I’M TWELVE YEARS OLD.
I live in the Republic of America.
My name is Day.
My name used to be Daniel Altan Wing, younger brother to John, older brother to Eden,
son to a mom and dad who lived in Los Angeles’s slum sectors.
When you’ve been poor all your life, you never really think it could be any other
way. And sometimes you’re even happy, because at least you’ve got your family and
your health and your arms and legs and a roof over your head.
But now I’m without most of those things. My mother and brothers think I’m dead. I
have an injured knee that might never heal. I live on the streets of Lake sector,
a slum sitting along the shore of Los Angeles’s giant lake, and every day I manage
to do just enough to survive.
But things could always be worse, yeah? At least I’m alive; at least my mom and brothers
are alive. There’s still hope.
This morning I’m perched on the balcony of a three-story, torn-up apartment complex
that has all its windows boarded up. My bad leg dangles over the edge while I lean
casually on my good one. My eyes are fixed on one of the piers lining the lakeshore,
its waters glittering through the haze of morning smog. All around me, JumboTrons
on the sides of buildings broadcast the latest Republic news above the steady, never-ending
stream of Lake sector’s factory workers. Several streets over, I can see a crowd of
boys and girls heading off to the local high school. They seem like they’re around
my age—if I hadn’t failed my Trial, I’d probably be walking with them. I look up and
squint at the sun.
Pledge is about to start any second. I
hate
that goddy pledge.
The newsreel running on the JumboTrons pauses for a second, and then a familiar voice
rings out across the city from every building’s speakers. Along the streets, people
stop whatever they’re doing, turn to face the direction of the capital, and then raise
their arms in salutes. They chant along with the speaker’s voice.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo,
to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!
When I was really little, I’d say this pledge like everyone else, and for a while
I even thought it was pretty cool, declaring my undying love for our country or whatever.
Now I just stay silent throughout the whole thing, even though all the people on the
streets recite the lines obediently. Why bother playing along to something I don’t
believe in? It’s not like anyone can see me up here, anyway.
When it’s over and the streets’ bustle returns, the JumboTrons switch in sync back
to a newsreel. I read the headlines as they roll:
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD TRIAL PRODIGY JUNE IPARIS BECOMES YOUNGEST STUDENT EVER ADMITTED TO
DRAKE UNIVERSITY, TO BE OFFICIALLY INDUCTED NEXT WEEK.
“Ugh,” I snort in disgust. No doubt that girl’s some goddy rich trot living the sweet
life farther inland, in one of LA’s upper-class sectors. Who cares what she scored
on her Trial? The whole test is rigged in favor of the wealthy kids, anyway, and she’s
probably just someone with average smarts who bought her high score. I turn away as
the headline goes on, listing the girl’s gaggle of achievements. The whole thing gives
me a headache.
My attention wanders back to the pier. One of the boats has workers bustling along
its deck. They’re unloading a bunch of crates that probably have canned food inside,
stacks of beef hash and potatoes and spaghetti, sausage and pygmy pig hot dogs. My
stomach rumbles. First things first: stealing breakfast. I haven’t eaten in almost
two days, and the sight of the crates makes me light-headed.
I inch along the side of the apartment complex, careful to stay inside the building’s
early-morning shadows. A few street police are patrolling the pier, but most of them
look bored, already exhausted by the day’s humid heat.
I live in the Republic of America.
My name is Day.
My name used to be Daniel Altan Wing, younger brother to John, older brother to Eden,
son to a mom and dad who lived in Los Angeles’s slum sectors.
When you’ve been poor all your life, you never really think it could be any other
way. And sometimes you’re even happy, because at least you’ve got your family and
your health and your arms and legs and a roof over your head.
But now I’m without most of those things. My mother and brothers think I’m dead. I
have an injured knee that might never heal. I live on the streets of Lake sector,
a slum sitting along the shore of Los Angeles’s giant lake, and every day I manage
to do just enough to survive.
But things could always be worse, yeah? At least I’m alive; at least my mom and brothers
are alive. There’s still hope.
This morning I’m perched on the balcony of a three-story, torn-up apartment complex
that has all its windows boarded up. My bad leg dangles over the edge while I lean
casually on my good one. My eyes are fixed on one of the piers lining the lakeshore,
its waters glittering through the haze of morning smog. All around me, JumboTrons
on the sides of buildings broadcast the latest Republic news above the steady, never-ending
stream of Lake sector’s factory workers. Several streets over, I can see a crowd of
boys and girls heading off to the local high school. They seem like they’re around
my age—if I hadn’t failed my Trial, I’d probably be walking with them. I look up and
squint at the sun.
Pledge is about to start any second. I
hate
that goddy pledge.
The newsreel running on the JumboTrons pauses for a second, and then a familiar voice
rings out across the city from every building’s speakers. Along the streets, people
stop whatever they’re doing, turn to face the direction of the capital, and then raise
their arms in salutes. They chant along with the speaker’s voice.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo,
to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!
When I was really little, I’d say this pledge like everyone else, and for a while
I even thought it was pretty cool, declaring my undying love for our country or whatever.
Now I just stay silent throughout the whole thing, even though all the people on the
streets recite the lines obediently. Why bother playing along to something I don’t
believe in? It’s not like anyone can see me up here, anyway.
When it’s over and the streets’ bustle returns, the JumboTrons switch in sync back
to a newsreel. I read the headlines as they roll:
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD TRIAL PRODIGY JUNE IPARIS BECOMES YOUNGEST STUDENT EVER ADMITTED TO
DRAKE UNIVERSITY, TO BE OFFICIALLY INDUCTED NEXT WEEK.
“Ugh,” I snort in disgust. No doubt that girl’s some goddy rich trot living the sweet
life farther inland, in one of LA’s upper-class sectors. Who cares what she scored
on her Trial? The whole test is rigged in favor of the wealthy kids, anyway, and she’s
probably just someone with average smarts who bought her high score. I turn away as
the headline goes on, listing the girl’s gaggle of achievements. The whole thing gives
me a headache.
My attention wanders back to the pier. One of the boats has workers bustling along
its deck. They’re unloading a bunch of crates that probably have canned food inside,
stacks of beef hash and potatoes and spaghetti, sausage and pygmy pig hot dogs. My
stomach rumbles. First things first: stealing breakfast. I haven’t eaten in almost
two days, and the sight of the crates makes me light-headed.
I inch along the side of the apartment complex, careful to stay inside the building’s
early-morning shadows. A few street police are patrolling the pier, but most of them
look bored, already exhausted by the day’s humid heat.
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