my grasp.
It was dark outside by the time I woke up. I quietly padded downstairs towards the sound of my parents in the kitchen.
“So what are you going to tell her?” came my mom’s voice from around the corner. Then I stepped into view. She looked up at me. “Oh, good. You’re awake in time for dinner.” Her tone was guilty. Like a little kid whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. “Let me get a plate for you.” She quickly stood and gave my dad a nervous look before heading over to the cupboard.
“So, Dad, why do Byron and Camille think it’s your fault he got an orange letter?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but he flinched in surprise: it just came out blunt.
He let out a long, slow, agonized breath as he attempted to regain his composure. “Byron’s father is having a hard time accepting what has happened and is looking for someone to blame. A few weeks ago an incident happened at work that made me look good but made him look bad in front of the plant’s owner. Somehow he blames everything that happened to Byron on me not agreeing with him and supporting him that day.”
“Oh,” I breathed. Not as dramatic as I was expecting, but just what was I hoping for? It’s not like there actually was anything my father or anyone else could do that would affect Byron’s standing in the assessment testing.
I forced myself to eat some food before returning to the darkness of my room.
On Wednesday, my mother insisted that I get out of bed, shower, and dress. After listening to a long and drawn-out speech about how sulking wouldn’t do either Byron or me any good, I headed outside.
I had never felt so lonely and lost as I did at that moment staring at my neighborhood. It still looked the same as it did when I was a child. Somehow that surprised me. I half expected it to reflect the bleakness I felt inside. But nothing, not a blade of grass, looked different.
There was still a long row of rectangular houses to my left and another to my right – all of them identical. The same slate gray brick, the same black shutters, and even the same blue carpeting throughout each home. The dark blue front door of each house led to a small entryway. Immediately to the left was the living room. Behind that at the end of the hall was the kitchen, and tucked under the stairs was a small powder room. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a full-sized bathroom.
Byron had always complained about having to share his room with his sister. Once he had even joked that it was his main motivation in school. He wanted the three bedroom home of a purple level so he’d never have to force his son and daughter to share the same space.
In between the two rows of houses was a thin lane of grass and flowers. I stood in the worn, beaten path that divided the center of it. It was the path that everyone took to get to the trams. No one had a backyard, because right behind our row of houses was another row of houses laid out in the exact same format.
But that didn’t mean we didn’t have an area to play. The far end of our street was bordered by a grassy field of wildflowers. Byron would sometimes pick flowers for me there. Beyond the field were the woods we had recently started disappearing into just to get a little privacy.
The end closest to my house led to the tram. Trams came regularly and frequently; every few minutes or so. Each was covered in solar panels. Even now that I’m considered an adult, I couldn’t help but think they resembled giant black caterpillars. Trams were how everyone got just about everywhere. The only exceptions were for long distance journeys – that was when an air-tram was used.
The city’s grid pattern made getting anywhere a lot quicker and easier. You just calculated how many stops north or south you had to go, and then transferred to an east-west tram and counted the stops in that direction.
Our school had been two stops south and one stop east. Our favorite pizza joint was one north. It
It was dark outside by the time I woke up. I quietly padded downstairs towards the sound of my parents in the kitchen.
“So what are you going to tell her?” came my mom’s voice from around the corner. Then I stepped into view. She looked up at me. “Oh, good. You’re awake in time for dinner.” Her tone was guilty. Like a little kid whose hand was caught in the cookie jar. “Let me get a plate for you.” She quickly stood and gave my dad a nervous look before heading over to the cupboard.
“So, Dad, why do Byron and Camille think it’s your fault he got an orange letter?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but he flinched in surprise: it just came out blunt.
He let out a long, slow, agonized breath as he attempted to regain his composure. “Byron’s father is having a hard time accepting what has happened and is looking for someone to blame. A few weeks ago an incident happened at work that made me look good but made him look bad in front of the plant’s owner. Somehow he blames everything that happened to Byron on me not agreeing with him and supporting him that day.”
“Oh,” I breathed. Not as dramatic as I was expecting, but just what was I hoping for? It’s not like there actually was anything my father or anyone else could do that would affect Byron’s standing in the assessment testing.
I forced myself to eat some food before returning to the darkness of my room.
On Wednesday, my mother insisted that I get out of bed, shower, and dress. After listening to a long and drawn-out speech about how sulking wouldn’t do either Byron or me any good, I headed outside.
I had never felt so lonely and lost as I did at that moment staring at my neighborhood. It still looked the same as it did when I was a child. Somehow that surprised me. I half expected it to reflect the bleakness I felt inside. But nothing, not a blade of grass, looked different.
There was still a long row of rectangular houses to my left and another to my right – all of them identical. The same slate gray brick, the same black shutters, and even the same blue carpeting throughout each home. The dark blue front door of each house led to a small entryway. Immediately to the left was the living room. Behind that at the end of the hall was the kitchen, and tucked under the stairs was a small powder room. Upstairs there were two bedrooms and a full-sized bathroom.
Byron had always complained about having to share his room with his sister. Once he had even joked that it was his main motivation in school. He wanted the three bedroom home of a purple level so he’d never have to force his son and daughter to share the same space.
In between the two rows of houses was a thin lane of grass and flowers. I stood in the worn, beaten path that divided the center of it. It was the path that everyone took to get to the trams. No one had a backyard, because right behind our row of houses was another row of houses laid out in the exact same format.
But that didn’t mean we didn’t have an area to play. The far end of our street was bordered by a grassy field of wildflowers. Byron would sometimes pick flowers for me there. Beyond the field were the woods we had recently started disappearing into just to get a little privacy.
The end closest to my house led to the tram. Trams came regularly and frequently; every few minutes or so. Each was covered in solar panels. Even now that I’m considered an adult, I couldn’t help but think they resembled giant black caterpillars. Trams were how everyone got just about everywhere. The only exceptions were for long distance journeys – that was when an air-tram was used.
The city’s grid pattern made getting anywhere a lot quicker and easier. You just calculated how many stops north or south you had to go, and then transferred to an east-west tram and counted the stops in that direction.
Our school had been two stops south and one stop east. Our favorite pizza joint was one north. It
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