Not really. You never did watch many movies or listen to much music, though.

You use your new bathroom and study yourself in the mirror. Your hair is like straw. You're wearing an outfit that looks worse the fancier your environment becomes and doesn't smell terrific, either. But aside from this, you don't seem completely out of place. You could believe you're a person who regularly pees in bathrooms with twenty-foot ceilings. And then goes out on her horse. "Relax," you tell the mirror, because your eyes are tense.

You shower and re-dress, finding some new jeans and a white T-shirt in the dresser. Where you came from, it was fine to wear the same clothes for days at a time; that meant you were busy following life's opportunities. But you can see that here it's going to be an issue. You pull on your jacket to feel more you, at least, which is furry and has little biker studs you make fun of if anyone mentions them but secretly think are awesome. You brush your hair until most of the knots are gone and clip it out of your face. You have a faint memory of mascara left in your makeup bag and scrape together what you can to give yourself smoky eyes. You've lost your deodorant somewhere. But you soaped up in the shower. The reality is you smell better than you have in a while.

You go to the window in your room and study the mechanism until you figure out how to swing open the glass in two panels. You lean out. A breeze tugs your hair. Woods was right. The trees are like pillars. You could get lost in there. Find a gingerbread house. Meet a witch. Could be a decent hiding place, if shit goes down. Always be prepared, that's what you say.

You give the building a quick once over and find it much as Jane described it. Wandering outside into the cool air, you see green lawn surrounding most of the building, save for the aforementioned East Wood - a tall metal fence surrounds the grounds, probably to prevent the peasants from storming the castle, or something. You might, might, be able to squeeze between the bars if you have to. The driveway leading up to the gates seems to be the only obvious way in or out, and the gates could probably be climbed, if you were desperate. A booth with a uniformed man sits just inside the gates, to further enforce the sanctity of the grounds.

As you head back to your room, you follow sounds of a television to a small room with sofas and cushions and a boy spread across them. He sits up as you enter. His hair is very curly. His clothes are new and bright and his collar is turned up. If you have anything in common with him, you can't see it.

His eyes move over you. He's probably thinking the same thing. "Hey," he says.

"Hi. Who are you?"

"A guy. On a sofa." He smiles. You hate him already. "You're here for the tests?"

"Yeah."

"Just arrived?"

"Yeah."

"From where?"

"San Francisco."

"Right," he says. "And, uh, where in San Francisco?" He smiles again. That upturned collar, what is that?

"Street." He looks blank. "The," you say. "The street. You know. The street."

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Yeah, I see that."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend. I mean, what is it, you, uh, do?" He twirls a finger, indicating the room. "They don't bring you here for no reason."

"I'm a magician. I entertain."

"Really?" he says. "You don't strike me as the entertaining type."

"You don't strike me as someone who knows jack about shit," you say, because you're starting to get a little intimidated by his wording. "Why are you here?"

He grins. His teeth are really something. "New England Schools Debating Conference. Finals." He waits for a response. "I'm good."

"Are you," you say.

He's boring you now. You make your way back to your room and collapse on the bed, closing your eyes.

~

A bell rings somewhere: and honest to God bell, like a musical instrument. You open your door to faces peering out of doorways. They're all young, mostly female. "Chow time!" says a black girl across the hall, and there are titters.

The dining hall table has twelve places set on a tablecloth the size of a bedsheet but there are still miles of glowing wood stretching away at either end. The curly-haired boy comes in, joking with a girl you haven't met, and sits opposite. You think he might look at you but he doesn't. You try to figure out the cutlery. A girl, no more than ten, climbs onto a chair beside you. You say hi and the girl says hi back, shyly. On your other side, a pretty girl with angel-blond hair slides into a seat. The curly-haired boy looks at the blond girl and away and then back and you think, Yeah, okay.

Jane, who you still vaguely think of as a nun, moves around the table, chatting briefly to each of you. Bread is served. Soup. The ten-year-old stares hopelessly at her spoons and you try to help with educated guesses based on what everyone else is using.

"I love your jacket," says the angelic blond girl. "It's so authentic."

Time to make polite dinner conversation.

"Uh, thanks, it's real too," you say. "I like your ears."

"My ears?"

You had meant that sarcastically but now realize the angel girl was serious. The girl had seriously tried to compliment your jacket. "Yeah. They're like a fairy's." You elbow the ten-yearold. "Fairy ears, right?"

"Yes."

"Oh," says the angel girl. "Well, thank you."

"So what's your story?" you ask. "What brings you here?"

She just blushes and looks down. Okay.

There are silver plates with bite-size constructions of meat and bread and paste and whatever. You pick one up only because it gets you out of this conversation. It's actually not bad. Weird, but not bad-weird. This is your whole day, on a cracker.

Jane rises and gives a short speech about how happy she is to have you all here and she hopes you will seize the opportunity with both hands because each of you has great potential and the Academy is dedicated to unlocking it. Then she says you should sleep well because the first examination will begin early, and the curly-haired boy asks what it will be, and Jane smiles and says that will be answered by the morning. Those are her words: Answered by the morning. You'd get your head kicked in talking that way in your world, but you're kind of enjoying it. On the pier, under your floppy hat, you used words to make people smile and come closer and give you two dollars and not care about losing. Good words were the difference between you eating well and not. And what you'd found worked best were not facts or arguments but words that tickled people's brains for some reason, that just amused them. Puns, and exaggerations, and things that are true and not at the same time. Answered by the morning. Words like that.

Afterward, you all file back to your rooms and you brush your teeth alongside a girl from Connecticut. Everyone but you has pajamas. On your way to be, a voice floats down the hallway: "Good night, girl in a doorway."

"Night, boy on a sofa," you say. You close your door. You can't believe you just said that. He's trouble, this boy. But maybe the good kind.

~

In the morning, you're all sat in a hall and given forms. The first questions you recognize: Are you a cat or a dog person? What's your favorite color? DO you love your family? Even the weird one is right there: Why did you do it? It's at the very top of a page and the rest is nothing but endless lines.

"Please answer with complete honesty," says Jane. She moves between your desks, echoes of her heels bouncing between the floor and ceiling. "Anything less will not serve you well."

They ask your favorite movies. Songs. Books. You haven't read a book since you were eight. You glance around. The ten-year-old is three desks behind. Her feet don't even reach the floor. You twirl your pen. You write: Princess Mary Saves The World. It's the only one you can remember.

Jane collects the papers and disappears for a while. People lean across aisles and compare answers. You notice a man in the corridor, tall with eyes like rocks, watching you through the glass. You feel flustered for some reason and look away, and when you look back, he's gone.

Jane returns with a TV on a trolley. "You will be shown a series of rapidly changing images. One of the images will be of a type of food. You are to write down the name of the food. Are there any questions?" She looks around. "Very well. Good luck."

You pick up your pencil. Jane presses a button on the VCR.

Series 1-1

Heads bend over desks. You look at your paper. You glance around. Everyone is writing. You chew your lip. You write: SUSHI.

Jane prowls the desks. "Yes," she says, passing a boy at the front. "Yes. Yes." She stops at you. "Yes." You exhale. "Yes. Yes. No." You turn to see who fucked up. It was the ten-year-old, who looks devastated. Before she hides her paper, you see: MILK.

"Series two," says Jane.

Series 1-2

Terror grips you. There had been a banana. Definitely a banana. But also a sun, which kind of looked like a banana, and you think you caught a glimpse of what might have been a fish. You definitely saw palm trees and an ocean. You're not sure about the fish. Or the banana. The banana could be an afterimage of the sun. Why were there palm trees? Was that random, or was it trying to make you think of fish? You squeeze your pen. You write: FISH.

"Answers, please."

You look around. The curly-haired boy: BANANA. The angel girl: BANANA. The ten-year-old: FISH.

"Yes. Yes." Jane reaches you. "No."

You outsmarted yourself. You should have trusted your instincts. You don't want to meet the curly-haired boy's eyes but can't stop yourself. His eyes are closed, as if he's focusing, clearing his mind. Dick, you think. But maybe you should do that.

"Series three."

Series 1-3

The screen barfs images. This time it talks, which takes you by surprise. Are they trying to fuck with you? You definitely think you saw bread. Or pizza. Sure, pizza. You write that down before you can second-guess yourself. You cover your paper with your hands and stare holes into the girl in front of you. The curly-haired boy puts down his pen. You can't see his paper, so you mouth: pizza? His eyebrows rise. You don't know what that means. You feel a surging desire to pick up your pen and write something else. But you hadn't seen anything but pizza. Or bread. Fuck.

"Answers, please."

The curly-haired boy moves his hands. STRAWBERRY. "Double fuck," you say. You don't bother to look at the others. Jane reaches you and confirms that you've gotten it wrong. There are two more nos: Along with you and the ten-year-old, a skinny guy in the back messed up. You're glad for this, but mostly furious. Give ten dollars to each of the people in this room, wait two hours, and you'll have it all. Drop them on the street with no cash and no place to sleep, and you'd be the one with your shit together twenty-four hours later. These tests, though...

"Final series."

You need to get this one right, or you're not passing. Maybe you need to resort to some less conventional methods...

Series 1-4