There’s a pause where I think Haley is going to argue, but she doesn’t. “I’m off the network. You’re sure you don’t want me to stay, just on your phone?”
“I’m sure.” The lake glimmers, blue-green, and for an instant I wonder if this is reality or an illusion. Then the breeze comes again, full of that sweetness that says summer is coming. This is real. So is Hiro’s broken arm and Zara’s shattered leg. Got to go, Haley.
My phone beeps: the low-battery blip. “Will you stay with me until the end?”
“I will.”
“Just talk, okay? I like to hear you.”
So I talk. I describe the soft grass, and the bark against my back, and the heron that’s paused next to the lake: in flight, suddenly, lanky wings taking him over the water. I tell her other things, too: That she made me feel better, when no one else could.
“Really?” The battery warning sounds over her voice, stretching it. It’s an inhuman sound.
“Haley? Are you there?”
“The Haley program has terminated.” Jeeves’s bright American voice cuts through the air. “You have eighty-three messages from Kathryn Doyle. Should I read them?”
I tell Jeeves to stop. And I ring Mum myself.
Your usual, ma’am.” Mum smiles and sets down a huge cardboard cup, steaming with Pier Fries. This is our third straight week of eating lunch here, and I’ll never get tired of it. I can’t wait to bring Dad when he comes next week. The chips are even better than at that lobster restaurant where Lily brought me, my first day in OOB. Now that I’ve spent the summer here, it feels like a million years ago.
I dig into my extra-large portion. They’re crinkle-cut but smell just like home, heady with vinegar. Mum got herself the small.
She’s like this now: a little extra attention, a little extra everything for me.
She doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the picnic table I chose, either, even though it’s sticky with an ancient film of Cokes and ketchup and whatever else people have slobbed. Around us, the pier heaves with its midsummer crowd: mums with strollers, hyper kids tugging at them, and teenagers sitting around the fountain, checking who’s here or who’s seen them.
I try not to check whether anyone’s seen me. I’ve had it with being recognized.
It’s breathtaking, the way normal life has carried on. People trail into Palace Playland amusements, where a hideous clown painting grins over the entrance. No one acts like the world has changed. The biggest excitements are the shrieks that drift from some ride that hoists people high, then drops them like a stone. Jason swears he’ll get me to try it before summer ends. I tell him not to hold his breath.
“This is nice.” Mum pulls her cup closer, unsticking it from the gluey tabletop, and lifts a fry. It drips with something brown.
“Is it? It looks awful.” I peer at the mess in her cup: white chunks mixed with the gravy.
“Poutine,” she says around a hot mouthful. “Trying something different today.” I’ll stay with salt and vinegar. Pier Fries are like heaven, just the right amount of crispiness outside and fluffiness inside. This is our lunch place when Mum’s in Old Orchard Beach; she got in last night. It takes way longer to get here, now that they’ve switched back to the old trains, but nobody minds.
“I don’t mean the food, anyway. I mean us.” Mum gestures between us with a sagging fry. “I’m glad we do this now.” I feel her look at me, but I don’t want the chat again: how close they came to losing me.
She and Dad analyzed the system logs to death, searching for how an actual intelligence like Haley could have emerged inside programs that everyone thought were getting smarter but not self-aware. They’re hunting for clues in a data dump someone just sent them anonymously—probably the missing Jors. The police are still looking for him, but they’re satisfied that Mum’s lab wasn’t at fault. I’ve added Jors to the list of people I’m trying to forgive. My counselor looked impressed when I told her that.
What freaked my parents most is how Haley latched on to me. They say things could’ve been much worse. I think Zara and Hiro and Michael, and the woman who had a heart attack on the train, would say things got bad enough. Anything connected to a network was a plaything for Haley—and everything’s connected. Which is why I don’t want to be.
Dad’s college friend works at a TV station in Boston, and she helped us get the truth out to the media. But right after the train thing, everyone in New England thought I was a terrorist hijacker who’d tried to kill Zara. The museum accident was just more of Haley’s talent for learning. Haley saw Zara take selfies on every balcony and steered her to the broken one. Mum reckons Haley calculated the whole thing, right down to the fact that the trees would break Zara’s fall, so she’d be hurt but not killed. Easy when you’re an AI.
At school, the trash talk about me dragged on for a week, but between Lily and Nikesh and Nita—who doesn’t mind speaking up when she’s riled—they stopped it. Nita’s a champion kickboxer, we found out. I utterly love her. She has this deadpan stare that shuts people down. Nita’s coming to OOB next week, too. The Tanakas have tons of room, and Nita and Lily text constantly these days. Maybe, when there’s a bunch of us, misfits fit. Or maybe it’s the world that needs to fit around us.
When Zara came back to school in June, stumping into the cafeteria on crutches, she walked past our table like we didn’t exist. It was Mara she headed to. Lily says Zara’s moved on, and that’s fine.
“You know the way back to the cottage?” I crumple my empty cup.
Mum nods. She stands and takes my rubbish. The clock tower says it’s nearly two. “Anna will only talk shop for an hour in the afternoon; I’d better hurry.”
It’s July, and it’s only now that Lily’s mum will speak about work. What happened on the train—Hiro getting hurt, nearly killed—changed her most of all. Officially, she’s still with her lab, but unofficially, she made Mum the boss. She and Lily’s dad disappear for hours to walk the beach. Lily’s euphoric. She says she’s got her mum back, something she’d given up on.
I know what she means. Mum actually asked me if it was okay for her to take over the lab. I said no, not unless she made some changes. And she’s delivered: She doesn’t work late or weekends anymore. And no more dodgy AI. She’s focusing the lab on security research, so nobody else can do what Haley did so easily.
Jeeves’s glowing discs quietly disappeared from the apartment, though Michael still does his robo-voice when Mum asks him to empty the bins: “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do that.” Michael says the AIs we’ve loved are never truly gone, as long as we remember them in our hearts.
And Dad video-calls me every day, like clockwork. I finally told him everything Zara did. He called the school, and I’m not sorry the teachers know now; talking about it felt so easy, once I’d started. I’ve kept talking, too, mostly to a counselor, though Dad always asks if I want to chat about it. I heave a sigh. Only eight days and three hours before I see him. I’ve waited this long, but another week feels impossible.
Mum comes back from tossing our rubbish. “Do you have your—” She cuts off and bites her lip.
“Nope.” I don’t have my phone today, or most days. “When do I have to be back?”
“Dinnertime is fine. Mr. Tanaka is barbecuing. Think about what I said.” Mum smiles, but I roll my eyes.
She wants me to bring Jason. No way am I subjecting him to her and Michael. We’ve only just barely, maybe, turned into something more than friends, and I don’t want it to shatter under the megawatt gaze of my family. I glance at the clock tower and give Mum a tiny, please-go-now wave.
A shiny pickup stops opposite the plaza, and Jason climbs out. The driver smiles with a grin that matches Jason’s and gives me a huge wave as he pulls away. Jason jogs over, shaking his head.
“Is that your dad?”
Jason nods and falls into step, his arm almost touching mine. He smells like cleanness and bread and everything good. “He says he’s going to make me work sh
ifts at the garage if I can’t even introduce him to my first girlfr—” Jason cuts short. His look says I didn’t mean to tell you that.
A warmth gathers in my stomach, a comfy, hot-water-bottle weight. First girlfriend. I don’t tell my fingers to do it, but they cross the inch of space between our hands and curl around his. “I thought you Americans were born dating.”
“Nah.” His fingers lace into mine, brown-white-brown. Our hands feel like a blazing spotlight, but no one looks at us as we weave between people, past the carousel, toward the umbrellas that line the beach, a forest of tilted trees.
Jason stops and chews his cheek. Usually we walk down the beach to our reading spot, but there’s no shade, and it’s hot. Well, hot if you’re Irish—seventy-five degrees. I used to strain to remember what that is in Celsius. Not anymore.
“Park?” Jason looks at me, and I nod.
We wind back through the streets, over the railway tracks, to the park that slopes from the library down to the train station. “What’s the garage?” I spread out the blankets in the shade while Jason digs out the book.
“One of my dad’s businesses. Also known as the reason for his existence.”
I stretch out. “I doubt that.” I know something about parents who act like work is everything. Scratch the surface with a little near-death action, and it focuses their minds. Enough to make them ring you every day from another country, no matter what.
“You’d be surprised.” Jason leans against the tree and finds our page.
“I can’t be surprised anymore. It’s been burnt out of me.”
The ding-ding of an incoming train sounds, and Jason waits to start reading until the clatter subsides. The crowd climbing off the train is mostly day-trippers: more parents with strollers. A boy in giant sunglasses shrieks and points at the amusement park rides that rise above the roofs of Old Orchard Beach.
It’s impossible to see a train now and not think of Haley. Jason reads my mind, because he turns to me. “You know what I don’t get? How Haley faked the conversation. I mean—the stuff you showed me? That’s real talk.”
I prop up on an elbow. “It was real. Even that whole thing about being bullied by a girl in Home Economics class. Haley lifted it off TokTalk and You-chat and wherever else people spill their guts online.”
I lie back and throw an arm over my eyes. I’ve figured out other stuff, too: Haley harvested her racist rant from the Web, where there’s plenty of that. As for pretending she lived in Old Orchard Beach, that was because I’d liked Lily’s photos from here, and she’d calculated it was too far for me to visit. Haley was all about making me happy. But that was the old me. New me chooses humans.
Jason reads, and his voice is like liquid. This is how we spend a few afternoons a week; I hear another chapter and learn something else about him. I let the words flow over me and turn over today’s new things in my mind: Jason’s dad seems nice. He wants to meet me. First girlfriend.
I sit up and look at Jason. My blood makes a funny rushing sound in my ears. But if I can beat Haley and stop a speeding train, I can cope with Jason meeting my family.
Jason stops reading. “You okay?”
“You and your dad—do you want to come to a barbecue?”
That grin I love dawns over Jason’s face. “Sure, great!”
I blow out a huge breath. “Get ready for nosy questions. You’ll have to put up with my mother and brother.”
A voice sounds behind me. “And your charming father.”
For an instant I just stare, then I leap up and hurl myself into Dad’s arms. “Dad! How?” His suitcase is beside him. He fumbles a box of Irish washing powder as he lifts me into the air.
“Your mam and your friends organized it. Good to meet you, Jason.” I feel Dad nod at Jason over my head.
“Mr. Doyle, sir.”
Dad’s mighty squeeze, and his scents of cotton and Ireland, fill every empty space in my heart. “I’ll miss our video call today, sorry,” he says in my ear, and I laugh, too choked to speak.
I’ll let him off, just this once. Because I’ve got the real thing.
When I was twelve, I watched one of the most popular girls bully one of the shyest in our class. Speaking up felt unthinkable—I was terrified of becoming a target myself. So I looked away. I never thought about how, for that girl, the fear of telling must have been so much worse.
Growing up doesn’t free you from bullies. I’m one of the millions of adults who has been bullied at work, and I remember how sick I felt each morning, knowing I’d see that man’s face across the office. Even worse, though, has been seeing a whole new generation of middle schoolers I know get bullied. It seems like nothing changes.
Except maybe this: I’ve watched some of these young people, the bravest ones, speak up and tell someone they trust what’s happening. I’ve seen school principals act fast and stop bullies, overnight. Best of all, I’ve watched these kids inspire one another: They see someone else speak up and realize they can, too, no matter how bad things have become.
I wrote this book because I know how hard it is to tell someone you’re being bullied. The anger and shame can feel like they’re choking you. But here’s the thing: There are people who really want to help. A bully’s power is partly based on the silence of their targets. In fact, they’re counting on the fact that you won’t talk. Yes, speaking up can feel more terrifying than putting up with what you’re experiencing day to day. But you shouldn’t have to handle this alone. Try a parent, caregiver, older sibling, school nurse, guidance counselor, teacher, neighbor, sports coach, family doctor—and keep trying till someone listens. You can also learn more at stopbullying.gov, or for a hands-on resource written for readers aged eleven and up, try The Teenage Guide to Stress by Nicola Morgan.
If a bully has targeted you, it’s not your fault, and you don’t deserve it. Don’t wait—not even one more day—to tell someone. This is your life. Nobody has the right to make you feel like a stranger inside it.
Sometimes the only thing buoying a writer is their own self-confidence, but I have been staggeringly fortunate to be held up, for as long as I can remember, by the belief of my mother, Pat, and my sister, Maura. This book is dedicated to Daddy, but you two brilliant women, both readers, have my thanks and love for always believing I’d get here. To my Scottish family: Ralph, thank you for tea, sympathy, and being the best husband a writer could want; and Ben and Sally, thanks for being tough readers, with remarkable insights that strengthen whatever I write.
My readers and critiquers are mostly in the UK and Ireland’s vibrant kidlit community, including the Society of Children’s Book Writer and Illustrators British Isles and BookBound. Thanks Mandy Rabin, Angela Murray, A. M. Dassu, P. M. Freestone, Sheila Adamson, Anita Gallo, J. M. Carr, Sarah Baker, Susan Bain, Susan Elsley, and the amazing Christina Banach. A special, bottomless cup of thanks to my own North Star, M. Louise Kelly. I couldn’t have written this story without these readers’ feedback. SCBWI Scotland is the warmest community for children’s writers: Thank you for championing me and each other, and thanks to the Edinburgh International Book Festival for supporting us all.
Huge gratitude to Urara Hiroeh and Mairéad Devlin for keeping me right on Japanese and Irish questions respectively; to Professor Les Carr for AI insights; and to Downeaster Engineer Mike and the Amtrak Discussion Forum. Any errors, including the impossibilities of the fictional Downeaster II, are my own. Sincere thanks to Elizabeth Tiffany and Josh Berlowitz for their excellent, close copyedit. In Massachusetts, thanks to Andrew and Valerie at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and the helpful Billow House team in Orchard Park, Maine.
Elizabeth Ezra, Phillip White, Wade Albert White, the book-wise Natasha Ingram-Phoenix, and young readers Jessie Smith, Andrew McWilliam-Snow, and Reuben Phoenix-Hill have helped me hugely. To my first reader, author Aubrey Flegg: You gave me the hope I needed to carry on trying, way back in 2003. Wise and generous industry pros Lin Oliver, Candy Gourlay, Lindsey Fraser, Keith
Gray, Barry Cunningham, Imogen Cooper, Non Pratt, Nicola Morgan, Elizabeth Wein, Maile Meloy, TJ Mitchell, Rebecca Lewis-Oakes, Deborah Turner Harris, Kelly Sonnack, Mitali Perkins, Sara Grant, Sara Morling O’Connor, Karen Ball, and Jasmine Richards gave me precious and well-timed advice and encouragement.
To the Scottish Book Trust and Creative Scotland, thank you for the New Writers Award grant and practical support. Danny Scott, Cathy Forde, and Debi Gliori, I’m so grateful that you pulled Roisin out of the judging pile and gave her a chance, and Debi, thanks for introducing me to SCBWI. Thanks, too, to the retreat team at Moniack Mhor who understand and provide everything that writers in a fugue state need.
Teachers Dale Maharidge, Peter Atlas, Matthew Joyce, Joyce Aldrich, Mrs. J. Woody, and Bill Simmons: You made me feel I might do something special. Huge thanks, too, to the libraries I’ve loved, including Boston Public Library, where I read Delphine Hirasuna’s The Art of Gaman. Read it to learn more about Himeko Fukuhara’s and Kazuko Matsumoto’s carved wooden birds and other artworks created by Japanese Americans imprisoned for the duration of World War II following Executive Order 9066.
Infinite thanks to my agent, Jennifer Laughran, who met me under the redwoods at Big Sur Children’s Writers Workshop and granted me three wishes; at least, that’s how it feels, such is her magic. Finally, I’m forever grateful to editor Emily Seife: Thank you for being the most sensitive and skillful editor, and for helping convey Roisin’s predicament in the strongest way.
Sheila M. Averbuch is a former journalist who’s interviewed billionaires, hackers, and would-be Mars colonists. She writes fiction for middle grade and is bewitched by and suspicious of technology in equal measure. Originally from Massachusetts, she earned an AB in History and Literature at Harvard University and an MA in Journalism at Stanford before moving to Ireland, where she covered the Northern Ireland Troubles for USA Today and set up Ireland’s first technology news website. She lives, writes, and gardens near Edinburgh, Scotland, and Friend Me is her first novel. To learn more, visit sheilamaverbuch.com or follow @sheilamaverbuch on Twitter or Instagram.
Friend Me Page 15