The Genetic Code

Chapter 2

White noise. Like a flurry of buzzing wasps that hovers around the ears but do not penetrate the void of hearing; Except for those pockets of conversation that manage to cut through the steady hum and resound in my ears like incessant ringing.

At least the white noise of heated discussion drowns out my own running thoughts, which I'm thankful for. I don't want to think about it — what everyone else is buzzing about. Every time my mind lingers on that thought, I feel a sudden fear seize my heart and a hollow nothingness in my gut.

For the past week it was all anyone was talking about. Along the halls, in the classroom, in the cafeteria. I can't escape from all that white noise that makes my head pound with heated blood.

"My mom's a minor depressive and my dad's a major alcoholic. So will that make me a minor alcoholic? A major depressive? Both?"

"My parents are Borders, but I heard that a great-aunt on my mom's side coded for major drug addiction. What if I get that gene too?"

"Why would I need to worry about this stupid test? My genes are obviously pure. My family has had Perfect genes for generations."

"Those Invalids must be dreading taking The Test, and having their contaminated genes confirmed for everyone to see."

I want it to stop.

I sense a migraine coming on, and I miss Alex's question.

"Huh?" I look up at the tan-skinned brunette boy sitting across from me.

"I asked if you were going to finish your food, or if you were just gonna continue mutilating that poor piece of chicken." His voice holds its usual levity as he gestures towards my tray with his fork. I look down at the mangled chicken in my plate, my fork poking out of the dry meat drowned in a starchy brown sauce. I release the fork from my grasp, leaving it wedged in the chicken, and push my tray towards Alex.

"I'm not hungry today. I think I saw a fingernail in my potatoes." I scrunch up my nose in disgust.

"Don't let the lunch lady hear you! Greta gets mad when you complain about her food." Alex cranes his neck towards the stout lady across the cafeteria, a frown permanently drawn on her thin lips. "I think you're blacklisted. You'd better watch that she doesn't spit in your food."

His remark falls on deaf ears. My attention is focused on something else across the cafeteria. I'm looking at the Line.

The Line is a broad masonry archway, stretching through the middle of the cafeteria. On this side, students eat food that resemble prison lunch sets, at tables etched with vandalism. The tables are streaked with dirt, plastic chairs worn and squeaky, and students sit in disorganized herds scattered haphazardly across this side of the cafeteria.

The other side of the Line is like a whole other utopia on its own. The floor is clean white tile with circular columns erected at intervals, holding up the lacquered wood ceiling. Potted plants are interspersed between tables, and the entire area is basked in light - from dangling light installments suspended from the ceiling and natural light pouring in from the windows on the two sides of the cafeteria. White rectangular tables are arranged in an arc, six dark wood chairs matched with each table, standard throughout that side of the cafeteria. The tables are encircling the food assortment in the middle, where an array of gourmet food is served as an all-you-can-eat buffet. The quantity of food far outweighs the number of students, with the daily surplus shoveled into the dumpsters.

That side of the cafeteria is exclusively for Perfects or some Borders with wealthy parents in high-ranking positions.

After a pause, Alex speaks up again, "The Test is tomorrow. You excited?" That got my attention, and my eyes snap back to his. I despise the way my heart freezes in my chest. But I don't let my face betray my anxiety. It holds a stoic expression, as I feign nonchalance.