“Your sister is one in a million,” my mother said, trying to put a positive spin on it. It was like there was some kind of autocorrect in her brain.
“He never stays with any girl for more than a couple of weeks,” I said.
“Then we’ll have to hope he fixes those tickets early,” my dad said.
“Ted.”
“I’m joking,” my father said. “Can’t you tell when I’m joking?” He looked over at me. “Ahab’s joking, too.”
“No,” I told him. “I’m not.”
“Well, you know the old saying,” my mother said. “ ‘If you can’t say anything nice …’ ” My mother was like all three of those little monkeys, the ones with their hands over their ears and eyes and mouths. She was a news photographer a long time ago, but when Juliette was born, she switched to shooting products instead. Her job was to make things look better than they were. I guess that extended to real life, too. If she’d taken a photo of Peter Ripley, she would have labeled it CHARMING BOY WITH LOTS OF POTENTIAL. There would have been nothing about his dating record or the fact that he’d been making out with Helene Weaver in front of the convenience store where everyone could see.
“Dinner’s on the table,” my mother said. “Sit.”
I sat and sneaked a scratch on my arm when she wasn’t looking. We were having ficken again—a protein substitute that was shaped like drumsticks.
“Why do they do that?” I asked.
“Do what, dear?”
“It would taste better if it wasn’t pretending to be something else,” I said.
“Your grandmother made the best fried chicken,” my dad said. “We’d be on our bikes, two blocks, three blocks away, and we could smell it cooking.”
I reached into a bowl and snagged a vegibar. My father grabbed a vegibar, too, and I leaned my head against my shoulder to block out the sound of his chewing.
“How was residency?” my mother asked. That’s what we called the school semesters we attended in person. Other semesters we attended remotely, to help alleviate overcrowding, but she never asked, “How was remotely?”
“The usual.” I rubbed my back against the slats on my chair.
“Are you breaking out? Here, let me look.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Put something on it,” she said. “Some salve. I hope it wasn’t a mosquito.”
“Mosquitoes,” my father said. “When I was a kid—”
“Did Grandma fry those, too?” I asked.
“Ha-ha. Very funny. No, she didn’t fry them. She swatted them. They were different than the ones you see today. Bigger. Real bloodsuckers. When I took my bike trip to Canada …”
My father’s bike trip to Canada was a favorite topic of conversation. Correction: monologue. For a conversation, someone else has to talk, too.
I knew the particulars. The border wasn’t far away, and he and his friends made it in three days, camping at night and watching meteor showers. “My friend Tim got a mosquito bite near his upper lip,” my father said. “Made his whole mouth look like he’d been in a boxing ring. Those mosquitoes were the size of dragonflies. Heck. They were the size of birds.”
I’d seen photos of my father’s bike, blue, with handlebars that curved in a spiral, like the inside of a seashell. It didn’t look so different from my own bike. You’d think they would have upgraded the technology or replaced bikes with space skates or something. But when you have a perfect design, I guess you don’t mess with it.
“You must have spent too much time outside,” my mother told me. “It’s nothing to make light of, Jon. Look at your face!”
I touched my hands to my face. Had the eruptions spread? But she was just talking about sunburn.
“You’ve got to be more careful. Did you even have a hat?”
“Forgot it,” I said.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. That’s a beautiful day to be inside. Why don’t you go to the lake? There’s a new one over on Buoy.”
The new lake, Utopia, was in one of the giant warehouses on the south side of town. Places like these were called Rec Boxes™ and were known for “bringing the outside in!” Their other slogan, “It’s a beautiful day to be inside,” had been around so long, I wasn’t even sure my mother knew she was quoting a commercial. They were nice enough, but you could hear the currents of the air vents. They tried to cover it up with nature sounds. And there were places where the dirt and sand had worn away and you could see cement flooring underneath.
My dad used to take me fishing at the Rec Boxes™ when I was little, or on hikes. Besides lakes, there were Rec Box™ forests with labyrinths of walking trails. They had cheesy names like Eden and Eden II and the Mirage, where I’d gone canoeing. They had no mosquitoes.
“Yeah, okay,” I told my mom. “Maybe I’ll check it out.” But there was only one place I wanted to spend my Saturday, and that was on Leroy’s island, searching for whatever had made the errr sound. If I could discover what made it, I might be able to contribute something real to the world of science. Something real and big. Something that the Disciples would notice.
My One beeped and a projection of Delphinium’s head rose out of it.
“Hi, Delphinium,” my mother said. “We’re in the middle of dinner. Jonathan, you know you’re not supposed to have that at the table.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Goldstein,” Delph called. “Holler back when you’re done, Ahab.” Her face disappeared again.
“You know what I heard today?” my father said. He worked in network repair, usually from home, but he still somehow absorbed local gossip. “You’ll like this, Ahab. I heard that some kid at your school found a lobster. A live one.”
“I heard that, too,” I said.
“Maybe they’re making a comeback. You should have seen the lobsters we caught when I was a kid. We’d eat the meat on hot dog buns. At the Lobster Pool, remember, Mon?”
“Of course I remember,” my mother said. Her first name was Monica, but my dad never used the whole thing.
“We caught them in traps, those lobsters. Mr. Stinson paid us twenty dollars to go around and check them. You wouldn’t believe the claws. Remember that, Mon? Remember the size of those claws?”
“I remember,” my mother said. Her voice was softer this time. “I remember.”
I tried to get comfortable before I called Delph. Lying down stung—as if my bed was made of broken glass. Sitting up didn’t help—my shirt seemed to be made of broken glass, too. Taking off my shirt might have helped, but I didn’t want Delph to see my chest until I’d had a chance to do more push-ups. Also until I was less rashy.
“Delphinium,” I said. “Interface.” The One made the connection and her head appeared in a beam of light, just above my dresser.
“Are you okay?” she asked, without saying hello.
“Define ‘okay.’ ”
“Are you puking?” she said. “Is your skin green? Are chunks of your flesh rotting and falling off? Do you feel like you’re dying?”
“My skin is not green,” I said. “I do not feel like I’m dying.”
“You didn’t answer the puking or rotting flesh part.”
“Astute,” I said.
“You still didn’t answer. Come on. I live for this stuff.” Delphinium wanted to be a doctor—the research kind, not the stick-out-your-tongue kind. Still, diseases fascinated her.
I breathed through my nose for a few seconds, to let whatever was rising in my throat fall back again. “I haven’t puked,” I said. “But not because I haven’t felt like it. I have a rashy thing, but I don’t think my skin is actually rotting.”
“What kind of a rashy thing?”
“A rashy thing,” I said. “Bumps and stuff. You don’t want the details.”
“But I do. Show me.”
“It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“You’ll show me tomorrow?”
“Yeah, no,” I said. “ ‘Come see my rash.’ That’s not the world’s greatest line.”
>
“Are you giving me a line?”
Wait a minute. Was this:
(A) flirting,
(B) teasing,
(C) banter, or
(D) the regular sort of conversation you’d have with a friend?
It could have been D, though there might have been a hint of A, at least on my part, not that I was experienced with A. But my gut said it was probably C. Delphinium was good at C. That’s the thing about multiple-choice questions. On school tests, there was always more than one plausible answer, but there was only one best answer. The multiple-choice tests cut down on teachers’ workloads, but they didn’t allow you to show reasoning, so there was no partial credit. Soon, someone will probably invent a scanner that will read whether the right answer is in your brain or not. Maybe an invention like that would give partial credit. That inventor won’t be me, though. Technology like that would lead to too many embarrassing situations. Plus espionage.
“You’d tell me if it was something really bad, wouldn’t you? Like if you were dying or if you had a renegade amoeba up your nose.”
If I had a band, which would require playing an instrument, I would call it Renegade Amoeba. “I would tell you,” I said.
“Good.”
“Have you talked to anyone else?” I asked. What I meant was: Had she talked to Leroy?
“Nobody else fell in.”
“I want to go back,” I told her.
“We will.”
“Tomorrow,” I added.
“We can’t tomorrow,” Delphinium said.
“Why not?” What if the Errr thing escaped? Or died before we discovered it? What if the EPF got there first?
“Because you’re sick,” she said.
“So?” I said. Captain Ahab wouldn’t have let a rash keep him from going after Moby Dick.
“And anyway, you haven’t checked it out with Leroy.”
“How do you know I haven’t talked to him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you know I didn’t talk to Leroy? Maybe I’ve been talking to him all night. Maybe he came over for dinner and he’s downstairs talking to my parents right now. The only way you’d know I haven’t talked to him is if you talked to Leroy and he said I hadn’t talked to him.”
“Do you have sun-brain?” she said. “Or maybe you have one of those brain-eating—”
“Aha!” I said.
“Ahab, seriously. I didn’t talk to Leroy. And the reason I assumed you didn’t talk to Leroy is because I’m not sure you even like Leroy.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Like Leroy?”
“Of course I like him. What I don’t know is why you don’t like him.”
“I like him fine,” I said.
“You could have fooled me.”
“I guess I did,” I said. “Ha.”
“Ahab?”
“What?”
“You should go to bed.”
“You sound like my mother,” I said.
“I don’t know who you sound like,” she said. “But you don’t sound like you.”
I didn’t feel like me, either. I wondered if brains could itch, because I felt like my whole body was crawling, not just my brain and skin but my liver and my kidneys, too. “I’m calling Leroy right now,” I said. “To ask about tomorrow.”
“Bye,” she said.
“And I’m not sick,” I said. “It’s just a rashy thing.” But her projection had already faded.
“Find Leroy Varney, Blue Harbor,” I told my One. “Interface.”
Leroy’s face filled the beam that Delphinium had abandoned.
“Are you okay?” he said. He obviously didn’t want to be responsible for two deaths—mine and the lobster’s—in the same day.
“When can we go back?” I asked.
“Sunday, maybe,” he said. “If you aren’t contaminated.”
“Why not tomorrow?”
“I’m going with my dad to New Arcadia tomorrow,” he said.
“Maybe we can borrow—”
“The Swan doesn’t go out without the captain.”
I could have sneaked down there and taken the boat, since I knew he’d be occupied. But I wasn’t a thief. And to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I could handle it by myself. To find the Errr thing, I’d need some backup. Besides, I didn’t want to prove Delphinium right by being a total jerk.
“Okay, Sunday,” I said.
“Feel better.”
“I’m fine.” But when he was gone, I scratched my back against my bedpost before trying Delphinium again.
“Sorry I was weird,” I said. I hoped my appearance of general discomfort would make her accept my apology.
“You’re always a little weird.”
“Thanks.” Pause. “Leroy says we can go back on Sunday.”
“Good. You should rest tomorrow.”
“My mom says I should go to a lake.”
“It’s a beautiful day to be inside,” she said.
“Do you want to come?”
“Which one are you going to?”
“Utopia,” I said. I was close enough to her projection to see that her lips were a little chapped. “It’s new.”
“Yeah, I’ll go. Why not? Did you ask Davy?”
“I think he has something with his mom.” This wasn’t a total lie. Davy almost always had something with his mom. It wasn’t like I meant it to be a date or anything; Delphinium and I were just friends. It was just that sometimes it felt like we could be more. Even if we couldn’t, it was nice to hang out just us two. I twitched and started to scratch again but pulled my hand back at the last minute.
“You should let me see that rash,” she said. “I’m getting really good at skin things. I’ve been practicing.”
“I’m fine,” I said, wondering how you could practice something like that.
“Are not. See you tomorrow.”
“Am so. Okay.”
As soon as her face dissolved, I started scratching.
I met Delphinium at the Utopia at ten. The advertisement had promised “cutting-edge plant life and authentic EnviroSounds packaged together to create an unbeatable outdoor experience. Step inside and go outdoors!” We went to the ticket counter, wondering what kind of plant life was considered “cutting edge.”
“Members?” asked the woman. She was youngish and professional-looking, with a high-collared shirt and perfect hair. She was also glowing, which, combined with a certain wispy quality, made it clear she was a hologram.
“No, not members,” I said.
“That will cost you thirty-five dollars apiece. Together or separate?”
“Together,” I said. Even though it wasn’t a date, I held out my index finger.
“Separate,” Delphinium said, holding out her own.
I held my finger up to the scanner and waited for the red light to change to green. Then Delph waved her finger in the same spot.
We thought about renting a boat, for practice, but Delphinium pointed out that it didn’t exactly mimic real conditions for the Swan. My shoulders still hurt, so I didn’t argue with her.
“Fishing license?” the woman asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe in fishing just for the halibut.” The hologram lady completely missed my pun, which I thought was pretty good, considering how many fish were considered fragile species.
“We don’t even need to mullet over,” said Delphinium.
“Impressive,” I said.
“I’ve been studying up,” said Delph.
“Have a nice day,” said the woman.
Delph and I entered a tunnel, which was decorated with ivy. Inside, it was dark, like a cave, which made the brightness seem brighter when the tunnel ended and we entered Utopia.
The room was about 180 meters long, most of it taken up by a small lake, which was pierced, now and then, with pillars, decorated to look like trees. There was a domed ceiling, onto which a sky was projected. The c
louds actually moved, which already made it more authentic than Eden II. A narrow beach bordered the lake with clean white sand. A family had a blanket spread on top of it, and two boys were building castles, then smashing them.
Surrounding the lake was a wooded area with a trail. The whole place smelled like a combination of plants, plastic, mold, new carpeting, and something that could have been chlorine but probably wasn’t, since that wouldn’t be good for the fish. The lake was a rich blue color. Morning glories—real ones, I think—wound around the fake trees. It was peaceful, but it didn’t make me feel peaceful; it just made me want to get back to Leroy’s island. Maybe the Errr thing was the key to saving the world.
“It’s beautiful,” Delphinium said. “Mostly.”
I didn’t need a brain scanner to know she was giving only partial credit, because it was only partially real.
We could see movement in the lake. Canoes, more professional-looking than Leroy’s, went back and forth along the water. Circles of ripples dotted the surface. A sign on the bank said: CATCH AND RELEASE ONLY. And then, in smaller letters: UTOPIA IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY ILLNESS ASSOCIATED WITH THE EXPOSURE TO OUR “WILDLIFE.”
A high-pitched, pulsing sound seemed to come from the walls. Crickets? I spotted a speaker in one of the trees, covered with ivy, and another on the ground, inside a fake rock. A moment later, the sound changed from crickets to the chirping of birds. Then there was a roar.
“Is that supposed to be a tiger?” Delphinium asked.
“The famous lake tiger, indigenous to … no North American lake ever. Very vicious,” I said.
“Grrrr,” she said. “Come on. Let’s walk.” Delph stepped onto the trail, which was big enough for both of us to walk side by side, unless we passed someone coming from the other direction. I pretended the breeze wasn’t being generated by an HVAC system.
“So,” Delph said. “When do I get to see the rash?”
“That would be never,” I said.
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a Screen Doc?” Screen Doctors were available via the One on a twenty-four-hour basis. But I knew the diagnosis.
“Can’t we talk about something else?” I asked.
“You mean something besides your intriguing and potentially embarrassing physical ailments?” Delph said. “Let’s not make any rash decisions.”
One Small Hop Page 4
