by Yannick Hill
Sixteen years old today. She looked down at her bare arms, hands, her fingers, but they didn’t look any different. She felt it though. She’d always felt a little older inside. She looked over her shoulder again and that’s when her food arrived.
Leticia had told them bedtime stories when they were kids, made them up as she went along. There was this one about a white dog. Woof woof. It was Missy who woke to the sound of barking outside. She went over to the open window and saw a big, white, fluffy dog waiting in front of the house. Woof. She put on a cardigan over her nightdress and went downstairs to see what the dog wanted. She followed the dog until they reached the edge of the gardens belonging to Versailles. Woof woof! The white dog had led her to a place where he’d been digging. He’d dug a deep tunnel right under the fence and next thing Missy knew, the dog disappeared inside. Well, of course she had no choice but to go in right after him. Once outside Missy saw that the dog had grown much bigger, so she climbed on his back like he was a little pony and off they went, due north toward the forest. Once inside the trees, the dog introduced Missy to a pack of wolves and that’s when she realized he’d been a wolf all along. But instead of eating her up, the wolves took care of Missy and showed her their way of being, and that’s where she remains to this day, living wild in among those dark trees.
Missy couldn’t eat all her cheeseburger but it was so good. She thought about calling her mom but decided it wasn’t the right time, not yet, better to get back on the road and put more distance between her and Versailles. She missed her mom. She missed her little brother. Nora stopped her by the door as she was leaving, put a hand on each of Missy’s shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘You’re a good girl, Scout. I want you to take care now, you hear?’
‘I will,’ Missy said. ‘Thank you.’
Outside, she turned to wave goodbye a final time but Nora was already taking someone’s order. Missy got back in her car and opened the new app on her phone. It took a moment to triangulate her position and told her to continue north-east toward the mountains. Was she really following in Scout’s footsteps somehow? For now it didn’t matter. She was free. A free Missy.
2
As the sun rose above the horizon, River typed words into a binary translator.
River Baer
01010010 01101001 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01000010 01100001 01100101 01110010
River Baer likes girls
01010010 01101001 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01000010 01100001 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101100 01101001 01101011 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100111 01101001 01110010 01101100 01110011
River Baer likes boys
01010010 01101001 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01000010 01100001 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101100 01101001 01101011 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100010 01101111 01111001 01110011
Hornier than a 4-balled tomcat
01001000 01101111 01110010 01101110 01101001 01100101 01110010 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01100001 00100000 00110100 00101101 01100010 01100001 01101100 01101100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 01101101 01100011 01100001 01110100
River wasn’t himself this morning and it felt good. It wasn’t just his new bear costume that fitted him like a dream. He’d been up all night again on the internet, generating fictional profiles for the social network. It was his art, his thing, pretending to be different people, dreaming other lives online. Some were never more than a name, others he took all the way, finding them real friends, real enemies, in and out of love, sparkle and fade. His favorite profile of the night was a mom of one named Jenny. She’d majored in English at college but had to give up her dream of becoming a writer after getting pregnant with her first kid. She had long red hair, green eyes (just like his mom) and a husband she thought was having an affair. River came up with Jenny at three in the morning while watching a documentary about overfishing in the East China Sea on mute with some under-ground Finnish hip hop playing so loud the bass sent a glass show-jumping trophy smashing to a thousand pieces on the floor.
There was nothing unusual in the conception, Jenny came to him as they always did. First as an emotion, not his but real. Colors. A play of light and sound. Then her voice, at first as heard through a wall, then right there in the room with him, like she was in his head. He decided to go on with Jenny. He ordered breakfast in bed on his phone and started streaming the second in a series of films about human trafficking in the former Soviet Bloc nations. He would work on Jenny all day, take her on some forums. No better way to discover who she was than to be her, go through her motions. He knew just the place to start. He found a message board with mothers exchanging baby tips. Perfect. Then he paused. Something he had to do first. It was like a ritual, part of his creative process. River walked across his bedroom to the tennis ball cannon, got up on the high stool, spread his legs, ran his fingers through his longish brown hair and took a deep breath. He pressed the green button on the plastic remote.
Thung, the yellow tennis ball hit him right boom in his private collection. The pain wasn’t pain, it was a dull paradigm shift, a sad dragon in the mist, a deluxe gray curtain falling lazily across his consciousness, it was exit stage forward, a thousand oncoming headlights but no blood. The sounds he made in the aftermath were those of a sea lion shrugging off the powerful advances of another male. River collapsed on his knees and inadvertently licked the floor like it was a block of ice on a hot summer’s day. Muscle memory. He was ready now. Totally ready to be Jenny. He slowly got to his feet like a ruined hero and stumbled back to his workstation, a concave semi-circle of seven vertically oriented monitors framing an endless cascade of live social interactions.
Okay, baby forum. He made his first post as Jenny in an active thread about whether to give your baby milk heated up or at room temperature:
jenny78
I make the bottles up ahead of time and store them in the refrigerator, then warm up when needed. My boy likes it warm but I think it depends on the baby. Hope this helps. :)
A little further into the discussion someone addressed Jenny directly.
bubblegurl
Haven’t seen you here before, jenny78. We welcome you to the forum and hope you are enjoying your baby!
jenny78
Thanks bubblegurl. I have a gorgeous 4-month-old boy named Buddy. He’s just the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. I’m so so tired but of course I’m in heaven.
While River was waiting for a reply, a gentle chime and pulsing green LED told him breakfast was served. He opened the hatch in the wall and removed the tray. Sleepy Bear pancakes (yum) and hot chocolate with marshmallows, his favorite. Well, it was his birthday. He refreshed the page.
bubblegurl
Buddy sounds like a darling. I remember those sleepless nights well. He could be teething mine started when he was 3 months.
jenny78
Yes he must be teething. Last night he managed about two hours sleep. None of my usual tricks are working I’ve tried cuddles, car ride, movie, lullaby. Not a happy camper.
cathyasmom
Have you tried taking him to bed with you? Mine is six months and likes her space now. I know it’s not a long-term solution but it saves you getting up every time.
jenny78
That’s what we did I had him between us and he was okay after that. When he settles like that his breathing actually sends me to sleep quicker than anything. I’m so happy right now. I know you know but it’s this feeling of your life meaning so much more. It’s like waking up and the room is full of sunlight. Sure the endless nights have left me feeling like a zombie, but then one of these days Buddy will say something and it’s because of me, you know?
bubblegurl
I know exactly what you mean and you sound like a wonderful mother, Jenny. So happy to welcome you to these boards. Don’t hesitate to check in any time. You’re never alone!
jenny78
Likewise, bubblegurl. It’s a real comfort to kn
ow I can go online and share like this. Things can get kind of isolated at home when my husband’s at work. I know that sounds terrible because of course I have my baby but, I don’t know . . . I’m sure you ladies understand.
River was flowing now. Feeling the character. It was like Jenny saying these things just before he typed the words. It wasn’t always this quick but there was something about her. He could see her at a bureau of dark, varnished wood, the kind with a panel that folds down into a desk with drawers and compartments. She inherited this piece from one of her parents, her father – no – her mother. It was where she wrote her first novel about a spiritual journey to the Arctic north by nuclear icebreaker. It was where she still wrote letters by hand to her old friends and opened her laptop when she needed the internet, which was more often these days. She could lose hours online, adrift in a sea of celebrity trivia, baby forums and male-on-male hardcore. The search was for nothing in particular. Oblivion. She loved her son. Her baby boy. She wasn’t lying to those people on the forum. It was only that this reality, real life, felt more like a dream now, and when she closed her eyes, when she finally did sleep long enough to dream, that’s when it all felt tangible and her world came back into focus. The internet was another such dimension. Browsing, she could almost achieve a kind of dream state. She always made sure to delete her search history before her husband came home late at night.
River could hear her baby crying upstairs. He followed Jenny from her desk, across the moss-green carpet to the foot of the stairs. She paused only momentarily and they ascended together as one. He took Jenny into Buddy’s room, which smelled like strawberries and freshly laundered towels. She reached into his cot and lifted out her baby, bringing him close to her bosom and kissing him again and again on his warm head, whispering, Yes, yes, my darling, it’s alright, Mommy’s here now, did you have a bad dream, bunny, did you? Well, you’re awake now and it’s all okay again. I’m here, I’m here . . . Jenny slowly danced and talked like this until Buddy was quiet again, but instead of returning him to his bed she took him with her back downstairs where she could keep a closer eye on him.
River bit down on the strawberry lollipop and swiveled in his chair to face into the bedroom. He only knew it was his birthday because his twin sister had come by late last night to say hi. Or had he dreamed it? Either way, he couldn’t remember much about the conversation. And according to one of his screens, he was about to get another visitor. His mother. She was in the corridor, approaching his room. She was wearing her long nightdress with a suit jacket over her shoulders. River cursed under his breath before triggering the deadbolts and opening the door.
He met her eye for half a second before seeing her bare feet. The rush of anger was unexpected. He wanted to take her in his arms but couldn’t even look her in the eye. Like knowing there’s a ghost, right there. Her perfume mixed with something else. His own mother. Mom. His blood. Hers. He remembered. It seemed like long ago. The time they used to spend together. The two of them. Side by side as he played video games.
She’d watch him for a while with raised eyebrows, ask him what his mission was in her deep, deadpan voice, and once he was convinced she wasn’t making fun, he’d explain (and she was always quick to learn. It wasn’t long before she was punching the air when he did good and bossing him around, telling him she’d take the M-16 over the AK-47, every time). He liked it, her attention, her watching made his progress a performance, the controller in his grasp designed by her, he liked the way it fit inside his hands just perfect. Human factors, she would say, ergonomics.
He liked her there, her smell, those questions in her low, slow voice. But something changed. Her voice wasn’t quite the same. And she moved different. Her face. It wasn’t her, not quite. Her smell. Her perfume masking something. The drugs masking everything. Those pills in the white boxes. She didn’t come to visit anymore, not even for a goodnight kiss. This appearance was the first in weeks, no, months. He felt the sting in his nose. He missed her. The time they spent.
He missed her even now, with her standing right in front of him in the corridor. He wished his sister could be here, she always knew the thing to say. ‘Hi, Synthea.’
‘River, have you seen your sister this morning?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well if you see her will you tell her to come see me in my office, I want to wish her—’ Synthea Baer broke off when she realized. First Missy, then River, ten seconds after. My darling River, I didn’t forget, please don’t close the door. I didn’t forget your birthday, you’re my son. Let me see your face, you look so tired, and it’s your birthday. I knew it was your birthday and I didn’t forget. Let me sit with you a while and watch you play. Spend some time together like we used to do.
She remembered. River offering her the game controller each time and her saying no, she liked just being there. Her son, the deft movements of his fingers over the color-coded buttons, the rapid twitches of his thumbs over rubberized analogue sticks. Her design. Form and function. His form, the shape of him. And how she loved him. Her son beside her, her blood, his eyes flickering like jewels as he played, a kind of dreaming, the violence on the screen fading into the deep background. How different she was from him. This time was something she could share in. He’d offer her the controller but she’d say no.
Synthea went to kiss her son’s cheek but he moved away before she could. ‘Happy Birthday, River,’ she managed to say, and the door was closed again. The cool, steel surface gave her a light electric shock.
River woke his computer and watched his mother in the corridor. Something about the way she carried herself. Her bare feet. In the past she was always dressed to perfection, by day in pale, futuristic suits of her own design, by night in dresses dreamed in strip-lit Paris ateliers. She used to look like a movie star. Nowadays it was always this nightdress and business jacket ensemble, and never any shoes, her bare feet silent on the carpets as she wandered the corridors like a stray spirit. This woman in the corridor was not his mom . . . He felt the sting in his nose like he was about to cry but he didn’t cry. This is how it was. A kind of grieving.
He watched her touch the door and then recoil. She turned to face the camera and held its gaze for a minute before turning and disappearing out of shot. By the time the monitor lizard entered the frame not long after, River had minimized the window and resumed his role-play as Jenny.
3
The mountains loomed and Missy turned left onto the northbound highway. The sky was cartoon blue. Her first time alone outside the city. It was like a dream. #AllMe.
I’m running away – I’m running away from home – I’m flying – Like an arrow – My black feathers fluttering in the wind – My wings fluttering with black feathers – I’m flying, away from them, away from everything. And the boy at school, the boy at school who told her she was beautiful. If only he could see. If only she could share this moment. All she had to do was log back in. Status update. Break the internet. No. This was her. Her escape. No more internet. No more Versailles. No more Casey. Missy missing now. She tapped cancel, returned the phone to its cradle.
What Casey did. She almost wished it was one thing she could bury deep inside, like a specific memory of a bad event. But this wasn’t like that. What Casey did was more like finding out you were living on top of a giant ant colony. Under the carpets. Teeming. First it was two, three ants crawling up the power cable to your computer, up your little finger. Then they’re in your clothes, in your bed, crawling in your mouth when you’re asleep. Continuous. What Casey did was – a betrayal, but Missy wasn’t interested in finding the words just yet. First she had to live her life, follow her broken heart while it was still open. The music loud on the stereo, sword on the back seat. #OpenRoad.
A convoy of bikers overtook Missy. The roar, the vibrations, it was kind of scary but she wanted a part of it. More painted faces. There was definitely something going on. She’d drive till she got tired then find a motel, new sheets, fresh s
heets, get some beauty sleep! It was weird because she didn’t miss any of the people she’d left behind, except her mom . . . and her brother . . . and Leticia . . . Okay, those guys, but that didn’t mean she wanted to go home. No way. Maybe it was too early to say, but right now? She felt she could handle her business just fine.
She thought about flooring the accelerator to keep up with the bikers but she was happy cruising at this speed for now, following the gentle instructions on her phone, the landscape outside her windows playing like a movie all day, the highway disappearing under her car, appearing and disappearing, the rush, rush of tarmac and the landscape outside her windows, wide, wider than anything she’d ever seen, wider than a dream, this landscape like a movie outside her windows, moving through and then across, a rush of tarmac and the thrill of escape. Away from Versailles, no cameras on her now. This time alone was precious. She played the right music. And the boy at school. The boy at school who told her she was beautiful.
She thought about checking in on her mom but decided it wasn’t the right time, not yet, better to put more distance between her and Versailles. She missed her little brother too. River would have loved this. He couldn’t drive but he would have loved this, the road disappearing under the hood like in a video game, him jabbering at her from the passenger seat about the latest developments in virtual reality, making her listen to his Finnish hip hop on the stereo, knowing every word but not knowing what they meant. She thought about messaging him right now, but no. This was all her, this time alone was precious. Eyes forward, she took a picture with her mind for later, a blink against the sunlight streaming in the forward windshield.
4
It took Synthea seven minutes to walk between River’s bunker and her office in Versailles’ East Wing. The elevator opened into a work space defined by a single pane of curved glass framing a view of the ocean so total it sometimes felt like being at the bridge of a great ship headed elsewhere.