Page 3 of The Commons

“Commons Preparatory High School,” he pouts.

“GPA?”

“3.7.”

“It will be a 3.8 from now on, and that is what you will say,” the speed commons officer says to Zavish. “Welcome to The Commons.”

Of course, he found favor with a Patron. Probably before even arriving.

I’m next in my line.

“First name?”

“Shantavia.”

“Age.”

“Eighteen.”

“Height?”

“Five-foot-five.”

“High school?”

“New York Academy of Bright Scholars.”

I stare at my own officer as he reads my documents and checks them twice. “GPA?”

“4.0.”

“It will be a 3.9 from now on, and that is what you will say if you make it to The Commons.” Big emphasis on if. He stamps my document and hands it to me.

I’m sure they justify this with some weighted system of Commons Preparatory supremacy. Or something.

“And what was that GPA again?” I look to see my former classmate, Zia, being checked in.

“3.8,” Zia says, adjusting her straight, vanilla-blonde hair.

The female officer replies, “It’s a 3.9 from now on. Look left.” She presses her neck with a stamp-looking device with blue lights and it beeps twice. I guess I’m wrong. Not a high school thing. It’s a person-by-person partiality. That’s expected.

Zavish is stamped with a similar device. He jerks, stubborn, pulling his shoulders back to regain his pride. He takes his signed documents and walks through the screened doors. It seems he’s allowed to join The Selects, lucky.

“What’s that device?” I ask my officer.

“An Evaper. And it tracks your whereabouts. Look left.” My officer presses my neck. The Evaper beeps twice. “This is your call number. Shantavia Lerogaski.”

I raise my hands to be searched by my officer. And that’s when it happens.

“What did you say your name was?” Pesh interjects.

I freeze, my tongue numb. It’s the Patron, and he’s calling my name… my name is on his tongue.

“Um… Shantavia Leroga⁠—”

“Take her out!”

What? No! Please. No!