The Spectrum: Book One

I stand in line behind the cash register, clutching a loaf of bread in one hand and a gallon of milk in the other. Even though the moon has taken to the sky, my father reluctantly sent me down to the corner market to pick up these basic staples in our family's diet. He never likes me out after dark. Or my brother, Michael, who practically begged him to death to let me go because of his nicotine withdrawal. Once he won him over, he gave me enough money to buy him a pack of cigarettes and laid back down on the couch. He hasn't been feeling that great lately. Training sort of kicks his ass on a regular basis since he recieved his rating. I kind of feel sorry for him, but then again, if he didn't have the habit of pushing himself too hard, he'd be here and I'd be lazing around at home.
"Next."
The woman in front of me collects her bags. The light hits just right, and a glare is given off the purple metallic bracelet sunken into the skin on her right wrist that catches my eye as she moves. I tense and step back from her without really thinking about it. I watch her leave, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Next," the cashier repeats more loudly.
I snap out of it and step up to the counter. Setting my items down, I can hear the people behind me sighing in annoyance. I meet the gaze of the burly man behind the counter after he rings up the milk and bread.
"And, um...Can I get a pack of full flavors? Filtered, please," I ask, already reaching into my back pocket for my I.D.
He turns his back to me to fetch the pack. I retrieve my card and place it face up on the counter. When he turns around again, he's holding onto the cigarettes like he has no intent of ever letting go, his eyes hard on mine. My brows furrow.
"I.D.," he grumbles, and I slide the card to him. He reviews it, looks at me, and shakes his head. "No sale."
More annoyed sighs.
I scramble for my card, checking it for myself, demanding, "What? I'm eighteen! I am old enough to purchase this item! The damn card says so!"
"It says you're a special. Where's your rating?" he inquires.
"Well, I...I haven't gotten mine yet. I'm scheduled for it soon. Look, I'm of age. Please just let me buy these," I reply.
He merely places the pack back with the rest and points to a sign taped on the cash register;


regs
NO I.D.

vamps
NO ASSOC. CUFF

specials
NO RATING

NO TOBACCO or ALCOHOL
(we here at Cappy's Gas Co. also reserve the right to refuse service to any Spectrum association and any rating tier at any time we see fit)


Well.
Screw you, too, fatass.
"Fine," I sigh. "How much do I owe you?"
"Six dollars and eighteen cents," he chimes.
I hand him a ten, swipe back my change and roll my eyes at the tip jar as he bags my stuff. I take the bag and make for the exit. I push open the door and am met with a gust of wind. I breathe in deeply, the cool, crisp air siwrling down the back of my throat, chilling my lungs. I swear, I can taste the night. I let the breath out, and with it goes most of my frustration. Discrimination is just part of life. I'll have to get used to it sooner or later.
I step onto the sidewalk and pause for a moment to put my card back in my pocket. The wind continues to blow, tossing my dark locks about and sprinkling them with snowflakes. Just as I'm about to head on home, a man comes out of Cappy's and approaches me, offering that pack of full flavors I attempted to buy. I search his face. It seems sincere. I then glance at his neck, where they tattoo ratings, and note that he is tier five. The same as my father.
"Regs can be totally unfair sometimes," he mentions, holding the pack closer to me. "Don't worry. I won't say it gets easier after your rating, but at least you'll be on the same playing field as everyone else. About as close as any of us ever gets to a fair game."
"Um...Thanks. Thank you. You didn't have to," I tell him.
I'm taking the cigarettes and dropping them in my bag when he responds, "In a world of regular people, super powered people and vampires, I like to think it's best to be in good with your own kind. Never know what might happen some day down the road."
"...I guess you're right. Thanks again. Really. My brother is dying for his cancer sticks."
"Not a problem. Have a safe walk home. Watch out for those Spectrum creeps, they run rampant after dark."
"Oh, wait, let me pay you-"
"Nah, my treat. I'll call it my good deed for the day. Goodnight, little lady."
He smiles and turns to walk away. I can't help but smile myself. Sometimes it's easy to forget that there are still genuine, good people in this is one big chaotic mess of a world. It's refreshing to be reminded again. I start for home, thinking about what the man said.
Rating. It is something all of our people are subject to after they turn eighteen. If somone refuses undergoing the rating process, they commit to a life on the run. When caught, killed. If they go along with it, and most do, they are brought to the federal building downtown and remain there for a week long assessement. They call us specials because of our special abilities.
For instance, I can spark electricity with my fingertips. Michael can sense and manipulate emotions, and turn ordinary air into percussion blasts. Our mother can heal, and our father can create and control the elements. The regs fear us. We make them nervous. And that's why they started the rating system.
Depending on what's found during the assessment, we then are assigned a tier; one through five. The higher the tier someone is cast into, the more dangerous that person is perceived to be, although that's not always the case. Finally, we receive tattoos of our ratings on the right side of our necks, so the regs we come into contact with every day will know just how big a threat we pose to them. Dad is T5. Mom is T1. Michael is T4.
I wonder what rating I will receive.
"I'm back," I announce upon entrance to our shabby, one bedroom aparmtent.
If it weren't for dad's high rating, we'd have a big, nice house, in a safe part of town where Michael and I would attend a specials-only private school. But with that tattoo on his neck, the only people who will hire him offer jobs nobody else wants to do, and even with mom working as a nurse, our humble little home is all we can afford.
Michael leaps off the couch and tears the bag from my hands. His handsome face is swollen and bruised, and there is a deep cut that goes across both his lips. He finds his cigarettes, mumbles 'thank you' and hands the bag back. So I walk on through to the kitchen, where our parents are preparing some Hamburger Helper. I hold the bag up.
"Ah, perfect! Clarissa," my father takes it and pulls the milk out to hand it to my mother. He matches my gaze. "How'd it go?"
"Fine. I'm still in one piece," I answer dully.
"You're hiding something," Michael jeers.
I glance over my shoulder at him, coming to join us.
"Something scared you, didn't it? And you got pissed off. I can feel that adrenaline from here," he picks me apart.
"What happened, dear?" asks mother.
"Nothing," I snap. "Nothing...I just. I saw someone from the Spectrum. It frightened me a little, yes, okay? And the cashier was an ass."
"The Spectrum? Oh, no. What was their association? Did they try anything?" Dad is near crazed.
"Her assoc. cuff was purple."
"Lavender Clan. They're harmless."
"Shut up, Michael. Just leave me alone."
Smoke streams out between his wounded lips, a look of confusion on his face. Our parents have the same look on their own faces. I heave a sigh and have a seat at the table, covering my face with my hands.
They have all been through their assessments. They are on a leveled playing field, in a fair game, as the man outside Cappy's said. They know things about life that I have not the slightest clue about. They've experienced things I've only been able to stay home for, hoping they wouldn't get killed. And all they do is talk. Talk, talk, talk, about all this stuff. It's like they're speaking in code, have some bond that I don't share with them. It bothers me.
Mike must sense this - who am I kidding, of course he does - because he pulls out the chair next to me and has a seat in it. He lets his cigarette hang from his lips and places a hand on my shoulder. Eventually, I give in and look at him. His pale blues emit an air of apology. I can't imagine the look in my ever changing hazels.
"I didn't mean to upset you...We didn't," he says soothingly. Mom and dad have refocused on dinner. "I know sometimes you feel left out. Of what, that, I don't know, but we're not trying to make you feel that way."
"I just want my rating already, Michael. I want to learn what you guys learned, about yoursleves, about this world. I'm done sitting around pretending everything is...Normal," I murmur.
"I know it sounds like fun and it'll make things better, but, Brooke, the assessment is difficult. Like, really, really difficult. It's demanding and stressful and...It determines the rest of your life," he pauses. "...I would trade places with you in a heartbeat."
I don't believe him. But he's staring at me so...So honestly, I have to. My whole life, he has always been there to protect me. Always looking after me. I was his responsibility, somehow, and he took great pride in keeping his little sister safe and sound. He's still trying to do that now, but he isn't sheltering me anymore.
No, this is all real.
In a matter of weeks, I will be assigned a tier and forced into the real world.