Fast-Tracked by Tracy Rozzlynn

have been bestowed. From this day until the day you decide your career, you are my responsibility. Be warned: I will not tolerate any embarrassing behavior from any of you. My rules are to be followed without question or complaint. Understand?” She bellowed the last word: we all jumped. “Well?”
    “We understand,” I replied and the rest of the group joined in.
    “Good. Now follow me.” Waddling her butt back and forth, she click-clacked her way over to the elevator in too-tall and too-pointy shoes. I never realized I could feel such an instant loathing for a person.
    She led us to a large room on the seventh floor. My jaw dropped. The letter said housing would be provided. I had imagined it would be a bit more than six cots lined up in an empty room.
    “You don’t expect us to live here?” a girl with long blond hair balked.
    Almost sounding apologetic Mrs. Glabough responded, “No. No, of course not. Your rooms won’t be ready until the end of the week.” Then she paused, gathered herself and snapped, “Enough whining. Drop your stuff on a cot and follow me.” Without another glance in our direction, Mrs. Glabough headed out of the room.  
    We spent the rest of the day in a classroom listening to Mrs. Glabough explain the hierarchy of fast-tracker life. The overall message was clear: unlike other class levels, not all fast-trackers are created equal. As newbie fast-trackers we had no power or money of our own – the ample allowance we’d be receiving would be considered a joke by real fast-trackers. We were the lowest of our class, not really even considered fast-trackers by the rest. Mrs. Glabough made no attempt to even hide her own level of loathing for us.
    Lunch that day consisted of a strained silence. We were all too wrapped up in our own confused emotions and thoughts to hold any sort of conversation. The other girls all just looked perpetually shocked. Clearly this was not the fairytale beginning of fast-tracker life that they had envisioned. Most likely I would have held the same expression if it weren’t for the fact that my fairytale dreams had already crumbled days before I had arrived here.
    At the end of the day we finally began to talk. Each girl took her turn telling the group where they were from and what level their parents had been. Nola and Myra were both purple and were from Maine and Vermont respectively.
    Haddie was from Connecticut. Her dad had been blue, but her mom was purple. When she was little she had lived in a purple housing section, but her entire family had been socially ostracized for her dad’s blue level. Eventually they moved to blue level housing, where they were more welcomed and her mother’s purple level wasn’t an issue.
    Trisha, the last girl to arrive, was from New Hampshire and was the lowest level among us – brown. So that was the real reason Mrs. Glabough treated her so poorly – lateness had nothing to do with it.
    Vera had grown up in New York and was from the highest level out of all of us – gray. She seemed more than a little smug about that fact. I got the distinct impression that she expected special treatment from us. That wasn’t about to happen – at least not from me.
    The girls kept chatting animatedly throughout the rest of dinner. The shock and confusion had worn off and they were once again excited and happy about the incredible future they had been handed. I sat quietly and listened. Excited and happy were two emotions that were now alien to me. It was all I could do to not sit there and sulk at the group. But even just listening proved to be interesting.
    Despite Mrs. Glabough’s insistence that we were all considered nothing, the group of girls still seemed hopeful. Somehow they had gotten the impression that if they impressed Mrs. Glabough enough, she would introduce them to fast-tracker society. And if they accomplished that, then everything would be all right. Even Trisha seemed to buy into the idea, even though she thought