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The Tipping Point
It was the fall of 2001 when Melanie began her senior year of high school. Her economics teacher insisted they read The Washington Post every day, and when he was met with whining, he reminded his students, “A year from now, you will no longer be in a microcosm where there are countless opportunities for information, guidance, and freedom. Yes, freedom.” He paused to let the word sink in. “I know what you’re thinking. Freedom?” Mr. Cosgrove went around to the front of his desk, leaned against it, and folded his arms. “I am sure most of you would argue that you have curfews, and homework, and chores. But you also have a lot of free time to hang out with friends, go to sporting events, parties, watch TV, listen to music, play video games. You have time to do those things now, but once you graduate, there are going to be expectations beyond turning in a homework assignment or going to practice. You will be expected to hold a job, go to college, or vocational school. That, my friends, will be your routine. The road to responsibility.” Another pause. Students started to slouch in their seats. “You’re probably thinking, ‘What does that have to do with a newspaper?’ Why am I telling you all this? Because I want you to be aware.” He moved to the blackboard and wrote the words BE AWARE and underlined them three times for emphasis. “Be aware of what is happening around you, in your community, your country, and the world. If you are aware, then you will be better prepared.” He stood silently for another moment. Then he snickered and grinned. “Meanwhile, enjoy yourself, but try to be aware. Look around you. Look ahead. You don’t want that light at the end of the tunnel to be an oncoming train.”
There were a few uncomfortable guffaws, but the mood of the classroom became slightly more contemplative.
Melanie soaked up those words like a sponge. Be aware. It occurred to her that if she put them together, the result came dangerously close to the word BEWARE. More info for the vault.
As the first two weeks passed, she was grateful for the requirement. Not that the news was good, but each day she became better informed. She read about the expanding energy crisis, and the formation of a national energy policy. She was aware of the words climate change before they became part of the everyday lexicon. She was also aware of the need to develop nuclear safety measures, here and abroad. If she hadn’t been forced to get her fingers covered in ink, she might not have been as aware of the world outside the innocent hamlet of Harrison, Virginia. Because of her heightened state of awareness, Melanie knew it was important to pursue a career that could make a difference. She just wasn’t sure what that career should be.
Then it happened. The devastating day when our country was attacked by terrorists. We were a stunned nation, and the horror continued to unfold over the coming weeks. Months. What is happening to us? Where do we go from here? Is there a place to go? Will we recover? People were terrified as they faced the unknown.
That life-changing event gave Melanie clarity. A lot of people were making up new rules, and they weren’t good. There were also secret organizations that had no rules at all. Rules were meant for commoners. Something had to happen to get the planet back on course. Humans had to change their behavior. But how?
She remembered her conversation with Mr. Flynn and how she’d negotiated an arrangement that suited both of them. Melanie wrote up the students’ notes; therefore, he didn’t have to. In exchange, she did not have to face a preserved frog. Diplomacy. Negotiation.
Melanie believed when there was conflict, one should confer. Consult. Be reasonable. Melanie knew she couldn’t change the world by herself, but she believed in the butterfly effect—a small change or variance in one state could create a large change in a later state. She was not going to be a victim. She was going to be a butterfly. It was better and cheaper than going to war. But, in time, Melanie would learn that some people are unreasonable, implacable, bull-headed, stubborn, and just plain evil.
* * *
She was on a mission. She applied to the few colleges that offered the curriculum she wanted. There was no doubt she would be accepted to all of them. While the Drakes enjoyed many nice things, they weren’t rich, and college was expensive. Add in housing, books, food, and transportation, you’re looking at a big chunk of change. A scholarship, at least a partial one, was very possible. She hoped the school that offered it wouldn’t be too far from home, but she made finances the determining factor. By January, she had been accepted at Yale, Georgetown, Stanford, and the University of Virginia College of Arts & Sciences. She and her family were elated when Virginia came through with all of her requirements.
The last few months of her senior year moved at a quick pace. She was moving away from home. There would be new people. New places. Big places. She was ready.
Along with graduation came the senior prom. Melanie wanted to go to mark the transition, but she surely didn’t want to go alone. Mark! They could go together. She knew she could convince him, and they would make it fun. Mark wore a red tuxedo jacket with black pants and a black bow tie. He finished off his look with a black bowler hat. He looked kind of cute, actually. Melanie was dressed in a blue and white beaded kaftan, with a matching scarf tied around her head, the knot below her ear. She stared in the mirror. She knew she had to put something on her face. The cover stick she occasionally used wouldn’t cut it. The occasion required a little more effort. This would probably be the last time she would see most of these people. Ross and Henry had been out of the picture once they got to junior high. Ross ended up in a juvenile facility, and Henry was sent away to military school. No one ever discovered what happened to Mr. Leonard. Rumor had it he was in a straitjacket in an asylum. At least that’s what everyone wished.
She peered at her scar, which had morphed from looking like a zipper to more like one of those creepy worms from biology. She decided to adorn it instead of hiding it. She pulled the magic kit from the closet. Inside was a collection of metallic face-paint tubes including turquoise, silver, and purple. Perfect! She began to make fine twinkle-looking strokes along the scar and finished it off with a butterfly at her temple. Yes, perfect! Her father was right. It was a badge of honor. Had it not been for the accident, she might never have become such an avid reader. Her life could have taken an entirely different course.
As promised, she and Mark had a ball making fun of the way some of the guys danced. “Don’t athletes require some kind of coordination?” he asked sardonically.
“It appears their talents have been left out on the field,” Melanie replied with a similar tone.
The summer flew by, as Melanie juggled working as a receptionist at her parents’ office and getting ready for the big move. She was confident, but also nervous. It was going to be a very big change. She was accustomed to studying, but this next level would be entirely different. Her career path would depend on the outcome.
PART TWO
The Job
Chapter Six
Student, Intern, Date
As soon as she was able, she declared to major in politics and foreign affairs, with the goal of being accepted into the Distinguished Majors Program. Her thesis was on the subject of The Politics of Religion and The Religion of Politics, and how the lines are constantly blurred. College was grueling and competitive, but Melanie had a steel will and let nothing distract her from her studies. Not even boys. She decided to increase the age when the male gender had a clue about life and the real world. Maybe they would catch up to her around age thirty.
* * *
After graduating from college, she discovered most companies, including the government, required a master’s degree of job candidates. For the first time since the third grade, Melanie was deflated. Getting a master’s degree would cost money, and she wasn’t about to dig herself into a hole of debt that would amount to a lifetime of financial liability.
One evening, she was uncharacteristically bemoaning her situation to her brother. He had an easy answer for her problem. “Apply for a job at OSI. They have programs for continuing education.” Justin was referring to the Office of Special Investigations for the U.S. Air Force. He was a decorated pilot and was more than willing to write a glowing recommendation. Though she protested against such nepotism, he did it anyway. But her record spoke volumes.
Melanie graduated from University of Virginia with a 4.0 grade point average; she was a member of the International Relations Club, and occasionally, the Women’s Soccer Club.
She researched the job postings and put an application in for an entry-level position. Over a month had gone by and she was getting discouraged when she received a registered letter with information regarding an initial screening with Human Resources. The packet contained reams of paperwork asking for school records, medical records, permission to do a background check, and, should she be considered, her agreement to undergo a mental capacity test. Whoa. The instructions were to fill out all the forms and bring them with her to the initial screening. She would also have to bring a photo ID. If that process went favorably, then her application would be evaluated, scored, and ranked by a review board of OSI special agents.
The following week, she was in front of the security gate at Quantico, Virginia. For the first time, she had the jitters. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was going on a job interview, or because she was in this hub where some of the world’s most important decisions were made. She took a deep breath. Probably a bit of both. It was intimidating.
The Marine guard checked his list of expected visitors and phoned the OSI human resources office. He gave her a pass and instructions as to which door she should enter. From there, she went through very tight security. She could not take any personal items with her except for the paperwork and was given a large orange tag in exchange for her purse, coat, and phone. She was escorted to an office, where a person in his mid-fifties sat behind a desk. He oozed authority. He was polite and very much down to business. He said nothing as he perused her paperwork. Her hands were beginning to sweat. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He finally looked up. “You seem to check off all the boxes.” A smile. Finally.
“So tell me, why do you want to be in service to the OSI?”
