“They’ve been making announcements about it all year. Your science teacher should’ve told your class about it—”
“I know what it is. I was asking about your part. Are you trying to say that’s the big reason you’ve had me doing all this for you?”
“Well, yeah. I appreciate everything you’ve done, though. You’ve been great. You really have been.”
“Nice try,” Jaden said flatly. He paused to see if I’d rush in and defend myself, but when I didn’t, he continued. “You made way too big a deal about it for that to be all it was. That isn’t something you’d need me to go into your room every night and turn on the lights and music before Mom and Dad got back so they’d think you were home, or tell them I saw you at the school dance or studying in the library or convince them that you weren’t on stamps, or any of the other many times I lied for you. No, you must’ve been scared that they’d make good on their GPS threat. Which tells me that either, A, you really didn’t want them seeing where you were or, B, you needed your film bad enough for whatever you were doing that you couldn’t take it out. Or C, both. What would you choose, Mr. Jefferson? You’re a smart fellow. What do all those ones and zeroes add up to?”
“I’ll choose C, Jaden,” he said, in the eerie, new Hal 9000-esque tone Jaden had selected for him.
“You know what? So do I.” He shook his head and looked out the window. “Must be quite the experiment you’ve got going on.”
My muscles tensed. “It is, actually. Like I said, rare earths are toxic if they’re not handled properly and we were using a lot of electrical current. So yeah, I didn’t want Mom and Dad worrying any more than they already are.”
Jaden shook his head.
“I think you’re taking this the wrong way—”
“Oh, really. So exactly how should I be taking it then, huh? We both know quite well that Mom would be fucking delighted if you were involved in some school-sponsored nerd-out.”
“That’s not how I—”
“Haven’t I done everything you’ve asked of me?”
“Yes. And you’ve been patient.” I took the pollinator tax rebate out of my pocket. “That’s why I want to get you a new bug and a GT film.”
Jaden’s expression changed, first to curious and then to wide-eyed wonder, using his Ralph-from-A-Christmas-Story-voice to say, “Really? Oh, gee thanks, Dorian. Could I get scratchproof, and the 20x zooms with the high res AR point map and 10g connectivity?”
“Jaden . . .”
“What? I’m not one of your little floozies tripping over themselves to S your D for a few trinkets.”
“I’m still going to Revise you, dude. Jeez, you’re so fucking paranoid sometimes,” I said, shaking my head, disgusted with myself for letting things get so far with him in the first place. As much as I just wanted to tell him to fuck off, though, his poking around and causing trouble was the last thing I needed. I had to buy time. It’d be weird doing nothing, but it was calming in a way knowing that the answer was still to come. Knowing that things were fluid and that as long I kept flowing in the right direction, Revising, I’d be okay. “We’re just going to have to take it slow.”
“How slow?” he pushed.
“Several months.”
“Which’s like four, five, six? What? That sounds pretty non-committal for something you’ve already committed to.”
I didn’t answer.
“And you’re going to pay for it how, exactly? The five hundred Benjie prize from the science fair? Right. Or build another ten thousand Syds for the tax credits?” Jaden’s eyes hardened as he trotted out his favorite threat. “Actually, never mind. You can tell me whatever bullshit story you want as long as you deliver. Because I imagine things would go pretty poorly if the stuff”—he made air quotes—“you weren’t doing ever came to light with Mom and Dad. Or the police, for that matter.”
“You’re going to get what you want,” I said, putting every ounce of resolve I had into keeping my voice steady. “There’s no need to be like that.”
“Be like what? Be pissed off when you lie to me? What the fuck exactly do you want me to be like? I’ve already been way too patient with you.”
I needed to get to our parents before Jaden did. He loved making out that he was Mom and Dad’s little protégé, correctly figuring that they’d be that much more invested in his success if he modeled himself on their favorite parts of themselves. Instead of being outright agreeable, though, he had this way of convincing them that they had convinced him, because he knew people cared more about the things that they’d expent a lot of effort. You work at something enough and, at some point, it becomes your thing. They saw Jaden as an extension of them. So in reality, it wasn’t so much about their trust in Jaden, but about my parents’ waning self-confidence and their wanting—their needing—to believe that they’d done a good job raising him.
Take Mr. Jefferson for example. If you would’ve asked me a year ago if I thought Mom and Dad would want, let alone insist on getting a new film and a new five-foot-tall, autonomous buddy robot for Jaden, I would’ve laughed. But Jaden understood that what Mom and Dad wanted more than anything was to have a relationship with us. They wanted the close-knit, sledding and hot-chocolate-sipping, Trivial-Pursuit-in-sweaters-playing, Christmas-tree-decorating-interior-design-ad version of a family that they’d seen on commercials.
So, knowing this, Jaden would casually drop how annoyed he was that his friend Adam’s mom would use his film’s new Live-Tie feature to “check in” with him hourly on the weekends, and how Liu Hyuk’s buddy bot would make Liu’s whole family crack up at dinner when it tried to drink a glass of milk. Careful to include enough lively, colorful adjectives in his relays—painting a picture of what those “casual” family exchanges must’ve been like—that Mom was always wistful and reflective afterwards.
Once he’d planted enough seeds, he stole Mom’s film and used the search terms “loneliness,” “emptiness,” and “missing something” enough times that the good folks at GT Automation’s marketing department did the rest of the work for him with their well-timed, pop-up retinal overtures that the soon-to-be-dubbed “Mr. Jefferson” was at our doorstep a week later.
Knowing now what I was dealing with and that I’d need to beat my brother at his own game, the next morning, before breakfast, I told Mom the whole story about the science fair and how I’d wanted to surprise her but hadn’t wanted her to be worried—which it seemed like she kind of was, and that was the reason I was telling her now. The shitty thing was that I ended up making her feel guilty about being so worried that she’d ruined her own surprise.
“Honey. I had no idea you were doing that . . . you and Ethan never struck me as sciencey types. It seems to take so much patience and you like things to happen quickly.”
“Maybe before, but some things are worth the effort. It’s hard to find them, you know, especially with how crazy things are but, when you do, it’s pretty great.”
She looked me right in the eyes. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the reason I’ve been gone so much . . . and acting kind of strange. I just, you know, wasn’t sure if it was going to work or not. But now I’m pretty sure it is,” I said, pouring out a bowl of Count Chocula cereal.
“What is it exactly?”
“It’s a kind of a tractor beam. You’ll see in a few weeks. I’ll give you a private demo before the fair.”
My brow furled. “Quick question though, Mom: Have you noticed any ants in the kitchen or laundry room?”
“Ants?” she asked.
“Or spiders. That funnel weaver kind you see everywhere.”
She thought about it for a second before answering with a question, “Have you been leaving out food?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it sounds like the ants think otherwise.”
“Mom, I’m serious. I think we should call the exterminator.”
She gave me a skeptical once
over. “And I’m serious about us all eating dinner together. The problem’s you guys stealing off into your rooms with plates. Even if you’re careful, all it takes is a few crumbs and it’s a feast for something small.”
Chapter 20
The rumble in the lunchroom felt like background static. It passed by unnoticed until a particularly intense state of concern would jolt me even with the current and I’d suddenly be aware of the dozens of different conversations happening around me, wondering why people cared so much about what they did. And why I cared about the stuff I did. And if we could jump twenty years ahead and see ourselves, how would that change how we acted in the next twenty minutes. The next twenty days.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that there’re so many fascinating things around: History. Politics. Philosophy. Art. Yet all these jokers here talk about is video games and link memes.”
“Art? Since when do you like art, Dor?” asked Tony.
“We’re high school students. What do you expect people to be talking about?” Christopher responded.
“I don’t know, but there’s just this whole world out there that we’re wasting,” I said, making sure to use the word “we” even though I was less and less considering myself a part of this. “Even though it’s the one that matters. Even though its where our actions—unlike in a video game—can affect everyone.”
“Maybe not everyone,” said Tony.
I glared at him. “It’s sad.” I hadn’t meant to say it with so much fervor since I knew that none of them besides Ethan was Revised, but the anxiety from last night was still clinging, making everything come out sharp and cynical. With so much happening, I just didn’t have the patience to indulge any of this limiting, juvenile crap right now.
“Dude, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” said Christopher. “You’ve always been a bit of a jerk, but your narcissism was like this self-aware, long-running joke. Now . . . I’m kinda missing the joke part, bro. It’s like you really, truly believe you’re better than everybody else.”
“So you’re saying we should just accept things?”
“No, Dorian. What I’m saying is that I’m sick of hearing you put everyone down,” Chris snapped.
“I get that you’d rather not talk about anything negative,” I fired back. “I get that. But why’s everyone so scared of the truth? We go to such lengths to tiptoe around, deceiving ourselves into believing we matter, while the whole time we just sit here and bullshit.”
Michael stared down at his plate, looking like he’d been punched in the stomach. “What do you want us to do, Dorian? Talk about political theories and art history? We don’t know anything about them. We haven’t learned it.”
“We learned about the Minutemen in Am-History today. They seemed pretty legit,” said Tony. “And the Huguenots—something bad happened to them, didn’t it? Or maybe that was in a different class.”
Chris looked disgusted. “Tone. Jesus, don’t. He’s got this fantasy and just wants to dress us up as dolls for his sophisticated tea party. But it’s not because he wants us to change, it’s because he hates who he is.”
“Nice armchair psychology, Chris. You know me so well.”
“Just as well as you seem to know everyone else,” he quipped, his gaze moving across everyone on the bench. I didn’t meet it, instead focusing on the table across from ours where a lot of the wrestling team was sitting, drenched in their sweat suits. You had to feel for them—it was October and, if anything, it was getting even hotter. A Seven Standard Deviation Heatwave they were calling it, which those guys especially hated since it made cutting weight easier, and therefore more necessary.
It did loosen up the school dress code, though, and for a while kids wore tropical-themed clothes as a joke. But as the temperature kept rising, it stopped being so funny. You were constantly getting cramps. Light-headed. Kids were always going to the nurse’s office for dehydration. Water bottles were magically un-banned.
“You’re right. I should just shut up, so you can carry on talking about whatever it was you were talking about before. What was it anyway? If an S-1 rocket does more damage than a Shapeshifter in Echo Flight? Yes, but who cares? It’s fine if you want to mock me for wanting to talk about other things. Call me a snob and a jerk or whatever. But who are the real jerks, prepossessed with this kind of nonsense when so there’s so much actual shit going on?”
“Prepossessed. You’re using a lot of smart-sounding words lately, Dor,” said Tony, munching on a sandwich.
“Oh, am I, Tony? Funny, isn’t it, that that’s what I get accused of?” I blurted, exasperated, but noting that I should probably dial those back. “Too many smart words.”
“Here’s the thing,” I said, expressionless, scanning the lunchroom. “If the world was working, I’d gladly just shut the fuck up. But it’s not. One percent of people own everything, and three quarters of the rest are too distracted by the link and VR to realize or care that they’re being hosed. And then there’s the fact that it’s mid-October and it’s a freaking furnace outside.”
Tony looked confused trying to keep track of everything that was being said. “You only added up to about three quarters.”
“The last quarter’s the worst. They’re the ones who know there’s a problem but don’t do anything about it. Or like Christopher and Michael, here, who know but are too nice to judge.”
“I don’t mean anything by this, but . . .” started Spencer as he pushed his noodles and white rice around his plate. “But what are you doing to help?”
My eyes bored into him. The little shithead had the gall to hang out with my brother and still think he could double dip with me. “I’m calling it out.”
“People don’t respond to that,” Chris argued, making the face he always made when he was getting self-righteous.
I knew the guys weren’t Revised and I couldn’t expect them to get things as quickly, but Chris was so stubborn and my nerves were so frayed worrying about the second robberies that this really wasn’t the conversation I wanted to be having now. “No, they want to be told they can keep doing exactly what they’re already doing—playing more games and taking more drugs. Everyone knows that something doesn’t feel right, but they’re too entertained to figure out why.”
“Saying that won’t motivate them and, if it does, it’ll be the destructive kind,” said Chris. “When you start giving up on the world, the world starts giving up on you.”
“I don’t need its help.”
Chris’ look was skeptical. “I guess that’s why you’re trying so hard at everything.”
I had the biggest gun in the fight, but it’s not like I could expose how hard I’d been trying to rob houses. “I try in my own way.”
“You mean trying to get everyone to stop trying hard, so you don’t feel as bad about yourself? That’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? That’s why you told me I shouldn’t apply for that scholarship. That I shouldn’t get my hopes up. That I shouldn’t believe everything my guidance counselor said.”
Even now that I’d become smarter than he was, Chris had this uncanny ability of making me feel rotten and foolish. “Believe what you want to—I really don’t give a fuck,” I said, and started getting up to leave.
Chris held my gaze. “Come on, don’t go. I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but you’re better than this. I’ve seen it! You get so concerned about everyone else but in the end . . . you’re just racing yourself. Which I kinda forgot myself a few weeks ago in the locker room.”
I was taken back a little. It was obvious that even after everything that had happened, he still really cared and thought I was worth wasting a heart to heart on. He hadn’t given up on me.
“You were right to be pissed. You were just pissed at the wrong people.” I shook my head. “The kids at Lawrence . . . when they changed things for themselves, they changed things for us at the same time. They wrecked our sports. They wrecked our chances to get into good schools
. They wrecked everything. And I don’t want to just sit here and pretend everything’s okay. It’s . . .” I was about to argue further when I noticed Michael’s eyes wandering past me, a puzzled expression expanding across his face. Chris noticed it, too, turning and saying, “What are they doing here?”
I looked over my shoulder at two uniformed police officers across the lunchroom walking towards us accompanied by Principal Frank. My first instinct was to bolt—my most recent Revision had included a speed ramp that Dr. Griswald described as something that would put me “ahead of the curve”—and the side emergency exit door was only twenty meters away. Though, while my elbows made it off the table and my leg muscles tensed in anticipation of swinging around the bench, I didn’t want to overreact and focused back on a still-staring Michael.
This was significant, though. Non-routine. We had a police officer assigned to our school—a young, affable Hispanic guy named Oliver who everyone liked, but he wasn’t among them. And they were walking with a purpose, too, probably only twenty-five or thirty meters away by now. I did everything I could to keep from peeking again, torn between not wanting to act suspicious and needing to know where they were.
Ethan’s eyes met mine, injecting his terror into me. I’d been panicking, too, but seeing his cockiness from a few moments ago obliterated made the whole room seem like it was toppling over, and we were going to get trapped inside.
I glanced over my shoulder and back down at the table. They were still coming toward us. Fifteen meters. Fourteen meters. What was I going to say to them when they asked questions? How much did they know? If they had footage from someone’s film or PetPerspective it was over, there was nothing to say. If I was going to run it had to be now, but even if I won a foot race where would I go? We might have enough money for another simple Revision but nothing close to what we’d need to survive by ourselves.
Eight meters. Seven meters. This time I made eye contact with one of the officers. A female. Early thirties. Maybe they’d seen that I was in the neighborhood after robbing a house that wasn’t reported and just wanted to ask me if I’d noticed anything unusual. Something innocuous like that. Maybe they weren’t sure yet. Five meters. Four meters. But, why would they grab me from lunch if they just wanted to ask general questions? This was too dramatic for that. This had to be an arrest.
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