Bubble World

by Carol Snow

  When Mother returned, she looked dazed. “They said your account has been closed due to breach of contract. They said you caused undue harm to others by making derogatory comments about Bubble World and thus detracting from the total educational immersion experience.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mother, but…”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t understand a single thing you just said.”

  “They say you told people that Bubble World wasn’t real.”

  “But…” And then it hit her. The cave: it wasn’t safe. They could see her there after all.

  “Mom? Is there anything for breakfast?” Angel stood in the doorway. She wore tiny white shorts with fuzzy brown boots and a bright blue sweater that rode up and showed her navel.

  “There’s cereal and Pop-Tarts in the pantry,” Mother said.

  Angel glared at Freesia. “What’s it doing awake?”

  “It’s having technical difficulties. I mean, we’re having technical difficulties. Or maybe legal difficulties. How did you know?” Mother asked Freesia. “Didn’t your father make you take your meds before you went back?”

  “I dumped the memory blocker down the toilet when he wasn’t looking.”

  “Do we have anything for breakfast that isn’t processed?” Angel asked.

  Mother thought about it. “No.”

  Angel left in a huff.

  “But everything is okay now,” Freesia told her mother. “It was flippy at first, knowing that nothing was as it seemed. But then I realized that it doesn’t matter. Agalinas is my home. I won’t say anything to anyone ever again. I promise.”

  “It’s not me you have to convince.” Mother shook her head. “Look. Tech support says you’ve been expelled from Bubble World. You know, deleted. And they said no one will even look at your application for readmittance until the end of the week. But I’ll call Todd today, get everything sorted out.”

  “They deleted me?”

  Just like that, she was gone. Poof.

  Mother said, “I need to shower and dress, after which I’ll make every effort to sort this mess out. There are Pop-Tarts in the pantry—you always loved Pop-Tarts—and television in the den. You can use Angel’s computer after she goes to school. Just don’t tell her.”

  As Mother turned to leave, Father showed up carrying a plastic bottle and several foil-wrapped packages. He was dressed up in tan pants that were too tight at his belted waist, a rust-colored shirt, and a black tie with awkward square edges. Being dressed up did not mean he looked good. But at least he looked tidy.

  “I’ve got her nutrients,” he told Mother. And then he saw Freesia, awake and aware, looking at him. “Another malfunction?”

  “Worse.” Mother explained the situation.

  “But you told me you had to go to the restroom,” he said to Freesia when they got to the bit about the memory blocker.

  “I wanted to know what it was like,” Freesia said. “To be in Agalinas knowing what I knew.”

  “How was it?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Odious.”

  “I’m sure things will be cleared up in a jiffy. Todd Piloski is a close personal friend of your mother’s.” Father entered the bubble. He poured the contents of the bottle into Freesia’s metal cup and began unwrapping the packages.

  “I told her she could have Pop-Tarts,” Mother said. “So she doesn’t need the nutrition bars. But … you might as well leave them, just in case. If I can get Todd into the loop, maybe we can reboot by lunchtime.”

  Mother went off to shower, while Father and Angel left for the high school. And then Freesia was alone as she’d never been alone before, at least within the narrow limits of her mucky memory. There was no one to bring her coffee. No one to meet for shopping or dancing. No parties to go to. No besties to bubble.

  The unwrapped nutrient bars sat on the metal tray where her father had left them. She sat in the recliner and took a bite, expecting the taste of a cookie or waffle. But no. The nutrient bar tasted like stale nuts and dust. On the bright side, there were Pop-Tarts in the kitchen. And she knew what they were, even if she didn’t know how she knew. Strawberry was her favorite, followed by fudge. But she wasn’t ready to leave this room. Not yet.

  Maybe the clear liquid in the tall metal cup would help wash down the bar?

  Nope. It tasted bad, too, though in a different way: a sweetness that gave way to a bitter bite and ultimately left a metallic aftertaste. But she was hungry and thirsty, so she forced herself through most of a bar and more than half the contents of the cup.

  She felt better. Almost … too much better. She was so relaxed she felt sleepy, though not enough to go to bed. She wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t sad, either. And she wasn’t angry or frightened or anxious or excited … or anything. She was just kind of flat. What was in that cup, anyway?

  She sat in the recliner for a while, but that got boring, so she got up and explored a closet she hadn’t noticed before. On the floor were a taped-up cardboard box, a pair of slippers, and some ugly slip-on shoes. A few oversized sweatshirts (gray, another gray, black) dangled from wire hangers. Plastic bins held socks and underwear, a pile of stretch pants, and a stack of oversized T-shirts.

  That was it. Forget about a sofa and a fridge filled with sips and nibbles. Freesia’s closet held no jeans, no dresses, no skirts, no scarves, no handbags, no blouses, no jackets—nothing she would ever in a gajillion years want to wear. How could her parents do this to her? Anger seeped through her medicated numbness. She was so mad, she wanted to … she was ready to … she was driven to …

  “I need a Pop-Tart!”

  Her mother came into the room. She wore sweatpants, a pilled and ill-fitting sweater, and velour slippers. She’d combed her hair, but it was dull and frizzy. Just like Francine’s.

  “I’ve put a call in to Todd.”

  Freesia pointed to her metal cup. “What did I just drink?”

  “If he doesn’t call back within the hour, I’ll try him again.”

  “The stuff Father poured from the bottle. What is it?”

  “It’s normal for you to feel disoriented. This experience has been a shock.”

  “Mother. What have you been giving me?”

  Mother opened the bubble door and stepped inside. “Your medications, of course. They reduce your anxiety, increase your focus, and help induce the proper hypnotic, semihallucinatory state. It’s all perfectly safe.”

  She picked up the metal cup and peered inside. “You drank half of it already? Normally you pace yourself—a few sips every hour, all day long. Oh, well. It’s not dangerous. But it might make you sleepy. Don’t drink any more for now. If you’re thirsty, get something else to drink. I think there’s lemonade in the fridge.” She looked at her watch. “You know what? I’m going to try Todd again. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

  And then she was gone.

  Lemonade. Pop-Tarts. Now Freesia had two reasons to leave the room.

  The hallway was just as she remembered (how strange to remember things): plain white walls, with closed doors and framed pictures of ugly people. Oh—wait. Those pictures were of her. Plus some other people who were probably relatives. Ugly must run in the family.

  And then she saw Angel. Her Angel, not the nasty girl who slept in the next room. She was maybe eleven years old, on a stage and wearing a pale leotard and en pointe shoes, her hair slicked back in a bun, her arms forming a graceful U over her head. Her eyes were wide, and she was smiling.

  No wonder she loved virtual Angel so much. She wasn’t entirely make-believe—more like her actual little sister, frozen in time. She blinked back tears and headed for the stairs.

  Ugh! Stairs! Thanks to whatever was in that cup, she didn’t panic, but still. She had to be careful. She clutched the banister, took one little step, another little step, put a foot into the abyss, and—

  This wasn’t going to work. Having spent the last few years in two dimensions, she wasn’t sure how to negotiate the leve
l changes. She had to get down a different way.

  Freesia sat on the carpeted floor and slid her feet and legs over the first step. She scooted forwarded, and … bump. One step down, a whole bunch more to go. She leaned back, pushed her bottom forward and … bump. Two down.

  Finally she made it to the landing, stood up, and walked on wobbly legs to the kitchen, which was just as plain as she remembered it. But who cared? In the pantry, Freesia found the promised Pop-Tarts, along with cheese curls, chocolate chip cookies, Thin Mints, granola bars, fruity cereal, and box after box of macaroni and cheese. The refrigerator held chocolate milk, orange-guava-strawberry juice, diet soda, leftover pizza, bottled smoothies, and bacon. Also lots of Styrofoam containers.

  She started with a frosted strawberry Pop-Tart and a glass of the complicated juice, both of which tickled her taste buds. As much as she longed to be back in Agalinas, she would miss the basic sensation of fully experiencing food.

  So really, she had no choice but to eat more.

  Chocolate chip cookies: check.

  Chocolate milk: check.

  Another Pop-Tart.

  At that point, her taste buds protested. Freesia took that as a call for salt. She chased a bag of cheese curls with a handful of pretzels and a small slice of pepperoni pizza.

  She didn’t get sick, but she felt so awful, she almost wished she had. To distract herself while she digested, she went into the den, in search of the television her mother had mentioned. Like banister, the word television stuck in her mind. It was a happy word.

  She recognized the gray box immediately, but she couldn’t remember how to turn it on. Figuring the contraption might work like a bubble, she placed her hands on the cold, hard screen.

  “Program check.”

  Nothing.

  “I want to watch you.”

  Forget it.

  A nubby tan couch faced the set. Freesia sat down, rubbed her belly, and stared at the blank screen. What did it matter whether she got something to appear on the screen? She had no interest in watching people she didn’t know have grand adventures while she was stuck in this house doing nothing.

  When her stomach felt a bit more settled, she returned to the stairs. Going up was easier; she simply crawled on hands and knees. Unfortunately, her mother came out of her office just as Freesia reached the top step. Mother cringed.

  Freesia stood up and brushed off her knees. “You’re out of Pop-Tarts,” she said as casually as she could manage. “Also, you said I could use Angel’s computer?” Perhaps she could find the Bubble World website.

  “As long as you don’t tell her.”

  “How could I tell her? Won’t I be back in Agalinas by the time she gets home?”

  Mother’s mouth twitched. “I’ll try Todd again.”

  Angel’s room had candy pink walls with a ballerina border, purple polka-dot curtains, and a canopy bed so tall it came with a step stool. Clothes overflowed from a cramped closet and a low white dresser. A white desk lay buried under papers and makeup.

  A bulletin board hung over the dresser. Freesia moved closer to inspect the high school football game ticket stubs, a couple of hand-drawn birthday cards, assorted fashion model and teen idol pictures, and a certificate of eighth grade completion. There were photos, too: Angel, slightly younger, with a friend, posing in someone’s bedroom; Angel, younger still, sitting on the edge of a concrete swimming pool with a group of curveless preteens in bikinis.

  A third photo, mostly hidden behind the eighth grade certificate, startled Freesia. Two smiling little girls, maybe three and five years old, beamed at the camera from a green turtle sandbox. The older one, with dark hair, had her arm around the younger one, a blonde who held up a red shovel like a torch.

  Could it be—? There was a family resemblance, certainly, but the little girls could easily be younger cousins. And yet …

  No. Angel despised her sister. There was no way she’d keep Freesia’s picture in her room.

  When something moved in the corner of her vision, Freesia jumped—but then she realized it was just a full-length mirror hung on the wall. Freesia took a deep breath and looked. Prepared as she was for an utter troll, her reflection didn’t seem as horrifying as before. Her curls were out of control, but if styled properly, could be fun and flirty. A good foundation could do wonders for her skin. Her eyebrows could be plucked, and her thighs … well, her thighs were a problem.

  Freesia searched the room for a computer—a difficult task, since she wasn’t exactly sure what a computer looked like. Nothing in this room resembled either Ricky’s giant screen or Mother’s glowing box.

  With nothing else to do, Freesia retreated to her bedroom. To her bubble. She closed the hinged door behind her, sat down in the recliner, and downed the rest of the liquid in the metal cup. Before long, she was asleep.

  20

  When she woke up, the light was gray, her neck hurt, and her mouth tasted like synthetic cheese. Worst of all, she was still in Arizona. She brushed her teeth in her bubble bathroom and ventured into the hallway. Voices drifted up from downstairs, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  She bumped down the stairs on her bottom, relieved that no one saw her, and followed the voices.

  Mother was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot.

  Father was in the den, reading some papers.

  Angel darted between them, alternately poking that hand-sized glowing rectangle she loved so much and saying things like “worst day ever,” “care about me at all,” and “ruin my life.”

  “Hello,” Freesia said, entering the kitchen.

  Mother grunted. Angel said nothing.

  “Is that spaghetti?” Freesia asked Mother.

  “Macaroni and cheese.”

  “Macaroni and chemicals and artificial coloring is more like it,” Angel said. “I’ll have carrots and dip.”

  “I like macaroni and cheese,” Freesia said. “Almost as much as spaghetti.”

  “We’re out of carrots,” Mother told Angel. “Also skim milk, cashews, and frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts. I’m using a new grocery shopping app, which means I know exactly what we don’t have.”

  Freesia knew better than to bug Mother about her Bubble World status, so she went into the den and bugged Father instead.

  He looked up from his papers. “From what I’ve heard, the situation is status quo.”

  “English, please.”

  “We haven’t heard back.”

  At last dinner was ready. Freesia knew better than to expect a harbor-view meal at sunset; still, she was surprised that dinner meant a stack of plates next to the stove. Mother scooped some bright orange macaroni onto her own plate, filled a glass with faucet water, and headed for her office. Angel grabbed a granola bar and a glass of chocolate milk and stalked off to her room. Father took his portion and returned to the den. Freesia stood in the kitchen, baffled.

  At last she filled a plate with a generous helping, poured herself a glass of chocolate milk, and perched on a counter stool. Chemicals or no, the macaroni and cheese was silky, creamy, salty, and delicious. She cleaned her plate and helped herself to some more. When that was gone, she finished what was left in the pot.

  When she heard noises from the den, she went to investigate. Father, still surrounded by papers, had somehow turned on the television. The picture was a lot like a bubblecast, only flatter and with duller colors.

  “You like soccer?” he asked.

  Onscreen, men with nice legs ran around in shorts.

  Freesia said, “It might be my favorite sport.”

  Mother came in, looking tense. But then, she always looked like that, so it didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  “I received an e-mail from the account services department at Bubble World Enterprises,” she told Father.

  “And?”

  “It said Request Denied. That’s it. No ‘thank you for writing.’ No ‘we’re reviewing the situation.’ No ‘thanks for all the Web coverage.’ Requ
est denied.”

  “But Todd—”

  “Is going to get an earful from me. I’m shocked he hasn’t responded personally yet. He’s probably off in some woodsy lodge in a brainstorming session or something. You know how those Internet types are.”

  “So tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow Francine is going to school with you.”

  “What?” Father and Freesia spoke at once.

  “It could be days before we clear this up. Weeks, even. I cannot have her moping around the house, interrupting my work. Plus, we have her education to think about,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Weeks?” Freesia said.

  “It’s possible. Not probable, but possible. Don’t stay up too late. The first bell rings at seven thirty A.M., and you’ll have to get there early so Father can speak to the counselor.”

  “How do you expect me to explain the situation?” Father asked.

  “You say what we’ve told people all along—that Francine has been enrolled in an online high school. It’s the truth, after all.”

  Angel appeared in the doorway. “Is there any macaroni left?”

  “There should be,” Mother said. “The box makes enough for five people.”

  “Why is the pot empty, then?”

  Freesia said, “I can’t possibly go to school tomorrow—or any other day. It would be so un-utter.” She shuddered.

  Mother turned to Angel. “Presumably, the pot is empty because someone finished the macaroni.” To Francine she said, “You made your bed, and now you have to lie in it.”

  “They have beds at school?”

  “No. They do not have beds at school. What I meant was that you got yourself kicked out of Bubble World, and now you have to live with the consequences.”

  “I finished the macaroni,” Freesia said.

  Angel said, “Wait. Francine is going to school? My school? What will everyone say?”

  Father said, “They’ll say your sister is lucky to have been educated in a place that values interactive learning over test scores. They’ll wonder why her skills and knowledge are so advanced. And they’ll be shocked that she finds the classics and history more mesmerizing than MySpace and reality TV. You know what? I’m glad that I can take Francine to school tomorrow. She can really open people’s eyes to the possibilities of a nontraditional educational environment.”