The 3 Levels of the Gifted

...Kidnapped is a strong word for it. But it's the first word that popped into my head when a hand covered my mouth and a syringe was stuck into my neck.

It was an average November morning in Ivorydale Village when I woke to sunlight streaming through my large window. I pulled my comforter off me and walked to my window, looking out. Frost still coated the grass, and the sky was a light blue, though I could see dark clouds in the distance, threatening rain or snow on some other part of the village. I sighed and wondered what it would be like when villages, once towns, only took up small areas.

After all the people were segregated, we changed everything about the country. It had also spread outside the US, but a little differently. All of our once called States were now villages. There were fifty villages, and all of them but three ended in the word "Dale." I lived in Ivorydale, or the twelfth state, once called North Carolina. I lived in the lower village, near the borders of Palmdale Village, or the eighth state. I lived in a valley in the middle of the mountains, a popular place for many families. It was a big neighborhood, with tall buildings and streets with cozy homes and great schools, or so they say.

I padded barefoot to my private bathroom, and brushed my teeth before stepping into the shower to burn the sleep off my skin and wake me up. My best friend, Alinia often complained about getting up for school, but she gets up only about thirty minutes before I do. And she gets more sleep than I do. When I step out, I wrap my robe around myself and run a wide toothed comb through my tangled hair, and stopped a moment to look at my reflection. My golden, tight and long curls hung down my back, dripping water. My pale skin blended in easily, but my blonde hair was rare.

My stormy eyes that were sometimes blue, sometimes grey shun a pale blue now, but I frowned. There were shadows under my eyes, and hollows on my cheeks. My lips were cracked, and I knew that underneath my robe I could easily count each of my ribs. Let's just say, the government doesn't take kindly to My father, or undecided children. My father was a lawyer to help the levels 2 and 3 for being wrongly accused by Uni-Gifted people. Many did not look kindly to someone from Uni-gifted associating with the other levels.

I changed into tight fitted jeans and a dark green long-sleeved shirt and padded out of my room, running my fingers through my wet hair. I stopped in the kitchen and ate an apple for breakfast before entering what my mother liked to call 'the study'. It was cold as usual in there, and my mother was laying out my assignments for the day, looking like the cold didn't seem to bother her. She seemed calm, almost peaceful, when she didn't see me. But I knew that when she saw me, her eyes would fill with sadness and pity that she would try to hide, but I still saw it.

I had always wished I had inherited my mothers dark red hair and green eyes, or maybe her tall, willowy frame, or her dark eyelashes. She was beautiful and easily turned heads wherever she went, even with her hallowed cheekbones and laughlines. Not that I was the one that made her smile that often. The room was lit by one lamp, filling the room with a dull light. One wall was covered in a bookshelf that touched the ceiling, and filled with books of all sizes and age, from old leather bound and paperback to shiny, hardbacked aluminum covered books.

There were no windows, and the only other furniture in the room was the small, two person oak table in the center of it. One the other side from where my textbooks and papers was a large, metal box, sitting where it had sat every morning for as long as I can remember. Inside the box was whatever items used for the Placing Test. An instruction packet, a test booklet and scantron sheet, a few blank pieces of paper and an envelope, a timing watch, and whatever wierd tests I take that day.

My mother looked up and smiled. "Good morning, sunshine!" she said cheerfully, though I could see the sadness in her eyes. I plastered a smile in return, replying "Morning," quickly. My mother picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to me. I knew what they were: My test scores from yesterday. I knew I wasn't placed. If I was, my mother's smile would've touched her eyes.

Multiple Choice Test: 89

Essay: 81

Pacer: 8:32

Apple Test: No Result

Telopathic Test: No Result

I figured that the test where I had to guess the color of the coin my mother held behind her back was. When I looked at the bar showing where I ranked, it was in the average range, the undecided range. Even though I knew the results before I saw them, my heart still sunk, like it felt the magnets getting closer. I crumpled the paper up and through it in the trash. My mothers eyes were still filled with pity as she smiled at me. "We'll get it today," she tried to reassure me. But I knew I wouldn't.

I sat down in the chair, and my mother began with a literature lesson, including a short story and a worksheet. Next was History, taking notes about the wars before the levels, and the country we used to be. Whenever I studied history, I felt a longing for a world before we were segregated, before the government turned to hell. After that was science, where I had a lab with third level blood and first level, showing the differences in the blood cells. Then, I took a math quiz, and my mother went silent. She took up my textbooks, placing them on one of the bookshelves, and collected all my assignments and put them in their color coded folders.

Neither of us were aloud to talk after that. The Placing Test was supposedly secretive, and my mother wasn't aloud to give me any advice, or even wish me luck. She opened the metal box on the table. Sometimes, the box is so heavy it is on wheels, but today it must have been light. My mother pulled out the instruction packet and began to speak. "The Placing test involves five stages. During these parts, you are not aloud to speak, use any electronics, leave your seat, or skip any parts, or any assignments. You must complete it all.

"Stage One: Multiple Choice Test. I will now give you your question booklet and answer sheet." My mother said the booklet and sheet in front of me, giving me a reassuring smile. "There are thirty-eight questions of all subjects. You may not skip any questions, and you may not skip the test. Record all your answers on the blue sheet in front of you. You have thirty minutes in this stage. Answer carefully. Choose wisely. The Placing Test has begun." I open the booklet and start the test.

If the same questions were on the test everytime, I would've passed as a good tester or fair intelligence years ago. But they change the questions. They have to make it difficult for me. The questions are of all subjects of my age level. I am allowed to say no more, for it is a secretive test. I finish at twenty-seven minutes, with three minutes still on the watch. My mother stops it and smiles; It was one of my best times.

She takes up my test and answer sheet, and puts them back in the box. She turns to the next page of her instruction packet, and reads aloud the next section. "Stage Two: Essay. I will give you five sheets of lined paper and a sealed envelope." She set the paper and envelope in front of me, along with a pencil. The envelope had the United States Seal on it. The idea that the government still insisted on us pretending we were still the United States when they were no longer thought of as states made me want to laugh. I kept it at bay, but an amused smile slipped onto my face, and my mother shot me a look of dissaproval.

"Inside the envelope will be the topic of your assesment. Nobody but the Test Makers knows what topic is printed inside. You have fourty-five minutes to write an essay discussing the unknown topic. The minimum is two pages. The maximum is five. Your extra paper can be used for a rough draft, but it is not required. Your rough will be thrown away, and will not be graded for any mistakes. You may not use any books to help you, and you will not be given any more paper. You will be timed. Stage Two has now begun." I tore the envelope on it with no care of damaging it, and read the topic.

Describe how you feel about World War IV and the segregation of the human population.

I raised my eyebrows. The topic was usually typed in the basic print used in a computer. This message was hand written in a spidery scrawl. Red ink had been used. Real red ink. I was also surprised test makers working for the placing branch of the US Government would ever ask your opinion on the segregation. If they want us to be honest, then they would be surprised how many people are against it. I have learned from Alinia, one of the few people who will speak openly and rebelliously about the placing, that sometimes they can be bribed into making you a level one if you talk about how much you love the way they're doing things. Of course, I want to pass fair and square. I won't let anybody, even the smallest nobody in the government think they're doing something right. I will answer honestly, even if it brings me to my death. My mother always told me it would be my stubborness that would hurt me. As it turned out, I thought that she could be right.

I didn't make a rough draft. I filled all five pages with my opinion on every bit of the most recent World War, and of the segregation, or as I called it, the second and worse segregation. I even mentioned, though it might drive the magnets faster, "If only we had Martin Luther King Jr. with us now." I grinned at that, and I could feel my mother's dissaproving glare, but didn't look up. I wrote to the very end. The last word were, "We call this the United States, a free country. If I'm free, then why am I locked in my own house with my death coming before I even get to live?" and I set my pencil down.

My mother was still staring at me disapprovingly as she picked up the essay and envelope and put it in the box. I smiled happily. It's nice to do something rebellious on the test. Even if I'm taking this test until the moment I die, at least I got to brighten it up and get my feelings out. My mother flipped to the next page, and read aloud again, her voice slightly husky. "Stage 3: Pacer. I will move the table out of the way and give you room to run." My mother pushed the table out of the way. I winced, since she seemed so fragile, but didn't help. I'm not allowed to help.

"You will run across the room and touch the east wall, and then run to the west wall and do the same. You will do this fifty times. I will count how many laps you make, and time it on the designated watch. I will record your time to decide your athletic level. Stand at the West wall. " I did so. I rolled up my pants legs. This was why I didn't wear shoes. It was easier barefoot for me. The east and west walls were farther apart, built for the Placing Test Requirements. My best time was seven minutes and eighteen seconds, but it still was just below the athletic level. It was under healthy.

"I will count down from five. When I say go, I will start the watch, and you will be timed whether you are running or not. If you refuse to run, you're time will go on until you do." In other words, we'll be standing there with the timer running until we starve to death. We are not to be given any food. My mother starts counting. "Five." I place my feet in the correct stance, with my heel on the back of the wall to kick off. There was no rule against it, but any boost is frowned upon. I didn't care. "Four." I blinked and shook my head, and focused on the wall ahead of me. "Three." I wondered if this time I will make it. If this pacer will set me as athletic, under Uni-Gifted. "Two." Of course, the essay will probably throw me off. "One."

My feet kick off right as she says go, only a milsecond early, but not enough for it to be noticed. I hear my mother call one as my fingers brush the other wall. I run to the other side, doing the average athletic trick. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. It doesn't take long for me to do fifty. When I stop, panting, I don't get any water. My mother doesn't tell me my time, but frowns at it. I know that I didn't make it to athletic. She puts the timer in the box, and pulls the table back to it's place in the center of the room. I collapse into the chair, and my mother gives me a reassuring smile.

Then she turns another page, and reads. "Stage Four: Randomly Chosen Test." They never give you the name of the test; it gives too much away. They don't want you to know what they want you to do with it; You have to guess. My guesses are always correct. "I will place an item in front of you." My mother pulls from the box and ashtray and a lump of coal. She sets the lump of coal in the ashtray. It doesn't take much to know what I'm supposed to do. I have to burn it.

The next page, I know, is printed in a different font. It was added onto the usual packet. "In front of you is a lump of coal in an ash container. You must do whatever you feel is appropriate, with nothing but you, your mind and your hands. If anything unusual happens, it will be recorded, and you will be placed according to the responce." My mother starts the timer, and I stare at the lump as hard as I can. Nothing happens. I push the air in front of me at it. Nothing happens. I breath on the coal. Nothing. I clutch it in my hands. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"Stop," my mother tells me, and I release the lump of coal. She takes up the ashtrey and lump of coal, and then flips to the next page of the packet. The two randomly chosen tests are usually the quickest. I instantly fail them. "Stage Five: Randomly Chosen Test." I sigh. "I will place in front of you an object, and you must follow my instructions to what you must do to it." She sets a bullet in front of me. It is made of silver, and my eyes widen. I have only seen one item made of silver before. It was a teaspoon from when I was younger, in a glass case at Alinia's house. You could never find such metals anymore. I couldn't believe a test maker would freely put something so valuable in the test.

My mother's eyes widen only a little, taken aback. She clears her throat and continues to read. "In front of you is a single bullet. You must pick it up and throw it as hard as you can at the person who sits in front of you." My mother's eyes widen in horror. So do mine. Her voice shakes in anger as she continues to read. She has no choice. If she doesn't, she will be executed. "It should not go through skin unless thrown with suprising stregth or speed. If the bullet goes through skin, it will be recorded. If your tudor is unable to record it herself, the student must write it and put it in the box, close it, and put it outside the front door."

My hands are shaking in anger. "The Final Stage has begun. You may throw it now." I pick up the bullet and roll it between my fingers. I was sure that it wouldn't break skin, but I couldn't stand the thought of even trying this test. But I couldn't skip it. I already had an expiration date. "Just do it," my mother whispered. I was surprised she spoke out. I nodded shakily. And I threw the bullet.

It went fast. When I say fast, I mean as if it was shot out of a gun fast. I cried out, and concentrated on the bullet. "It will not hurt her. It will not hurt her," I mouthed over and over again, narrowing my eyes at the bullet. I cried out as a strange heat surged through my brain, down my throat, and throughout my body, making my fingers tingle. The bullet was almost at her. This had happened in milseconds, but it felt like hours. My mother winced at the bullet, but didn't duck. Then, I yelled "No!" And the bullet curved. It turned at a ninety degree angle and hit the wall, making sparks.

I gasped, and the warm feeling went away. I slumped down and stared at my hands. My mother whispered to me, and I wasn't listening. There was a ringing in my ears. It wasn't until she shook me, hard, that I looked up. She smiled at me. There was no sadness, no pity in them. There was joy and relief. "You did iit," she said. "You've passed. You're going to be placed." I laughed in the joy of it. She recorded what happened on the sheet, not bothering to hide it from me. I let my eyebrows furrow for only a tiny moment when I saw the page. The bottom part about the bullet was written in the same spidery scrawl as the essay topic. The ink was red. Blood red.

My mother put the test packet in the box. Then, she went over and picked up the bullet. She winced at it, and I wondered if it brought back painful memories. I frowned at her, and she replied, "It's hot." then she dropped it into the box and closed it, securing the lock in place. Then, I grinned, and felt tears running down my eyes. My mother saw and came over to hug me, and we were both laughing and crying as she rubbed my hair soothingly. "I'm not going to die," I laughed. "No, Enna. You're not going to die." Then she released me, and picked up the box. She walked over to the door, and reached for the doorknob. And something strange happened. The door burst open.

My mother let out a yelp and dropped the box, skidding out of the way as I saw people pour into the room. They were all dressed in black trousers and various t-shirts. They could've been normal. If it wasn't for the guns on their belts and in their hands. One of them shot my mother instantly. She fell to the ground with a dart in her arm, and I let out a rattled breath. I hoped it wouldn't kill her. Then, a few people moved towards me. Nobody shot any darts, just reached for me. The first man that got close, I kneed in the stomach, and let out a grunt of pain, then, I kicked his legs out from under him, and he fell to the hardwood floor. I couldn't help the pleasure I felt in knowing I made that happen.

The next person, I did the same. He distracted me. And then, the man backed away and nodded at me. No, he was nodding to someone behind me, I realized, a little to late. An arm wrapped around me, a muscular arm, and the smell of peppermint and laundry detergent washed over me. I tried to elbow him, kick him, twist out of his grip, but he didn't move. He took it without one cry of pain. I tried to scream, hoping someone would come to my rescue. A hand went over my mouth before I got the chance. "Shhh," a man whispered in my ear. A young man, his voice like velvet. I shivered. Then, I saw the syringe, and it was plunged into my neck. When the man pulled it out, My eyes grew heavy. I swayed, and the man caught me in his arms as I fell. The last thing I saw was a pair of bright and intense green eyes. He winked. And I was gone.

Yeah, I think kidnapped is the perfect word for it.