“And when things shrink, they act differently and don’t respond in the ways you’d expect them to. For example, if I were shrunk down to the size of an ant, I wouldn’t just be a smaller version of myself; the viscosity of my blood would change, my organs would have more surface area, surface tension from the surrounding water vapor would work against me. In short, physics would treat me very differently.”
A message from Ethan scrolled across my film, It’s not like physics is too nice to you up here, either, and I laughed. I felt like an asshole sometimes joking about our teachers—especially in class—but at the same time I felt so cheated by them. They were supposed to know better. And worse than not giving us a chance, they were pretending we had one and could grow up to be anything we wanted. It was so out of key and surreal that sometimes it made me feel like we actually deserved to be left behind. That we were all just a bunch of fucking dumb animals that wouldn’t know the difference
But then again, what were they supposed to do? We were kids after all and they hadn’t signed up to be trauma counselors. Things had gotten switched around on them just as much as they had with us.
“It may sound funny, but it’s no laughing matter,” Mrs. Margaret continued. “It’s quite troubling really, when you consider that everything you believe . . .” She paused to search for the right words. “All the knowledge that’s been built up inside you for years and years hasn’t just become irrelevant, but it’s working against you, making it harder to grasp these new quantum models.
“And because it’s so strange and flies in the face of everything that we’ve ever learned, we might be tempted to ignore it. To pretend that it doesn’t exist. But if we do, the world will just pass us by.”
This actually kind of made sense. The problem was even if she’d been able to make it useful, it was hard concentrating when you were this drenched with sweat, sitting in one of these third-story, un-air-conditioned classrooms, with the 8:30 sun already slamming in through the window. Last year I’d showered at school in the morning because I’d get soaked riding my bike on the way in. This year I had the car—a shitty non-autonomous Ford Starlight—but it didn’t matter; I was soaked anyways, since it had gotten that much hotter.
“We need to come to terms with the fact that there’s a world out there that goes beyond what’s immediately apparent to our five senses. I realize that it’s going to take more than me just talking for you to understand this, though, and that’s why we’re going to do a group project that’ll get you right into the thick of it.”
Mrs. Margaret paused to take a breath and set her piece of chalk down. It killed me that she still used the chalkboard instead of the fancy rollup screens the district had spent a king’s ransom on, but since most teachers who used them didn’t actually use them, just transcribed the same lessons, she was at least being honest about her cluelessness. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop her from turning on ClassGlass, a composite of our attendance, participation, and focus (as measured through eye-tracking) subtotals that was perma-etched on the upper right corner of our films. My ninety-two was high enough for my choice of either three ‘restroom passes’ or one free ‘cut in line’ at lunch this week.
“Okay everybody, let’s take a few minutes to divide into groups of . . . let’s say four,” said Mrs. Margaret. “And try to make sure everybody feels included by branching out and working with someone new.”
Ethan seemed to be the only one to take this suggestion to heart, calling out for Glendene and Billy to join us as I pulled my desk up beside his. Over the past couple years, absurdity had become his coping mechanism of choice, and made sport of picking out the strangest, most ridiculous kids at school to consort with.
He looked absurd himself today in his black, Malkroft formal vest, neon yellow t-shirt, and designer sunglasses with scratchproof OLED lenses. He mostly wore tank tops and soccer jerseys from obscure South American club teams, but he’d sporadically splice in getups like these when he felt unusually bored or lonely. It would’ve been fine—do what you gotta do to get your kicks—but the problem was that he’d splurge all his allowance and stamp money on them, and then wouldn’t be able to help me pay for the Syd parts that his uncle didn’t have. I had a few grand saved up from unused BASIC and odd jobs so we could still get them, and we were talking only nickels compared to what we were dealing with now, but it was still annoying. Especially considering how hard I was straining to pass my own shitty, old clothes off as vintage and deliberately minimalist.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. It could’ve been a lot worse. He could’ve been gloating to people about how we were getting away with it, or unreliable, or arrogant, or mean-spirited, but he was actually a trooper about pretty much everything. And he was outlandish and funny and fun to be around, which was a welcome diversion when things got too gloomy. Most importantly, though, we were on the same track, going in the same direction. And that alone was usually enough to put me at ease.
“She’s no Vera Rubin, but Glendene balances a pretty mean chemical equation, don’t you Glendene?” asked Ethan.
“Sometimes,” she said.
“Ah, she’s just being modest,” Ethan said, winking at me. “And Billy here—he’s not so much a theoretical scientist, but definitely knows his way around a Bunsen burner.”
Billy looked over his shoulder as though he were trying to see if there could be someone else Ethan was referring to. He sputtered, “I mean, I don’t know. I s’pose as good as the next guy.”
“Don’t be bashful.” Ethan turned back to me. “Billy’s going to be in charge of meticulously setting up our experiment—making sure quality’s all the way up to Mrs. Margaret’s exacting standards.”
Billy looked down at his lab book.
“If Mrs. Margaret spent as much time explaining what she makes us write down, we might actually learn something,” remarked Glendene in a snotty voice.
“Right,” said Ethan, nodding. “There’s a certain amount of transcriptional rigor in the scientific method, but I tend to agree.”
“I actually . . . don’t mind her so much,” said Billy.
“Oh yeah?” Ethan asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah. She, she . . . likes what she talks about and . . . and tries to make us like it, too. So we’ll understand it better—”
“She does try hard, I’ll give you that. But if she really cared so much about us understanding, don’t you think she’d come up with some different way to make us if we weren’t?” asked Ethan.
Billy scrunched up his eyes.
“I mean, let’s say you were watching the neighbors’ dog and they left you a set of keys, but no instructions. If you tried the first key and it didn’t open the front door, how many times would you keep trying that same key? One, two, twenty?”
“Maybe three or four times,” said Billy.
“Yeah, that seems about right,” Ethan agreed. “But you wouldn’t just stand there all day, would you? No, you’d be like, ‘It’s gotta be the smaller silver key, or maybe it’s the key with the blue tassel on it.’ Or you’d going through the side door or the porch. But, it’d be crazy to just keep jiggling that same one up and down.
“Then why still do it?”
Glendene was looking down at her black lab book.
Billy shrugged.
“So, you can say that you tried really hard when the neighbors get upset about the dog shitting all over their rug. That way you can be a martyr.” Ethan paused, looking up at Mrs. Margaret shuffling between rows of desks at the front of the class. “Mrs. Margaret enjoys being the martyr a lot more than actually teaching us anything.”
Billy looked dumbstruck.
I rolled my eyes.
“Okay it looks like everyone’s found someone.” Mrs. Margaret’s voice dodged through the chatter. “Oh, Jacob . . . uh, why don’t you go with Patrick’s group there?”
“We already have four. Kalie’s with us. She’s gone today—her um, family’s still on vacation, but I ju
st messaged her about it, so, uh . . . we’re filled up.”
“Okay, okay,” said Mrs. Margaret. “Are there any groups of three left? Carter, are there just three of you?”
“No ma’am. Rory’s with us, he’s just sitting across the row.”
Rory gave a half-hearted wave and Jacob’s face, which was already flushed, turned a little redder.
“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Margaret repeated. “We’ll have one group of five then. Who wants another member to share the workload,” she said with forced excitement. “Any takers?”
“We’ll take him!” cried Ethan.
Jesus, I thought, and shot him a grimace.
Ethan just shrugged at me and then turned back to Mrs. Margaret. “We could use a hand over here.”
“Oh, good. Everything’s settled then.”
There was a loud screeching noise as Jacob dragged a desk next to me from three rows over. Mrs. Margaret stopped for a second and seemed like she was going to say something, but instead continued, “But before we start with the lab, I want to talk to you about the science fair that’s coming up in a few weeks. And before everyone zones out, you should at least listen to this first part, as I’m sure it’ll be quite intriguing to a few of you out there. The winning prize is 500 Benjamin Franklins plus an optional three-month-long session of intensive Revision therapy.”
Chapter 9
We were only four minutes into plyometrics on the practice field, but the sun was beaming and my SPF 50 was dripping down my face, stinging my eyes. Football season had been moved to winter because it had gotten so hot that playing in pads had become dangerous, and the other sports had to adjust around it. That’s why we were out for track in the autumn, but God I wished I wasn’t, so badly that I was considering getting water from the troughs and then just slinking off into the tree line. I doubted anyone would notice since they’d already done roll and we were just drilling today, but after mulling it over for a few minutes—and actually going to get water—I decided not to ditch. Mom and Dad would be pissed if they found out and I’d never hear the end of it from Christopher. The main reason, though, was that I still needed to talk to Michael about Syd. He was in his warm-up gear doing high knees next to me like they were the most important thing in the world.
“Save something for out there,” I said, gesturing towards the track. He nodded briefly, sweat streaming down his forehead, but kept going. Michael, this sport’s dead to us, and no amount of afternoons burning up out here’ll bring it back. That’s what I wanted to say, anyway, but didn’t. Christopher was the one who didn’t get it. And I guess that’s what made me self-conscious about the robbery: the fact that Michael knew full well what has happening in the world, yet he was on the field anyway.
Ethan knew, too, but his first instinct was the opposite; he quit everything within hours of having the epiphany. He would curse and spit and act wronged, but in truth it was exactly what he’d wanted to do the entire time and this just gave him the cover for a graceful exit.
Now when he drank and licked stamps, it wasn’t just because he was self-sabotaging, it was because he’d been driven to it. Tragic. Defiant. Destroying himself in body to get back at everyone who’d destroyed him in spirit.
I think what scared me even more, though, was how much of his indifference I saw in myself. The only difference was that I had Lena spurring me on. Every night in bed I imagined having a conversation with her, trying to be the kind of person I’ve always wished I were. Assured. Courageous. Believing anything was possible. Even though it was far away because she was—her face fading almost as fast as my mind could keep drawing her, I’d concentrate on holding her hand until my blood pressure dropped and my mind settled on a single frame. It was the only way I could get to sleep anymore.
Plyometrics were finished now, so we all jogged down the hill to the track. The black asphalt looked like it was cooking in the heat, bubbling up and transforming into something menacing. It felt strange to be running toward a thing that could swallow you, but I’d spent the entire day glancing behind me, half-expecting to see solemn-faced officers emerging through crowds, so jogging actually felt good now. It made the questions, ‘Did they realize the money was gone? Had that dog had PetPerspective after all? Had Ethan left skin cells when he’d taken off his gloves?’ seem a little less urgent, a little farther away.
“Having second thoughts?” I asked Michael as we did static stretches on the infield track.
“About joining the team?” He smiled and shook his head. “I know you think I’m crazy for doing it. It’s a furnace out here, I get it, and I’ll never be as good as most of these cats. But you’re missing the point.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah, ’cause I’d go completely insane if I had my head in code all day. And I get to hang out with you guys.”
“Aw, ain’t you sweet,” I teased, punching him in the arm.
Coach Benson’s whistle blew, and practice started.
Three kids from Lawrence Prep snuck in through the eastern gate and ran up next to us on the second lap of our 1600-meter dash. “Some day for a run, eh?” said the closest one.
“Don’t you pricks have anything better to do?” Christopher answered, between gasps.
“Yeah, but we thought we’d swing by and set pace. Hate to see you guys have another shitty season.”
The casual meanness of it was breathtaking. Inexplicable. Of course they had better things to do—they could solve differential equations in their heads. They could be working out complex, multivariable physics theorems for a Mars landing. The idea that they’d give two shits about being faster than us—let alone rub our noses in it—seemed surreal. And even if it was just a prank or some kind of dare, its lowness made me feel hopeless in a way I hadn’t even felt about my own lack of Revision.
It was only after a few moments that I screamed, “Too bad none of that extra oxygen gets to your brains, you fuckheads!” as they blurred away into the heat. Coach Benson was yelling, too, blowing his whistle, and the assistant was chasing after them, but it was so ridiculously futile that I wished they’d just stop and save face.
“It’s just horsepower,” I said and looked for Michael, though he was too far back to hear. Chris had tried to stay with them, but he was beginning to wilt in the disorienting sunshine—his whole body red and sputtering, fighting for breath.
Even though I wasn’t running as hard, I felt just as tired. Zipped inside the heat. “It’s just horsepower,” I repeated to myself, falling back to run beside Michael.
My locker vibrated with the force of Chris’ door slamming shut, five over. “We gotta fucking do something! Seriously! We gotta get them back!”
There were mutters of agreement.
“No, you don’t. I’m taking care of it,” Coach Benson said, passing between the rows of benches on the way to his office, his clipboard pressed into his chest.
“Like hell,” someone shot back as his door closed.
“They’re just a bunch of dick wipes. There’s really nothing to do about that,” said someone else.
“That’s a really super attitude, Nathan! Really super,” shouted Chris.
“Take it easy, pal; they only humiliated us if we think we got humiliated, and you’re playing right into it,” Nathan fired back.
Chris quickly shook his head up and down. “I know they did. Obviously that was fucking childish. But the fact that they could do it says something.” Chris generally had a cool head, but he had this gaping blind spot for sports when he thought people weren’t trying hard enough.
Michael stuffed his singlet into his locker. “It says they’re assholes.”
“We’ll just start coming in mornings,” continued Chris. “If Benson’s too much of a bullshitter to call extra practices, then we’ll do it ourselves.”
“We don’t even race them, Chris. They’re not even in the same league,” said Nathan.
“Well, they should be.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” said Micha
el quietly. “They’ve got a Gdf8 gene mutation, so their muscles grow faster. They make more ATP. Have more myosin filaments. Their nanobots even build these bio-springs that absorb five times more energy when they hit the ground.”
“Why don’t we just hack their nanobots, then? That’ll teach them not to fuck with us.”
“Yeah, Michael’s smart; he can do it.”
“No, he can’t,” Michael said as he leaned forward on the bench, cupping his head in his hands. “’Cause it could kill them. Is that what you want?”
“Maybe,” someone quipped.
“This just shows that they’re overconfident,” said Chris, his voice gaining fervor. “’So they won’t see it coming.”
“’Cept for Randy’s fat ass,” someone else cracked.
Chris ignored the laughter. “We’ll go an extra hour in the evenings, too. Do XR17. Out-train them the old-fashioned way, and they’ll have absolutely no excuse when they lose.”
“Have you really gotten this stupid, Chris?” I asked, unable to take it anymore. “What Michael said about the nanobots isn’t just words; it freaking means something. Having that much extra oxygen in their bloodstreams means something. The biology’s pretty straightforward; if you want, I’ll explain it to you.” I couldn’t stop the sneer spreading across my face as I got up off the bench.
“That sounds an awful lot like an excuse to me.”
“Chris, you’re an idiot.”
“Why don’t you just quit, then? You and Ethan seem to be doing a lot of that lately.” Chris got a few inches from my face. “You’re quite talented at quitt—”
A flash of anger sent me over the edge and even though it left as quickly as it came I was still flying through empty space, my fist hitting the corner of his mouth before he could finish his sentence. I stepped back and glanced around at all the stunned faces. The usual clamor of the locker room had been sucked into a vacuum and just when I thought I was being sucked away too, I felt Chris’ right hook snap my head into the long row of maroon lockers. It didn’t hurt the way you’d think it would. It was just a sharp, sudden impact, after which time sputtered and stalled while my lip leaked blood out onto the concrete floor. Right as I was turning my head back toward Chris, his fist blotted my vision and split the overhead lights into swirling fragments.
Sunlight 24 Page 7