The Body Institute

by Carol Riggs

  I wave at his receding figure. My smile clings to my face as I board the MT and ride to the Red Zone. It’s mind-bending that I just walked the park with Superguy. No wonder I’ve felt drawn to him, even in his Matt body. A personality that magnetic can’t be muted.

  Now I’m even more psyched about getting together in August when he finishes his assignment.

  Chapter 17

  Around 1430 I wander into the kitchen and discover Nettie has returned from her vacation. She is standing at the fridge studying its contents, most likely plotting dinner.

  “How was your day off?” I swat at the green airbot as it hovers too close.

  “Wonderful,” she says. “My brother’s party had a live band, apple bobbing, and goofy games. I trust you survived without me.”

  “I did okay.” I’m not going to talk about my horrendous failings yesterday.

  Nettie mumbles something about a stew and holds out a cabbage. “Can you set that on the counter for me, Jodine?”

  The words skewer me. “Morgan. I’m Morgan.”

  Nettie’s eyes are glazed for a moment before she focuses. “Did I just call you Jodine? Sorry about that. Habit.”

  “It’s okay,” I say through gritted teeth. But it’s not okay. I may do some things like Jodine, since I have her taste buds and her voice and all, but I’m not Jodine. I’m myself, absolutely separate from the girl who belongs to this body. Morgan Dey, period. I plunk the cabbage on the counter. “I’m off to do some boxing, unless you need help with dinner.”

  “Go ahead, I’m fine,” she says, absorbed with the veggie drawer again.

  I withdraw to the game room. I hook and jab and punch my boxing holo-foe until my right shoulder starts to ache from the high resistance setting I’ve selected. In the gym I switch to the treadmill, followed by the weight machine. After that, Jodine’s body goes on strike. The legs wobble, a sharp pain nails me under the ribs, and the muscles feel as limp as eight-week-old lettuce.

  Enough already.

  Upstairs, I shower and find a message waiting from Mom, who says she and her band are planning to fly back east to do an opener for The Gazelles. This could be her big chance to be discovered. That’d be cool. I spin toward the bed to check my other mail and come face to face with the green airbot. Its sensor lights blink as it hums by my nose. It gives a trilly little greeting.

  “You’re peeving me, kid,” I say. “I know you and Jodine had a cozy relationship, but I’m not her. I don’t need a mechanical pet to keep me company.”

  The airbot bobs left a few inches and hovers like a puppy panting in midair.

  “Higher.” I point to the ceiling.

  It floats upward. As it does, I swear its hum winds into a sharper pitch, like a small whine. I ignore the guilt that mushrooms inside me. Ridiculous. The critter is a mass of wires and circuitry, and I have not hurt its feelings. Although I can identify with the thing. Trapped in an alien form, wanting to connect with someone…

  Next, I open a message from Krista.

  What’s up? The Flash Point party last night was a blast. Wish you’d been there! Randy is SUCH wild fun to hang with! We’re going hover-skating Friday. Catch ya later. Hugs!

  It’s the same kind of thing Blair and Krista have been saying for the past four weeks. Fun, hot boyfriends, and slender-bodied freedom. I heave myself backward onto the bed and stare virtual holes into the ceiling. Swear words fester in my mind. I close my eyes and summon up the feel of Vonn’s hand in mine, which counteracts my pity party a little.

  “Mrs. Kowalczyk is here to see you,” the house system computer informs me.

  “Come in.” I sit up as the door opens to reveal Mrs. K.’s slim figure.

  “Look at you.” She smiles, checking out my T-shirt and stretch jeans. “You’re wearing something besides sweats. That’s marvelous.” She sounds giddy.

  “I have a few more things I can wear now.” Should I be worried? She’s not usually this friendly or pleasant.

  “I’ve finished my commissioned painting.” She sweeps her arms outward as if she’s hugging the entire world. “Charles and Nettie saw it earlier. Would you like to?”

  My dark and stormy thoughts vanish. “I’d love to take a look.”

  Mrs. K. radiates delight and leads me to the elevator pod. As we rise, she bounces, swinging her hands by the sides of her designer slacks. I crack a smile. Her behavior seems unusual, but I’ve seen her less than a dozen times since I came here. I don’t really know her.

  On the next floor, we enter a door on the right. Natural light bathes the room, flooding in from a wall of windows. Rows of canvases line up like soldiers against the opposite wall, and a cabinet holds brushes and the nozzles of what must be a paint-dispensing machine.

  I walk over to a giant canvas on an easel. My mouth falls open. A countryside. Perfect, as if seen in a dream. The arms of a tree stretch out over most of the canvas, the tree’s foliage impossibly emerald. The grass below looks softer than carpet, almost feathery. Flowers dot the grassy borders near a small stream. The whole scene glistens with vibrant green and robust yellow, sharp white and earthy brown.

  “That’s brilliant,” I manage to say. “I could stare at it forever. I love realistic art.”

  “Representational,” Mrs. K. says. “That’s the art term. Although what I do is not strictly true to life. That’s what cameras are for.”

  “Yeah, your artwork’s more dreamlike.”

  “That’s the intention,” she says with approval. “Have you ever done any painting yourself, at school perhaps?”

  I hesitate. I’ve never been that charged up about drawing or painting. I appreciate art, but it’s more a viewer than a participant sport to me. “Just computer art with GenieDraw and a stylus. My mom’s a singer, so I’ve been around music more than art. She has a great voice, even though mine’s awful.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “Trust me, it is. I fall off-tune all the time. It’s like I know what the notes should be, but I can’t make myself sing them right.” I toss her a tentative glance. “Jodine has an amazing voice. I love doing karaoke with it.”

  “She does love to sing.” Mrs. K. purses her lips with contemplation or displeasure, I can’t tell which. “Would you like to try painting something?”

  “Really?” I have no idea why I’m feeling so psyched about this all of a sudden. The idea of holding a real brush and splotching some bright, gooey paint on something sounds terrific. Unless…it’s not 100 percent me who’s responding. That thought stabs me and deflates a bit of my enthusiasm. “Right now?”

  “Of course.” She walks to the wall and nabs a small canvas.

  I follow her every move while she sets up an easel and directs the paint machine to bestow blobs of color across a palette. She produces a photo of an apple and hands me an antiquated thing I don’t see often: a pencil. She points. “Sketch this apple. Basically round, you see, except flatter on these two sides.”

  Yeah, right. My hand shakes a little as the pencil scratches over the canvas.

  “Keep your wrist loose. Pretend it’s your computer stylus.”

  That helps. Still… “It’s lopsided,” I say. “It looks like an MT ran over it.”

  Mrs. K. gives a soft laugh. “It’s not that bad. Here’s a brush. We’ll start with red, and add other colors. I’ll tell you how to shade and make the apple look three-dimensional.”

  Red! I clutch the brush like it’s a lifeline. An unexplained thrill roller-coasters through me as I dab the bristles into a shiny puddle of crimson. Hue. Intensity. Where have I heard those words? Not in class, but they fit with what I’m doing. I work under Mrs. K.’s guidance for a while, with a lumpy yet presentable apple emerging from the canvas. Then Nettie’s amiable voice floats into the room through the house intercom.

  “Dinner is nearly ready, Mrs. Kowalczyk. Is Morgan up there?”

  “She is,” Mrs. K. says. “We’ll both come down. Don’t bother to set up in the dining r
oom unless Charles joins us.” She swings back to study my first-attempt apple. “That’s quite tolerable for a beginner, dynamic despite the rough blending. You may have some natural talent…it’s too bad Jodine doesn’t. Once a few years back she painted a very wooden-looking still life with fruit and a vase.”

  Ugh, Mrs. K. saw Jodine’s painting? That must’ve been humiliating. I’m glad Mrs. K. likes my apple. Imagine that. I might be good at techfree art. Now there’s something I wouldn’t have guessed—or even attempted, under other circumstances. Jodine’s underlying enthusiasm must’ve helped push me into trying.

  Along with her singing voice, it’s a cool perk of being in her body. The trouble is, I have little or no control when these things happen. It’s almost like I’m being swallowed alive by Jodine’s abilities and preferences. Creepy to a maximum degree. It’s a good thing I can go back to being totally me in April.

  I can’t wait to have all my thoughts and actions to myself.

  Mrs. K. slips my brush into a cleaning unit, and we head downstairs. We eat at the counter island with Nettie, who has prepared an out-of-this-universe Cajun shrimp and pilaf dinner that I’d love to accept seconds on. I manage to resist another helping.

  But mostly because Mrs. K. perches on the stool to my right.

  The rest of the week marches by. On Friday I’m still in penance mode. I board the MT for the park early, planning to put in a concentrated dose of exercise before Vonn shows up. Brushing a stray coil of hair from my face, I catch sight of my fingernails. Nice. At least my nails have grown out beyond the stubby nublets Jodine bit them into.

  My phone blings as I’m getting off the MT.

  How’s my favorite brain clone? Granddad asks.

  I burst into a startled laugh.

  I’m okay. I’m out jogging, or trying to. Do you really want to talk to a brainwashed copy of your granddaughter?

  I’ll take what I can get. The real Morgan isn’t available.

  Okay. I won’t push it.

  What’s up?

  Got some good news. Danged government retirement home emailed me yesterday. Tons more forms to fill out, but they might have an opening in a few weeks. Cross your fingers, and your toes too. Soon I’ll be out of your mom’s and dad’s hair, and into a place of my own.

  That’s great!

  My smile fades as the next logical thought stabs me in the heart. If Granddad moves into the retirement home while I’m being Jodine, he’ll be long gone by the time I return in April. His bushy-haired self won’t be sitting in the recliner, smelling of cigarette smoke and aftershave. The spare room will be cleared of his strewn-about shirts and socks and old-fashioned printed books, the guest bed empty.

  But I won’t get to say good-bye to you in person.

  There’s a long pause before Granddad answers.

  That’s why I’m calling, even though it’s not actually you. I wanted to feel like you knew I was leaving. Better than nothing.

  I don’t bother to tell him that when I finish my Reducer job and wake up without these memories, it’s still going to be a shock to see his room vacant. My old brainmap won’t have any preparation for this news—unless I manage to read six months’ worth of text messages before I arrive home.

  I’ll come see you in April, I promise. You know I will.

  The place is way out on the edge of the Yellow Zone.

  It’s in the Blue Zone. Has he forgotten, or is he confused?

  Doesn’t matter. I’ll visit you no matter what.

  I bet your real self would say that, too. You know how Gramma always said you were my devoted little buddy. She said your arms were exactly the right length to wrap around my neck. Ah, well. Get back to your jogging and lose that weight so I can have my granddaughter back.

  I will. Love ya.

  I tap off and stare at my phone. Having Granddad live with us puts a strain on our budget, and sometimes he’s crabby, but in a few weeks he’ll be gone. I already feel lost without him. I don’t blame him for being grumpy. He misses Gramma a ton, and there’s not much for him to do all day except read books and watch TV. When Gramma was alive, he cracked more jokes. He tickled me until I shrieked, and he played catch with Dad and me in the Yellow Zone park. He teased Mom so much that she took revenge with a flyswatter and chased him around his small apartment until he hid behind Gramma for safety.

  Gosh, I miss Gramma too, singing away in her stew-scented kitchen. And now Granddad’s leaving earlier than I want. Is this turning into another depressing day, like Halloween?

  I clench my teeth. Focus. Back to the job I’m getting paid for, and then I can go home and figure out how to deal with Granddad living in the retirement home.

  At the park, I start full-speed along the paths with other early morning risers. By the time I spot Vonn heading toward the bench where we usually meet, I’ve slowed from a bouncing jog into a bouncing walk.

  “Hi, park buddy!” Vonn calls as he walks up. “Ready to carve off those pounds?”

  “Absolutely.” The edges of my worry melt a little. His enthusiasm is contagious.

  I fall into step with him. After our first lap, Vonn points down the street. “Let’s ditch the park, 007. I want to see something different while we work out.”

  “I’m game.”

  We swerve across the street into a land of cafés, artificial trees, and trash incinerators. Wallscreens on buildings blast their ad-vids, while vendorbots shout about hamburgers and hot dogs, shish-kabobs and coffee. Why is everything always about food? I can’t get away from it.

  A guy on a bicycle zips past. “I’d love to go biking,” I say to Vonn, my voice saturated with longing. “I wonder if Jodine has a bike.”

  “Matt sure doesn’t.” He throws a look of pretend guilt at a security camera mounted on the corner of a building. “Oops, I hope that wasn’t too personal of information. I don’t want to void my contract.”

  “Too late. I’m turning you in. You’ll be shackled in a prison cubicle for the rest of your life, with no chance of payment or parole.”

  Vonn winces. “No payment? You’re merciless.” He stops at a vendorbot, buys two strawberry juices, and hands me one. “Here’s a bribe to keep quiet about my hideous lapse of protocol.”

  I giggle and take a long drink. “Bribe accepted.”

  “It’s a good thing those cameras don’t use audio, or we’d be flagged by the auto-system.”

  “We do love to live dangerously.” I’m being flip of course, because the risk of losing everything we’ve been working for is a very real one. It’s best not to think about it too much, or I’ll start biting my fingernails again.

  Vonn’s hand rests on my shoulder, large and warm. “Look, there’s an interactive vid theater across the street. Perfect for a real date. Want to go?”

  “I love those! But that’ll mess up our workout.”

  “Put your exercise app on pause. We can finish when we’re done.”

  I need no further prompting. I stop my app, and we wait for a lone car to glide down the street before we cross. We’re nearly to the sidewalk when Vonn gives a surprised grunt. He reaches out as a tall, lean guy walks by the theater. The guy comes to a halt.

  “Steven!” Vonn says with a delirious smile. “My, uh, roommate talks about how he hasn’t seen you since last year. His name is Vonn Alexander. He has a framed photo of you guys goofing around at the Blue Zone shooting range. How’ve you been, and why haven’t you answered his emails? Did you forget the password to your email account again?”

  The guy hunches deeper into his leather jacket, his eyes showing no flicker of recognition. “Sorry, I’m not Steven. I don’t know anyone named Vonn, and I’ve never been to the Blue Zone in my life. I live in Missouri. I’m just here for a friend’s wedding.”

  Vonn’s arm flops to his side. “Missouri? No way. You look exactly like him, except maybe a better haircut and cooler clothes. You even have the same faint birthmark on your forehead. Vonn said he used to tease Steven about how it�
�s shaped like a heart.”

  “Uh, that isn’t me. My name’s Chad.” The guy gives a hollow laugh. “Maybe I have a twin brother I don’t know about.”

  “Huh. My mistake, I guess.”

  The guy moves on. Vonn stares after him, looking perplexed and a little ungrounded. I have a sudden urge to hug him, he looks so lost.

  “I could’ve sworn that was Steven,” Vonn mutters.

  “Funny how people can look so much alike. Unless he is your friend’s long-lost twin.”

  “Even a twin wouldn’t have the exact same birthmark. I swear, that was him.”

  I shoulder-bump him and smile. “Maybe Chad’s a Reducer who permanently stole a Loaner body and ran off with it to Missouri.”

  “Nah. Steven was never a Loaner. He was totally into racquetball, kept in great shape. We even went to Rock Mountain one time.” He gives himself a shake, but he still looks troubled.

  We cross the sidewalk. Outside the theater, we check out the holo-posters, one displaying vipers that writhe and hiss, the other featuring tentacled aliens with red pulsing eyes.

  “We can be jungle spies or do sci-fi on another planet,” I say. Maybe a vid will erase the deep frown-crease on Vonn’s forehead. “Your choice.”

  “Aliens. I’m definitely in the mood to blast the tentacles off something.”

  We pay and enter the silent, near-dark vidroom. At this time of day, we have the place to ourselves, though the room holds about twenty seats. Our holographic vid comes stocked with wireless ray guns. As soon as we sit, the walls around us begin rippling, colors and shapes expanding into holographic forms.

  A slow smile spreads across my face. We’ve been transported to a windswept planet. Spherical buildings float on the horizon, tethered like helium balloons to a barren desert landscape. Triple suns hang in a violently red sky. I start to sweat as the planet heats up and a surge of warm air hits me in the face. Eerie music seeps into the room.

  “It’s getting hot in here,” Vonn says next to me. He gives a loud sigh and reaches over to enfold my hand in his. “This is gonna be fun, but I wish I were in my own body right now.”