by S. G. Wilson
“Brilliant. Well, I have a few details for us to go over. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about? Cancer? Heart problems?”
“No. But do other Mes?”
He ignored the question as he tapped a check on the screen. “How about allergies?”
“No.”
“Romantic status?”
“There’s a romantic status?”
“I’m going to mark no.”
“Right.”
“What about injuries? How did you come out after the little row with the three-legged dog in third grade?”
“You mean Roscoe from a few houses up?” I cringed at the memory. I should never have cut across the Mullinses’ lawn that time. “Yeah, he bit me. In the ankle. No rabies, though.”
“Has Nash ever sent you to the hospital?”
“No. The way he bullies me is—”
“Psychological. The ‘nice bully’ routine. Quite. I’m familiar with that one.” For just a second, he stared off into space, a haunted look in his eyes. Clearly, his Nash had left some scars before he started sucking up to Meticulous.
“So, about Mum and Dad on your world,” Meticulous continued, back to business. “How’s the company doing?”
“Me Co.? Never took off. It’s more of a side project.”
“Interesting.” Meticulous sounded anything but interested. “Tell me, are they still together?”
His words didn’t register at first. “Uh, together?”
He patted his tidy hair into an even tidier shape. “Are they divorced? Sixty percent of Mums and Dads out there have split.”
Divorced. It was like he’d slapped me in the face with the word. I hadn’t ever thought Mom and Dad might break up, but maybe I’d just been avoiding the idea. They definitely fought like a couple on the verge of calling it quits.
“They’re still together.” Then I blurted, “And Mom’s alive.”
Meticulous’s eyes bored into me. “Why would you say that? Is she in bad health?” In a blink he’d gone from big-shot CEO to anxious thirteen-year-old kid. It was like watching a wolfman turn back into a naked guy. I could see by the pain on his face that his mom’s death still hurt.
“Uh, she’s fine,” I said. “I just thought I should bring this up in case she—or Dad—is dead on other Earths.”
Meticulous pulled himself together enough to glower at me. “Kind of a morbid thought, don’t you think, mate?”
“Call me Morbid Me, I guess. Heh.”
Meticulous straightened up and adjusted his cravat. Back to business. He glanced at the MePad. “And that brings us to technology. Based on that very primitive MeMinder on your wrist, and from what I saw when I paid you a visit, I’m guessing your Earth is still working on self-driving cars, personalized drone deliveries, and interactive public loos.”
I recovered just enough to fake a laugh. “Interactive public loos? Who ever heard of such a thing? You’d never catch me using one of those!”
“Indeed.” He seemed disappointed, but at least he wasn’t suspicious. “Okay, nearly done. How about sports? Football? Cricket? Conkers?”
“Just basketball, sort of. Not much of an athlete.”
Meticulous looked me up and down. “I gathered as much. What about creative endeavors? Music? Painting? Writing?”
I scanned the room. The Tune Mes had stormed off after their argument, so the Silly Mes had taken the stage, miming a tug-of-war with an invisible rope. By the water fountain, Kabuki Theater Me did an elaborate dance with a foldable hand fan. Nearby, Cowboy Me performed lasso tricks. Across from him, Escape Me thrilled a crowd by picking the lock on the chains that held him suspended over a tank of water.
Compared to them, I felt more than a little worthless. It was like I’d lost a contest with myself. As if to rub it in, the MeMinder piped up: “Science fair project remains incomplete. Basketball practice unattended. You are unprepared for upcoming Student Showcase.”
Meticulous snorted, but in a much meaner way than Motor.
“I can’t do anything special,” I grumbled. “Beyond origami, I guess.”
Meticulous’s eyes went wide. He recovered the next second, back to playing it cool. “So, what, you can fold some flowers? Maybe a crane?”
Glad for the chance to show up this guy, I took a blank sheet of paper from the pile on the table and folded it into an octopus. My best octopus, the three-dimensional one with a balloon head, a dagger beak, and rows of suckers on the arms. When I plopped the finished product in front of Meticulous, he flinched like the creature might come to life and latch on to his face.
I milked the moment for all it was worth. “Aren’t other Mes into origami too? Since you folded those notes for me, I just assumed it came naturally to all of us.”
Meticulous licked his lips. Did I lick my lips? “Can you fold other things?”
“Sure.”
Meticulous rustled around in his bag. “Will you do some origami for me? I’ve been trying to teach myself, but it’s slow going.”
“Uh, okay.” Maybe doing him a favor now would help smooth things over if he ever found out about my little visit to his Earth.
Meticulous placed a SecureMe camera-projector on the desk, just like the one I’d seen on his world. At the sight of it, the stolen flash drive burned in my pocket. “And mind if I holo-record this? If I can watch it on the replay, that would help my technique.”
He pressed a button on the box, and the lens lit up, beaming a green light that formed into a piece of holo-paper. “Just fold it like you would normal paper.”
“Cool. So how do I start?”
Meticulous sighed. “Grab the holo-paper and start folding, obviously.” He called up a file on his MePad and glanced at it. “Can you start with a Lahontan cutthroat trout? I know it’s an odd choice, but—”
“Nah, it’s cool. I know my way around a Lahontan cutthroat trout.”
“Really?”
“I’ve done plenty.”
The hologram felt like real paper at my touch, bending and creasing with ease. Still, I couldn’t quite get the hang of folding in midair.
Meticulous scoffed. “Just lay it flat!”
I tugged on the holo-paper and it lay flat on the desk, ready for folding. In just a few seconds I turned it into a fish. I could tell Meticulous was impressed but trying not to show it.
The trout disappeared in a silent burst, and a new, blank sheet of paper blinked in its place.
Meticulous glanced at his notes. “Next on my list is a moustached puffbird, but I’m sure you can’t handle that, so we can move on.”
“No, I’ve done a moustached puffbird before.” I folded one in a matter of seconds.
Once Meticulous gave it a reluctant thumbs-up, the bird popped out of existence and a new sheet appeared.
“Next up, a yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
It went on like this. Paper in, naked mole rat out. Paper in, blobfish out. It was actually a little odd how familiar I was with all the animals he named, like I’d gotten hold of the answers before the test. But the best part was showing up Meticulous. He looked more and more baffled with every origami I made.
Finally, after I put the last touches on a Japanese spider crab, Meticulous turned off the recorder.
“That’ll do, mate.” His voice had gone flat. “Just what I need.”
He tapped the screen, and a printer at his side spewed out a card that he tossed to me: AVERAGE ME, EARTH NINETY-NINE.
“Average Me?”
“Your interview results show that you fall in the perfect average of every Me benchmark.”
What did it say about me that average was my defining trait? To wear that on a name tag would spell my doom at Me Con. Who’d want to hang out with Average Me? It was like wearing a cone of shame. Now everybody would know I
hadn’t accomplished jack with my life.
“But what about, I don’t know, Origami Me? Wouldn’t that be a better nickname?”
Meticulous tapped the MePad screen, and the printer spat out more paper. “Your origami’s cracking, but not cracking enough to merit a nickname. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy yourself here. The panels, the games, the parties. We’re chockablock with fun. That’s what Me Con is all about. I’ve given you some right proper panels to speak on, if that makes you feel better.”
He handed me the paper from the printer, a list titled Average Me’s Panels. He’d scheduled me to speak on “Bedtime Blues Part Seven: The Recurring Evil Otter Boot Camp Nightmare” and “Barfing in Burger King: Our Most Outrageous Episodes of Public Puking.”
“Have fun.” Meticulous slipped the holo-recorder and other stuff into his bag.
I stood up, eager to get out while the getting was good. But then a blur of green ran up to the table. Hollywood was back, his colonial suit all ripped and rumpled. He hunched over to catch his breath.
Meticulous scowled at him. “Some bloody assistant you turned out to be! I couldn’t find you anywhere! Had to leave without you!”
Hollywood gulped some air and stood up. “I had to bust out of your limo! Didn’t you hear me screaming?!”
“That was you? I thought it was a squeaky brake.”
Looking hurt by this, Hollywood pointed at me. “He trapped me in the fudging boot, if you’ll excuse my colorful language! This Me broke into your world somehow! He took your trophy at the science fair! He sat in your office! He escaped on your scooter!”
Meticulous’s lips parted with the precision of a C-clamp. “How did you get to my world!?”
“Uh, I pressed the number one on the elevator?”
Meticulous pounded his fist on the table so hard my bag of Diarrhea Delights slid to the edge. Hollywood picked it up and shoved a handful into his mouth.
“Mes can only go to two bloody places on the elevator: Me Con and their home world!” said Meticulous. “I programmed it that way!”
At this point, I was too mad to let this pompous jerk scare me anymore. “Why do we only get to visit one stop, while you go wherever you want?! Who are you to control where we can and can’t go?!”
The Mes nearby stopped what they were doing and turned to us. Meticulous lowered his voice to a hiss. “I built the elevator! I started Me Con! And I set up the rules to keep everyone safe! That means nobody gets to world-jump but me! It’s too bloody dodgy!”
Mobster and Ren Faire crossed the room and stood on either side of Meticulous, squeezing their fists and cracking their necks in menacing ways. Trying to look just as tough, Hollywood stood in front of them and folded his arms over his chest. He came across more stupid than scary. Meticulous noticed him and shook his head in disgust. “You’ve made a right botch of this, Hollywood! You’re in trouble too!”
“Me?! Why?!”
“Because thou art a half-wit!” said Ren Faire. “Leave it to a TV actor to bungle a job so simple!”
“Hollywood,” said Meticulous, “from this point forward, I revoke your elevator privileges. From now on you can only go to your Earth and Me Con, and that’s it. Oh, and you’re on waiter duty too.”
Hollywood started to cry, which was just as embarrassing to watch as if I’d cried myself. “Geez Louise! Anything but that!”
Meticulous stood up. “I’d better go home and fix whatever damage this wally has done. Mobster, Ren Faire, take him to the Exit.”
The growing crowd of Mes around us made a collective gasp of surprise. Apparently, the Exit wasn’t good. But my brain barely registered this as Ren Faire and Mobster stepped forward and snatched me by the wrists.
That’s when the fizz came back. Just like before, a feeling of strength and speed spread over my arms and legs. With that surge of something—adrenaline? sugar rush?—I broke free of Ren Faire and Mobster. They even staggered back a few steps.
Meticulous barked a laugh. “You can’t possibly think you can fight those two!”
Ren Faire drew his sword as Mobster put on a set of brass knuckles.
“Who said anything about fighting?” And before anybody could grab me again, I turned in the opposite direction and ran.
I darted through the crowd of confused Mes and ducked into the nearest hallway, slipping into a panel called “Surprise Me: The Little Differences Between Our Worlds.” Nobody in the room had seen me escape from Ren Faire and Mobster, so I kept my head low and took the last seat available in the back. I sat next to a Me in a leather jacket with his hair greased back, a classic 1950s rebel-without-a-cause type. JUVENILE HALL ME, read his name tag. He even had an old-timey slingshot sticking out of his back pocket, though that didn’t look nearly as dangerous as the switchblade he flipped over and over in his hand. I gulped.
Glancing around to make sure I hadn’t been followed, I tried to round up my racing thoughts. One thing was clear: Me Con was more dangerous than I’d ever imagined. I needed to get to the elevator and back to my world. But that would mean going through the ballroom again and straight into the hands of Ren Faire and Mobster. For now at least, I was stuck.
Motor’s voice came over the room speaker: “So let’s get this part out of the way.” He sat at the table up front with three other Mes. “What’s that certain beloved sci-fi movie series called on your Earths? I think we all know what I’m talking about!”
“You mean Space Wars?” said the Me on Motor’s right side. He wore brass-plated goggles, a top hat, and a pirate shirt with a ruffled front. His name tag read STEAMPUNK ME.
“No, he means Laser Sword Warriors in Spaceships!” said a Me in an army-style uniform on Motor’s left. MILITARY SCHOOL ME, read his name tag.
“Who cares?” said a crabby Me at the far end of the table. I recognized him from earlier: Troll Me, one of the Virals. He focused on the MePad in his hands, like he had more important things to do than join in this discussion.
“On my Earth it’s called Star Wars: Bad Guy Is Good Guy’s Dad,” said Motor. “We have a thing about honest titles where I’m from, and nobody cares if they’re spoilers. You know, like Titanic: The Ship Sinks.”
“That’s stupid!” said Troll.
Motor frowned but said nothing. He wouldn’t even look Troll in the eyes.
Steampunk tried to steer the talk to safer ground. “Motor, if everything’s honest on your Earth, what do they call the first Harry Potter book?”
Motor shrugged. “Harry Potter and the Bad Guy Who Stuck Himself on Another Guy’s Head.”
That cracked everybody up except Troll. “Idiotic!” he yelled.
Awkward silence followed as Motor stared at the floor. Finally, Military School told the crowd that nobody on his Earth had ever invented handfarting, Velcro shoes, or tetherball. Steampunk explained that his Earth treated corn dogs and funnel cake as high cuisine and punished the crime of gleeking on another person with jail time. Troll shared nothing beyond his bad attitude, grumbling to himself and tapping at his screen. When Motor mentioned that shadow puppetry was one of the most venerated art forms on his Earth, Troll was at his throat again. “That explains everything! If you come from an Earth that dumb, you must be dumb too! You couldn’t hack your way out of an Atari 2600!”
Troll kept laying into him, and Motor kept on taking it. Meanwhile, none of the Mes on the panel or in the audience spoke out to defend him. Some even chuckled, probably to get in good with Troll. I couldn’t believe all these Mes would just sit there and let this bully get away with it. “Why isn’t anybody saying anything?” I asked no one in particular.
Juvenile Hall ran a comb through his greased hair in a luxurious sweep. “Troll’s a Viral Me, you dig? Nobody speaks out against Viral Mes, daddy-o. Plus, it’s only Motor Me he’s dissing. Who cares about that cat?”
Motor was on the ver
ge of tears. If he cried in front of everybody, he’d never live this down. I’d meant to lie low, but I couldn’t watch another second of this. I grabbed a couple of leftover Diarrhea Delights from my pocket and yanked the slingshot out of Juvenile Hall’s pocket.
“Slow down, Jack!” said Juvenile Hall. “What gives?!”
Ignoring him, I shoved a few of the chocolate lumps into the sling and lined up the shot. Though I’d never used one of these things before, I just knew I could make the target. Maybe it had something to do with the return of the fizz. I felt it in my eyes and hands this time, making my vision clear and my grip steady. I stretched the strap and let loose, pegging Troll square in the forehead. Chocolate, caramel, and pomegranate splattered his face.
Troll stood up and screamed, “Who did this?” All he got in reply was everybody’s laughter. Real laughter this time, not the brown-nosing kind.
Juvenile Hall slapped me on the back. “What a shot! You’re wild, man! As in ferocious wild! A Wild Me!”
“Uh, thanks.” I tossed the slingshot back to him. “Better hide this. That little weasel’s on the warpath.”
Troll got so shouty that his pointy ears wiggled. Monk Me—a Me with a shaved head and orange robes—jumped up from the audience and demanded that everybody do stress-reducing yoga moves. This struck me as a good time to slip away.
I’d just tiptoed through the back exit when Ren Faire and Mobster kicked open the main doors and rushed in. They both pointed at me, shouting in unison: “You!” That startled Monk Me so much he bonked his head during a special pose from his Earth called Poop-Hurling Chimpanzee.
As I hustled out of there, I glanced at Motor. He mouthed two words to me: “Ice machine.” Whatever that meant.
I stumbled into the adjoining room, which had been dimmed for a slide show: “Where’s Mr. Fartz? The Final Fate of Our Beloved Toys.” In the dark, I snuck past other Mes, who were too busy weeping to notice me passing through. No sooner had I slipped into “The Lunt Conspiracy: Why He Hates Us” than Ren Faire and Mobster followed right behind. Troll, still huffing mad, tagged along with them. They kept on my tail as I sprinted through “No More Nash: Humiliate Him Without Getting Caught!” and “Twig: From Friend to Girlfriend—but Don’t Hold Your Breath.”