WHAT CHANCE DID Stephen Michael have of winning his Toss? In the year 2080 there were so many fourteen-year-old kids and so few scholarships. And if he lost—he hated to think about his choices then. Sweat poured down Steve’s face as he stared at the poster on the wall in front of him: WELCOME TO THE EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EDU-DICE TOSS, SPONSORED BY THE DEPARTMENT OF ENTERTAINMENT.
“Candidate 9426!” the Scholarship Advisor called out. She was a short, chubby woman, with a face pitted like the dice.
Steve opened his fist to stare at his number again. His sweat had drenched the slip of paper and smeared the ink. Number 9429. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon he would know whether he could go to high school and college or if he would have to find a job, any job at all. But this was silly. Why did he doubt the dice? He would win his Toss. He was going to be able to continue in school.
Candidate 9426 fought her way through the crowd. He watched her blond hair bobbing through the sea of people. The room was suddenly quiet.
The Scholarship Advisor consulted her hand-held. “We need a double six,” she said into her megaphone.
The blond girl groaned. “Not a double.”
“You all get an equal statistical chance,” the Advisor chided her.
The blond girl took a deep breath and rolled. The dice spun around on the concrete floor before stopping. Steve craned his neck to see the dice, but couldn’t. He heard the girl’s scream.
The blonde fell back.
“We have a winner,” the Advisor said into her megaphone.
A few kids cheered, but mostly Steve heard groans. The blond girl’s luck had reduced everybody else’s odds.
The Advisor handed the blonde the coveted green ticket and pointed toward the registration desk. “Now for Candidate 9427,” she said to the crowd.
Steve didn’t watch the next Toss. He was too busy reassuring himself that he could win. He had been there since early morning, and twice two kids had won back-to-back. It didn’t mean anything that 9426 had won. He could win three rolls later.
The next candidates would lose, and Steve would win. That’s just how it had to be.
In fact, 9427 already had lost. The discouraged-looking boy shuffled past him, and Steve worked to shut out the boy’s disappointment. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. He repeated the promise that he had made to himself: If I win my Toss and I’m able to get an education, I won’t be like most of the educated kids. I won’t just try to make money with my life. I’ll try to make things better for everybody. Please, dice, let me win.
Candidate 9428 held his head high, but he, too, had lost.
Steve was next. He sucked in his breath. He heard the Advisor chant his number, and as if in a dream, he stepped forward. The black-and-white dice waited for him, only him. They gleamed with hope and the promise of his future.
“You need a five and a three,” the Advisor said.
Five was a good number. He had a special feeling for fives. But the three … He didn’t feel anything for that number. There was still time. Three. Three. Three. He didn’t know if mind control worked, although some kids swore that it did. What else could he do?
Steve’s hands were shaking as he picked up the dice. They were cold and hard, and he pressed them deeply into his palm, memorizing the moment. Perhaps it was the last moment in his life when everything was still possible. He dropped the dice on the floor. He heard them clatter before he shut his eyes.
A kid next to him shuddered. Steve opened one eye.
Two white fives stared up at him.
Steve didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Both eyes were glued to the traitorous dice. How could they do that to him?
“Everyone can play the game. There are winners and losers. Everyone has an equal chance,” the Advisor chanted into the megaphone. She touched his shoulder and said to him, “Now go. It’s someone else’s turn.”
His feet wouldn’t budge.
Then the Advisor shoved Steve. He had no choice but to head back through the crowd, most of it eager or crying parents.
At least his mom and dad wouldn’t be disappointed. They had died in the last Superpox epidemic, along with his little brother, Sam.
The thought of his family’s death made him mad. “The Toss is not fair!” he shouted.
In the hordes of people pushing past him, only one person bothered to reply. She was carrying a clipboard.
“I played the Toss and won. Stop whining, loser!” she snapped.
Before Steve could protest, she disappeared into the crowd, and Steve did the only thing he could think of.
He headed for the door, his wet number still clutched in his hand.