Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

Peel’s graduation works a bit differently from most other schools. We don’t have caps and gowns; we don’t have long ceremonies and boring speeches. No, we have Testing Day. Once a year, a group of proctors arrives at the school without any warning whatsoever. It could be in September or it could be in May. Testing Day always starts at night, after a long, hard day of work, when you’re tired and ready to unwind. Then—surprise!—the fun begins.

The first part is a twelve-hour written test that stretches through the wee hours of the morning. You’re quizzed on physics, biology, history, geography, calculus, computer programming—you name it. There are also ethics questions. Stuff like: You’re locked in a room with a known terrorist who has planted a bomb somewhere in Washington DC that is set to explode in thirty minutes. You have a drill, a pair of needle-nose pliers, and a gallon-size bucket of water. What do you do? (Here’s a hint: The correct answer involves none of those things.)

After that come the physical challenges. They’re never the same, no matter how many years you go back. Every junior and senior at Peel is tested, although I don’t know why they bother to test the juniors. No one has graduated as a junior in more than thirty years.

Still, I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach as I think of the man in the green tie who watched me so intently today. His piercing eyes flood my memory and make me shudder.

“I couldn’t finish the first challenge,” I confess as I slide my head into that nook of Abe’s arm, an old, familiar spot.

“That’s fine,” he assures me. “This is just a warm-up, remember? We get to do this again next year.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be a next year for me.”

Abe’s eyes are closed, but he opens one and gives me the side-eye with it. “Of course there is. We’re juniors.”

“There was this man,” I say. “He was watching me all day.”

Abe opens the other eye. “There were a bunch of people watching us.”

“Not like this. This man was . . . intense. Creepy, even.”

“Then he’s probably CIA,” Abe says. “They’re all like that.”

I don’t say anything. I want to believe him. I mean, probably ninety percent of us go on to join the CIA. We’re drafted at eighteen, and I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet deal. They move us to Langley, and we go to Georgetown on their dime. But weekends aren’t spent binge drinking at frat parties or cramming for finals at the library. Weekends are spent in Mumbai or Mosul or Manila, breaking into banks or climbing into bedroom windows. Well, after six brutal months of additional training and next to no sleep, that is.

We all assume that’s our future. Abe and I have always assumed it. We’ve been together for more than two years now, ever since the first week of freshman year, and we’ve been planning our next steps together for probably that long, too. Abe’s sure he’s going to be a technical intelligence officer in the science and technology arm (I’m dating a computer-engineering-stuff-that-makes-my-head-hurt genius), while I’ll be an operations officer in clandestine services. It’ll mean a lot of time apart, since he’ll be based in DC and I’ll be all over the world, but Abe’s even gone so far as to scout out the best areas in the capital for us to get an apartment to serve as our home base. You know, someday. (I’m also dating a poster boy for type-A personalities.)

“Hey,” he whispers, gently turning my head to look at him. “Stop worrying. You’re not graduating.”

“But—”

“One word,” Abe interrupts. “Tyler Fertig.”

“That’s two words.”

“Tyler. Fertig,” Abe repeats. “If he didn’t graduate as a junior, you’re not going to.”

I nod my head. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Two years ago, Tyler Fertig was a junior when we were freshmen. Pardon my French, Abe, but Tyler Fertig rocked the shit out of Testing Day like no one ever had before. He only missed one question on the written test— one —and outscored every single senior during the physical challenges. And yet at the banquet that night, where the names of the graduating students are called and blissful boys and girls trot to the stage to be handed an envelope containing an assignment, Tyler’s name was skipped. He was sitting at the next table over from me, and I can still picture his reaction. Shock, denial, then anger. He got up, pushed his plate across the table, and stormed out of the room. I never understood why he was so angry, but I guess I get it now. Testing Day sucks. He must have thought that for sure he wouldn’t have to do it again.

Abe’s right. I’m not graduating.

Tonight I’m going to sleep in my own bed, and tomorrow we’ll have Professor Kopelman’s International Relations class waiting for us. The fall is creeping to a close, and the holidays will be here before we know it. We’ll do Thanksgiving with my mom, Hanukkah with Abe’s family, then put in another quick appearance with my mom at Christmas. Just like last year. Just like next year.

I nestle into Abe’s arm a little more, and he rolls to the side and envelops me.

“I missed you today. I kept wishing you were there with me,” he whispers in my ear before he kisses my earlobe.

“I have to smell like a dead cat.”

He laughs and kisses my neck.

“We’re not alone,” I whisper, though I wriggle myself closer to him.

“We’re in a room full of hibernating bears.”

“I kinda wish I was one of them right now.”

Abe’s fingers interlace through mine. “I could get behind that plan.” He goes still and gets very quiet. But then a few moments later, in a voice barely more than a whisper, he says, “Love you, Mandy Girl.”

I close my eyes. “I love you too, Abey Baby.”

And then I’m out.

I’m woken by a high-pitched whistle screaming into my ears. I open the corner of one eye, and it protests in pain as light rushes in. I immediately close it. I haven’t slept long; that much is clear. Beside me, Abe grumbles.

“You have to be kidding, right?” He slowly pushes himself up. “Ugh, six o’clock?”

“A.m. or p.m.?” I ask. My body already knows the answer.

“P.m.,” Abe confirms.

“Juniors and seniors!” a voice booms. I force myself to open my eyes and sit up, then lean into Abe for support. Headmaster Vaughn stands at the front of the dining hall, hands on his hips. “Testing Day is at an end, and decisions have been made. You all have one hour to shower, change, and get back here for the banquet.”

People groan and grunt as they stand up. Abe stands first, then puts out his hands to help pull me up.

“I wish we didn’t have to go to this stupid banquet.” Abe holds open the door for me. A gush of crisp fall air cuts right through me, and I hunch my shoulders and shiver.

“Don’t you want to see who goes where?” I ask. We take the shortcut past the science building to the quad.

“What’s the point? I think I could tell you where every senior is going. Look there”—he points to Regina Browne as she pulls open the door to her dorm hall—“CIA. And there”—Steven DiFazio, entering another hall—“CIA. Oh, and look over there”—Becca Stein, Jacob Wu, and Maria Bazan—“CIA, CIA, CIA.”

“And what about this girl?” I point to myself.

“CIA,” Abe says with a smile. “But not for another year.” We’ve stopped in front of Archer Hall, my dorm.

“Are you sure?”

Abe raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember what Samuels said our very first day of Practical Studies ever?”

I do. We had been lined up against the wall, and Professor Samuels had gone up and down the line, critiquing our appearances—the way we looked—and making judgments based on them. That would not fly at any other school except for Peel.