--Hi? Can you hear me? Oh, you’re finally waking up! I was worried about you, you know. I can’t imag-no, no, don’t try and get up . . . hey! You’re not from around here are you? You’re actually ripped! Huh, oh waiiiiiit, cr**, this means I have to explain things to you, ight? Uh, well, just listen, you’re not strong enough to talk yet.

Muscles won’t get you anywhere if you are weak inside. Muscles can’t help you make the right choices; muscles can’t help you pass school. If your mind is weak, your body is weak. You must exercise your mind regularly or your strength ebbs. In a world like ours, bodies don’t matter anymore. We have many kinds of smart. We have streetwise, we have academic, we have the artistically gifted, medically advanced and we have the laborers. When we are seven our minds become clear and a test confirms what type of brain we have developed. We all hope we are not a laborer, the medics are the pride of any family; it all depends on what they find in our brain tissue. We take it to determine whether we shall be an outcast for the rest of our lives or praised like a god.
My name is Aliana and I am a street-smart. This means I’m a hoodlum, a thief, dirt, not worth to look at twice, pretty much exiled and hated by everyone. People know which class you’re in by the tattoo on left side of your neck. Everybody gets them right after they take The Test.

Here, let me sketch you a picture. Basically, we have The Rich and The Poor split up right in the middle of each district. It’s a hierarchy of poorest, poorer, poor, rich, richer, and richest. The Ghetto is where we streetwise live, along with the laborers and the artists. On the other side is Hill Number 1, where the rich kids live, a.k.a the medics and academics. We Streetwise are those who live the most physical lifestyle, what with all the running from the cops and stuff. Every time we thieves get caught by them, we get a tiny heart tattooed on the upper part of our thigh, more like our hip. Don’t ask me who thought of a heart, but that was a pretty sick bas****. Not that tattoos aren’t cool; I have about twelve in all. But it gets worse. If we get caught and tattooed seven times, we are taken to one of the towers and are never seen again. Oh wait; you don’t know what the towers are. Pretty much the tallest building you’ve ever seen. W don’t know what’s in them, but they’re hated everywhere in the Ghetto.
So, getting it a little?
Oh, its okay, you don’t have to say anything . . . Uh, what?
Speak up.
What’s that?
Where are you?
You’re in the Ghetto, love.
Oh, yeah?
Yes, actually I am British that’s right.
You can tell by my accent? How observant.
I talk a lot? Yeah, well I usually don’t talk to anybody, so I’m making up for the lost time, dear.
Okay, I’ll let you sleep now, when you wake up, there’ll be soup waiting for you,
I hope you like peas. That’s it,
Go to sleep,
Just like that,
Good boy . . .
Mmhhmm . . .
Just sleep now.