Dr. Viviani nodded. “I argued that it would spur such an intense technology addiction that we would never escape from it.” He paused for a second and met my eyes. “Your father has the best of intentions, Madeline.”
“Then why did you work so hard to stop him?”
He lifted his hands. “I’m not trying to take sides here. My work for DS is done.”
“I’m not here to defend my father,” I said. “I’m trying to fight him. Can you prove that DS is physically harming people?”
He nodded. “Yes, I can. But no one wants to hear it. Look, I respect what you two are trying to do, but in my honest opinion, I think it’s too late.”
“What?” Jax and I said at the same time.
“Everyone is addicted. Look around at the world. Do you know how hard it is to battle an addiction? We are all plugged in. We won’t be able to unplug and live outside of digital school without nationwide rehab. And diagnosing the addiction is the easy part. Anyone can pull the plug. It’s making people admit they have a problem that’s the real challenge. People have to want to change.”
His words made chills crawl up my arms. “You really believe it’s an addiction?”
He nodded. “I know it. Our brains have been chemically altered. It started fifty years ago, at the birth of the digital age. Our brain waves have been rerouted, because of technology. I don’t think the face-to-face system you’re fighting for would ever work.”
I slumped in my seat. “We’re human beings,” I said. “We can always adapt to new things. It’s our survival skill; it’s how we’ve lasted this long.”
“Only under extreme conditions do we ever adapt,” Dr. Viviani argued. “Only when forced.”
I was curious about his research. “How can you prove we’re addicted?” I asked.
He took off his glasses and set them on the desk. “I concentrated my study on four brain waves,” he told me. “Alpha, beta, theta, and gamma. Our brains are always active, even while we’re sleeping, and they run on different wave patterns. By determining what stage the brain wave is in, we can assess how people are feeling.”
I nodded; it sounded like what they were doing with MindReaders at the DC.
“Slower brain waves, like alpha and theta, keep us mentally healthy. They fight off anxiety and stress. But we never slow down long enough to utilize those waves, and our brains are losing the ability to produce them. Our minds are constantly on overdrive. We’ve lost our ability to be intuitive, to think deeply and critically. The only brain waves we really use these days are beta waves. They’re short, excited waves that need constant stimulation. They make us alert, like a shot of caffeine, but they also make us more anxious and tense if we don’t balance them out with slower waves. But we are so overstimulated, all the time, that we constantly run on beta waves. They give us a feeling of high energy, they help us focus, they even make us more social. It’s more than an addiction. Our brains have been rewired to require that level of stimulus.”
This was too much to take in. “Is there any way to fix it?” I asked.
“That’s why Seamor Labs hired me. I’m working on an anxiety medication right now that helps produce slower brain waves.”
“And once the drug is available?” I asked.
“It’s going to be a multibillion-dollar market. It will become a household product, as common to take every day as vitamins. Drugstores are planning to market it as a supplement to make it sound less serious so no one panics.” He smiled. “Most of the supplements we take these days are to fix problems the government doesn’t want us to know we have. The worst disease you can spread is panic.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “Instead of trying to fight DS, you’re now encouraging it?”
“I’m doing what I can to help people,” he told me.
I looked over at Jax; he was smiling as if he had already had this argument with his dad.
“Are you?” I asked. “Or are you making things worse?”
“No one will listen to me,” Dr. Viviani said.
“What if we helped fund the rest of your project?” I proposed. “What if we released your paper to the public?”
“I’d love to finish my research. But who would pay for it?” He opened up his hands in defeat. “I do research where the money is. I need to feed my family. Every day that I come to work, I’m thankful I don’t live in the factory district. This is where I would end up if I lost my job.”
I crossed my legs and smiled. “What if I knew people who could give you a research grant, so you could finish your project?” I asked. I knew Justin’s family hacked into Digital School, Inc., bank accounts. They had ways of wiring money.
His dad stood up and closed the office door. He leaned against it and fixed his dark eyes on mine.
“Just what kind of funding are we talking about?”
Chapter Eleven
We rode the ZipShuttle back to Jax’s apartment. The afternoon had been exhilarating and exhausting, like an emotional obstacle course. I was thrilled his dad was willing to work with us, but it made me even more frustrated with my own father. I also realized how much work was ahead of us, like I’d just climbed a false summit only to see a bigger, towering peak in the distance. I didn’t want to turn my life into a constant uphill climb. I saw what that lifestyle was doing to my own family.
When the ZipShuttle stopped, we walked down the path to Jax’s apartment. He wanted to show me his art studio. We headed through a screened-in porch and into a narrow room, empty except for a wall of counters and cabinets. All the walls were stark white. The cabinets were white as well, with black metal handles and long, shallow drawers under the countertops. There were no windows in the room.
“The walls are canvas paint,” he told me.
“Is this where you work?”
“It’s for my job,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He opened a few of the cupboards and took out red, blue, green, and yellow jars of paint. He unscrewed each of them. I could smell the paint, wet, inky, and acidic. He opened one of the drawers and shuffled around inside, pulling out a handful of paintbrushes, all different sizes, like a mix of people with different personalities.
There was a sink in the middle of the countertops. He grabbed a metal mug out of a drying rack next to it and placed the brushes inside.
When Jax opened a cupboard, I noticed quotes scribbled inside. I read a few of them: Never trust a thought that doesn’t come while painting. There is no natural selection for assholes. And We can’t hope to make it in the world outside until we get real on the inside. I opened up another cabinet and stopped when I saw the word flight, with a definition: the ability to naturally defy and operate independently of gravity and propel oneself through the air at will.
I looked around at the counter space filling with supplies. “Did you take a class on this?”
He shook his head. “I dropped out of DS after I was intercepted. I haven’t gone back. There are two ways to paint,” he said, and looked at me. “You can paint what you see, or you can paint what you feel. You need to figure out what works for you.”
I looked around at the empty walls.
“I only paint what I see,” he said. “That’s why I never liked DS. I never felt like it was real. I only believe what I see, what I experience. But we never actually see anything or anyone in that world. So what’s real? Where’s the truth?” He finished organizing the brushes and pointed out rags, water, and boards for blending colors.
“This is how I counsel people who were released from DCs. They didn’t see anything real inside of there. They just need to realize the truth. Their minds are buried under lies. I know the DC stores memories in your head. I help flush them out.”
I leaned over and studied the paint inside the jars, thick and shining in the light like puddles.
“Go for it,” he said. I ran my fingers over the brushes and admired their soft bristles. Some were soft and submissive, others strong and stubborn. “You know
you want to.”
I smiled. At that moment there was nothing I wanted more.
“I’ve never used real paint,” I said.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. He grabbed a wide-handled brush and dipped it in red. He reached out to hand it to me. The red paint dripped down the handle and over his fingers.
“It’s an experience,” he said. “Don’t think about the end result. Let it create itself.”
I took the brush in my hand and studied the blaze of red paint, a shiny blur against the black, symmetrical rows of bristles.
“I can’t paint without music,” I said.
“I can’t either,” he said. He opened a cupboard and turned on a stereo on the shelf inside.
“Meet Vince,” he said.
“Vince?”
Jax patted one of the speakers affectionately. “My best friend.” He shot me a warning look. “He refuses to play country music,” he informed me. “That’s his one rule.”
He pressed play and hard bass pumped out of the speakers. Rap lyrics shouted out at us. Jax raised his eyebrows and I nodded.
“Perfect,” I said. He turned the volume up and left me alone, shutting the door. I walked up to the blank wall and flung my wrist, sending a splattering of red paint, like rain, over the space in front of me. I stopped thinking and just let my hand go.
I painted an ocean that pushed out a tsunami. I painted a thin fault line that opened into a giant fissure cracking through the ground, sending an avalanche of rocks and trees into the deep crevasse. I drew solid mountains exploding with gas and lava and innocent clouds that swirled into spiraling hurricanes and tornadoes. I drew lightning that punched the ground and sparking fires. I used all the bright primary colors he set out, but I was too impatient to blend them.
The weather is never perfect, the world is never safe, so why should our own lives be any different? Life is supposed to be a risk. It’s written everywhere around us. We are meant to take chances. We are meant to explode and shatter and spiral. Even if we break, we’ll come back to a still point. We are made that way, just another natural element, if we remember to be natural.
I started writing words along the top of the room, like a banner: Surgeon General’s warning: Avoid swimming. You could drown. Avoid running. You might fall. Avoid heights. You might want to jump off. Avoid people. They’re like sharp objects. Turn the blade opposite from you. Keep a safe distance. Always cut away.
I felt like a zephyr, blowing a perfect world into a scattering mess of debris. I studied my strange tapestry. I didn’t realize I had been holding so much in. I didn’t realize I was my own building hurricane. I could feel the water inside of me pounding like rapids. I wanted to settle. I wanted calm.
I turned just as Jax walked into the room. You know those moments, when you say too much? When you catch yourself letting down your guard so low that someone gets in? You catch yourself being completely you? It’s terrifying and liberating all at the same time. That’s the risk of living outside of a screen. People realize you’re a head case.
The music was still blaring. He looked at the walls, but there was nothing scrutinizing about his face. He understood how personal this was. It was like letting someone read my journal and learn all my plans, my thoughts, my faults.
“I love it,” he said. He smiled at me and I felt my stomach tense.
I looked back at the mural and nodded. “It might be my best work yet.”
He turned the music down. He had a camera in his hands, and he started taking pictures of the wall, zooming in on some sections. I had never seen anyone use a real camera before. After he was done, I grabbed it. I liked how its contour fit in my hands and how I could adjust the lens to control my shot. I aimed it at Jax and his face was deadpan when I took a picture of him with a raging forest fire as a backdrop.
“You’re supposed to smile,” I said, and aimed it at his face again.
He reached for the camera but I pulled it away.
“I don’t like having my picture taken,” he told me, his eyes serious for the first time I had ever seen.
“Just smile,” I said.
“No. I never smile in photos. I hate my teeth.”
“What?” I looked at his mouth but he clamped his lips together.
“Nmm-mm.” He shook his head and leaned away as I reached for his arm.
“What’s wrong with your teeth?” I asked.
“There’s a gap in the middle of my front teeth,” he said. “I hate it.”
He opened his mouth so I could see the tiny gap, which was adorable. And sexy. “It’s original,” I said.
“It’s a gap. Between my teeth. You know how much food gets caught in there?”
I laughed and he grabbed the camera out of my hands, his hands covering mine for a second. He looked at me. Something moved even though we weren’t moving. You can move people with arms and legs, but I also realized you can press them with the weight of your eyes. You can push them away or pull them close. Jax was doing that, pulling me in.
He was suddenly standing too close to me. The toes of our tennis shoes were only inches apart. I backed up a step.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Jealous?”
I smiled but he just fixed his eyes on mine. “You want to watch a movie?” he asked. “I own everything Simon Pegg has ever done. Nothing beats classic British comedy. They talk so fast, they mumble, and their accents can take some getting used to, but it’s fucking brilliant.”
I stared at him while he rambled.
“Y-you mean. A. Date?” I stammered.
“I. Guess. So,” he stammered back, mocking me. I felt my face heat up. “You don’t have to appreciate British comedy,” he said. “But if you don’t, I’ll lose all respect for you and think you’re a sad, miserable excuse for a person. That’s all.”
“Jax, I don’t, I can’t,” I said. “I have a boyfriend.”
His face looked more puzzled than surprised. “Really?”
His bewilderment made me frown. Was it that hard to believe someone else was interested in me?
“Bring him along,” Jax offered. “I’ll invite some other friends over. Movie night.”
I laughed out loud at the idea of Justin hanging out at a movie party. As if he had the free time. The image was ridiculous, which immediately made me stop laughing. I wondered if Justin’s life would ever slow down long enough that he could just sit around and watch a movie.
Jax studied my conflicting reactions. “Do you guys have plans tonight?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We don’t really make plans.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, it’s more of a distance thing. We don’t get to see each other very often.”
He was watching me like he was trying to read a book he couldn’t quite translate. I backed up toward the door.
“Thanks for taking me out today,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.” I turned to leave but caught myself at the door and looked over my shoulder. “And by the way, I love Simon Pegg. But the most brilliant British comedian of all time is John Cleese.”
On the train ride home, a thought turned over in my mind. I pulled my journal out of my bag. I chewed on the cap of my pen and started writing because I needed to confess to someone.
May 31, 2061
There is one small effect you have on me, but sometimes the smallest change makes the biggest difference because it tilts your life and forces you to see things at a different angle.
You make it easier to breathe.
Some people steal your oxygen and leave you winded. Some people cut it off completely and you’re left suffocated. But other people, the rare ones, pump oxygen into you, just like a breeze fills a wind puppet and gives it the energy to twist and sway.
Somehow, the older we get, the less able we are to breathe. Why is that? Why do we become so bad, so inefficient, at something we are born to do? Our first breath at the mome
nt we’re born literally saves us. We push out all of the fluids in our chests, our lungs contract and expand, and we take this huge gasp that fills us, and that is how we start our life, with this enormous, strong, brilliant breath. We welcome the world by breathing it in. It’s the first thing we do, our most biological instinct.
Then what happens? Our breaths become shorter. Forced, nervous, startled, uneasy, panicky. Sometimes we forget to breathe entirely and we’re lightheaded and weak. There are training videos for adults on how to breathe. This is so strange to me. What, in our lives, is making it difficult for us to take a long, satisfying breath?
With you it’s different. I’m content. Relaxed. I can feel my breath begin at the base of my stomach and grow until my entire chest expands. I can let it out slow, because there’s no hurry, there’s no worry.
You help me to breathe.
That’s one of the best compliments I can give you.
But why do I feel guilty admitting this? Is it wrong to feel this way?
Chapter Twelve
I sat on my bed reading a book. I liked the sound of turning the pages. They rustled like leaves. I loved how the book stretched out like two arms and how if I pressed it against my chest, it could hug me. I loved the crisp pages, how they still smelled like an inky print machine and a giant warehouse.
There was a knock at my door, and I said to come in.
The door eased open and I waited for my mom to say something, but when she was quiet, I looked up and was shocked to see Justin.
“Hey,” he said easily, like this was nothing new. He looked so strange standing there. I’d never in my entire life had a boy in my bedroom, other than my brother and my dad, which doesn’t generate quite the same feelings.
His hair was windblown and messy, as if he had run here, but it always looked like that. He was wearing a black zip-up jacket that looked soft, and blue jeans. He made me think of being outside and active and free and all the things I craved.
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