Knowing Read online

  “All right, now, where was I?” Mrs. Bianchi said, the corners of her mouth wrinkling up as she tried to remember where she had left off. Mrs. Bianchi was always forgetting the last thing she had said. She was pretty old, after all, in her fifties at least, and Emma assumed that was just something that happened to all older people. Of course, most people seemed older to Emma.

  She glared at the back of Tomas Romano’s head. He had only just turned eight years old, whereas she was eight and three quarters, so he really should follow her example more, and respect his elders. Mrs. Bianchi was always going on and on about respecting your elders, but she never forced stupid Tomas Romano to give Emma the respect she so obviously deserved.

  “Ah, yes,” Mrs. Bianchi said, her eyes brightening as her thoughts caught up to her. “We had just been discussing the planets. Can anyone name all of the planets for me?”

  Martina raised her hand and at a slight nod from the teacher, quickly began rattling off information. Martina always knew the right answer to everything. It was super-duper annoying.

  “Don’t forget to say Mars: that’s where you came from!” Tomas screeched, interrupting her, and the class erupted into giggles.

  “Mr. Romano,” the teacher said, sighing. “Please apologize to Miss Esposito.”

  Tomas spun around in his seat and looked toward his prim and proper classmate. Then he said, very emphatically, “Martina, I’m very sorry that you are from Mars.”

  Emma found herself laughing along with the rest of the students, and they watched with delight as Martina’s face grew angry and red, like steam was about to shoot out of her ears.

  Mrs. Bianchi rolled her eyes up to heaven, and then said, “Mr. Romano, that’s enough. Everyone, let’s quiet down, please.” She held up her hand, waiting until the giggles subsided, then lowered her hand and continued. “Students, please remember that it is a privilege that you get to study science at all. Only the Level III’s and IV’s get to learn about things like the solar system. You really should be grateful and pay more attention.”

  “Whatever,” Tomas scoffed, causing the teacher to frown. “I wish I was a Level I, like Leo’s sister. They only have to learn how to read and write and, like, add and stuff, and then they get to be done! It’s not fair!”

  “Mr. Romano, I will not have you speaking like that in this classroom!” Mrs. Bianchi walked between the rows of desks until she towered over Tomas, her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you just go to the time-out corner for the next five minutes and think about how lucky you are to be a Level IV?”

  “Nah, I can feel lucky about it right here at my desk,” Tomas offered, grinning up hopefully. Mrs. Bianchi merely pointed a finger toward the chair in the corner, and Tomas begrudgingly got up from his desk. With a dramatic sigh, he shuffled over to the corner and threw himself onto the little plastic chair, arms folded across his chest.

  “Now,” Mrs. Bianchi continued, crisply walking back toward the front of the classroom, then turning around to face the students. “Can anyone tell me why Mr. Romano is in the time-out corner?”

  “Because you put me here?” called Mr. Romano from the time-out corner.

  Mrs. Bianchi sighed, waited for the laughter to die down yet again, and her face grew contorted. “Children,” she began. The students sat up in their chairs. Their teacher only said that when she was serious. “Believe me, being a Level IV is something you should be grateful for, each and every day.”

  Mrs. Bianchi paced slowly back and forth in front of the rows of desks then went on, “Mr. Romano is right, the Level I’s don’t get to stay in school very long; they’ll be done after the sixth grade. And the Level II’s only stay through high school. Level III’s get the option to go to college, if they want. But the Level IV’s, like all of you…”

  Mrs. Bianchi looked around the room at the small, round, earnest faces and tried to make eye contact with each of the students. “You will all get to go to university, and to graduate school after that. You will all have the chance to choose a Level IV profession. Believe me, yours is a position envied by many.”

  “Mrs. Bianchi?” asked a meek voice from the back of the room.

  “Yes, go ahead, Mr. Russo.”

  “How do they decide who is what level?”

  “Geez, everyone knows that, dummy. It’s something you’re born with,” Martina said impatiently.

  Some of Martina’s classmates were just so stupid. She only wished that the levels were based on intelligence. But Lorenzo Russo, who could barely tie his shoes, was born as a Level IV. He could decide to be a doctor or a lawyer, if he wanted. And yet her cousin, who was twelve years old and “smart as a whip,” her uncle said, was a mere Level I. Her uncle would often shake his head and say, “That girl could have cured cancer. But all she’ll ever do is work at some retail shop or fast food chain.” Martina narrowed her eyes. It didn’t seem fair.

  “Miss Esposito, please keep your comments to yourself,” Mrs. Bianchi replied. Then she turned her attention to the young boy in the last row of desks. His face was flushed with embarrassment, which brought even more attention to the fact that his hair, which refused to be tamed, stood out in all directions from the poor child’s head.

  “Mr. Russo,” she began, peering at him from over the top of her glasses. “Although Miss Esposito did not choose to answer the question in a civilized manner –” a ‘hrmph’ sound came from Martina’s desk – “she was, however, correct. Your level was decided the day you were born.”

  “Because of the TL, right?” asked Lorenzo. Martina rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” the teacher affirmed. “When you’re born, everyone with a TL of 20 or less is a Level I. If your TL is anywhere between 21 and 39, you fall into Level II. Level III’s are people with a TL between 40 and 64.” Mrs. Bianchi watched Lorenzo, to see if this was sinking in. He was nodding, so either he understood, or he was answering a question she had posed several minutes earlier. With this particular child, either explanation was possible.

  “So, that means that anyone with a TL of 65 or higher, like all of you, becomes a Level IV. That means that you will have the very best choices when you get older.”

  “But lots of people live to be older than that,” Lorenzo stammered hesitantly. “My grandpa is 92! What level is he in?”

  “Anyone over the age of 65 is still a Level IV,” the teacher answered. “The levels are based more on the ages that people would normally work. Once a person is retired, it really doesn’t matter anymore.” In her head, Mrs. Bianchi started doing calculations of how long it would be before she could potentially retire. It would be quite a while, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one chose to look at it.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the teacher watched as Tomas tipped his chair back so it was resting only on the back two legs. He nearly lost his balance, the chair threatening to topple over. Tomas started propelling his arms wildly through the air like a cartoon character, yet somehow the maneuver allowed him to regain his balance. “Vaffanculo!” she whispered under her breath, feeling guilty even as she was saddened to miss the chance of seeing her most troublesome student splayed about on the floor.

  “Okay, so you’re a Level IV too, right?” Emma asked, raising her hand but not waiting to be called on before she spoke. The pencil dangled from her raised fingertips.

  “No, actually, I’m a Level III,” Mrs. Bianchi replied. “Luckily for me, I always wanted to be a teacher, and Level III’s are allowed to go into that career, so long as we don’t teach above a high school grade.”

  “Why?” asked Tomas, yelling from the corner.

  “Mr. Romano, if you can behave, why don’t you come back to your desk now?” Mrs. Bianchi said, not wanting to mention that she’d forgotten he was sitting over there until she’d notice his arms flailing around. Jauntily, Tomas stood up and galloped back to his seat.

  As he loudly scraped the chair against the tile floor while he scooted himself in, she continued, “Teaching doesn’t require as much schooling, so a Level III can do that. Level III’s can actually do quite a lot of jobs, so I’m pretty lucky.”

  “But only Level IV’s can be doctors and lawyers and stuff,” Martina piped up.

  Mrs. Bianchi nodded and replied, “Yes, that’s correct. There are some professions that require a lot of schooling. But all of you –” she made a wide sweep of the classroom with her arm – “you can become anything you like. Miss Ricci, you like animals, is that right?”

  Emma looked up when she heard her name, and dropped her pencil on the floor again. She nodded her head enthusiastically.

  “Well, then, for example, Miss Ricci could choose to become a veterinarian.” Emma grinned, puffing up her chest.

  “What could I be?” Tomas asked, waving his hand about in the air.

  “Well,” the teacher said, trying not to shudder, “you can be whatever you want, really, so long as you complete your schooling. And that goes for each and every one of you.” She began to walk back and forth through the aisles. “You can be a dentist, or an engineer…” She let her voice trail off.

  She watched as the students got wistful looks on their faces, dreaming of what would come next. “But,” she said, snapping her fingers, jarring them back to reality, “that’s only if you do well in your studies, remember! Now, shall we get back to learning about the planets?”

  She was pleased when every single student sat up a little straighter in their chair, leaning in to hear what wisdom she would impose on them next.

  February 10th, 2020

  20 miles outside of Kampala, Uganda

  Benson Azikiwe struggled under the weight of the heavy sacks he was balancing over his shoulders. Carefully, he tiptoed his way over the soggy terrain. Mud oozed between his toes, and every time he lifted his foot there was a loud slurping sound, as the mud was trying to hold his feet in place.

  Finally reaching the hut, Benson lowered his waist until gravity took over, and the sacks rolled off his back and onto the pile of other sacks he’d moved that morning. He then turned around and headed in the direction he’d come from, where dozens more sacks waited for him.

  As he trudged through the mud, Benson gingerly worked his shoulders back and forth, trying to ease his muscles. He was young and in good shape, but it was still tough work.

  “Hujambo, Benson!” cried one of the children playing in a nearby mud puddle. Grinning, Benson raised a hand to wave. Children from the nearby village often came around to visit and play, and Benson was popular among them.

  He continued on his way, pushing past several goats that were in his path. They grunted in response, both species irritating one another.

  Benson generally had a good outlook on life; he was basically a happy person. Even working for his uncle didn’t get him down… most days. Occasionally, though, Benson wondered. What if?

  He reached down and hefted another sack full of green bananas onto his shoulders, and the pleasant sound of children’s laughter drifted to his ears. What if he’d been a Level IV?

  He tried to shove it away, but the thought echoed in his brain, weighing on him heavier than the bananas ever could.

  Benson had had dreams of going to university, in England perhaps. He was especially interested in science, and his teacher seemed amazed at his ability to reason. She always shook her head sadly, saying that it was such a shame that his potential would never be realized. Benson was a Level I.

  Picking his way through the mud, Benson reached one hand back into the sack and tugged a banana free from the giant bundle. As he walked past the child playing in the mud puddle, he tossed the banana to her. The young girl grinned. One of her front teeth had recently fallen out, and her smile was especially endearing.

  Benson would be doing the random tasks his uncle assigned him, all heavy manual labor, for the rest of his life. Which would not be that much longer, really. Benson was 18 years old, but his TL was less than a year now. It was hard, watching the gap close between the current date, and the date inscribed on his chest.

  Benson could feel the mud that had splattered up onto his ankles begin to dry, cracking with his movements. Despite knowing he would never have the life he’d hoped, Benson did take pride in his work, and tried to do his very best at whatever job he was tasked with. It would never be enough, though, not for his parents, not for his uncle. They all looked down on him, and this caused Benson great shame.

  If there was one thing he could take back, one thing that he could travel backwards in time and undo, it would be the lie. The smile that had formed on Benson’s face when that little girl had caught the banana began to fade as he thought about that day. He had taken a dark ink, and his newly sharpened knife, and had begun his arduous task (as it turned out, completely in vain.). He’d been caught trying to change the year that was on his chest.

  He’d been young and foolish, oh so foolish, to think such a plan might have worked. He’d been found out, of course, and his life hadn’t been the same since.

  “What was the point?” he recalled his friend, James, asking him. “It doesn’t matter even if you’re able to write over it. They’ve studied that, you know. You’ll still die on the same day.”

  Benson had sighed. “Yes, but during the years I had left, I could have been doing something important with my life.”

  James shrugged. He was a Level III; of course he wouldn’t understand.

  This bag was especially heavy, and Benson felt the weight of the bananas pushing him deeper into the damp earth.

  February 12th, 2020

  Reykjavik, Iceland

  The scenery had never moved so quickly.

  Viktor Einarsson barely even noticed it, in fact, and the breathtaking view continued to blur into long strands of white and gray, intertwining with one another as he picked up speed. The engine beneath him whirred loudly as snow shot out from behind him in great arcs of white.

  Snowflakes clung to Viktor’s hat, coat, gloves, and pants, holding on for dear life as he continued to rev the engine. He reached a hand up to adjust his goggles, then leaned forward. Man and machine, snowmobile and Viktor, seemed to fly across the barren landscape.

  Viktor licked his chapped lips beneath the scarf he had draped over the lower portion of his face. He wondered idly why he was bothering to protect himself from the cold, considering his end goal. An errant piece of string from the scarf ended up in his mouth, quite irritating, and he moved his tongue from side to side trying to dislodge it.

  Never in his 21 years on earth had Viktor driven at such speeds, and he was in awe at just how far his snowmobile could be pushed. He made a wide left turn, leaning into the wind, getting nearer and nearer to the end of the plateau he had been careening across.

  The edge drew closer, so quickly that Viktor couldn’t have changed his mind if he’d wanted to. Not that he wanted to, of course.

  He could see over the edge now, where the frozen ground beneath him came to a most abrupt end, and into the deep gorge below him.

  As the snowmobile took its final epic leap into the great vastness below, Viktor got just a glimpse of the most beautiful sunset, the light almost blinding as it bounced off of the columns of snow. He squeezed his eyes shut as he soared into the air, and screamed, “End well!”

  Then suddenly, the man who had been moving so very fast, stopped so very completely. Viktor opened his eyes, confused, reaching up to paw his way through the snow bank he’d landed in. Except, he couldn’t move his arms.

  His goggles had been jerked to the side, and he was unable to reach a hand up to straighten them. The world looked strange indeed, from his position down here in the snow at the base of a mountain peak, one eye seeing the landscape from within his goggle, the other eye unprotected. The earth seemed askew, as much as the goggles on his face, tilted as they were.

  Viktor thought it odd that he wasn’t dead, and was extremely saddened and confused. That had been the point, hadn’t it? To kill himself in glorious fashion, to go out on his own terms, doing what he loved?

  Viktor was able to move his head up just a bit, but it was enough. From this new vantage point he had an excellent view of his legs… or at least he thought they were his legs. The two limbs that Viktor had been familiar with for the past 21 years were now bent at such odd and grotesque angles that he was no longer sure that particular pair of legs belonged to him at all. Those legs looked like they probably hurt quite extensively, but Viktor felt no pain, so surely, they couldn’t be his… someone must be playing a joke; that’s what happened.

  Instinctively he reached up to try to straighten his goggles again, and once again was surprised that he was unable. Exhausted, he lowered his head back down and looked up into the sky, blinking as snowflakes danced over his unprotected eye. He blinked again, and the flakes that had been on his eyelashes moved up and down in his field of vision.

  Viktor felt his heart beating fast, thudding against his chest. He thought of his chest, of the date just above his heart, 02-13-2020. Tomorrow’s date.

  Closing his eyes and allowing the snow to build up around him – what was he going to do about it, anyway?- Viktor thought of the decision he had made last week. He hadn’t told anyone, not a soul, until his Final earlier this very afternoon.

  “It’s been fun,” his best friend, Aron, had said, awkwardly patting him on the back. “Are you doing anything special on your last night?”

  Most of his family and friends had already left by then; just his inner circle of people remained. Unable to contain himself any longer, Viktor had tugged on the sleeve of Aron’s sweater, pulling him closer.

  “Something special? I’ll say!” Viktor whispered into his friend’s ear. “Fuck tomorrow, I don’t want to wait around until whatever is going to happen to me finally happens. Nope, I go out my own way.”