51品茶

Or so at first it seemed.

I鈥檇 been named valedictorian of my class at Pennsboro High School. And I鈥檇 been the only one at our school, of five students nominated, to be awarded a federally funded Patriot Democracy Scholarship.

My mother came running to hug me and congratulate me. And my father, though more warily.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 our girl! We are so proud of you.鈥�

The principal of our high school had telephoned my parents with the good news. It was rare for a phone to ring in our house, for most messages came electronically and there was no choice about receiving them.

And my brother, Roderick, came to greet me with a strange expression on his face. He鈥檇 heard of Patriot Democracy Scholarships, Roddy said, but had never known anyone who鈥檇 gotten one. He was sure that no one had ever been named a Patriot Scholar while he鈥檇 been at Pennsboro High.

鈥淲ell. Congratulations, Addie.鈥� 鈥淭hanks! I guess.鈥�

Roddy, who鈥檇 graduated from Pennsboro High three years before and was now working as a barely paid intern in the Pennsboro branch of the NAS Media Dissemination Bureau (MDB), was grudgingly admiring. Smiling at me strangely 鈥� just his mouth, not his eyes. I thought, He鈥檚 jealous. He can鈥檛 go to a real university.

I never knew if I felt sorry for my hulking颅 tall brother, who鈥檇 cultivated a wispy little sand-颅colored beard and mustache and always wore the same dull颅 brown clothes, which were a sort of uniform for lower颅division workers at MDB, or if 鈥� actually 鈥� I was afraid of him. Inside Roddy鈥檚 smile there was a secret little smirk just for me.

When we were younger Roddy had often tormented me 鈥� 鈥渢easing,鈥� it was called (by Roddy). Both our parents worked 10颅hour shifts and Roddy and I were home alone together much of the time. As Roddy was the older sibling, it had been his task to take care of your little sister. What a joke! But a cruel joke that doesn鈥檛 make me smile.

Now that we were older, and I was tall myself (for a girl of my age: five feet eight), Roddy didn鈥檛 torment me quite as much. Mostly it was his expression鈥攁 sort of shifting, frowning, smirk 颅smiling, meant to convey that Roddy was thinking certain thoughts best kept secret.

That smirking little smile just for me 鈥� like an ice sliver in the heart.

My parents had explained: It was difficult for Roddy, who hadn鈥檛 done well enough in high school to merit a scholarship even to the local NAS state college, to see that I was doing much better in the same school. Embarrassing to him to know that his younger sister earned higher grades than he had, from the very teachers he鈥檇 had at Pennsboro High. And Roddy had little chance of ever being admitted to a federally mandated four颅year university, even if he took community college courses and our parents could afford to send him.

Something had gone wrong during Roddy鈥檚 last two years of high school. He鈥檇 become scared about things鈥攎aybe with reason. He鈥檇 never confided in me.

At Pennsboro High 鈥� as everywhere in our nation, I suppose 鈥� there was a fear of seeming 鈥渟mart,鈥� which might be interpreted as 鈥渢oo smart,鈥� which would result in calling unwanted attention to you. In a True Democracy all individuals are 别辩耻补濒鈥�no one is better than anyone else. It was okay to get Bs, and an occasional A鈥�, but As were risky, and A+ was very risky. In his effort not to get As on exams, though he was intelligent enough, and had done well in middle school, Roddy seriously missed, and wound up with Ds.

Dad had explained: It鈥檚 like you鈥檙e a champion archer. And you have to shoot to miss the bulls颅eye. And something willful in you ensures that you don鈥檛 just miss the bulls颅eye but the entire damned target.

Dad had laughed, shaking his head. Something like this had happened to him.

Poor Roddy. And poor Adriane, since Roddy took out his disappointment on me.

It wasn鈥檛 talked about openly at school. But we all knew. Many of the smartest kids 鈥渉eld back鈥� in order not to call attention to themselves. HSPSO (Homeland Security Public Safety Oversight) was reputed to keep lists of potential dissenters/MIs/SIs, and these were said to contain the names of students with high grades and high IQ scores.

Of course, it was just as much of a mistake to wind up with Cs and Ds鈥� that meant that you were dull-normal, or it might mean that you鈥檇 deliberately sabotaged your high school career. Too obviously 鈥渉olding back鈥� was some颅 times dangerous. After graduation you might wind up at a community college hoping to better yourself by taking courses and trying to transfer to a state school, but the fact was, once you entered the workforce in a low 颅level category, like Roddy at MDB, you were there forever.

Nothing is ever forgotten; no one is going anywhere they aren鈥�t already at. This was a saying no one was supposed to say aloud.

So Dad was stuck forever as an MT2 鈥� medical technician, second rank 鈥� at the district medical clinic, where staff physicians routinely consulted him on medical matters, especially pediatric oncology 鈥� physicians whose salaries were five times Dad鈥檚.

Dad鈥檚 health benefits, like Mom鈥檚, were so poor, he couldn鈥檛 even get treatment at the clinic he worked in. We didn鈥檛 want to think what it would mean if and when they needed serious medical treatment.

I hadn鈥檛 been nearly as cautious in school as Roddy. I enjoyed school, where I had (girl) friends as close as sisters. I liked quizzes and tests鈥攖hey were like games at which, if you studied hard and memorized what your teachers told you, you could do well.

But then, sometimes I tried harder than I needed to try. Maybe it was risky. Some little spark of defiance provoked me.

But maybe also (some of us thought) school wasn鈥檛 so risky for girls. There had been only a few DASTADs鈥擠isciplinary Actions Securing Threats Against Democracy 鈥� taken against Pennsboro students in recent years, and these students had all been boys in category ST3 or below.

(The highest ST鈥� SkinTone 鈥� category was 1: 鈥淐aucasian. 鈥� Most residents of Pennsboro were ST1 or ST2, then there was a scattering of ST3s. There were ST4s in a neighboring district and of course dark颅-complected ST workers in all the districts. We knew they existed but most of us had never seen an actual ST10.)

It seems like the most pathetic vanity now, and foolishly naive, but at our school I was one of those students who鈥檇 displayed some talent for writing, and for art; I was a 鈥渇ast study鈥� (my teachers said, not entirely approvingly), and could memorize passages of prose easily. I did not believe that I was the 鈥渙utstanding鈥� student in my class. That could not be possible! I had to work hard to understand math and science, I had to read and reread my homework assignments, and to rehearse quizzes and tests, while to certain of my class颅 mates these subjects came naturally. (ST2s and ST3s were likely to be Asians, a minority in our district, and these girls and boys were very smart, yet not aggressive in putting themselves forward 鈥� that鈥檚 to say at risk.) Yet somehow it happened that Adriane Strohl wound up with the highest grade颅point average in the class of 23 鈥� 4.3 out of 5.0.

My close friend Paige Connor had been warned by her parents to hold back 鈥� so Paige鈥檚 average was only 4.1. And one of the obviously smartest boys, whose father was MI, like my dad, a former math professor, had definitely held back 鈥� or maybe exams so traumatized him, Jonny had done poorly without trying, and his average was a modest/safe 3.9.

Better to be safe than sorry. Why had I ignored such warnings?

Fact is, I had just not been thinking. Later in my life, or rather in my next life, as a university student, when I studied cognitive psychology, I would become aware of the phenomenon of 鈥渁ttention鈥濃�斺�渁ttentiveness鈥濃�� that is within consciousness but is the pointed, purposeful, focused aspect of consciousness. Just to have your eyes open is to be conscious, minimally; to pay attention is something further. In my schoolgirl life I was conscious, but I was not paying attention. Focused on tasks like homework, exams, friends to sit with in cafeteria and hang out with in gym class, I did not pick up more than a fraction of what hovered in the air about me, the warnings of teachers that were nonverbal, glances that should have alerted me to 鈥� something . . .

So it happened: Adriane Strohl was named valedictorian of her class. Now I can see that no one else who might鈥檝e been qualified wanted this 鈥渉onor鈥濃�� just as no one else wanted a Patriot Democracy Scholarship. Though there鈥檇 been some controversy, our principal was said to favor another student for the honor, a boy with a 4.2 average but also a varsity letter in football and a Good Democratic Citizenship Award, whose parents were of a higher caste than mine, and whose father was not MI but rather EI1, a special designation granted to Exiled persons who had served their terms of Exile and had been what was called 101 percent rehabilitated.

Maybe the school administrators were worried that Adriane Strohl would say 鈥渦nacceptable鈥� things in her valedictorian鈥檚 speech?

Evidently I had acquired a reputation at school for saying things that other students wouldn鈥檛 have said. Impulsively I鈥檇 raise my hand and ask questions. And my teachers were surprised, or annoyed 鈥� or, maybe, scared. My voice was quiet and courteous but I guess I came across as willful.

Sometimes the quizzical look on my face disconcerted my teachers, who took care always to compose their expressions when they stood in front of a classroom. There were approved ways of showing interest, surprise, (mild) dis颅approval, severity.

Of course, all our classrooms, like all public spaces and many private spaces, were monitored. Each class had its spies. We didn鈥檛 know who they were, of course鈥攊t was said that if you thought you knew, you were surely mistaken, since the DCVSB (Democratic Citizens Volunteer Surveillance Bureau) chose spies so carefully, it was analogous to the camouflaged wings of a certain species of moth that blends in seamlessly with the bark of a certain tree. As Dad said, Your teachers can鈥檛 help it. They can鈥檛 deviate from the curriculum. The ideal is lockstep 鈥� each teacher in each classroom performing like a robot and never deviating from the script under penalty of 鈥� you know what.

(Was this true? For years in our class鈥攖he class of NAS 23鈥攖here鈥檇 been vague talk of a teacher鈥攈ow long ago, we didn鈥檛 know鈥攎aybe when we were in middle school?鈥攚ho鈥檇 deviated from the script one day, began talking wildly and laughing and shaking his/her fist at the 鈥渆ye鈥� [in fact, there were probably numerous 鈥渆yes鈥� in any classroom, and all invisible], and was arrested, and overnight Deleted鈥攕o a new teacher was hired to take his/her place; and soon no one remembered the teacher who鈥檇 been Deleted. And after a while we couldn鈥檛 even remember clearly that one of our teachers had been Deleted. [Or had there been more than one? Were certain classrooms in our school haunted?] In our brains, where the memory of should have been, there was just a blank.)

Definitely, I was not aggressive in class. I don鈥檛 think so. But compared to my mostly meek classmates, some of whom sat small in their desks like partially folded颅 up papier颅m芒ch茅 dolls, it is possible that Adriane Strohl stood out 鈥� in a bad way.

In Patriot Democracy History, for instance, I鈥檇 questioned 鈥渇acts鈥� of history, sometimes. I鈥檇 asked questions about the subject no one ever questioned 鈥� the Great Terrorist Attacks of 9/11/01. But not in an arrogant way, really 鈥� just out of curiosity! I certainly didn鈥檛 want to get any of my teachers in trouble with the EOB (Education Oversight Bureau), which could result in them being demoted or fired or 鈥� vaporized.

I鈥檇 thought that, well鈥攑eople liked me, mostly. I was the spiky颅haired girl with the big, glistening dark颅 brown eyes and a voice with a little catch in it and a habit of asking questions. Like a really young child with too much energy in kindergarten, whom you hope will run in circles and tire himself out. With a kind of naive obliviousness I earned good grades, so it was assumed that, despite my father being of MI caste, I would qualify for a federally mandated State Democracy University.

(That is, I was eligible for admission to one of the massive state universities. At these, a thousand students might attend a lecture, and many courses were online. Restricted universities were far smaller, prestigious and inaccessible to all but a fraction of the population; though not listed online or in any public directory, these universities were housed on 鈥渢raditional鈥� campuses in Cambridge, New Haven, Princeton, and so on, in restricted districts. Not only did we not know precisely where these centers of learning were, we had not ever met anyone with degrees from them.)

In class, when I raised my hand to answer a teacher鈥檚 question I often did notice classmates glancing at me鈥攎y friends, even鈥攕ort of uneasy, apprehensive: What will Adriane say now? What is wrong with Adriane?

There was nothing wrong with me! I was sure.

In fact, I was secretly proud of myself. Maybe just a little vain. Wanting to think I am Eric Strohl鈥檚 daughter.

2.

The words were brisk, impersonal: 鈥淪trohl, Adriane. Hands behind your back.鈥�

It happened so fast. At graduation rehearsal.

So fast! I was too surprised 鈥� too scared 鈥� to think of resisting.

Except I guess that I did 鈥� try to 鈥渞esist鈥濃�� in childish desperation tried to duck and cringe away from the officers鈥� rough hands on me, wrenching my arms behind my back with such force I had to bite my lips to keep from screaming.

What was happening? I could not believe it 鈥� I was being arrested.

Yet even in my shock, thinking, I will not scream. I will not beg for mercy.

My wrists were handcuffed behind my back. Within seconds I was a captive of Homeland Security.

I鈥檇 only just given my valedictorian鈥檚 speech and had stepped away from the podium to come down from the auditorium stage when there came our principal, Mr. Mackay, with a peculiar expression on his face 鈥� muted anger, righteousness, but fear also 鈥� to point at me, as if the arresting officers needed him to point me out at close range.

鈥淭hat is she鈥擜driane Strohl. That is the treasonous girl you seek.鈥�

Mr. Mackay鈥檚 words were strangely stilted. He seemed very angry with me 鈥� but why? Because of my valedictory speech? But the speech had consisted entirely of questions 鈥� not answers, or accusations.

I鈥檇 known that Mr. Mackay didn鈥檛 like me. He didn鈥檛 know me very well but knew of me from my teachers. But it was shocking to see in an adult鈥檚 face a look of genuine hatred.

鈥淪he was warned. They are all warned. We did our best to educate her as a patriot, but鈥攖he girl is a born provocateur.鈥�

Provocateur! I knew what the term meant, but I鈥檇 never heard such a charge before, applied to me.

Later I would realize that the arrest warrant must have been drawn up for me before the rehearsal 鈥� of course. Mr. Mackay and his faculty advisors must have reported me to Youth Disciplinary before they鈥檇 even heard my speech 鈥� they鈥檇 guessed that it would be 鈥渢reasonous鈥� and that I couldn鈥檛 be allowed to give it at the graduation ceremony. And the Patriot Democracy Scholarship 鈥� that must have been a cruel trick as well.

As others stood staring at the front of the brightly lit auditorium, the arrest warrant was read to me by the female arresting officer. I was too stunned to hear most of it 鈥� only the accusing words arrest, detention, reassignment, sentencing 鈥� treason-speech and questioning of authority.

Quickly then, Mr. Mackay called for an 鈥渆mergency assembly鈥� of the senior class.

Murmuring and excited, my classmates settled into the auditorium. There were 322 students in the class, and like wildfire news of my arrest had spread among them within seconds.

Gravely Mr. Mackay announced from the podium that Adriane Strohl, 鈥渇ormerly鈥� valedictorian of the class, had been arrested by the State on charges of treason and questioning of authority; and what was required now was a 鈥渧ote of confidence鈥� from her peers regarding this action.

That is, all members of the senior class (excepting Adriane Strohl) were to vote on whether to confirm the arrest or to challenge it. 鈥淲e will ask for a show of hands,鈥� Mr. Mackay said, voice quavering with the solemnity of the occasion, 鈥渋n a full, fair, and unbiased demonstration of democracy.鈥�

At this time I was positioned, handcuffed, with a wet, streaked, guilty face, at the very edge of the stage, a few yards away from the flush 颅faced, indignant principal. As he spoke, from time to time he glared at me, even pointing at me once with an accusing forefinger. As if my classmates needed to be reminded who the arrestee was.

Gripping my upper arms were two husky officers from the Youth Disciplinary Division of Homeland Security. They were one man and one woman, each with razor颅cut hair, and they wore dark 颅blue uniforms and were equipped with billy clubs, Tasers, Mace, and revolvers in heavy holsters around their waists. My classmates stared wide 颅eyed, both intimidated and thrilled. An arrest! At school! And a show颅 of 颅hands vote, which was not a novelty in itself except on this exciting occasion.

鈥淏oys and girls! Attention! All those in favor of Adriane Strohl being stripped of the honor of class valedictorian as a consequence of having com颅mitted treason and questioned authority, raise your hands 鈥� yes?鈥� There was a brief stunned pause. Brief.

Hesitantly, a few hands were lifted. Then a few more.

No doubt the presence of the uniformed Youth Disciplinary officers glaring at them roused my classmates to action. Entire rows lifted their hands 鈥� Yes!

Here and there were individuals who shifted uneasily in their seats. They were not voting, yet. I caught the eye of my friend Carla, whose face too appeared to be wet with tears. And there was Paige all but signaling to me 鈥� 滨鈥檓 sorry, Adriane. I have no choice.

As in a nightmare, at last a sea of hands was raised against me. If there were some not voting, clasping their hands in their laps, I could not see them. 鈥淎nd all opposed 鈥� no?鈥� Mr. Mackay鈥檚 voice hovered dramatically as if he were counting raised hands; in fact, there was not a single hand, of all the rows of seniors, to be seen.

鈥淚 think, then, we have a stunning example of democracy in action, boys and girls. 鈥楳ajority rule 鈥� the truth is in the numbers.鈥欌��

The second vote was hardly more than a repeat of the first: 鈥淲e, the senior class of Pennsboro High School, confirm and support the arrest of the former valedictorian, Adriane Strohl, on charges of treason and questioning of authority. All those in favor . . .鈥�

By this time the arrestee had shut her teary eyes in shame, revulsion, dread.

No need to see the show of hands another time.

The officers hauled me out of the school by a rear exit, paying absolutely no heed to my protests of being in pain from the tight handcuffs and their grip on my upper arms. Immediately I was forced into an unmarked police vehicle resembling a small tank with plow颅like gratings that might be used to ram against and flatten protesters.

Roughly I was thrown into the rear of the tank. The door was shut and locked. Though I pleaded with the officers, who were seated in the front of the vehicle, on the other side of a barred Plexiglas barrier, no one paid the slightest attention to me, as if I did not exist.

The officers appeared to be ST4 and ST5. It was possible that they were foreign 颅born indoctrinated NAS citizens who had not been allowed to learn English.

I thought, Will anyone tell my parents where I am? Will they let me go home?

Panicked, I thought, Will they vaporize me?

Heralded by a blaring siren, I was taken to a fortress-like building in the city center of Pennsboro, the local headquarters of Homeland Security Inter颅 rogation. This was a building with blank, bricked颅up windows that was said to have once been a post office, before the Reconstitution of the United States into the North American States and the privatization and gradual extinction of the Postal Service. (Many buildings from the old States remained, now utilized for very different purposes. The building to which my mother had gone for grade school had been converted to a Children鈥檚 Diagnostic and Surgical Repair Facility, for instance; the residence hall in which my father had lived as a young medical student, in the years before he鈥檇 been reclassified as MI, was now a Youth Detention and Reeducation Facility. The Media Dissemination Bureau, where my brother worked, was in an old brownstone building, formerly the Pennsboro Public Library in the days when books existed to be held in the hand 鈥� and read!)

In this drafty place I was brought to an interrogation room in the Youth Disciplinary Division, forcibly seated in an uncomfortable chair with a blinding light shining in my face and a camera aimed at me, and interrogated by strangers whom I could barely see.

Repeatedly I was asked鈥斺�淲ho wrote that speech for you?鈥�

No one, I said. No one wrote my speech, or helped me write it鈥擨鈥檇 writ颅ten it myself.

鈥淒id your father, Eric Strohl, write that speech for you?鈥� No! My father did not.

鈥淒id your father tell you what to write? Influence you? Are these questions your father鈥檚 questions?鈥�

No! My own questions.

鈥淒id either of your parents help you write your speech? Influence you? Are these questions their questions?鈥�

No, no, no.

鈥淎re these treasonous thoughts their thoughts?鈥�

I was terrified that my father, or both my parents, had been arrested, and were being interrogated too, somewhere else in this awful place. I was terrified that my father would be reclassified no longer MI but SI (Subversive Individ颅ual) or AT (Active Traitor)鈥攃rimes punishable by Deletion.

My valedictory speech was examined line by line, word by word, by the interrogators鈥攖hough it was just two printed double颅spaced sheets of paper with a few scrawled annotations. My computer had been seized from my locker and was being examined as well.

And all my belongings from my locker鈥攍aptop, sketchbook, backpack, cell phone, granola bars, a soiled school sweatshirt, wadded tissues鈥攚ere confiscated.

The interrogators were brisk and impersonal as machines. Almost, you鈥檇 have thought they might be robot interrogators鈥攗ntil you saw one of them blink, or swallow, or glare at me in pity or disgust, or scratch at his nose.

(Even then, as Dad might have said, these figures could have been robots, for the most recent AI devices were being programmed to emulate idiosyncratic, 鈥渟pontaneous鈥� human mannerisms.)

Sometimes an interrogator would shift in his seat, away from the blinding light, and I would have a fleeting but clear view of a face 鈥� and what was shocking was that the face appeared to be so ordinary, the face of someone you鈥檇 see on a bus, or a neighbor of ours.

My valedictory address had been timed to be no more than eight minutes long. That was the tradition at our school 鈥� a short valedictorian address, and an even shorter salutatorian address. My English teacher, Mrs. Dewson, had been assigned to 鈥渁dvise鈥� me 鈥� but I hadn鈥檛 shown her what I鈥檇 been writing. (I hadn鈥檛 shown Dad, or Mom, or any of my friends 鈥� I鈥檇 wanted to surprise them at graduation.) After a half dozen failed starts I鈥檇 gotten desperate and had the bright idea of asking numbered questions 鈥� twelve in all 鈥� of the kind my classmates might have asked if they鈥檇 had the nerve (some of these the very questions I鈥檇 asked my teachers, who had never given satisfactory answers) 鈥� like What came before the beginning of time?

And What came before the Great Terrorist Attacks of 9/11?

Our NAS calendar dates from the time of that attack, which was before my birth, but not my parents鈥� births, and so my parents could remember a pre-NAS time when the calendar was different 鈥� time wasn鈥檛 measured as just a two-颅digit figure but a four-digit figure! (Under the old, now 颅outlawed calendar, my mother and father had been born in what had been called the twentieth century. It was against the law to compute birthdates under the old calendar, but Daddy had told me 鈥� I鈥檇 been born in what would have been called the twenty 颅first century if the calendar had not been reformed.)

NAS means North American States 鈥� more formally known as RNAS, Reconstituted North American States 鈥� which came into being some years after the Great Terrorist Attacks, as a direct consequence of the Attacks, as we were taught.

Following the Attacks there was an Interlude of Indecisiveness, during which time issues of 鈥渞ights鈥� (the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, civil rights law, etc.) versus the need for Patriot Vigilance in the War Against Terror were contested, with a victory, after the suspension of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights by executive order, for PVIWAT, or Patriot Vigilance. (Yes, it is hard to comprehend. As soon as you come to the end of such a sentence, you have forgotten the beginning!)

How strange it was to think there鈥檇 been a time when the regions known as (Reconstituted) Mexico and (Reconstituted) Canada had been separate political entities鈥攕eparate from the States! On a map it seems clear, for instance, that the large state of Alaska should be connected with mainland United States, and not separated by what was formerly 鈥淐anada.鈥� This too was hard to grasp and had never been clearly explained in any of our Patriot Democracy History classes, perhaps because our teachers were not certain of the facts.

The old, 鈥渙utdated鈥� (that is, 鈥渦npatriotic鈥�) history books had all been destroyed, my father said. Hunted down in the most remote outposts 鈥� obscure rural libraries in the Dakotas, below ground stacks in great university libraries, microfilm in what had been the Library of Congress. 鈥淥utdated鈥�/鈥渦npatriotic鈥� information was deleted from all computers and from all accessible memory 鈥� only reconstituted history and information were allowed, just as only the reconstituted calendar was allowed.

This was only logical, we were taught. There was no purpose to learning useless things, which would only clutter our brains like debris stuffed to over颅 flowing in a trash bin.

But there must have been a time before that time 鈥� before the Reconstitution, and before the Attacks. That was what I was asking. Patriot Democracy History鈥攚hich we鈥檇 had every year since fifth grade, an unchanging core of First Principles with ever颅more颅detailed information 鈥� was concerned only with post-颅Terrorist events, mostly the relations of the NAS with its numerous Terrorist Enemies in other parts of the world, and an account of the 鈥渢riumphs鈥� of the NAS in numerous wars. So many wars! They were fought now at long distance, and did not involve living soldiers, for the most part; robot颅 missiles were employed, and powerful bombs said to be nuclear, chemical, and biological. In our senior year of high school we were required to take a course titled Wars of Freedom 鈥� these included long 颅ago wars like the Revolutionary War, the Spanish颅-American War, World War I, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and the more recent Afghanistan and Iraqi wars 鈥� all of which our country had won 鈥� 鈥渄ecisively.鈥� We were not required to learn the causes of these wars, if there were actual causes, but dates of battles and names of high颅ranking generals and political leaders and presidents; these were pro颅vided in columns to be memorized for exams. The question of Why? was never asked 鈥� and so I鈥檇 asked it in class, and in my valedictory address. It had not occurred to me that this was treason-speech, or that I was questioning authority. The harsh voices were taking a new approach: Was it one of my teachers who鈥檇 written the speech for me? One of my teachers who鈥檇 鈥渋nfluenced鈥� me?

The thought came to me 鈥� Mr. Mackay! I could blame him, he would be arrested . . .

But I would never do such a thing, I thought. Even if the man hated me and had had me arrested for treason, I could not lie about him.

After two hours of interrogation it was decided that I was an 鈥渦ncooperative subject.鈥� In handcuffs I was taken by YD officers to another floor of Homeland Security, which exuded the distressing air of a medical unit; there I was strapped down onto a movable platform and slid inside a cylindrical machine that made clanging and whirring noises close against my head; the cylinder was so small, the surface only an inch or so from my face, I had to shut my eyes tight to keep from panicking. The interrogators鈥� voices were channeled into the machine, sounding distorted and inhuman. This was a BIM (Brain颅Image Maker) 鈥� I鈥檇 only heard of these鈥攖hat would determine if I was telling the truth or lying.

Did your father 鈥� or any adult 鈥� write your speech for you? Did your father 鈥� or any adult 鈥� influence your speech?

Did your father 鈥� or any adult 鈥� infiltrate your mind with treasonous thoughts?

Barely I could answer, through parched lips 鈥� No. No, no!

Again and again these questions were repeated. No matter what answers I gave, the questions were repeated.

Yet more insidious were variants of these questions.

Your father, Eric Strohl, has just confessed to us, to influencing you鈥攕o you may as well confess too. In what ways did he influence you?

This had to be a trick, I thought. I stammered 鈥� In no ways. Not ever. Daddy did not.

More harshly the voice continued.

Your mother, Madeleine Strohl, has confessed to us, both she and your father influenced you. In what ways did they influence you?

I was sobbing, protesting 鈥� They didn鈥檛! They did not influence me . . .

(Of course, this wasn鈥檛 true. How could any parents fail to 鈥渋nfluence鈥� their children? My parents had influenced me through my entire life 鈥� not so much in their speech as in their personalities. They were good, loving parents. They had taught Roddy and me: There is a soul within. There is 鈥渇ree will鈥� within. If 鈥� without 鈥� the State is lacking a soul, and there is no free will that you can see, trust the inner, not the outer. Trust the soul, not the State. But I would not betray my parents by repeating these defiant words.)

At some point in the interrogation I must have passed out 鈥� for I was awakened by deafening noises, in a state of panic. Was this a form of torture? Noise torture? Powerful enough to burst eardrums? To drive the subject insane? We鈥檇 all heard rumors of such torture interrogations鈥攖hough no one would speak openly about them. Shaken and excited, Roddy would come home from his work at MDB to tell us about certain 鈥渆xperimental techniques鈥� Homeland Security was developing, using laboratory primates 鈥� until Mom clamped her hands over her ears and asked him to please stop.

The deafening noises stopped abruptly. The interrogation resumed.

But it was soon decided that I was too upset 鈥� my brain waves were too 鈥渁gitated鈥濃�� to accurately register truth or falsity, so I was removed from the cylindrical imaging machine, and an IV needle was jabbed into a vein in my arm, to inject me with a powerful 鈥渢ruth颅 serum鈥� drug. And again the same several questions were asked, and I gave the same answers. Even in my exhausted and demoralized state I would not tell the interrogators what they wanted to hear: that my father, or maybe both my parents, had influenced me in my treasonous ways.

Or any of my teachers. Or even Mr. Mackay, my enemy.

I was strapped to a chair. It was a thick, squat 鈥渨ired鈥� chair 鈥� a kind of electric chair 鈥� that sent currents of shock through my body, painful as knife stabs. Now I was crying, and lost control of my bladder.

The interrogation continued. Essentially it was the same question, always the same question, with a variant now and then to throw me off stride.

Who wrote your speech for you? Who influenced you? Who is your collaborator in treason?

It was your brother Roderick who reported you. As a treason monger and a questioner of authority, you have been denounced by your brother.

I began to cry harder. I had lost all hope. Of all the things the interrogators had told me, or wanted me to believe, it was only this 鈥� that Roddy had reported me 鈥� that seemed to me possible, and not so very surprising.

I could remember how, squeezing my hand when he鈥檇 congratulated me about my good news, Roddy had smiled 鈥� his special smirk 颅smile just for me.

Congratulations, Addie!

This short story appeared in , an anthology of stories and art by more than 50 of today鈥檚 most acclaimed writers and artists, compiled to celebrate the work of the 51品茶.