Qualify Read Online Free PDF

sheets in order to get proper credit, and that we’re supposed to go on to our next designated classroom.
    “Crud, I couldn’t even finish. It was so long!” Ann is frowning as we grab our things and head outside into the hallway. “How did you do?”
    “Okay, I guess, sort of. Some of the questions were super hard.” I feel bad for Ann, so I underplay it. Ann’s smart and a good student, but she doesn’t always do all that well when it comes to timed, standardized tests. And this one’s life-and-death, literally .
    “Easy for you to say. You always ace these things. I panicked. My brains turned to mush and left the building, right in the middle of it.” She fiddles with her navy blue backpack and travel bag nervously, adjusting the shoulder strap. I wonder what she chose as her personal stuff to put in that duffel. What special items, to keep with her as mementoes of Earth, if she Qualifies and makes it to the stars? As though reading my mind, she glances meaningfully at her bag. “I took antique family photo albums and two of my Grandpa’s wood carvings. And Mom’s pearl necklace—with an added smart phone bead, since Mom insisted. And my skating trophy.”
    “That’s great,” I say. “I’ll show you the stuff I’m taking, during lunch.”
    “You think they’ll let us break for lunch?”
    “I don’t see why not—”
    “Hey, move it, Finnbar and dork.” Jeremy Carverson is shoving past us, and he snaps the strap of my maroon backpack. “Stop taking up the hallway!”
    “Dork” doesn’t even rhyme properly with “Lark,” but I am used to it.
    We break away and I mutter “good luck, see you soon” to Ann, then hurry upstairs to the second floor, to room 217-C. That’s three long flights of stairs from the basement, and by the time I get to the final landing, carrying both my heavy backpack and the book-stuffed duffel, I’m somewhat winded, to put it mildly. Okay, I am kind of dead. It occurs to me that if any part of Qualification involves going up many stairs while carrying luggage, I could be screwed.
    The classroom is one of the larger ones, and it’s already halfway full. It’s divided into rows of desks and additional chairs and a strange partitioned area that has a sign posted “Testing Area. Do Not Enter.” Two women teachers stand near the partition, and again one of them is wearing the four-color Atlantis armband. Since I don’t know either one of them, I am guessing the one without the armband is just faculty from another school, and the other’s from Qualification.
    The teachers watch us dispassionately as we enter the classroom. It’s the same beaten-down, resigned look in their eyes that most grownups have these days—a sad mixture of weary despair and grim acceptance. I am reminded once again that, as adults, they’ve had weeks and months of agonized panic, denial, and eventually resignation with impending death, to deal with. At least we have a shred of hope, while they’re all living on death row. They get to stay here on our doomed planet, and the best they can hope for is, if they have teenage children, maybe their kids might Qualify, so their DNA gets to be saved.
    “Take your seats, please,” one of them says in a voice with little inflection. “When I call your name, you will come up here and be tested. This is an individual portion of the test. It is not timed, but should take no longer than five minutes per person. The rest of you please remain in your seats until your name is called. And no talking!”
    I find an empty seat near the middle in the fourth row, between an unfamiliar round-faced girl with dark hair and some skinny kid in a grey hoodie, both of whom look way younger, like freshmen. And it occurs to me that this is a mixed classroom, not just juniors like me. Pretty weird to be taking a test with people from other grades.
    I look around the room and I see some familiar people I know from my class, and a few seniors and sophomores.