by Carol Riggs
Although if I do tell Leo, he’ll transfer me to the dorms instead of letting me stay with the Kowalczyks. Then I won’t be able to find out if Dr. K. is anything like his genius mother. I won’t be able to try out that rockin’ HoloSports Center, not to mention the humongous holo-platform for RPGs in Jodine’s room. With that big of a slide-out, my silver elf will be a foot tall rather than six inches. I’ll lose my room with a window and a great view.
No, I’m not going to let those punk girls scare me into the dorms.
I’m not giving up that easily.
I limp back toward the Kowalczyks’ house, loosening my hair and hiding my face with it. I feel the ghostly pressure of the lipstick tube across my cheeks as I walk. It lingers there, along with images of the protestors. Shoes kicking, hands shoving, voices shouting. Unbelievable. And flippin’ scary. I’ve been attacked twice today. This job is hazardous.
What next? This is only my first day. I don’t know how I can finish my assignment if things like this keep happening.
Inside the house, I aim for Jodine’s room, but Nettie enters the living room before I get there.
She gives a strangled cry. “What happened— Is that blood?”
“Lipstick,” I say past a clogginess in my throat. “I’m not hurt, just crushed and degraded. Please don’t tell Jodine’s parents or Leo. I’ll just go to a different park from now on.”
Nettie’s expression shifts to pleased. “I like your spunk. Poor Jodine took to hiding in her room after mean pranks like that. I helped her find some assault support sites online a couple of years ago. Bullying help groups, prank resolution. If you want, I’ll show you later.”
I smile, which comes out shaky. “Thanks. I’m gonna clean up.”
“Come to the kitchen to eat. We only use the dining room when Dr. and Mrs. Kowalczyk have time to join us.”
I scrub up in Jodine’s private bathroom off her bedroom. Or try to. The lipstick leaves a stubborn ruddy tint, making me look like I have a slight sunburn.
On my phone, I text Superguy. I need his sympathy even if I can’t describe details.
@geektastic007: having a bad day. whew, major trauma time.
Every ten seconds, I check my phone for a message. He doesn’t answer before I leave for dinner. Very disappointing. I guess he’s in the middle of doing something else.
The aromas in the kitchen pull me by the nose through the living room. Nettie bustles around the bright kitchen and sends two trays upward in the food elevator.
“Want help with anything?” I ask.
“I’m done, thanks, but you’re welcome to cook with me anytime. Jodine loves doing that.”
I inhale as Nettie places a steaming plate of food in front of me. Mmm, thick, buttery smells. Some sort of potato, chicken, mushroom, and onion dish that looks awesome.
“Dig in.” Nettie settles herself on a stool. “The Institute tells me you need calories and protein to work out, so your body doesn’t go into starvation mode and hinder your weight loss.”
I eat in pure rapture. “I can see why you cook Basic, even though it’s a lot of work. Do you ever serve frozen dinners or SpeedMeals?”
A horrified grimace contorts Nettie’s face. “Never. I’m a purist. I was trained by my uncle in Basic ways, and there’s no comparison to SpeedMeals.”
“Except you can’t beat SpeedMeals for convenience. Ten secs in the PlasmaWave, and presto!—dinnertime. It’s cheaper, too.”
“I have plenty of time, and the Kowalczyks aren’t concerned about the credits.”
“As tasty as Basic food is, I can see why Jodine has a hard time being slender. Why aren’t you and her parents overweight?”
Nettie shakes her head. “It’s not my place to tell Jodine to stop eating. Her problem wasn’t necessarily what she ate. It was how much. She ate extra servings and snacked in between. Plus she didn’t exercise. It adds up after a while.”
I let that soak into my mind. That could be true, but I didn’t grow up eating this kind of food. It’ll make my weight loss way more challenging to have such tasty meals available. While Nettie may look like a friendly gnome, she cooks like an evil sorceress. “It doesn’t sound like Jodine tried very hard.”
“It was a vicious cycle. She’d eat to feel better, get discouraged from weighing more, then eat to feel better again.”
My forkful of potatoes takes on a new meaning, and I marvel at it. I can sort of see what Nettie means. This food is already making me feel a lot better. Warmer. Safer. Funny how eating can do more than just satisfy hunger. Maybe it isn’t always a lack of will power. So complex.
It’s a good thing the Institute developed the Reducer program to help people out.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“I was hired as a chef and nanny combo when Jodine was seven.” Nettie chuckles. “She was a quiet little girl, curious and smart. Now, we have some great times in the kitchen, and she wallops me good at holo-chess. Quite often.”
All at once I feel like an intruder, galaxies out of place. “It must be weird for you to see someone else in her body.”
Another long exhale. “It’s for her own good. She’ll be back in six months, and maybe she’ll be happier when her body matches what everyone wants it to look like.”
Maybe she’ll be happier?
I know she will—she has to be. That’s my goal as a Reducer, the master plan. A chance to improve not only Jodine’s appearance and self-image, but to change her whole life. I won’t let her down.
The HoloSports Center in the game room displays a high-quality 3-D net and tennis court, and my ponytailed opponent hunkers down for the final serve. I brace for the shot.
Whack! My opponent serves a fast one, slicing across the court. I shift to a backhand, but not fast enough. The ball whooshes past me and a bell dings to signal the end of the match. Winner: my opponent.
Trounced again by a hologram. I command the game to shut down. It’s hard to maneuver in this body, especially when I have sore muscles from exercising for the past two days. I need to quit and prepare for my official welcome dinner with the Kowalczyks anyway. Nothing in Jodine’s wardrobe fits besides what I’m wearing, but there might be time to put my sweats in the laundromachine if I hustle.
Wrapped in a fluffy pink robe that’s a size too small, I sit in the laundry room while the machine gurgles and spins. I send messages from my phone while I wait, one to Blair, one to Krista, and one home. My best friends don’t seem to be having any problem enjoying the rest of their fall break without me. Krista met this hot Italian guy at the Flash Point, and he introduced Blair to his older brother. Both Blair’s and Krista’s messages for the last few days have been absolutely staccato with exclamation marks, breathless dashes, and intense italics.
And here I am, stuck in a body that can only fit into one pair of sweats.
A hurricane of hot air blasts around inside the laundromachine as the wash cycle switches to dry. In contrast to my friends’ lives, there’s not much new at home, except Granddad says the cost of cigarettes has doubled with the new health tax. It sounds like he’s seriously going to try cutting back on the cancer-sticks so he can pay more on his bills. That’s great, because it’ll be way better for his health.
I wish I could see everyone, not just text them. Granddad and I both started reading e-books of this creepy science fiction novel called Alien In The Machine, but I’m sure discussing it on our phones won’t be the same.
Enough sad stuff. This calls for a mood-boosting text session with Superguy. I re-read the message he sent an hour after my park attack, and some of the sharp edges melt from the ache of my homesickness.
@superguy: major trauma deserves a major hug. (((hug))) hope ur night is better than ur day.
He’s super hot and thoughtful. What a great combination. Too bad I can’t exchange his cyberhug for a real one. His fingers on my arm in Leo’s waiting room were soft and electric…what would it be like with both his arms around me? Shivery a
nd outrageous, I bet. I type a new text.
@geektastic007: i have sore muscles today u would NOT believe…or maybe u would.
I only have to wait one and a half minutes before he logs on and answers.
@superguy: poor geekling! yep. part of the job so get used to it.
@geektastic007: have u listened to Beatn Golden yet? u like?
@superguy: yes & they are awwwwwesome. i dunno why i hadn’t heard them before. love the technoguitar dude—he’s stellar.
@geektastic007: they’re a new band. on the netstream all the time now.
@superguy: that explains it. i haven’t streamed much music lately. last night i went out for sushi with friends. u like?
“Drying completed,” a honeyed voice informs me. The laundromachine. I snatch out the sweats before they’re dumped onto the auto-folding table, and return to more exciting activities.
@geektastic007: haven’t ever tried it. my grandfather says all fish have worms so my mom is too grossed out to buy it.
@superguy: lol. never? wow. u should try it sometime, live a little.
@geektastic007: i might someday but not while i’m Reducing.
@superguy: sorry, my friend Rajeev is here at my apt. gotta go.
@geektastic007: ok i’m off to eat dinner anyway.
Always too short. I wish we could keep messaging for hours. It’d be nice if we could set up an uninterrupted time to text, but I’ve asked him before and he never answers. Does he not want to chat for more than a few skimpy minutes? Does he have such a hectic schedule that he can’t spare an hour?
I scurry off to get dressed and fix my hair. This morning I washed Jodine’s curly locks for the first time, and to tell the truth, I still feel vaguely homicidal from the battle of combing it out.
In the dining room, Dr. and Mrs. K. are already seated.
Nettie walks in alongside a servbot that carries steaming platters of food. The servbot is a tiered cart on wheels, plain and serviceable. “Stop,” Nettie says, and it halts beside the table.
I try not to drool on my plate while we pass food. What a spread. Garlicked lamb chops, baked stuffed butternut squash, a fruit salad, sliced pickles, and herbed rice. All nourishing calories I can work off, I’m sure.
“This looks great,” I say. “Thanks, Nettie.”
Mrs. K. sips from her wineglass, a distant look in her eyes. “Yes, quite lovely. I do hope this brainmap shuffling will bring about some results.”
“Give it time, dear,” Dr. K. says. “We’ll know in a few weeks. Right, Morgan?”
“Right.” Man. Nothing like a little pressure.
“It’d be wonderful if things go back to how they used to be,” Nettie says. “More fun and relaxed, like when I first came here. I remember Jodine laughing more.”
Mrs. K. pats her mouth with a napkin. “I’d like a change, too. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair. We decided to have one child, even though we were approved for two. I always thought I’d have more in common with a daughter, and that’s why I selected to have one. I certainly can’t relate to a daughter who’s a hundred pounds overweight.”
“I’ve never had much in common with her.” Dr. K. chuckles. “Then again, I’m not a female.”
That squirmy, fly-on-the-wall eavesdropper feeling again. I sincerely doubt my parents dissect me like this in front of dinner guests. When the conversation turns to politics, I eat fruit salad and stay mute. Even Nettie seems well informed. Thankfully, the conversation shifts when Nettie asks Mrs. K. how her new painting commission is coming along.
Mrs. K. brightens over a forkful of squash. “Quite well. The composition is sketched out, and I’ve begun blocking in the colors.”
I start to ask what kinds of things she paints, but Dr. K. speaks first.
“I wish my dilemmas could be solved as easily as yours, my dear. I’ve hit countless dead-ends on my ion thruster theory—”
“You simply cannot compare your physics to art,” Mrs. K. says with a frayed edge to her voice. “I don’t know why you even try.”
Nettie clears her throat. “Is anyone ready for dessert?” She places plates on the servbot and instructs it to fetch the next course.
As the servbot rolls away to his loading station, I toss a curious look at Dr. K. “What do you want your ion thruster to do?” I ask, the question mild and tentative in Jodine’s melodic voice. “Something tricky with space probes?”
It’s Dr. K.’s turn to brighten. “No, I’m experimenting with electromagnetic fields and ion propulsion, trying to bypass barriers of friction, mass, and gravity. If I can do that and increase the total thrust potential, I can create an ion engine for passenger airlines.”
I stare at his clean-shaven face. Ion thrusters are notoriously slow accelerating. Dr. K. is either a genius like his famous mother—or a lunatic. “Is that possible?”
“That’s what I’m exploring. After dessert would you like a brief tour of my workspace?”
“Sure!” I notice Mrs. K.’s rigid expression and curb my enthusiasm. Obviously there’s some sort of awkward conflict or competition thing going on here between her and Dr. K. That’s not something I want to get in the middle of.
The servbot returns with a tray of pumpkin cake squares adorned with dollops of whipped cream. Nettie passes the plates. The first bite slides down my throat, pumpkiny and creamy.
Oooh, decadent shivers.
Mrs. K. frowns. “Should you be eating that, Morgan?”
The next bite freezes halfway to my mouth. All at once the dessert seems as appealing as sawdust and shaving cream. What am I doing? I’m not getting paid to sit around and eat pumpkin cake. I’m getting paid to lose weight.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be.” I throw Nettie an apologetic look.
“I don’t know what you were thinking, Nettie,” Mrs. K. says. “Desserts have to be nonexistent or extremely low-cal while Morgan’s staying with us.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kowalczyk.” Nettie stares at her plate. “Pumpkin is nutritious, and I was thinking of this as a special occasion.”
I twirl whipped cream with my fork while everyone else finishes eating.
After a murmured good night, Mrs. K. disappears into the elevator pod. Dr. K. motions to me and strolls off. As I follow, my glance skims the painting on the wall. My gaze slips from the roasted chicken, bounces over olives and sausages, and settles on a signature at the bottom right edge.
Janeth Kowalczyk, the signature reads.
I gape. Mrs. K. hand-painted this feast the old-fashioned way, with brushes and actual paint? I don’t know why I didn’t figure that out. No wonder Jodine hides her muddy little picture in the closet. With a mother who can paint like this, it’d be intimidating to try any artwork, let alone hang something where Mrs. K. might see it.
It doesn’t make sense, but looking at that painting makes me feel…bad. Off balance. Like something isn’t right about me, some sort of special something that I’m missing.
I hurry to join Dr. K. at the elevator pod, a flush of nervousness spreading over me like a bad rash. This entire household is packed with colossal intellect and talent. Even Nettie has her super cooking abilities.
Does Jodine ever feel this insignificant?
Chapter 10
The elevator pod returns, and Dr. K. and I step inside.
“Up,” he orders. We rise to the next floor, where I follow him across a polished entryway. He signs us in to a huge workroom. Long tables hold tangles of batteries, coils, and electrical equipment. A large oscilloscope sits nearby. Wallscreens display advanced mathematical equations. It’s a cluttery mess, but it looks like an industrious and happening place.
“Super,” I say, and catch sight of something familiar on a nearby wallscreen. “Hey, that’s the formula for quantum energy.”
“Very good. I’m impressed you know that.”
“I learned it in an extra credit physics class. I love science and math.”
“Excellent.” Dr. K. steps over to a boxy-look
ing device and pats it with a geeky gleam in his eye. “Along with developing a booster to solve the acceleration problem, this is what will make my theory work. An antigravity module.” He describes its inner workings, and I actually follow three-quarters of what he’s saying.
“Wow,” I say, the science gears in my brain spinning.
“What projects have you been involved with?” Dr. K. shoves aside a voltage meter and leans his elbows on a table. “I like to hear what inquiring young minds are doing.”
I try not to panic. After what he’s just revealed, my fiddlings at the Catalyst Club seem trivial. “My science club did a project on electromagnetic energy. We messed around with transformers, connecting them to vacuum globes and making plasma. It was fun, watching the lightning bolts zap and fizz when we touched the globe.”
“Gives a satisfying tingle to the fingertips too.”
I laugh. Satisfying. Yeah, right. I’m glad he’s not as intimidating as I thought he’d be.
Dr. K. gives me an intent look, then smiles and shakes his head. “You’re clearly not Jodine. She doesn’t care for technology or science, or being known as Caroline Mahoney’s granddaughter. She’s more of a right-brained, artistic type like Janeth.”
Having seen the klutzy still life in her closet, I doubt that. I murmur a neutral reply.
“ERT’s such an astounding procedure,” Dr. K. says. “To be able to gather the consciousness of one person—everything she said or did or remembered—and compact that into a transferrable data file.”
“Yes!” I say. “The tech is what got me interested in the program. I was researching neurons and how the scientists chemically activated trillions of synapses to fire, to release memories. I was amazed how after they recorded the brain waves to make a brainmap file, they came up with the idea of making an opposite signal to cancel out the ones in the body.”