Rebels (John Bates) by Scott Powell, Judith Powell

kind they have in schools, the ones that only reveal their true surface with a good pencil eraser.
     
    “This is John Bates, Doctor.”
     
    “Is this the last one?” the man asks the nurse, continuing to study the clipboard.
     
    “Yes, Dr. Pruitt, he is the last,” her stern voice bellows, never leaving her monotone frequency.
     
    “Good, then we will not need you any more. You may go,” he says, never looking up from his clipboard.
     
    She finally takes her cue and departs. I stand there for a moment, in this room that is big enough to fit both my neighbor’s house and my own, with only this man as my company. I wonder why the doctor asked if I was the last one? One of what? Am I not the only one to get this surgery? If not, why are we all brought here like cattle? The State is going to pay for multiple heart surgeries for multiple people? These thoughts race through my mind as he continues to scribble notes on the clipboard. Then he finally looks up at me.
     
    “John, good, come sit down.” he motions to the chair across from his own as he leans toward me. I see the orange chair has a crack that runs from the center to its outside edge. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
     
    I tell him only the bare minimum: Where I am from, the school I attend, and that I am grateful for the surgery.
     
    “Okay, John, hop up on the table,” he says, patting the paper covered examination table. Then he rubs the stethoscope in the palm of his callused hand, trying to warm it before placing it on my chest. “Good,” he says, standing back producing a tong depressor. “Say ah.”
     
    “Ahhhh.” I choke as he presses the depressor too far into the back of my throat.
     
    “Good, hop down. Let’s see how you do on the treadmill.” I run a brisk clip.
     
    “Good, you seem very fit, a good candidate for the surgery.” Then he surprises me by changing the subject and asks me a more personal question. “What do you think of the Young Army?”
     
    “It’s okay,” is all I say. I wonder how he knows I am in the Young Army. Had someone told him?
     
    “Really? You don’t really like it, do you?” He looks surprised and perhaps he has reason to be. Most, if not all, young men I know think being in the Young Army is the best thing that ever happened to them, especially if you are a top candidate. It allows you not only special privileges while in school but access to things others can only dream of.
     
    After high school, a number of us will be enrolled in some of the top State schools, while the elite will be placed in more special programs—at least that is what the State has explained. Some may even be fortunate enough to join the specialized teams like the Steel team, which is considered an honor, especially when you are given the opportunity to serve the State and even meet the government officials face-to-face. Citizens are no longer allowed to have access to State representatives due to security and the sensitivity of the work they continue to do for the betterment of humanity and the State. It is what we are taught.
     
    I sense that I need to trust this man. It is an impression that starts inside me and goes down to my toes.
     
    “No, I don’t, not really. I mean I’m good at it all, but it’s more of something that is expected,” I reply honestly, more honest than I have ever been to anyone, even my parents. “My father wanted me to join in order to learn things he could not teach me. I’m not sure how this knowledge will aid me or what will happen to me after high school. It’s automatically assumed that I’m going to the Army and really, I have no choice. The Army is my future whether I like it or not.”
     
    “Like what kind of things did he want you to learn?” he asks, moving around to the back of me to listen to my lungs. “Take a deep breath.”
     
    “Military strategies, tactics, discipline, things like that.” I say, taking in a deep breath as instructed. When I exhale,