eesha cherukuri
“We have plenty of time,” I say to Francie. “Your Choosing isn’t for a week.” Lies. I knew it then and I know it now.
But wait. Back up. Before I start, lemme tell you a couple of important things. My name is Anthony. And I’m very, very dead. Dead as a doorknob. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I died a horrible, horrible death. Gruesome. Disgusting.
… That’s about everything, actually.
Francie shudders, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the thought of her Choosing looming in the distance or the chilly weather. The scratchy black cardigan draped over her shoulders is too thin to give any warmth. It’s just for show, just like every other aspect of her current appearance.
Francie is my little sister. She’s short, but she acts real big, y’know? A lot of smaller people are like that. I guess it’s overcompensation.
“I don’t know,” she says. “All the other kids have already decided what they want. It feels like it’s just me.”
“It’s not just you. You know, I didn’t decide until I was actually on the stage.” I’ve never actually told anyone about that before. I’m the one who’s always supposed to be sure about everything. And if I’m not sure, what am I?
Wait a minute. Pff. Stupid! You don’t even know what a Choosing is.
A Choosing Ceremony is tantamount to becoming an adult. A milestone. It’s the turning point that decides the rest of your life. We don’t know who invented it, or where the tech came from, or if it’s even tech and not magic, but it’s very, very illegal to go Undecided. All children at the age of fifteen must decide. We use the Pod- basically a fancy-looking space egg- to look into the future and peer in on what is set for us.
Now here comes the tricky part. Whoever the hell invented this ceremony still had a hint of common sense left and decided no one should know their whole future. You can pick what you want to see. The high of your life, the pros, or the ultimate low, cons. Hence the name Choosing.
Most people know from when they’re a kid. Currently, it’s more acceptable to pick cons, but it’s generally a family thing. You’ll find pro families and con families, and there’s all this political debate, and talk show hosts love it, but my family was pretty neutral on the subject. Which, you know, is great and all, but when it comes to it we have no damn clue what to do with ourselves.
“What did you pick?”
I’m not sure why she’d ask that; she already knows. Francie was right there, watching me pick. “Pros.”
“Why?”
Now there’s a new one. I’m so surprised that I answer. “Because I was scared.” “Do you regret it?”
Another one out of left field. “Sometimes.”
Francie nods, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.
“You know, Anthony,” she says eventually, “it takes balls of steel to pick cons.” That’s… true. People love avoiding the bad. Escapism is our fatal flaw. It’s killed countless. How do cult leaders gain so much gravity? Why do you think there are people willing to believe some rando with a mullet they read about on Facebook is freaking God? Because they couldn’t find a God anywhere else. But to overlook the prospect of seeing yourself succeed and win, again and again, only to see yourself suffer and cry and break down a million times? That’s gotta take some serious willpower.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Balls of steel.”
I tug apprehensively at the collar of my shirt. It’s hot in the Pod. And pitch-dark, except for the backlit buttons. Anthony never told me about that.
A couple of things before we continue.
My name is Francie. And I’m very, very dead. Dead as a doornail. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I died a terrible, terrible death. Sickening. Revolting.
The buttons glow green and red. The former reads “Pros.” The latter, “Cons.” The text is in a standard, sans-serif font. There’s a happy little smiley face sticker smack in between, right on top of the timer. 25 minutes left to decide. Has it really only been five minutes?
I stare at the buttons, and immediately, my stomach plummets to my feet. One press. One press could change the course of my life.
When they teach you about Choosing in elementary school, they show you all these corny videos about people who changed the course of their lives after seeing their cons. Not a word about pros. Only cons. It’s become the most acceptable thing to do. Prove you’re not a coward. Face danger and defeat in the eye. Much, much easier said than done.
I didn’t sleep last night. Or the night before. I haven’t slept since I spoke to Anthony that night. His words echo in my head like a broken record. “Because I was scared.” Scared. How bold of him to admit that. Don’t tell him, but I’ve always admired his courage.
I blink, hard, and look back at the buttons. The light behind them pulses and glows. Why? Why did the government put so much effort into making this feel like a dystopian young adult fantasy book? This feels unreal. This is a fever dream. This is a fever nightmare. Maybe in twenty minutes I’ll wake up, five years old, and forget all about this cr
Wait, twenty minutes? Five minutes ago the time was flowing like molasses, but now it’s running like a tap. The seconds tick away.
What happens at the end of the timer? That’s something they don’t tell you in school. They tell you about the timer, of course, but not what happens when it runs out. That’s suspicious. Thoughts of terror float around my head like the last cornflakes in a bowl of milk. Does the Pod decide for you? Does it show you both? Neither? Does it kill you? It can’t kill me. It won’t kill me. My family is standing there, right outside the Pod. They won’t murder me. Not in front of my parents. Not in front of my family.
… Would they?
Fifteen minutes. I feel tears prickle the back of my eyes. I can’t cry in the Pod. I don’t have time. I need to pick.
The buttons pulse faster. I let out a strangled cry. The lights blur and swirl together through my tear-clouded eyes. Pros or cons? Pros or cons?
Five minutes. I reach toward the cons button, but don’t press it yet. This could scar me forever. I was going to see myself crying or hurting or dying and maybe all three. I pulled my hand away as though it had been burned.
59 seconds. 58 seconds. 57. 56. The pulsing of the buttons is just a flicker now. I scream. I can’t keep my cool anymore.
30 seconds. 29. 28. 27. 26. I curl up into a ball, screaming and screaming and screaming. I can’t pick. I don’t want to pick.
10. “No,” I mutter.
9. 8. “No, no, no.”
7. 6. 5. “I can’t.”
4. 3. 2. “I can’t, I can’t!” I hear my scream echo through the Pod, but I can’t feel the words escape my mouth.
1.
0.
The Pod door bursts open. Light floods my eyes. It’s Anthony, face streaked with tears. He grabs my hand, pulls me out and we run and run and run. We hear their gunshots and footsteps and screams and we run. But both of us knew. No matter how much we denied it, we knew.
I started the week thinking I had time. But by the end, I knew we were never going to make it.