The alarm sounds at 0830, as usual. The Routine begins. You get out of bed and walk over to the wardrobe. The clothes you wear are the same every day: a pair of 336 pants, a 442 long-sleeved shirt, and 426 socks. Sometimes you wish not everyone had the same color shirt, but today is not one of those days. Right now, you are more focused on staying on task with The Routine. There is a comfort in staying on schedule, even if that is the only option.
You walk into the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. In the mirror, you see what you’ve seen every day and everywhere for your entire existence. You note that there are still miniscule differences. The only way to make everyone look the same is cloning, which would be detrimental for the human race. You have been told this every year since your first being Educated.
You fix your posture and open the cabinet behind the mirror. Three toothbrushes rest in a cup and toothpaste lays next to it. Your toothbrush is the shade 334. You would even say it’s your favorite shade out of all you have available, if that sort of thing was allowed. But it’s not, so you shake the thought out of your head and begin to brush your teeth, unfocused. Your earpiece alerts you to move on in The Routine.
Next, it’s to the kitchen where your parents are already sitting at the table. They smile at you, as they do every day. Your chair is pulled out, and you sit down. Eggs and toast are on the plate in front of you. You eat the food in twenty minutes, the allotted time for this meal. Your parents talk to you about the news and basic pleasantries. Finally, the mechanical ding sounds in your ear, and your whole unit stands up. You go to the main room where your backpack (shade 332) and shoes (shade 342) are.
On the bus to the Education Center, your earpiece drones on about the weeks ahead. You pay more attention to the flecks of color on the bus floor and the heat of bodies around you. You see these people every day, give or take. The person with 221 shaded pants always sits two seats away from you. They are always reading a magazine. You always stand, holding onto the bar to keep balance. You can’t imagine it any other way; if something changed it would be wrong.
The bus exhales to a stop, and you get off. The Education Center is three blocks away. Two minutes.
The chatter of Pupils is the same every day. You enter the outer gate as clumps of them trade fickle whispers about leaving the Sector. You do not care to break the Routine, for it is a comfort to know everything that will happen. You find no dullness in it.
The ding alerts you that it is 0915, right when the Head Educator steps onto the front steps, leaving the double doors open behind them. All at once, the students file into a neat line — you number twenty-seven — and walk through the doorway into the Center.
The person behind you taps your left shoulder repeatedly. You continue walking, pretending not to notice. The tapping does not stop.
“What.” The word comes out harsher than you’d like, but this isn’t the time for chitter chatter.
“Hey, Hunter, did you hear about Redd?” You try to picture Redd’s color — what was it, the range of 485?
Barely above a whisper, you respond, “No,” and realize you might be a little curious, if that’s what this emotion bubbling in your stomach is. You didn’t know Redd well, but they had been in your Education group since you both were small, so it was odd to not see them in line. People were never late; there was The Routine.
“They — ” But before Indigo can finish their sentence, one of the Educators gives you both a stern look. You snap back to the front, trying not to let the annoyance show on your face. This offense probably wouldn’t go on your permanent record, but you couldn’t risk it. Even one mark could mess up your success in the long run.
You sigh and follow the line of students into class, trying to put thoughts of Redd out of your mind.
You walk into the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. In the mirror, you see what you’ve seen every day and everywhere for your entire existence. You note that there are still miniscule differences. The only way to make everyone look the same is cloning, which would be detrimental for the human race. You have been told this every year since your first being Educated.
You fix your posture and open the cabinet behind the mirror. Three toothbrushes rest in a cup and toothpaste lays next to it. Your toothbrush is the shade 334. You would even say it’s your favorite shade out of all you have available, if that sort of thing was allowed. But it’s not, so you shake the thought out of your head and begin to brush your teeth, unfocused. Your earpiece alerts you to move on in The Routine.
Next, it’s to the kitchen where your parents are already sitting at the table. They smile at you, as they do every day. Your chair is pulled out, and you sit down. Eggs and toast are on the plate in front of you. You eat the food in twenty minutes, the allotted time for this meal. Your parents talk to you about the news and basic pleasantries. Finally, the mechanical ding sounds in your ear, and your whole unit stands up. You go to the main room where your backpack (shade 332) and shoes (shade 342) are.
On the bus to the Education Center, your earpiece drones on about the weeks ahead. You pay more attention to the flecks of color on the bus floor and the heat of bodies around you. You see these people every day, give or take. The person with 221 shaded pants always sits two seats away from you. They are always reading a magazine. You always stand, holding onto the bar to keep balance. You can’t imagine it any other way; if something changed it would be wrong.
The bus exhales to a stop, and you get off. The Education Center is three blocks away. Two minutes.
The chatter of Pupils is the same every day. You enter the outer gate as clumps of them trade fickle whispers about leaving the Sector. You do not care to break the Routine, for it is a comfort to know everything that will happen. You find no dullness in it.
The ding alerts you that it is 0915, right when the Head Educator steps onto the front steps, leaving the double doors open behind them. All at once, the students file into a neat line — you number twenty-seven — and walk through the doorway into the Center.
The person behind you taps your left shoulder repeatedly. You continue walking, pretending not to notice. The tapping does not stop.
“What.” The word comes out harsher than you’d like, but this isn’t the time for chitter chatter.
“Hey, Hunter, did you hear about Redd?” You try to picture Redd’s color — what was it, the range of 485?
Barely above a whisper, you respond, “No,” and realize you might be a little curious, if that’s what this emotion bubbling in your stomach is. You didn’t know Redd well, but they had been in your Education group since you both were small, so it was odd to not see them in line. People were never late; there was The Routine.
“They — ” But before Indigo can finish their sentence, one of the Educators gives you both a stern look. You snap back to the front, trying not to let the annoyance show on your face. This offense probably wouldn’t go on your permanent record, but you couldn’t risk it. Even one mark could mess up your success in the long run.
You sigh and follow the line of students into class, trying to put thoughts of Redd out of your mind.