Scored Page 17

  “You could sit alone if you wanted,” she said.

  He looked up from the article, suddenly hopeful.

  “You’re under no obligation to the sixties, Deon. You get no advantage from them. And they’re about to dump you. Why not dump them first?”

  Deon looked down and speed-read the section Imani had highlighted.

  “You can keep that,” Imani said.

  Then she left him alone, which she knew was his preference.

  Imani took the river at breakneck speed, heading straight for Hogg Island with her clam fork and bag. In the Corona Point channel, her motor started clicking oddly, so she pulled into the small strip of beach by the abandoned marina. She lifted the motor out of the water to have a look but could find nothing awry.

  Not far away were the cliff steps that led to Diego’s house. She wondered if he was there now or if he was out tearing up the dunes on his scooter. She tried to imagine what Diego did when he felt the way she felt. Then she realized he wouldn’t feel the way she felt. Whatever state of lousiness he was in would be complementary to hers, not identical.

  She dropped the motor back in the water and, not wanting to risk getting stranded on Hogg Island, went home.

  As she approached the marina, her father, hearing her boat, looked up from the drainage pump of the Lowries’ whaler. He walked down to the slip to meet her, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. “Your mother says you cut school early?” he called out to her.

  Imani tied up Frankenwhaler and lifted the motor out of the water. “I think there’s something up with Cady’s board. Can you look at it?”

  “Not answering my questions anymore?” Mr. LeMonde stood rigid on the dock, pointedly refusing to look at Imani’s motor.

  “I didn’t feel well,” she said defensively.

  “But you had a miraculous recovery, I see.”

  “Dad—” Imani looked away, to the remnants of Frankenwhaler’s wake lapping the muddy edges of the marina.

  Her father stood still for a moment, waiting for Imani to change her mind and talk to him. When she didn’t, he climbed into her boat with a little groan. “Let’s have a look, then.” He opened a compartment in the motor and poked around. “Yup,” he said. “Wrong screws.” He held one up for Imani to see. “Cady is all about power, but she’s impatient with the details. You can’t go sticking these things in willy-nilly.”

  “And I paid her in lobster.”

  Imani sat on the edge of the boat and watched him carefully remove the rest of the screws, wishing she’d spent as much time learning from him about motors as Cady had. They’d have had so much more to talk about then. But Score Corp had identified her core strengths as academic, not technical, and Imani had gone along with it. She’d never even questioned it.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said. “Do you have to go to Isiah’s scrimmage tonight? Could Mom go instead?”

  “Why?” He pulled the circuit board out.

  “Because I was wondering if you’d go to that meeting with me,” she asked nervously.

  “So you do think the LeMondes should be represented.”

  Imani looked down and laughed nervously. “Oh, I have a feeling we’ll be represented, all right.”

  Her father shifted his weight. “Imani Jane, what have you gone and done?”

  When she looked up at him, she almost told him the truth. But there was too much to tell, and she wasn’t ready yet. “Will you go with me?” she asked coyly.

  After a moment, her father took her hand and helped her out of the boat. “Could I say no to my one and only daughter?”

  They headed down the dock together.

  “Hey, Dad, did you ever read the book Brave New World in high school?”

  “Sounds familiar,” he said. “I think it was assigned. But unless it was a comic book or a dirty magazine, I probably didn’t read it.”

  If Elon LeMonde had been scored as a teenager, he would have undoubtedly been a lowbie.

  21. undertow

  THE AUDITORIUM WAS standing room only. Up by the stage, Ms. Wheeler huddled with members of the town council, her crisp pink suit expressing a soft nurturing approachability backed by a spine of pure steel. She appeared unaffected by the mishap at St. James College and showed no sign of knowing that Imani had ratted her out to Mrs. Landis. But the calm she exuded seemed forced to Imani, who could see in her the Wakachee teenager she’d once been—ambitious, tightly controlled, but intensely aware of the possibility of total failure. Despite all that had transpired between them, Imani couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  Imani stood with her father in the back, unsure of what her role would be. But whereas her father had an air of cautious excitement about the proceedings, Imani was all sharp nerves. Scanning the auditorium, she spotted Cady and Parker. They stood behind a tall slender woman Imani recognized instantly as Diego’s mother. They had the same piercing eyes, the same straight dark hair. Seeing Cady wave to Imani, Mrs. Landis made her way through the crowd and introduced herself.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Imani,” she said. She turned to Imani’s father. “You must be—”

  “Elon LeMonde,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “You should be very proud of your daughter,” Mrs. Landis said.

  “Is that so?” Mr. LeMonde looked at Imani pointedly.

  Catching on to his ignorance of the activities in question, Mrs. Landis changed the subject. “I was wondering, Imani. How would you feel about speaking tonight?”

  “You mean live? In front of all these people?”

  “All you’d have to do is answer some questions. It’s up to you.”

  Imani could feel the blood draining from her face.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Landis said in an accommodating tone. “Alternatively, I could play the recording of our phone conversation. Would that be better?”

  “Imani?” her father said. “At some point are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Imani looked from her father to Mrs. Landis, both of whom wanted different things from her and wanted them badly.

  “I don’t want to put any pressure on you,” Mrs. Landis said. “I know you’ve already been through a lot, but don’t you think the people of Somerton have a right to know who their school principal is?”

  It could ruin her, Imani thought.

  Mrs. Landis leaned in and spoke softly. “She won’t stop, you know. She won’t give up until every unscored is banned from this school. Do you think that’s right, Imani?”

  Mrs. Landis was so sure of herself, Imani thought, so firm in her convictions. She was, in a way, just like Ms. Wheeler.

  “Look,” Mrs. Landis said. “I don’t want to stress, but—”

  “Play it,” Imani said. “It’s the truth. Play it.”

  “Now, hold on,” Mr. LeMonde said, holding out his hands. “What exactly are we talking about here, Imani?”

  “Play it,” Imani said.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Landis said. “Why don’t we do this. I’ve got the recording. When I go up to speak tonight, if you want to join me, just head down to the front of the auditorium. No pressure. How’s that?”

  “I won’t be speaking,” Imani said.

  “Either way,” Mrs. Landis said, “I want you to know you’re a brave girl.”

  Imani nodded noncommittally. Brave was the last thing she felt. She supposed Mrs. Landis meant that it had taken courage to come clean about her actions, but it was the kind of thing only someone with firm convictions would say. What Mrs. Landis didn’t seem to realize was that Imani’s convictions were anything but firm. She had gotten there by riding an undertow of half-buried feelings that didn’t quite rise to the level of conviction. It was that pull—possibly familial, possibly even genetic—that had delivered her there. It wasn’t bravery. It was more like surrender.

  When Mrs. Landis returned to Cady and Parker and a clutch of other people who all seemed to work for her, Imani began to feel as if the whole enterprise was as muddled as she was. A
nd that it was missing the point.

  There was a small commotion at the door, then Diego pushed his way through. A few underclassman highbies parted for him with eyes averted. He stood behind the last row of chairs.

  Imani watched him, then gripped her father’s hand.

  “Who’s that?” her father asked, looking at Diego.

  Diego hadn’t spotted her yet, but as he scanned the auditorium, Imani’s throat went dry.

  “My victim,” she said hoarsely.

  “Imani?” her father asked.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” she said. “You’re about to find out everything.”

  Up on the stage, Ms. Wheeler walked to the podium. “Wow,” she said. “What a great turnout. Those of you in back, there are a few chairs up front here.”

  Two parents standing next to Diego brushed past him to claim those chairs. Diego turned and saw Imani, locked his eye on hers for a moment, then turned coldly away.

  Ms. Wheeler began her speech, but Imani could barely take it in, something about “tough choices” and “brighter futures for everyone’s children.” Imani was staring at Diego’s profile, willing him to look at her. His long hair obscured his face, but Imani was certain he could feel her presence.

  Ms. Wheeler was making a brilliant case. The unscored were “spoilers,” who prevented the score from “fulfilling its promise” of upward mobility and true meritocracy. Though she no longer had the trump card of Diego’s arrest to boost her case, Imani knew she’d win people over.

  Imani began a mental countdown. Ms. Wheeler was savvy. She would be persuasive but concise. She wouldn’t risk boring her audience with a surplus of detail. It would be so much more expedient to feed their fear with a few indisputable facts, then leave them to imagine the horrors of inaction on their own. Then she’d step down and Mrs. Landis would take the stage. At that point, Imani’s actions would be known by everybody. Nicknames would be thought up for her. Irrelevant but plausible-seeming sexual connotations inferred. She was, after all, the best friend of Cady Fazio, the star of Farm Field F *& k Fest. The episode of Imani LeMonde, Ad Hoc Spy, would seep through all elements of Somerton society, leaving a residue of shame and self-righteousness whose most enduring impact would be to fuel the system that had given rise to it in the first place. The system was robust, she realized, and could turn anything to the cause of its own survival. And this show, Imani conjectured, this contest between Patrina Wheeler and Dena Landis, meant nothing.

  In the end, Score Corp would win.

  Imani could sense Ms. Wheeler nearing the end of her argument. In moments, Mrs. Landis would take the stage and make Imani’s secret transgressions public. She probably deserved what was coming, and, for a moment, she entertained the possibility that such an extreme and public undoing would leave her cleansed. But something gnawed at her.

  “Dad,” she said, “I have to go do something. Will you wait for me here?”

  “What?” he whispered. “Where are you going?”

  “Trust me?” Imani said.

  “Imani Jane!” he whispered.

  “Please?”

  Her father took a moment to consider, then, perhaps suspecting that she was more her father’s daughter than either of them had realized, he nodded his ascent. Imani went to the double doors where Diego stood.

  “Walk with me?” she said.

  He didn’t answer, but when she left the auditorium, he waited a few seconds, then followed. As Imani made her way down the hallway, he stayed at least ten feet behind, a move designed to fool the eyeballs.

  Imani wanted to be alone with him, but the hallways were dotted with Somerton police patrolling for troublemakers. Eventually, she arrived at Mr. Carol’s classroom, which was left unlocked. Imani opened the door, waited for Diego to turn the corner and see her, then went inside. The second hand swept from the eight to the ten before Diego entered and closed the door.

  It was dim in the classroom, possibly too dim for the eyeball to identify her, possibly not.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “How much do you know?”

  “Everything you told my mother.”

  It was a lot, but it wasn’t everything.

  “Did you bring me here to apologize?” he asked. “Because it’s not necessary.”

  “Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m skipping forgive. I’m going right to forget. Can I repeat my first question? What do you want?”

  The desks still sat in their loose circle, split down the middle. Imani leaned against one on the unscored half.

  “Look,” Diego said. “I really don’t need an explanation for what you did. It’s pretty obvious, so you can save the—”

  Imani shut him up by kissing him. She was so fast off her desk, he had no time to prepare. She’d only grazed his lips when he pulled away and fixed her with an accusing glare. “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Everything?”

  Diego closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Is it your aim in life to toy with me, Imani?”

  “No.”

  He looked at her, breathing heavily. “Because I’m really in no mood to be—”

  She shut him up again. This time, he surrendered immediately. When their lips separated, they remained so close Imani could barely focus on him. His arms had found her waist, and Imani was resting her wrists on his shoulders. The warmth of him made her dizzy, and all she wanted was to dive back into that blurry miasma of feeling and want.

  But something drew her attention. Behind Diego, the eyeball dangled. It was the same eyeball she’d seen every day in American history. It was exactly like every other eyeball in the world. Pulling free of Diego, she went and stood underneath it, the fabric of the American flag grazing her shoulder.

  “Um, Imani?” he said. “You’re not about to do one of those eyeball confessions, are you?”

  “Hmm?” She was mesmerized by the shiny black face, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Because I think that might freak me out,” Diego said.

  So small, she thought, so shiny, like a Christmas ornament. She grabbed the flagpole in both hands and yanked it out of its stand.

  “Imani, what are you doing?” Diego’s voice had taken on the tone of a concerned teacher.

  But she was under the sway of something powerful, something deep and, while not identifiable, not entirely unknown. Swinging the flagpole behind her, she touched its tip to the floor. Then, aiming carefully, she swung upward as if at a tiny piñata. With a crash and a tinkle, the eyeball shattered.

  “Oh my God,” Diego said behind her.

  Calmly, Imani returned the flagpole to its holder, then stood and watched as the remains of the eyeball, a half dome now, swung back and forth, its circuitry dangling like entrails. Diego picked his way over the bits of glass and stood next to her to watch it swing, first in wide arcs, then medium, then small.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” he whispered.

  “Then don’t say anything.”

  He looked right at her, and this time she didn’t look away.

  Outside the classroom, the noise was growing—Ms. Wheeler, Mrs. Landis, cheering, booing, police shuffling, then running, through the hallways. The meeting was descending into chaos. Imani knew she should have been there to answer for her actions and to stand up for what she believed in. But what did she believe in? Her beliefs had been programmed into her, designed to shape her into the fittest person she could become. In the end, the only beliefs that remained were the ones that were dooming her. So she stayed with Diego in Mr. Carol’s dimly lit classroom.

  “Hey, do you want to go clamming with me on Saturday?” she asked.

  “Uh, sure,” he said. “But you’ll have to teach me. I’ve never even held a clam fork.”

  Imani shook her head.

  “Well, I bet you’ve never held a bass guitar,” he said, only slightly miffed.

  “Tr
ue,” she said. Then she smiled coyly. “Are you proposing a discreet collaboration?”

  Diego stepped forward and took one of her hands. “I don’t know, Imani. Look where the last one got us.” Their eyes drifted to the broken eyeball still swinging in barely perceptible arcs.

  “I’m game if you are,” she said. Then she took his other hand and looked into the piercing blue eye that had once intimidated her. If this was doom, she thought, she’d take it.

  “Oh, I’m game,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  In the moment before Imani closed her eyes to get lost in that kiss, she noticed that the broken eyeball had stopped swinging at last.

  THE OTIS INSTITUTE INNOVATION IN EDUCATION

  Dear Ms. LeMonde and Mr. Landis:

  It is with great pleasure that we offer you a scholarship in the amount of $40,000, to be divided as you see fit. Furthermore, we would like to extend our congratulations on a fine essay. Your mutual insights on individualism and camaraderie were most enlightening. We wish you both the best of luck in your academic endeavors and look forward to hearing about your accomplishments in the years to come.

  Sincerely,

  Kathleen Otis

  Director, The Otis Institute

  acknowledgments

  Thanks to Dad for all those summers on the boat, and to Lufkin Marina for the memories. Thanks to my early readers (Mom, Dad, Andrew, Scott, and Justine) for pointing out what should probably have been obvious but wasn’t. Thanks to my agent, Jill Grinberg, for always knowing what’s best, and to my editor, Mallory Loehr, for challenging me.

  lauren mclaughlin

  grew up in the small town of Wenham, Massachusetts. After college and a brief stint in graduate school, she spent ten “unglamorous” years writing and producing movies before abandoning her screen ambitions to write fiction full-time. Though she fondly remembers much of her time in Massachusetts—the marina, the beach, various teenage escapades—she cannot, for the life of her, remember her SAT scores, her GPA, or any of the numbers that once summed her up.