by Nancy Kress
“Tell her that anything harder than pot will eventually affect her looks.”
Amy blinked. It was a cynical piece of advice, based on a thorough knowledge of both her granddaughters. Amy nodded.
“And tell Mr. Fu,” Gran added, “that he should read the flimsies more, or however he gets his news. Agricultural imports rose half a percent last month. We’re in economic recovery. Even the president says so.”
Amy smiled uncertainly. Sometimes she couldn’t tell when Gran was being ironic and when she wasn’t. Was the country going to stop trailing behind China and India and even Europe in everything? Was Amy’s new job due to some fragile economic recovery?
It didn’t matter what it was due to. It only mattered that she had it. She and Kaylie made thick, satisfying sandwiches. Kaylie even helped Amy clean up. Then, while Gran slept and Kaylie went to spend her ten dollars, Amy went to her Friday-night shift in the restaurant kitchen, her last shift. She told Charlie she was leaving. She bussed tables and scraped dishes and loaded and unloaded the ancient, unreliable dishwasher. By eleven o’clock she was exhausted, sweaty, and stinking. She caught the bus home, got off in front of Mr. Fu’s grocery, which was closed and shuttered, and that was when she saw the dog up in the tree.
* * *
A dog? In a tree?
At first Amy wasn’t sure what she was seeing. The street was deserted and dark. Amy hurried along, cold in her thin old jacket, her can of pepper spray in her hand, anxious to get safely into her building. When she heard barking, she stopped and gazed around. More barking. She looked up. An animal cowered in the crotch of a March-bare maple, fifteen feet above the ground.
A cat. It had to be a cat. But then it barked again, Amy squinted and the animal slightly shifted its precarious position. It was a dog, high up in the tree.
Kids must have put it there. Amy’s blood roiled; she didn’t understand cruelty to animals. What did people get out of it? How could they? This was just a puppy!
It barked again, piteously. Amy called, “Just a minute, tiny dog, just a minute don’t move! It’ll be OK!”
A ladder. Whoever put that dog up there had used a ladder, and it didn’t make much sense to carry a tall ladder a long way. So it might still be around somewhere.
Pepper spray in hand, pocket flashlight turned on, she peered cautiously down a nearby alley. Three trash cans, one overturned, and something scurrying away from the flashlight. Her heart stopped until she saw that it was an alley cat, not a rat. However, no ladder. Could she stand on the trash can? No, not high enough. She saw nothing else she could climb on, either.
Back to the tree. It wasn’t full-grown; she could reach her arms around it easily. A lower branch, not very sturdy-looking, grew from the trunk about six feet above ground. Amy jumped, caught it, and tried to pull herself up onto the branch. It broke and she fell.
“Ow!”
Fortunately she’d landed on the stretch of dirt, sparsely covered with dead grass, between the street and sidewalk. She’d torn her jeans but nothing on her seemed broken. If her old gymnastics coach had seen that move, she’d have been off the team in a New York minute.
The dog shifted again and yelped sharply. Amy leaped up to catch it. “No, puppy, don’t jump! Don’t jump! I might miss you!”
The dog whimpered.
Cursing, Amy put both arms around the tree and started shinnying up it. The rough bark tore at her hands. But she reached the place where the broken branch had joined the tree, grasped the stub of branch still attached, and got herself up onto it. The palm of one hand was bleeding. By balancing carefully, she could extend the other hand to within a foot of the dog, but no farther. Now she could see it more clearly: a little mutt with curly gray fur, floppy ears, and terrified dark eyes.
“Now, come here, puppy, that’s it, come closer—come on, now, you can move—dammit, come to me, you stupid animal!”
The dog vanished.
Amy gasped and looked down. It must have . . . but no, it hadn’t fallen. Neither had it shifted to a position where she couldn’t see it. The dog was just gone—there one second and not there the next.
A chill ran over her, as distinct from the cold she already felt as a blizzard from a snow flurry. The dog hadn’t been there. It must have been a phantom in her mind. . . . Oh, God, what if she couldn’t tell her phantoms from reality. . . .
The chill passed. The dog had not been a phantom. She had seen it. Whatever it was, she had actually seen it. Once, in the science museum on a sixth-grade field trip, a curator had demonstrated a three-dimensional hologram. He had made a rose appear on a table, a rose so real-looking that the kids had all exclaimed and rushed forward to touch it. Amy still remembered the eerie feeling when her hand had gone through the rose. Had she just seen a hologram of a dog in a tree?
But who would do that? And why? This wasn’t the sort of neighborhood to host high-quality tech equipment. Also, the hologram of the rose had shimmered around the edges, especially when you got close to it. She had been a foot away from the dog, and she would have bet her life that it had been a solid, fleshy, breathing, terrified animal.
In a way, she had bet her life.
Still, getting down from the tree was easier than getting up. On the ground, Amy gazed upward. Nothing. Her left palm was bloody, her jeans had torn, the bruises on her body were beginning to ache.
“Damn you,” she said loudly, to anyone who might be listening. Then she went home to a hot shower.
Five
SATURDAY
THE SCREENING ROOM held eight black leather chairs, each deep and wide, arranged in two staggered rows. Small tables between the chairs held drinks. The screen, ten feet wide and seven feet high, shone blackly in the reflection from recessed lighting. Dark red cloth covered the windowless walls.
At ten a.m. on Saturday, six people settled into the seats. James Taunton, front and center, reached down to pick a tiny piece of lint off the carpet, an action rightly perceived by the two people on either side of him as a reproach, even though of course they had nothing to do with the cleaning staff. But this was their event, their TV show, their room for the next two hours on this sunny Saturday. If a meteor hit Taunton Life Network in the next two hours, they were responsible.
“Sir,” Myra Townsend said on Taunton’s right, “you understand that it’s very rough. We only shot the final participant last night.”
“Of course he does,” said Alex Everett, on Taunton’s left. “How many screenings do you estimate you’ve been to, sir?”
Taunton didn’t answer. He held out the piece of lint to Myra, who took it. In the far seat, tech genius Mark Meyer blinked and tried to stay awake; he was never up at this hour of the morning. Also, his hands felt naked without a tablet in them. But it was only a few hours and then he could go back to bed. The two underlings seated behind the four said nothing, and would not have dreamed of doing so.
“Roll it,” Myra said. The screen brightened.
Music started low, gradually becoming more audible: rap set to keyboards performing atonal music. The rap words were indistinguishable and stayed so, but the strange music sounded both energizing and slightly menacing. Two teenage actors, preternaturally beautiful, materialized as if floating in black space, although it was clear that their trendy boots stood on firm, unseen ground. Neither smiled.
The boy growled at the audience, “You think you’re a good judge of character? Yeah, you do. Well—here’s your chance to prove it.”
“What you’re going to see,” the girl said, “might shock you sometimes. This isn’t just one more sorry reality show. The people you will see don’t know they’re being filmed—they never know for sure. We put them in unexpected situations—but not to see how they react.”
“To see how you react,” the boy said. “Can you predict what each of them will do? You predict right, and you can win big.”
“Really big,” the girl said. “Every week we’re giving away five million dollars—just for being a g
ood judge of human nature. Are you?”
Now pictures with names flashed behind the actors: huge close-up shots of Amy, Rafe, Violet, Lynn, Waverly, Cai, and Tommy. Each face held for three secnds; the whole loop repeated while the girl spoke again. For the first time, she smiled, a smile with a hint of nasty relish. “Seven people. We show you each of them encountering an . . . interesting situation, different every week. Then we list five responses they might have made.”
Film of a short brunette, provocatively dressed in short shorts and a crop top, buying an ice cream, leaving the store with it. The film disappeared, replaced by a wall of glowing letters:
LYNN:
Ate the ice cream!
Dropped it in the gutter!
Offered it to a crying child!
Gave it to her dog!
Threw it at a cop!
“No, nothing that lame,” the boy said scornfully. “This isn’t Sunday school. We’re not interested in do-gooding—we’re interested in your ability to judge people.” The screen resumed its montage of the seven teens. “You’ll get to know Lynn and the others, none of whom is an actor. You’ll see them react week after week to situations they don’t anticipate or understand—because some of the things that we’ll arrange to happen to them aren’t filmed at all. They’ll never know which events are part of the show, which aren’t, and which are just their widely diverse lives. They’ll never see the cameras, and we’ve got cameras everywhere. Then you text us your vote on what you think they’ll do in situations far edgier than buying ice cream.”
“Each week,” the girl said, “seven participants, five possible responses, seventy-eight thousand one hundred twenty-five chances to get it completely right. Way better odds than the lottery! And if you’re one of those that get it right within the first two hours after the show ends, you split five million dollars with the other winners.”
The photos on the wall cycled faster and faster, until one face blurred into the next. The music rose to deafening levels, eerie and menacing. The title came up in scarlet:
WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?
James Taunton shifted in his chair.
“Of course,” Myra said, “Mark can tweak any of the tech you think needs it. Anything.”
A film started of Amy spotting the holographic dog in the tree. It ran through, followed by the return of the music as a list appeared on the screen:
AMY:
Walked away from the dog!
Called authorities to get the dog down!
Brought other people to get the dog down!
Climbed the tree to get the dog!
Made the dog jump in order to catch it!
Film rolled of each of the other six encountering a treed dog. Mark Meyer leaned forward to study his tech. Each film ended with a close-up of the unwitting teen’s startled face after the dog vanished, followed by the list of options. The whole list and all the names, identified by small head shots, stayed on the screen while the music pulsed and, presumably, watchers phoned in their predictions.
“No,” James Taunton said in his deep, oddly musical voice. “No.”
Myra and Alex looked at each other. Alex spoke first. “What is—”
“This show is supposed to be edgy,” Taunton said. “Edgy. And you give me a dog in a tree? Why not the opportunity to help an old lady across the street? No.”
Myra said, “We thought that for a first, introductory show we could start simple and then escalate to—”
“No. What else do you have?”
“Right now there isn’t—”
“We’re done here.” Taunton rose, elegant in his suit of Italian wool. Immediately a flunky in the second row of seats leaped to turn on the lights.
“Mr. Taunton, we can—”
Alex cut Myra off. “We can show you the audition footage in the alley. It’s far edgier.”
Mark looked up sharply. Myra said, “But it isn’t even—OK, yes. Jackie, roll it!”
Taunton sat down again. Another drink was deposited soundlessly at his elbow. Jackie, clearly terrified, jumped to the computer and fumbled among files. Random shots came up: Waverly answering questions, Violet dancing, Tommy talking slowly, without sound. Finally Jackie found the right file.
When the film, unedited and too long and occasionally jerky, without lists or music, ended, Taunton said, “Yes.”
Myra said eagerly, “It can be—”
“Give me more like that. Exciting. Dangerous. Rough footage by Monday morning.”
Mark said, “But my tech with the dog was so—”
Myra put a hand on his arm and squeezed hard. “You’ll get more tech scenarios, Mark. By Monday, sir, certainly.”
Taunton left. Alex motioned Jackie and the other minion to leave with him. When the two producers and the tech head were left alone, Alex said to Myra, “Well, do you think you kissed his ass enough?”
“Shut up, Alex. We’re still in, which is all that counts. What do we do for the next scenario?”
Mark looked up from his tablet, which he’d pulled out of his pocket the moment Taunton left. “We move up scenario number five, of course. To tomorrow.”
Alex frowned. “I don’t know if everything for that can be assembled on such short notice, and—”
“Bullshit,” Mark said. “You can do it if you have to. And my guys are ready.”
“Mark,” Alex said with exaggerated and condescending patience, “you seem to think your piece is all that matters. The tech is interesting, sure, but let me tell you yet again, since you seem to have forgotten it, that the heart of this thing is—”
“We can do it,” Myra said. “And I think Mark is right. We should. Then if we edit all night, we can show Taunton something on Monday.”
“Aren’t you going to be a little busy on Monday, Myra?” Alex said. “Think again. That’s the day the kids all report for ‘work.’” His fingers made little quotes in the air.
“Alex, don’t you ever get tired of throwing up roadblocks?” Mark said.
“Mark’s right, Alex,” said Myra. “We can do it if we have to. And we have to. Taunton needs to see something spectacular. We’ve got forty-eight hours to pull this together.”
“Shazam,” Mark said.
Six
SATURDAY
AMY WAS HAVING a suspiciously good Saturday morning.
Gran felt much better; she even got out of bed and sat at their tiny table for breakfast. Kaylie woke early enough to join them for breakfast, a rarity. Kaylie folded up the sleep sofa without being asked. Amy had turned up the thermostat and made a big pot of coffee. If you didn’t look at the peeling walls and exposed overhead pipes, it was almost like old times.
“Yum,” Gran said, carefully setting down her cup. “Good coffee. What are you girls’ plans for the day?”
“I have a lot of homework,” Kaylie said.
Amy and Gran stared. Homework? Kaylie?
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kaylie snapped. “I have to graduate, don’t I? Two stinking months and twelve days left.”
Amy recovered herself. If Kaylie was voluntarily doing homework, there was some ulterior motive. Carefully monitoring her tone—not too eager, not too big-sister, not too anything—she asked, “Do you want some help?”
“Yes,” Kaylie said promptly. “You can do all the math assignments.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Kayla Jane,” Gran said, leaning forward, “what’s going on? Are you in trouble at school again?”
“No. Really, I’m not. But I want to compete in All-City with the band, Friday night at the Arena. A ‘talent show’ might be lame but what the fuck, it’s publicity, and I can’t be in it unless my grades are ‘current.’ Bunch of bullshit.”
Amy had heard Kaylie’s band, Orange Decision. Amy, with her lousy ear for music, had no idea if they were good or not. They were certainly loud. But anything that got Kaylie doing homework was terrific. She said, “We can start right after I make an appointment for Gran at
her old doctor’s.” Full medical benefits!
“How are you going to do that? On Mrs. Raduski’s phone? She won’t let you. And incidentally, Buddy nearly bit me when I got in last night. Fucking dog. Oh, sorry, Gran—sweet misguided canine.”
“With fucking bad genes,” Gran said, and Kaylie nearly choked on her coffee, laughing.
Definitely a good day.
“No, not on Mrs. Raduski’s phone,” Amy said. “I have just enough left from the job advance to buy three of those cheap cells with prepaid minutes. But they’re only for emergencies, Kaylie. There won’t be many minutes on any of them.”
“Good idea,” Kaylie said amiably. “I’ll stay with Gran while you go buy them. Gran, maybe you can help me with this essay I have to write for history?”
Kaylie must really want this All-City gig.
Amy bounced down the stairs and through the vestibule—no Buddy—into a warm, clear spring day. She tilted back her head to let the sunshine fall on her face. Some children tore past in a grade-school pack, chasing a soccer ball in some made-up street game of their own. One little boy flashed her a smile as rich and sweet as chocolate cake.
Mr. Fu stood sadly behind the counter of his cramped store. Amy bought three of the cheapest prepaid cells. “Still no bananas,” Mr. Fu said. At the print kiosk three blocks over, Amy printed a flimsie of the Post-Herald for Gran. When she returned home, a truck blazoned CALLAHAN MOVERS stood across the street, with men unloading furniture.
That was unusual in this neighborhood. People moved often, seeking lower rents or fleeing rent due, sometimes in the middle of the night. But they borrowed friends’ pickup trucks or they loaded what they could carry into a taxi and abandoned the rest or they rented a flat dolly and laboriously wheeled furniture ten blocks to the next temporary residence. Real movers cost money.
A woman came out of the building and directed the movers. Behind them on the sidewalk, a boy of about Amy’s age sat in a wheelchair beside a small table. On the table was a chess set. Amy crossed the street.