[ WP ] Every person in the world undergoes a `` goodness '' test . It 's designed to give a score from 1 to 200 , where 1 is pure evil , and 200 is an angel in human body . Then the world is divided into 200 zones , where people can live among their own kind .

I know, rationally, I should be better at this, or at least should feel better about how I am dealing with this. But, really, at the end of the day, I am just very deeply isolated. I am learning the hard way that I should feel better about having as many friends as I do, and not feel so lonely when they just are n't around. We are a really good sect, always helping one another and taking care of our families. At the same time, I know that we are so busy and we mean well, but ca n't catch each and every stumble and fall, something we all have from time to time. But it was easier when things were harder, if that makes any sense. I remember when I could just go hang out for days at another house, and no one would bother unless my parents house was messy or someone was hungry. At an early age, I learned to cook whatever I could find into a big casserole and leave it for the family. I'd leave for days, just to be alone. I needed to be away from my parents, just so I could try to figure out what was wrong with me. I never fit in with them, I could n't keep a group of friends, either. I bounced around friend groups a lot, with a sense of belonging always just out of reach, but always a temptation that people could use to drive me. There's something wrong with me, though. I do n't belong. I ca n't shake that feeling sometimes. It is my one consistent and firm belief about myself, despite everything else I learned growing up being a lie, in one way or another. 
 
 When I was assessed, I was 18. It was my birthday, and had I been born one year earlier, I would have had mine at 15. They changed it based on some of the Onefiftyplus' concerns about having their child ready to leave when the assessment came back with different numbers than they had been raised with. I waited, very patiently, for three extra years. Dreading and expecting to be taken from my home and then finally placed. I knew that the process would happen, and it would be very thorough, we had been taught in school what we were to go through during Assessment, and I was ready, too ready, from a very young age, for what my life would look like after I was taken from my home. 
 
 It was n't common to Rise. It was especially difficult in the Subfiftys to get above the Fifty mark. The Onefiftyplus' had an easier time sending their children up, as they were simply afforded more opportunities to teach and drill into their kids the ethical basis of why the test as administered, which went a long way to instilling the resignation and resolve to do well on the test. 
 
 I was n't entirely sure when the test had begun, but over the course of that summer, my day to day looked just like it had at school and work, but much easier. Less arguing, less antagonizing, less fear. I kept waiting for it to begin, for someone to tell me I was doing it wrong or send me off for showing my hand too quickly. 
 
 But that time never came, and on the last day, I started cleaning up my room after my roommates, so that I could start packing to be sent home. My parents would n't be disappointed to see me, but they knew not to wait for me, I'd go to the new sect first. I was glad to go back to my old bed room, to see what condition it was left in, to fix it up, again, and try to minimize whatever could go wrong. 
 
 A short, stocky man with a clip board approached my door and gave a quick knock. His dimples were deep, his smile very polite, and his thick round classes fit nicely into the thicket of red curls on the sides of his head. His eyes, though, contradicted his polite smile, as they were positively beaming, almost illuminating with joy. He wanted to talk to me, I could just tell. Everything about his brow projected warmth and happiness, but he was so obedient to his duty, we understood that this would be brief. He gracefully bounded towards me, even his rather rotund midsection seemed to be coordinating its movements with his strangely agile steps. He handed me the envelope and promptly, quietly, left. 
 
 My Final Number had arrived, and I was ready. I had been told to hope for Twelve, the highest anyone in our families history had ever gotten, but chances were slim. At 12, though, I could still travel freely to see family, and they could get passes to see me. 
 
 Growing up in the Subtens was something I was used to. My parents had both earned their single digits, and had lived them well, exactly as they were expected to. They were both smart, and did very well for themselves. We had a strong house and plenty of land. I never understood what it meant that we lived where we did, until I left there, and was assessed. It should have been obvious, but I was convinced that we belonged there, and by extension, that I, specifically, must as well. That's what they told me, every day. My parents, my sisters, all never even considered that there was any other way to live and that the system must be skewed, and that they were, and I would be, held back for reasons they had no control over. My mother always assumed she was too pretty and clever, so people treated her unfairly, so she simply grew to fit peoples expectation. My father always felt that people just wanted his money, and became the Eight that we all knew and loved. My mother, ensured, at all or any cost, that our house reflected a better life. My father spent all of his time working to be recognized by the community, making sure that they all knew that he was better than any of them, by fiction or force. That left me to do what I could to take care of my siblings. There was a lot of things that children needed, which I had n't access to, but did what I could to give my sisters a better chance to move up in the world. Things like consideration and love. My mother always told me it was my job to help her, and was often so disappointed when I could n't do enough to lessen her burden. `` This is why we are here, because of you. You are the perfect example of what is wrong with this family.You do n't get good enough grades and you are awful at sports. You are getting fat and it's unsightly, when your sisters and I are skinny and perfect. And then, you waste your time babysitting for free for the losers next door. What about me? Do n't you think you owe me a little help once and a while?!'' 
 
 It dawned on me, when I held those numbers in my hand, why that wonderfully plump man was so so so happy. The envelope was n't sealed, just folded down quickly, in hurried anticipation to hand it over. Had he folded it on the way to my room? The hall was long, so he would have had time. There were hundreds of rooms on my floor, had I heard him knock before mine? For the life of me, I could not remember. *I just knew it, tho, I knew it was 12. I probably did n't earn it, and they probably forgot to test me and gave me a leftover number. I did n't deserve more than my family, I was n't better than them, I was hardly good enough as it was, I do n't need any ugly entitlements to ruin what little was good about me. Expectation management had been a survival strategy all my life, had I really forgotten how to have perspective? Close your eyes, hope for 12, just hope a little. Not too much, you ca n't change it. You do n't belong in 12, you are hardly an 8, so calm down. Do n't look at it. Just wait, they will come and get you and send you home. * 
 

