Bubble World

by Carol Snow

  Underneath the Barbies were books, school papers, and photos. She pulled out a report card from first grade. In the comment section, her teacher had written, “Francine lacks self-control and cries easily.”

  Freesia threw down the paper in disgust. Of course she’d cried easily. She’d been six years old! Tears were a reasonable response to the horrors she remembered of elementary school.

  A thin chain snaked among the loose photos. She plucked the necklace out of the box and examined the pendant: half a heart. She had something similar in Agalinas. This one had something engraved on it: BE.

  “Be?” With a shrug, she added the necklace to the pile of papers and moved on to the photographs.

  She dug through various school and birthday party shots until she found it: the Halloween picture of her, Erin, and that other girl dressed as the three blind mice. Taryn—that was the girl’s name. She’d moved to their neighborhood at the beginning of sixth grade.

  Taryn was pretty. The girls all wanted to be her friend, Erin most of all. The boys, their hormones just starting to kick in, became either mute or obnoxious in her presence.

  On that awful Halloween, all three girls had gone to school in costume: leotards with ballet skirts, mouse ear headbands, and giant sunglasses. In the morning, they walked together in the school parade. But then, during lunch, Erin told Francine she couldn’t be friends with her anymore. She didn’t want it to be this way, but Taryn had made her choose. Taryn thought Francine was too babyish. And she cried too much. And wore ugly clothes. Also, Taryn wouldn’t have anything to do with someone who still played with Barbies.

  Francine, to her credit, did not cry—at least until she got home. She didn’t even want to trick-or-treat, but her mother made her go with Angel and her friends.

  One blind mouse. See how she runs.

  Her memory of the incident restored, Freesia wished she could erase it. She dumped everything back into the cardboard box and shoved it to the rear of her closet.

  Angel’s door was closed, as usual. Freesia knocked. And knocked. And knocked. And—

  “All right!” The door swung open. Angel looked good today, in one of the outfits Freesia had put together, but her blush was still too orange.

  “Have you checked my e-mail since you got home from school?”

  “My life does not revolve around your e-mail.”

  “Is that a no?”

  Angel rolled her eyes and stomped back into her room. Freesia took the open door as an invitation.

  Freesia nodded toward Angel’s open computer. “Have you been video chatting with Tyler?”

  “I never should have told you about him.”

  Without sitting down, Angel poked furiously at the keys.

  “Mother told me about your eleventh birthday.”

  Angel froze. “What about it?”

  “That you wanted me there. But it didn’t turn out so well.”

  “Nothing ever turns out well.” Angel’s fingers flew over the keys with renewed vigor. “What do you know? Todd wrote back.”

  She angled the computer so Freesia could see the screen.

  To: sweetfreesia@botmail.com

  From: Todd Piloski

  Re: Bubble World Account #S673395 (inactive)

  NO.

  Todd Piloski

  Founder, CEO, and Chairman of the Board

  BUBBLE WORLD EDUCATIONAL ENTERPRISES, INC.

  “providing the education of the future … today”

  Learn more about our innovations at www.bubbleworldeducation.com

  “No? That’s it?” Freesia said, flabbergasted. “He’s not even going to write me a note?”

  “Looks that way. Do you want to reply, or can I close this out? I have to write a three-page essay for English, which might be kind of hard, since I haven’t actually read the book.”

  Freesia couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. “But he knows that I can ruin everything for him. He knows I can tell.”

  “Okay, you go away and think about what you want to do. I’m going to go online and look for SparkNotes.” Angel reached for the computer and then stopped. “Wait. You can tell what?”

  * * *

  Freesia asked her parents to sit down at what everyone called the dinner table, though no one ever actually ate dinner there.

  “There’s something you need to know about Bubble World.”

  Mother’s hand grazed a pile of glossy catalogs. The dinner table was mainly used as a dumping ground for mail.

  Freesia said, “The whole thing is a sham. We spend most of our class time chatting and snacking. No one learns anything.”

  That got Mother’s attention. “That’s not possible. Your evaluations have been excellent. Plus, I’ve seen your classes in action. The second Monday of every month is classroom observation day.”

  “Which of my classes have you observed?”

  “Oh—everything. Microbiology, Latin, History of Ancient Cultures, computer programming, immunology—”

  “Immunology?”

  “That was a tough class,” Father said. You seemed so overwhelmed by the project work at first, we thought we might have to get you a virtual tutor. But you pulled it off in the end.”

  “I don’t even know what immunology is.”

  Mother leaned forward. “Of course you do. Don’t you remember making a three-dimensional model of the streptococcus bacteria? I vlogged about it.”

  “I never made a model of … whatever you just said.”

  Father said, “With all the memory blockers she’s been taking, it’s possible that she’s forgotten some things.” He pulled out his phone, checked it, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “I haven’t forgotten anything about Bubble World,” Freesia said. “Don’t you get it? The entire thing is Todd Piloski’s creation. His minions can make my avatar do or say whatever they think you want to hear. But that wasn’t really me you were seeing.”

  “But you can speak French,” Father said. “And Korean, Cantonese, Latin, Spanish … I’m forgetting one.”

  “German,” Mother said.

  “I can speak French food. Je voudrais une baguette, s’il vous plaît. Also, I’m almost conversant in Spanglish. That’s about it.”

  Father shook his head. “I asked Miss Chu how you were getting on in AP French, and she said fine.”

  “Well, sure. I don’t cause any trouble. But I don’t understand a thing I hear or read.”

  Father stood up. “All Tumbleweed student grades are posted online. I know you’ve only been there a week, but some marks should have been entered.” He headed to the den to get his laptop.

  “Did you not go to class in Bubble World?” Mother was angry—she just wasn’t sure at whom. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Of course I went to class! That’s how I earned my shells. I wouldn’t have been able to shop and eat out otherwise. But cultural appreciation was all about food, not language, and I only took the classes that I wanted to. Like Pop Music Appreciation. And Advanced Eye Makeup.”

  Mother shook her head. “Not possible. Todd is a close personal friend. He wouldn’t deceive me in this way.”

  Father returned from the den with his open laptop. “Oh my goodness.”

  “Are her grades bad?” Mother asked.

  He put the laptop on the table and slumped into his chair, still staring at the screen. “Yes … no. Francine doesn’t have any grades. According to the online gradebook, she hasn’t handed in any work at all.”

  They all looked at her. She felt hot. Small. Ashamed.

  “It’s all so borrifying,” she explained.

  They kept looking at her.

  “And I get so hungry.”

  Still looking.

  “Plus, I don’t understand a single thing any of the teachers are saying.” Her voice quavered.

  Mother’s face was practically purple. “I can’t believe this. I trusted Todd with my most precious—with my chil
d. And he treated her education like a joke!”

  Freesia said, “Todd believes the traditional education system stifles creativity. He dropped out of Harvard after his freshman year to launch a computer company.”

  Mother scowled. “Oh, yeah. Like that’s such an original move.”

  “Don’t be mad,” Freesia begged. “Agalinas is a good place. I’m happy there. I have friends. I just want to go back. I’ll work hard this time, I promise. There are classes in literature and math and history. No one ever takes them, but they’re there. So, please—just tell Todd that you know what’s going on. Maybe he’ll be so afraid of getting in trouble that we can go back to the way things were.”

  “You’re not going back to Bubble World,” Mother said.

  “But—”

  “Todd Piloski betrayed me. He betrayed you. He betrayed all the people who put their faith in his program. As a member of the Internet community, it is my duty to expose him.”

  “You can’t do that! I have friends there.”

  “You can make friends here.”

  “No, I mean—I can’t do that to my friends! What if their parents pull them out of Bubble World?”

  “People need to know the truth, Francine.” Mother squeezed her eyes shut.

  “We’ll move you into easier classes,” Father said. “Get you up to speed. You’ll catch up, don’t worry.”

  “But—”

  Father’s and Mother’s phones buzzed and jangled at the same instant.

  “I have to take this,” Father said.

  Mother didn’t say anything, just picked up her phone and went upstairs.

  26

  Monday morning, as Freesia was stuffing a few granola bars into her book bag, Mother announced, “I’m going to break the Bubble World story on Flash Drive.”

  Freesia didn’t say anything. She just rummaged in the pantry and pulled out a foil-wrapped package of chocolate Pop-Tarts. Even cold, they were better than any of the food at school.

  “I’m sorry you’re angry at me, Francine. But I have to do what’s right.”

  Freesia still didn’t say anything, not even Don’t call me Francine.

  “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,” Mother said. “The only way to give this story the kind of exposure it deserves is to relinquish our anonymity.”

  “Meaning?”

  Mother took a deep breath. “I am going to use our real names.”

  Freesia shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” What was that word Angel was always using? “Whatever. I don’t really care what anyone here thinks of me.”

  * * *

  In school, Freesia had to go through the routine of introducing herself to new teachers again. Good-bye, Advanced Placement everything. Hello, “Opportunity” Math and English, along with American History, Chemistry, Art, and Spanish I, which was supposedly easier than French but would probably be impossible since the students were months ahead of her.

  Her American History teacher was Mr. Somers, also known as Father. Except in the classroom, she was to call him Mr. Somers.

  First thing, Mr. Somers told the class that his feet were still hurting him, so he’d have to sit through the class. Second thing, Mr. Somers instructed the students to take out their homework and pass it to the left. He read a bunch of answers from the teacher book and told the students to grade their neighbors’ papers. When that was done, a student recorded scores. The class was about a third over by then.

  Then things got even duller, which was kind of astonishing. Mr. Somers (Father) put notes about the Great Depression up on the overhead projector, read them out loud, and told the students to copy them word for word. They spent the final fifteen minutes “working independently.”

  Father was by far the worst teacher Freesia had encountered at Tumbleweed High. If she cared at all about her schooling, that would have upset her.

  Mr. Janz was still her English teacher, though of course her classmates were different. Instead of two or three kids texting instead of listening, there were now that many kids listening instead of texting. Or sleeping.

  “There’s no shame in dropping down a level,” Mr. Janz assured her. “Or … three.”

  English was fifth period now, and art, right around the corner, was sixth. She lingered after class so Mr. Janz could give her some worksheets from earlier in the semester. They were supposed to teach her parts of speech. She was determined to complete them, even if she couldn’t imagine when she’d ever need to know what an adverb was. Mr. Janz was still her favorite teacher, and that counted for something.

  And then she lingered some more because she dreaded the lonely chaos of lunch period.

  “You can stay here if you want a quiet place to do homework,” Mr. Janz said (nicely).

  “Thanks.” Her shoulders relaxed (slightly).

  They spent the next half hour in companionable silence. Freesia was completing her adverb worksheet when the bell rang. She finished up and put papers into her binder. She’d just started for the door when Adam strode in, his AP English textbook bumping on his hip.

  She hesitated. How would she explain the class change? She had less than two minutes to talk to him and get to her next class, so she hurried over and blurted it out.

  “I’m so sorry, Adam, but I can’t do the group project with you and Erin.”

  “Whatever.” He pulled out his phone.

  “It’s not because I don’t want to! But AP was too hard for me, so they moved me down. Way down.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t even look up. She wondered whom he was texting.

  “Well—bye, then.” She hurried out to make it to art class and almost collided with Erin.

  “Where are you going?” Erin asked.

  “I’m not in this class anymore. I’ll explain later.”

  But when she spotted Erin coming out of Mr. Janz’s room fifty minutes later, she didn’t explain; instead she hurried in the other direction.

  What was she supposed to say? My parents hooked me up to a computer program because I didn’t have any friends in the real world.

  Including Erin.

  Especially Erin.

  * * *

  When Freesia, Angel, and Father came home, Mother was pacing around the first floor, practically foaming at the mouth.

  “How! Could! This! Happen!”

  Angel said, “I’ll be in my room,” and headed for the stairs.

  “It was my story. My! Story! I’ve been having online conversations about Bubble World for years, and this person comes out of nowhere.”

  Father said, “Soooooo … did you post the vlog exposing the Bubble World fraud?”

  “No. Yes. No. That is, I posted the vlog and then discovered—because it was a Yahoo top news story—that someone had beat me to it. This person. With a blog. So then I took my vlog down. Because it sounds like I was just copying this person’s information.”

  Mother said, “The blogger said he was writing from inside Bubble World. Whether or not he’s telling the truth, no one knows, but he had all the details I did and then some. Would you believe that Bubble World students actually dated?”

  “We called it linking,” Freesia said.

  “Did you ever date anyone?”

  “Link. Yes. Of course. I was quite popular there.” Freesia tried to run a hand through her frizzy hair, but it got stuck in a tangle.

  Mother closed her eyes and took several short, sharp breaths until she regained her composure. “You might have mentioned that. It’s the kind of detail that gets Google hits.”

  Suddenly, Freesia understood. “This blogger—what was his name?”

  “He calls himself Ricardo Leisure, of all things.”

  * * *

  “Would you knock?” Angel snapped as Freesia burst into her bedroom. “I’m talking to Tyler!”

  Her open laptop sat on her desk, the screen showing the head and shoulders of a boy with shaggy dark blond bangs falling in wide b
rown eyes. In the real world, he passed for cute.

  Freesia bent down. “This is how video chatting works? The picture quality is way better in a bubblecast. Hi, Tyler.”

  He held up a hand. “Hey.”

  “Do you go to our school?”

  “No, I live in Ohio.”

  “Seriously? How did you two meet?”

  He scratched his chin. “My friend’s cousin’s friend lives in Phoenix. She and Angel hang out sometimes.”

  “Not really,” Angel said. “Not anymore.”

  As anxious as Freesia was to search for Ricky’s blog, Tyler had piqued her curiosity.

  “So, you met Angel when you were out visiting … that person?”

  Tyler leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Nah, I’ve never been to Arizona. Me and Angel, we’ve got a long-distance thing. That’s probably why we never fight.” He grinned.

  “Vicious,” Freesia said. “Angel, I need to use your computer. It’s an utter emergency.”

  “But—”

  “It’s okay,” Tyler said. “I need to watch something on TV, anyway. Text later, Angel?”

  “Of course.”

  Tyler kissed his index finger and held it to his screen camera, which made it look giganto. Then Angel kissed her finger and did the same thing. It looked like her tiny finger was being engulfed by his huge one, though presumably it looked the opposite on his end.

  Then Tyler was gone.

  Angel put her hands on her hips. “If you have some freakish mission to ruin my life, you are succeeding.”

  “You can get wiggy with me later,” Freesia said. “But right now I need you to find someone online.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s that.”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Oh? Is this a real boyfriend or a virtual one?

  Freesia narrowed her eyes. “He’s at least as real as yours.”

  It took maybe twenty seconds to find his blog, Ricardo Leisure: When Normal Just Won’t Do. There was no photo of him; instead, the header bar showed a beach chair on the sand, looking out at an unnaturally blue ocean.