety
issues, money, and teacher shortages. Blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t
born yet, but we have studied it every year in online school. The
most important part is that students have to attend school
in-person for 10th grade.  

I was always taught the purpose of the
Test Year was to determine one’s career goals. My government
believes the Test Year provides information about our skills and
talents. This is done with the use of constant video surveillance
and classroom observers or in-person monitoring. At the end of the
year, students are ranked nationally. No pressure, right? The lucky
students considered in the top 20% are invited to attend an elite
university program. For those who didn’t make the cut–well the Test
Year decides that, too. The lower the ranking, the fewer choices a
person has about their future or job outlook. Someone has to
collect garbage or clean bathrooms! In all, the Test Year is the
most dreaded and most anticipated year of anyone’s life. There is
only one chance to become someone important, and it is during the
Test Year.  

Thinking back, I am embarrassed at how
much time I spent choosing my outfit for the first day. I wanted to
stand out but not too much. I wanted to be seen as an individual,
but one accepted by the masses. Needless to say, I had no idea what
my Test Year was going to bring. If I had realized, then, I might
have run away to Omaha to be with Inara. At least we could have
faced this ordeal together.

I was assigned to Randolph School,
which was perfect since I lived just a few blocks from it. I always
thought the building looked like a school in the traditional sense:
a brick building with white columns and a brick path flanked with
trees on either side. It was just like the schools pictured in the
old movies. That was it; I was walking into a movie
scene.

On the first day, our instructors
reminded us the cameras were present to record our best attributes.
Of course, I never saw it that way. It felt eerie to know I was
always being recorded. Probably because I knew the recordings were
analyzed and graded. There were cameras in all corners of the
building except for the bathroom and library. While the lack of
cameras in the bathroom was for obvious reasons, the library was so
seldom used that surveillance wasn’t necessary. Information was
readily accessible and updated online. Books were quaint or
decorative but not used for research any more.

Over the next few weeks, I got to know
the members of my cohort since the instructors placed a high value
on group work. I learned very quickly that the majority of my
counterparts were seriously striving to be in the top 20%. The
fiercest competitor was Lysa Washburn Harrison, an overachiever who
never seemed to repeat an outfit. Her endless wardrobe was only
rivaled by her boundless energy level. Lysa was a favorite among
the students, but she was far from my favorite.

Though we shared many things in
common, I am not sure what I did to earn what was clearly Lysa’s
distaste. Our parents both worked at Stormont-Vail, the local
hospital. Our brothers both played in the city soccer league, and I
had been to her house for dinner. No matter what the topic,
assignment or class, it seemed Lysa and I were destined to be
paired. I could tell she was more bothered by it than me. I got on
her wrong side from the beginning, and she didn’t hesitate to
remind me.

Then, there was the day of the
incident. Of all the days during my Test Year, I can still see that
day play like a movie in my head.

“
No, just let me do the
talking, Turia. You mumble like a scared child when you present,”
Lysa said as she reviewed the assignment list.  

“
I don’t mumble. Just
because I don’t do cartwheels off the walls, like you, doesn’t mean
I can’t present.”

“
Well, I think it is
settled. I will continue to do cartwheels off the walls so we can
get the best grade and you can coast on my success.
Happy?”

In true Turia form, I scrunched my
face up, tilted my head and gave her the finger. I completed the
pose with a fart noise, just to add an extra dash of
annoyance.

“
And, that is why you will
be cleaning my house at the end of this Test Year.”

Lysa started to gather up her computer
and purse. It was clear I had gotten to her which is part of the
reason she didn’t see the chair behind her. Before I could even
call to her, she turned, tripped and lost everything in her arms.
Her fall made such a loud noise that the whole school seemed to
stand still in its aftershock. But, it wasn’t the fall that upset
her the most. It was that the fall had projected all of her purse’s
contents into plain view. Her tampons, her breath mints and several
prescription pill bottles that didn’t belong to her. She lunged for
the orange bottles like a mad woman as they rolled under desks and
into corners. It was evident from her hurried grabbing that
something was not right. Instructor Tam was quick to pick up on the
situation and escorted Lysa to the administrator’s
office.

When Lysa did not return to class that
afternoon, the rumors spread fast. Each story was slightly
different, but with one common denominator…me as the villain. In
one version, I had planted the pills in Lysa’s purse in hopes she
would be dismissed from the Test Year. Another tale told of how
Lysa was taking the blame to cover for my pill addiction. Of
course, my personal favorite was the rumor swearing I was an
aspiring drug dealer hoping to turn my cohort into satisfied
customers.

Their theories had added weight since
my mother was a pharmacist at the local hospital. Of course, no one
seemed to mention that Lysa’s father was the head nurse in the ER.
In the end, I never confirmed or denied the rumors when people
asked which is why so many defected to Team Lysa. I just wanted the
whole day to be erased from my memory. I knew that whenever Lysa
returned, everything would be ten times worse. And I was
right.

When Lysa returned to Randolph, her
short sabbatical did not seem to change the spring in her step or
her fancy outfits. I will never know how she rallied everyone’s
support so quickly. Lysa’s disdain infected my peers. I saw a shift
in the air as a result of her whispers. Soon, less of my cohort
talked to me. My presence seemed to make people uncomfortable. It
had become clear. It was me against the rest of the
school.

On one particular day, I was treated
to a heavy dose of isolation during lunch. The out of place feeling
filled the entire school and my heart. Feeling lost, I visited the
school library out of a simple desire to be invisible.

In a virtual world full of electronic
texts, tests and talks, the library made me feel safe. A musty and
potent smell of old books permeated the room. I found it comforting
along with the towering stacks that embraced me. I ran my fingers
along the book spines just to feel a connection to something. Just
like the printed words in the library, I felt overlooked and
forgotten.