by Carol Riggs
Dad jumps up to gives me a giant squeeze of a hug. “Good to see you, kiddo. Sorry I couldn’t get time off from work to ride home with you. Mom will be here later. She’s doing a gig at The Lounge tonight and said she’ll come home for a quick howdy after they run through a few songs.”
I’ve been trumped by a sound system? Wow. And yet I shouldn’t knock Mom’s latest attempt at a big singing break. She’s working hard doing what she loves, and we need credits any way we can get them. A cameo appearance from her is better than nothing. I peer around the image display. “Hi, Granddad.”
Granddad’s eyes snap open. “Morgan!” He unfolds from the recliner. “I didn’t hear you come in, with this noisy TV spewing buffalos in my face. Come give me a scrunch.”
I drop my bag and step into his outstretched arms.
The bristly ends of his beard scruff up my face as he hugs me. “You hungry yet?” he asks.
“Not really. I’ll wait for Mom.”
Granddad grunts. “There’s a starvation plan if I ever heard one. Valena said she’d pop by around four thirty, but when’s she ever on time when she has a gig?”
“You mean sixteen thirty,” I correct with a soft smile. I don’t know if he’s becoming more forgetful lately or if he’s simply being stubborn about things that have changed since he was young.
Dad sinks back onto the couch and pats the cushions. “Let’s hear what you’ve been doing while you were gone. Your emails were pretty vague.”
I sigh and sit next to him. Of course my messages were vague, because I wasn’t allowed to share details about my assignment. And now I can’t remember them. He should know that. Parents. I love them to death, but I swear, they never pay attention. Speaking of which, I suppose Mom’s mind will be whirling with performance details, and she won’t think to pick up special food on the way here. We’ll be eating frozen dinners or SpeedMeals tonight.
The usual fare, but at least I’m home.
The next morning, I jog along the path that winds through the Yellow Zone’s East Park, finishing the last lap of my run. As I pass other joggers, I savor the springiness of my leg muscles, the energy of my lungs. I relish the snap of my ponytail on my upper back. What a rush. I can’t fathom being in Shelby’s body, starting out my Reducer job fifty pounds overweight, not able to enjoy this kind of exercise. That must’ve been rough.
As much as I love having been part of the Institute’s cutting-edge technological program, the whole amnesia thing does bother me. Still, if I’d hated the experience, I’m sure I would’ve sent myself a message saying not to do it again. I’ve thoroughly checked all my emails and messages, and not one single negative sentence is there. So it couldn’t have been too bad.
But I should research that WHA “identity situation” Leo mentioned. I’ll check it out when I get home.
Reaching down to my jogging belt, I peek at my phone. Nothing from Blair to finalize plans for the day, although Krista called earlier. I leave the park and ease into a walk, recording the end of my jogging session on my exercise app. That causes my linked Health Points account to go up sixty notches. Nice. At this rate, I’ll be able to enter the grand prize drawing, not just the smaller monthly drawings. It’d be great to win some pedometer shoes.
My TeenDom board pings a private message alert. I snatch up my phone.
@superguy: good morning! i’m in my Loaner body at the clinic dorm. weight loss & training here i come. what r u doing?
I type a text, trying to watch the sidewalk at the same time so I don’t trip or bump into someone.
@geektastic007: jogging the park. do u like jogging?
@superguy: paintball’s way better.
@geektastic007: i love paintball! hopefully i’ll do some with my friends soon.
@superguy: super jealous. too bad there’s no paintball in the clinic.
@geektastic007: we gotta bug Leo about that. exercising can be FUN. like hover skating or basketball or other sports.
@superguy: at least there’s a pool here. which i’m about to dive into.
My mind-circuits light up all at once, envisioning him in a swimsuit. His real body rather than a Loaner body. Lean, lightly muscled, tanned…oh, yeah.
@geektastic007: have tons of fun, fishboy. PS, my name is Morgan!
We sign off. I’m almost skipping as I enter my megacomplex. It’s a curious thing—for such everyday words, that exchange felt pretty momentous. It’s way too soon to know, but maybe this guy could end up as a boyfriend. I think I might finally be ready for a serious relationship again, after breaking up with my longtime boyfriend in February.
At my megacomplex, the elevator pod zips me up to my apartment. Before I forget, I go to the deskscreen in my room and search for “WHA identity conspiracy.” I click on a vid by Walter Herry, the head of the WHA. A man materializes onscreen, his large nose pointed at the camera, his eyes intent as he ticks off government rights violations on his fingers. About midway through, the vid zeroes in on The Body Institute.
“People of America, we’re in deep trouble,” Herry says. “The government is funding this program, and over the past year there’s been a dramatic push to use it to get people to lose weight and ease the workload of National Health Care. This is due to the strong influence of the new director of the Los Angeles branch in California, Leo Behr. At first glance this ERT program seems admirable, but now the government is pressuring people to join by piling on increasingly heavier tax fines.”
Interesting. I didn’t know Leo was that involved. But it makes sense. The system is bogged down by a flood of overweight and obese people with health problems, all waiting to see doctors. It’s costing health care too much to treat them. Getting the Institute on board is a great way to solve that messy problem. It’s much easier just to eliminate the weight.
“After these overweight people are admitted,” Herry continues, “their minds are stored in a computer while strangers take over their bodies. Even the Reducers themselves aren’t sure what goes on during this time, because their pre-Reducer brain waves are reinserted at the end of the job instead of the ones that have carried out the weight loss. Are they truly in those bodies?”
I shake my head. This is the same nonsense the protesters were spouting.
“There’s no end to dark possibilities here,” Herry says. “If you were a Loaner, would you want your body used for unknown purposes? To sabotage a company, spy on your neighbor, or steal ideas or possessions? Perhaps even kill someone?”
Yeah, right. Herry makes it sound like the Institute is using client bodies for sinister purposes in some illegal underground network.
Herry wags his finger at the camera. “It has also come to our attention that the Institute might be using Loaner bodies for permanent body switches. A woman from Iowa reports she visited her brother after not seeing him for two years, and he is definitely not her brother. He doesn’t know her. His mind is someone else’s. It seems the Institute has put someone else’s brain waves into his body—”
I close my connection. He means brainmaps, not brain waves, and I’ve heard enough far-fetched conspiracy theories. On my initiation tour, I went to the Clinic with Leo and talked to Reducers who were hard at work the very same day they got downloaded, losing weight for their clients. No one else was in those Loaner bodies. No spies, no agents on secret missions. No one stuck IVs in their arms in the middle of the night to perform an assassination.
Enough of this. No wonder Leo isn’t worried about the WHA’s claims.
I head to the kitchen to rehydrate.
Mom wanders in, wearing a fuzzy blue robe and ratty slippers. Her eyes and mouth are smudgy, like she fell asleep without removing her makeup again. It even looks like she’s wearing the same eyeliner I saw last night during my hour-long visit with her. Music gigs must be brutally exhausting.
“Morning, Cupcake,” Mom says.
I resist an urge to roll my eyes. I’ve way outgrown that nickname. “Morning, Mom.”
Granddad
shuffles in, his bushy hair looking freshly Einstein. He clatters his breakfast dishes into the autowasher and takes a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“Not in here!” Mom says. “You know what it does to my throat, and I have to be able to sing tonight.”
Granddad waves her off. “I know, I know. I’m heading to the balcony lounge, so stop fussing.” He leans close to me and kisses my cheek with a loud smack. “Good morning, young lady,” he says, and shuffles out the front door. It whooshes shut after him.
“I never know what he remembers from one day to the next,” Mom says, worry lining her forehead. “Have you eaten yet, dear? I’m having a breakfast shake.”
“I ate with Dad.” I pour myself a glass of water from the purifier. Granddad doesn’t seem that much more forgetful, but I haven’t been back long enough to notice much. I hate to think of his mind fading as he gets older.
Mom shakes out a packet of pink powder into a glass, her eyes going dreamy. “You should’ve seen the crowd last night at The Lounge. I sang ‘Tears on the Rooftop,’ and they pounded on the tables when I finished. The manager booked us Thursday through Sunday for the rest of the month.” She begins singing a verse from the song, her husky voice winding around the kitchen like a bewitching serpent.
I wait to speak until she’s done. “That’s fantastic. Too bad I’m not twenty-three, or I could come hear you.”
“Please!” Mom shudders as she pours milk into her powder. “Don’t rush to get to drinking age. It makes me feel old.” A mischievous twinkle appears in her eyes. “You know, we should splurge a little with our new stash of credits, take the MT to the mall. I could buy something dazzling to wear for this weekend, and I bet you could use some new school clothes.”
My mouth opens, then closes. Dad won’t be happy if she spends too many credits on non-basic things. It’ll make our debt stretch on forever. Not only that, even though we haven’t seen each other for a while, Mom and I so do not shop at the same kinds of stores. Too bad Blair hasn’t called, to give me a solid excuse for having other plans.
“Shall we?” Mom smiles, her spoon whipping milk and powder into a pink fizz. It’s weird how her hair is a couple inches longer than before my Reducer assignment. While I was frozen in time, everyone else kept on living. The hair on my legs didn’t even grow.
“Uh, I was thinking about hanging with Blair and Krista today.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be done by early afternoon, fourteen hundred at the latest.”
I let out a prolonged sigh. Oh, all right. Maybe she’ll be smart about her spending. She’s well aware of our shaky credit status. Besides, how can I say no when she’s standing there with her face all eager and shiny?
“Fine,” I say, trying to keep my voice pleasant.
At 1415, Blair dashes into the Danger District lobby and over to the café table where Krista and I sit. Wisps of her honey-colored hair have worked loose from her clips. I stand and let her attack me with a crushing hug.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, sounding anything but. “What’d you two do all morning?”
Krista shrugs, her orange mouth pursing. “The usual. Slept in. Watched a vid.”
“Mom dragged me off to go shopping at the mall,” I say. “I mean, how many dresses can you watch your mother try on? Luckily she let me look for jeans while she got her nails done.”
Krista slurps her drink. “At least you have a mom to do stuff with, Morg. Even when your parents are gone, your grandfather’s around.”
“True.” Poor Krista is alone in her apartment most of the time while her dad works. Her mom’s been back east ever since the divorce last year and doesn’t call much. I reach over and rub Krista’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe your grandfather hasn’t moved into that retirement home yet,” Blair says.
“The waiting list is miles long. It’s a government home.” Which Granddad hates, but he has no choice. Private care homes cost twice as much as his labor pension.
Blair leans in, smiling. “I hope you got that health care improvement stuff out of your system. I really missed your smarts at the Catalyst Club on my circuitry project.”
“I’m actually trying to decide if I should do the program again,” I say. “For me, it went by in a flash, and I woke up with a ton of credits.”
“Please,” Krista says. “Let’s not talk about it right now. I know you love the science thrill of it all and doing big favors to society, but you just got back.”
Fine. Even though I can’t recall missing them, I’ll let the subject drop. I check my mascara on my phone’s mirror setting and clip my phone to my belt. “So, are you both ready to play some night-vision paintball?”
“Absolutely,” Blair says. “I’m going to imagine you girls are my last two ex-boyfriends.”
Krista hoots. “Watch out! She’s in serious walloping mode.”
Ten minutes later, we stand outside the Nightglow Field 3 entrance, geared with marker guns, night-vision masks, and compressed-air ammo pods. I activate my exercise app and give Blair and Krista a thumbs-up.
Ready for combat.
We enter, scattering like deadly viruses in a strong wind.
It’s fabulous to be me—doing what I love and hanging with Blair and Krista.
Chapter 4
It’s August, and in the middle of a school term after only two measly weeks of vacation. I missed the first four weeks of break by being on my Reducer job. Sometimes I wish classes were set up like Granddad says it used to be, with the entire summer off instead of year-round school with alternating breaks.
I flick through my phone’s messages with lazy fingers, but the girl sitting in front of me jiggles one leg as sweat starts to form at the nape of her neck. Alison must be reacting to the announcement of our upcoming Health Check weigh-in. I doubt it’s U.S. History that’s sending her into freak-out mode, even with the six-page essay Mr. Bernstein is assigning.
Across the aisle, Blair and Krista take notes on their deskscreen interfaces. As if she feels my gaze, Blair lifts her head. “Only five more minutes of Mr. B.,” she whispers.
Alison trembles. She’s trapped. No one can predict when these weigh-ins will happen, unlike the mandatory annual physicals that National Health Care schedules. Unfortunately, it looks like she’s carrying more than the twenty extra pounds the government allows. She hasn’t lost any weight since I saw her before my Reducer stint.
I pocket my phone. Mr. Bernstein is replaced by a trio of blue-uniformed workers carrying registration readers, digi-scales, and body mass index devices. Alison runs a shaky hand through her short black hair. Row by row, we file up to the front of the classroom. Alison shuffles off to a stern-looking guy for data collection. A tall woman in blue, moving like a rusty android, scans my ID chip.
“Morgan Dey, verified.” She ushers me onto the digi-scale. My poundage readout along with my height, bone density, and personalized Body Mass Index assessments are sucked away into some government data-file netherland, recorded for dubious posterity.
The woman’s wire-thin eyebrows arch. “Excellent weight and muscle tone, Miss Dey.”
By the time I reach my seat again, Alison is also back, a weeping mess of mascara. Krista crouches beside her.
“Just start slow,” Krista says. “Twenty minutes of walking every day, and get one of those exercise apps for motivation. Morgan uses hers all the time, and look how toned she is.”
“I won’t be able to lose this weight,” Alison says. “Not by the time I have a two-month checkup. I haven’t been able to exercise much since my grandma broke her hip, and I’ve been helping take care of her. She went home with my aunt yesterday, but I still can’t lose that much weight, that fast. My mom’s gonna be so crimped about having to pay this fine.”
Blair hovers nearby. “How many pounds do you have to lose?”
“All twenty-four of it! Not just the extra four. It’s unfair.”
I grimace. Poor girl must’ve been on National Heal
th Care’s radar. If people keep excessive pounds on longer than six months, serious fines start happening. Routine tests reveal physical reasons like low thyroid problems, but when those come up clear, the government accepts no excuses for being overweight.
Krista adds a fresh layer of orange lipstick. “You can always let a Reducer handle it. Morgan was a Reducer and helped a girl lose fifty pounds. All you have to do is check in, put your brain waves on a data file, and let someone lose weight for you. Easy-peasy.”
“My mom can’t afford something like that,” Alison says.
“The Institute has an adjusted pay scale,” I say. “If your income is super low, you might not have to pay anything.”
Alison blinks. “Really?”
“Yep.” I’m a freaking walking advertisement for the program. So is Krista. Although I suspect Krista is honing in on the two hundred Health Points she’ll get if she convinces this girl to join the program. The Body Institute rewards well for referrals.
“How’s it done?” Alison asks me. “How do they put someone else in my body?”
Krista holds up a hand. “Keep it simple and non-techy, Morg.”
I laugh and give a brief sketch of the program.
“Cool.” Alison wipes her face, which now reflects a glimmer of hope. Blair hands her a tissue. I think we may have a convert. Krista gives me a thumbs-up behind Alison’s back.
Being healthy is a lot easier if people help each other out.
In another handful of minutes, we’re dismissed, and since neither Blair nor Krista is in my next class, they fade off down the hall. U.S. History is the only session we share. Which makes the rest of the day about as exciting as Granddad’s twentieth-century tech.
I duck into my Political Awareness classroom. The teacher sets up a holovid about presidential speeches and retreats to read an e-book. I poke around on my phone to multitask, gathering site references for my U.S. History assignment.
I’ll do my essay on National Health Care. I can ramble on about how independent doctor offices got replaced with affordable government services. How health care almost went bust at first, covering so many unhealthy people. Smokers, couch spuds, that sort of thing. I could even sneak in a section about how the Reducer program was developed to help people change their lifestyles instead of just slapping them with tax fines.