M. T. Anderson (11 page)

We sat in the mall and made up stories about people who passed by. Shoppers walked around us on the concourses, their mouths moving, talking to people who weren’t there. They were all muttering.

We made up stories about how they’d given birth to monsters in attics.

We went into stores, and we laughed and laughed.

It was like she took my hand, or I took her hand, and we ducked through doorways, and together we went to an old place, and it was a new place.

We went there holding hands.

Okay, but sometimes, though, I did get worried that she was too smart for me.

I don’t do too good in School™. We were back in School™, so I was reminded pretty often that I was stupid.

School™ is not so bad now, not like back when my grandparents were kids, when the schools were run by the government, which sounds completely like, Nazi, to have the government running the schools? Back then, it was big boring, and all the kids were meg null, because they didn’t learn anything useful, it was all like,
da da da da, this happened in fourteen ninety-two, da da da da, when you mix like, chalk and water, it makes nitroglycerin,
and that kind of shit? And nothing was useful?

Now that School™ is run by the corporations, it’s pretty brag, because it teaches us how the world can be used, like mainly how to use our feeds. Also, it’s good because that way we know that the big corps are made up of real human beings, and not just jerks out for money, because taking care of children, they care about America’s future. It’s an investment in tomorrow. When no one was going to pay for the public schools anymore and they were all like filled with guns and drugs and English teachers who were really pimps and stuff, some of the big media congloms got together and gave all this money and bought the schools so that all of them could have computers and pizza for lunch and stuff, which they gave for free, and now we do stuff in classes about how to work technology and how to find bargains and what’s the best way to get a job and how to decorate our bedroom.

It was still hard, there were some times when none of us did good, and I felt stupid, and we all felt stupid, and Loga and Calista were like,
Omigod! This is so dumb!

Could the teacher be any more, please, condescending?

Omigod, I know. Like, thanks for the heapin’ helpings of yawn banquet.

And I sat there with my palms pressed into my forehead, thinking about Violet, at home, being smart. I would think about some conversation we were having where I was dumb.

Like she was always reading things about how everything was dying and there was less air and everything was getting toxic. She told me about how things were getting really bad with some things in South America, but she couldn’t really tell exactly how bad, because the news had been asked to be a little more positive. She said that it made her frightened to read all this kind of thing, about how people hated us for what we did. So one time I said to her that she should stop reading it, because it was just depressing, so she was like,
But I want to know what’s going on,
so I was like,
Then you should do something about it. It’s a free country. You should do something.
She was like,
Nothing’s ever going to happen in a two-party system.
She was like,
da da da, nothing’s ever going to change, both parties are in the pocket of big business, da da da,
all that? So I was like,
You got to believe in the people, it’s a democracy, we can change things.

She was like,
It’s not a democracy.

I hated it when she got like this, because then she wasn’t like herself, I mean, she wasn’t like this playful person who drags me around the mall doing crazy shit, she was suddenly like those girls in School™ who sit underground and dress all in black with ribbing and get an iron fixture for their jaws and they’re like, “Capitalist fool — propaganda tool,” holding up both their hands, etc. When she said things like
It’s not a democracy,
suddenly I couldn’t stand to be having this whole conversation. I was like,
Oh, yeah,
and she was like,
It’s not,
and I was like,
Oh, okay,
and she said,
No, it’s not a democracy,
and I was like,
Yes it is,
and she was like,
No it isn’t,
and I got sarcastic, so I was like,
No, sure, it’s all fascist, isn’t it? We’re all fascists?

Then she was like, really gently,
No, please, I’m not trying to be an asshole. It’s not a democracy.

I was like,
Then what is it?

A republic. It’s a republic.

Why?

Because we elect people to vote for us. That’s my point.

So why is it like that?

Because if it was a democracy, everybody would have to decide about everything.

I thought about that.
We could have everybody vote. From the feeds. Instantaneous. Then it would be a democracy.

Except,
she said,
only about seventy-three percent of Americans have feeds.

Oh,
I said.
Yeah.
And so I felt stupid.
There’s that many who don’t?

Then she told me,
I didn’t used to have a feed.

I was like,
What do you mean?

She was quiet like she didn’t want to chat. It was that kind of quiet. Then she went,
We didn’t have enough money. When I was little. And my dad and mom didn’t want me to have one.

Holy shit.

I got it when I was seven.

I’m sorry,
I said.

For what?

For not knowing. You know, that so many people don’t have them.

No one with feeds thinks about it,
she said.
When you have the feed all your life, you’re brought up to not think about things. Like them never telling you that it’s a republic and not a democracy. It’s something that makes me angry, what people don’t know about these days. Because of the feed, we’re raising a nation of idiots. Ignorant, self-centered idiots.

Suddenly, she realized what she had said, that she’d just called me a self-centered, ignorant idiot. She stopped. She started stumbling all over her words, and she was like,
I didn’t mean . . . I, you know . . . it’s not really important, but just, I believe . . . ,
and so on. I just sat there and watched her. I could tell I was liking to watch her trip up over her words while I was doing this angry face, so I didn’t move my mouth or chat her or anything. I just sat, and she felt bad, and then she even chatted me,
I’m sorry,
which was bad, because it showed that we both knew I was stupid, and then I looked away. I looked away, and she put her hand on my arm, which was the worst, because it was the consolation prize.

That night, when I got home, I was looking out the window, being sorry, and my mother was like, “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t answer for a while. Finally, I said, “Do you think I’m stupid? I mean, am I dumb?”

“You’re a nontraditional learner.”

Smell Factor said, “No, he’s not. He’s dumb.”

My mother asked, “Is this re: Violet?”

“No.”

“Come on. Is it re: her? Because she shouldn’t make you feel stupid. That’s not good.”

“Mom, it’s un-re: her, okay?”

“She should be proud of you.”

I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want my mom to think Violet was a snob. Violet wasn’t a snob. I was just dumb.

My mom came over and said to me, “You’re a wonderful boy. I know I’m your mom, but I can say that you’re a wonderful boy. Isn’t he, Steve?”

My dad was conked out at the table going over the news on the feed, but he pulled himself up, and she was like, “Isn’t he a wonderful boy?,” and my dad was like, “Sure, yeah, yeah,” and my mom was like, “You’re as handsome as a duck in butter.”

“Where does she live, anyway?” my dad asked.

“I don’t know. Like, two hundred miles from here. I’ve never been there. Why?”

“Just asking.”

“You’re a catch,” said my mother. “You’re pewter.”

That was no help at all, and the next day, I did really bad on a test, and I came home, and Violet chatted me to say she couldn’t talk, she was, I don’t know, learning ancient Swahili or building a replica of Carthage out of iron filings or finding the cure for entropy or some shit, and I was sitting around, staring at a corner of a room, where two of the walls and the floor came together, and my mom and dad caught me doing it, and my mom came up and hugged me.

I could tell it was all staged. They’d tried to find me. I patted Mom a little on the back, enough to say,
Okay, yeah, enough for affection. You can back off now, Ma.
She did, and I hoped they would leave, but they weren’t done. So I had to sit there and listen to about me.

She said, “You’re just the boy we wanted. You’re good enough for any girl. You’re just what we asked for.”

My dad was meg uncomfortable and kept on moving from foot to foot.

My mom ran her fingers through my hair, and rocked me back and forth, even though I was standing, and she said, like a poem, “You’ve got your father’s eyes and my nose.”

“And my mouth,” said my dad.

“And my hands,” said my mom.

“And the chin, dimples, and hairline of DelGlacey Murdoch.”

“What?” I said.

“This big actor,” explained my mom. “We thought he was like the most beautiful man we’d ever seen in our lives.”

“Well,” said my dad, “we
thought
he was going to be big.”

“We saw a feedcast with him in it the night we . . . the night you were made.” My mom winked.

“What?” I said. “What was his name? You never told me about the actor.”

“He was . . . What did you say his name was again, Steve?”

“DelGlacey Murdoch.”

“DelGlacey Murdoch,” said my mom, kind of smoothing things over. “That’s right. And we thought he was the most beautiful man we’d ever seen. So after the movie we went right to the conceptionarium and told them, ‘We want the most beautiful boy you’ve ever made. We want him with my nose and his dad’s eyes, and for the rest, we have this picture of DelGlacey Murdoch.’”

I said, “I’ve never even like
heard
of DelGlacey Murdoch.”

My father played nervously with his pinstripes. “He didn’t . . . he didn’t really take off the way like we expected. After that movie, he was mostly . . . I guess . . . small roles.”

“He starred in some things,” said my mom. “Steve, he starred in a lot of things.”

“Straight to daytime,” said my dad.

“Honey, he was the most beautiful actor ever. So we went into the conceptionarium, and told the geneticists what we wanted, and your father went in one room, and I went in the other, and . . .”

“Hey — hey — I don’t want to hear!”

“You know what he was in?” said my dad. “Remember
Virtual Blast
? He played the fifth Navy Seal, with the croup. You know, coughing.”

“He was in the feature with all the crazy utensils,” said my mother. “A few years ago? That one? He was the doorman in the pillbox hat.”

I had already pulled up a list of his feed-features and I was going over them. None of them got more than two stars. My parents were checking my feed, I could feel them like prodding it, and my mom was like, “It doesn’t matter what he was in,” and she m-chatted something to my dad, and so he was like, “No, no, that isn’t the point.”

“What we’re talking about,” said my mother, “is how handsome you are, and how brave you are.”

“We’ve decided that you’ve been through a lot,” said my father.

“You’ve been very brave,” my mother repeated.

“Yeah . . . ?” I said. “I just fell down. The guy touched me and I just like, fell down.”

“You were brave,” said my father.

“We’ve decided you need a little cheering up,” said my mother.

I started to feel a little better. I could feel their feeds shifting toward a common point, some kind of banner they were pulling up.

“We’ve decided to get you your own upcar,” said my mother.

“You can pick it,” said my dad. “Within certain limits.”

“Oh, god!” I said. “Oh, god! Oh, Mom — Dad — this is — oh, shit! Holy shit! Are you kidding! You are like the best mom and dad ever!”

“We’re not kidding,” said my dad. “Here’s the banner.”

And it unwrapped in my head, a banner for a dealer, and links to other dealers, and a big line of credit, and I was hugging them, and I was like holy shit, by tomorrow I would be driving to pick up Violet in my own goddamn upcar, and suddenly, suddenly, I didn’t feel so stupid anymore.