“Are we going to play chess now or what?” Chang asks, grabbing two more apple slices, two oranges, and two kiwis. Chang insists on even numbers, even when he’s snacking.
“Yeah, let’s get this battle going,” Moose chimes in, scooting his chair back. “Ma promised to make Tater Tots casserole tonight and I don’t want to be late for the love tots.”
As usual, we set up the chessboard in the dining room so all the gaming devices in the rest of the house won’t distract us. This afternoon it’s my turn to play against Chang, while Moose keeps track of our moves in a notebook.
The three of us are on the chess team at school, which has been an ongoing embarrassment. (The chess team, not us.) We have a reputation throughout the region for being the “team most likely to humiliate itself” at every tournament we enter. But I’ve been elected team captain this year and I intend to turn things around. Not because I actually care about our reputation, but because I need proof of “leadership” for my college applications.
Supposedly, the best universities expect you not only to take part in extracurricular activities (ugh), but also to prove your leadership abilities by “spearheading an exciting initiative” (eye roll). The way I see it, college admissions boards must be made up of former student council try-hards and spirit committee rah-rahs. But I’ve spent my whole life watching my parents work their butts off for other people, and I am determined not to follow in their footsteps. No fine arts degree for me, no liberal arts education. My goal is to get into the best business school I can, so I can be one of those “other people”—namely, the Boss.
Chess Club was the only extracurricular activity I could stomach. I got Moose and Chang to sign up with me this year and then convince our fellow teammates to vote me in as captain. My sole campaign promise was to provide pizza at every practice, which just goes to show that votes can always be bought for the right price. (Cue Jill Bauer shaking her head again here.)
I’m hoping to improve our team’s performance this year, so I can write my college application essays about my “initiative” to make us not suck so bad. Hence, the extra chess practices at my house with Moose and Chang. As it turns out, they’re actually pretty killer at the game, maybe due to all the spatial skills they’ve developed creating custom MEEP worlds. I’m not bad either, although I’m more easily distracted than they are, especially while waiting for my opponent to make his move. By the time it’s my turn again, I’ve forgotten where I am because I’ve been thinking about a hundred other things.
“Checkmate,” says Chang, interrupting my thoughts.
Case in point.
After Chang and Moose shuffle off to their own west-side Baby Janes, I go down to the basement to my dad’s studio. Our basement is nothing special—just a big concrete room with exposed beams across the top to hold the rest of the house up—but I love it down here. The walls are lined with homemade bookshelves that are packed full with books, of course, but also loads of art supplies. It smells like oil paint and turpentine, even though Dad hardly ever works on his own art anymore.
A neglected easel sits in one corner with a half-finished painting of a phoenix, my birthday present from two years ago that he keeps promising to work on. Every now and then I cover it with a tarp, not because I don’t like it (I do; it’s pretty sweet), but because I think it makes Dad feel guilty to look at it every day. He always ends up uncovering it, though. He says it reminds him of what’s important.
He’s a little sentimental that way. Both my parents are. When they were newlyweds back in the day and still believed in their “dreams”—Mom aspired to be a novelist, Dad a fine artist—they packed their belongings into a little U-Haul truck, grabbed their fresh-off-the-press diplomas from the Art Institute of Chicago, and drove two hours south to this middle-of-nowhere town we now call home.
They rented a small house by the railroad tracks where they could live cheaply and pursue their passions side by side. Sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? Only three months in, while they were out buying groceries, faulty wiring in their electric heater started a fire. That blissful love cottage burned to the ground before my parents reached the dairy aisle at Handy Mart.
Everything they had was lost. Mom’s novel-in-progress. Dad’s paintings. Mom’s ancient Apple computer. Dad’s art supplies. Every last thing either burned to a crisp or was smoke-damaged beyond repair. The only things left were their old Ford pickup, the clothes on their backs, and two bags of Handy Mart groceries.
That night they stayed at the Motel 6 by the highway. (You see where this is going, right?) Nine months later I was born, and they named me Phoenix Ray Bauer, their “phoenix from the ashes.”
I told you they were sentimental.
Dad is asleep on the lumpy couch in the middle of the room, one arm draped over his eyes to keep out the light. An oversize computer monitor sits on the coffee table next to him, casting an eerie screen saver glow over its slumbering slave. Sometimes, I wish I could drape a tarp over it, too.
I tiptoe around the room and start tidying up, gathering coffee mugs and dirty dishes. Dad has obviously pulled another all-nighter. He’s in charge of Christmas in the Landing, which will be unveiled on Black Friday—I count on my fingers—only eight days away. Black Friday is also the MEEP’s one-year anniversary, so Dad’s bosses have told him to pull out all the stops on this. He can’t just toss some tinsel around like we do at our house and call it Christmas. Not in the MEEP. This has to be big. Dad’s been working on it for months.
Mom comes down the basement stairs carrying a dinner tray. I place a hand on Dad’s arm to wake him gently, but he startles anyway, popping up like I’ve blasted a bullhorn in his ear. He looks around and wipes the sleep out of his eyes, then smiles sheepishly at Mom and me. “How are the two most beautiful girls in the world?” he asks as Mom leans down to peck him on the cheek. “Is Christmas over yet? Please say yes.”
Mom hands him a big green smoothie. “Afraid not. But no more coffee until you drink this, Vic. And you could use a shower before you get back to work. You smell like a caveman.”
“And you look like an extra from Braveheart,” I chime in. Dad’s a big ginger-headed man to begin with, but add several months of beard and hair growth and he looks like some crazy Highlander about to go brawling for fun.
Dad makes a face at us and gulps down the green sludge like a trouper, then reaches for the plate of chicken linguini Mom’s made. He pauses in between bites to say, “And what’s up with the Nixinator? Been bounty hunting anywhere interesting lately?”
I shake my head. “Same old, same old. Mostly luvme templates with few or no custom elements.”
“Filthy casuals,” Dad says, winking at me. We both know what’s coming next.
Old mama bobblehead starts up. “The MEEP is for everyone, you two, and people have the right to play in it however they like. Besides,” Mom adds, unsuccessfully trying to raise one eyebrow at us, “we already have enough hardcore game snobs in the world.”
“Never!” I say, but she knows I don’t mean it. My dad and I make fun of hardcore gamers as much as we make fun of casuals. As Dad says, we’re equal-opportunity teasers.
“So, Nix, got time to try out Christmas in the Landing for me?” Dad asks. “We still have some glitches to fix and a few more mini-games to add, but we’re close to the finish line.”
“Dinner and homework first,” Mom chimes in before I can answer.
“All I have is some pre-calc, which I mostly finished in study hall,” I tell her. “And I just ate a ton of fruit, remember? I’ll heat up some pasta when I get back, I promise.” (Actually, I’d only eaten two kiwi slices and I still have a buttload of homework to do, but what’s a little hyperbole between mother and daughter?)
“Great!” says Dad, before Mom can answer. “I’ll get it ready to roll.”
Mom tries to raise one eyebrow again, but all it does is wrinkle her f
orehead. Poor Jill. She tries so hard to instill order in the Bauer household, but she is no match for me and Dad.
“Okay,” she finally says, “but I want that timer set for two hours max. Got it?” She narrows her eyes at me first, then turns to Dad to make sure he’s listening.
“Got it,” I say, as Dad nods and types code into the computer.
“Here you go, Nix, two hours,” he says, handing me an ear trans.
I plop myself in the comfy old recliner across from the couch and push back until I’m nearly horizontal, then pull a throw blanket over myself. “Nighty-night,” I say, clipping the earpiece onto the titanium stud in my left ear. A high-pitched frequency sequence begins to transmit code between Dad’s computer and my brain. A few seconds later I’m in the test Landing.
It’s the same Landing I was in earlier—the big, glass shopping mall—but now it’s on Christmas steroids. Hundreds of thousands of twinkly lights cover every visible surface. A three-story Christmas tree fills the central atrium, its ornaments representing every country on the planet, as well as the one hundred–plus MEEP world templates. A toy plane flies around the tree in spirals, waving a banner behind it that reads PEACE ON EARTH on one side, MEEP ON EARTH on the other.
On a nearby stage a choir of Meeple sing a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells,” then segue into “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow” as synchronized fluffy white snowflakes fall from the ceiling. Elves from the fantasy templates stroll through the crowd, passing out sample potions and discount coupons. Every item in every store in the Landing will be “on sale” for the next month, guaranteeing billions of dollars of profit for MeaParadisus Inc.
Not bad for selling the equivalent of the emperor’s new clothes—exactly nothing, in other words.
But MEEP shoppers won’t care. It’s like Diego Salvador, the MEEP’s zillionaire founder, says: “They’re paying for the experience.” And he has a point. Compared with shopping in a real-world mall, the Landing is a cakewalk. First of all, the Meeple walking around are all good-looking and cheery, every single one of them. No whiny tots, no disgruntled husbands, no peevish mothers, no obnoxious tweens. Additionally, no lines, no waiting, no schlepping—your purchases go right into your virtual storage locker.
I spend the next hour checking out all the special features so I can report back to Dad. I visit Santa, who lets me choose a gift from his workshop. (I pick night-vision contact lenses—awesome.) I participate in the gift exchange, where you can donate something from your inventory and get a surprise gift in return. I donate the size-D breast enlargement I’d purchased earlier and happily get an ultra crossbow in return, which I can’t wait to try out on my next quest.
I play a bunch of mini-games: Reindeer Racing, Chimney Toss, Snowman Slalom, etc. I kiss Lancelot under the mistletoe at the courtyard King Arthur Yule Party (what can I say, I’m a very thorough beta tester), then check out the Joyeux Noël runway show, where all the latest wardrobe options are being modeled. Some of the new medieval dresses are pretty cool and I try some on for fun. One of them actually looks halfway decent on me, so I put it on my Wish List. With my no-curves body and dirty blond hair, I make a pretty convincing wench. Who needs enhancements?
I check the timer and see that I’ve only got fifteen minutes left, so I head for the main control panel at the Information Desk. MeaParadisus prides itself on “global awareness,” so if you’re not into the whole Christmas thing, you’ve got options. I press the HANUKKAH button, and immediately everything’s decked out in dreidls and stars of David, the blue-and-white-robed choir belting out Hebrew tunes. I press the rest of the buttons in turn—KWANZAA, WINTER SOLSTICE, BODHI DAY, and so on—and watch the scenery change before me like a fast-forward movie montage.
The final button says HOLIDAY-FREE, which I assume just takes you back to the regular old Landing, but I have two minutes left so I push it anyway. In the blink of an eye, the decorations disappear, the Meeple choir is gone, the party’s over. The Landing is blissfully calm and quiet, with only the tranquil burbling of the water fountain to break the silence.
I breathe in and enjoy the low-stim environment after two hours of overload, then jump out of my freaking skin when a huge banner unfurls in front of me. BAH HUMBUG! it says. I barely have time to read it before Santa crashes through the banner in his sleigh and an elfin flash mob starts singing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”
At that point I crack up, even though the shock has nearly made me wet my virtual pants.
This little prank has Dad’s handiwork all over it. If you look hard enough, you’ll find Vic Bauer’s practical jokes hidden all over the MEEP, though they always manage to hit you when you least expect it.
The frequency code summons me back home and my eyelids flutter open. My dad, freshly showered, is on the sofa grinning at me.
I throw a pillow at him and grin back. “Good one, Dad.”
THREE
YESTERDAY, MORE THAN FIFTY MILLION PLAYERS LOGGED ON TO MeaParadisus to shop the Black Friday sales. I think it’s safe to say that Diego Salvador is officially richer than the Walmart guy, King Midas, and the pope combined. Mom and Dad are on their second bottle of champagne, having spent most of the day cooking up a belated Thanksgiving dinner now that Dad has emerged from his cave.
Moose and Chang have joined us, making short work of the feast and providing comic relief between obscene mouthfuls of turkey and stuffing. They take turns describing their battles in the MEEP and the custom armies they’ve created—armored beavers, winged Vikings, amazon samurai—each more absurd than the last.
I’ve not heard my parents laugh this hard in months. Moose and Chang aren’t that funny, so my guess is that champagne functions as a humor accelerant; that, or my parents are just extra giddy about having a day off. Either way, it’s a good time.
We’ve already done major damage to the homemade pecan pie when Dad tells us that he’s been given $300 in MEEP money as a bonus for his overtime work on Christmas in the Landing. I immediately begin to rant about the grave injustice—the utter ridiculousness—of a fake-money bonus, but Dad puts up a hand to stop me.
“Not now, Nix,” he says. “Your mother and I have agreed to see only blue skies today.”
“But it’s grayer than a school mop outside,” I protest. “Besides—”
“Zip, zip, zip,” Mom says, pretending to thrice zipper her own mouth, though she continues to speak nonetheless. “It’s our day of thanks, Phoenix. Tomorrow we can go back to our usual complaints, but today let’s just enjoy what we have.”
Dad reaches over and tugs my ponytail. “And that means the three of you have three hundred dollars in MEEP money to spend, while Jill and I take a long stroll by the river and pretend it’s a gorgeous day in June.”
Moose and Chang hoot and bump knuckles at this sudden windfall.
“May your walk be filled with imaginary bluebirds and daisies, Mr. and Mrs. B,” says Chang. “Thanks for all the treats today.”
Moose nods in appreciation and rubs his stomach. “Belly full of pie from Mama B, pocket full of MEEP green from Papa B . . . oh yeah, I am feeling the Thanksgiving love. You guys are awesome.”
I shake my head at my grinning parents. “You guys are cracked.”
“Indeed,” says Dad, bowing to Mom and taking her by the hand as if she’s the queen of England. “Cracked as crackers. Now if you’ll excuse us, the Premium Saltine and I will be off gallivanting and dreaming of Cheez Whiz for the remainder of the day.”
Mom gives us a courtly beauty-pageant wave. “Catch you on the chip side!” she calls as they exit the dining room.
Everyone laughs at her joke, even though chips have nothing to do with crackers, and Mom is obviously too tipsy to make the distinction. I laugh too, but make a mental note to hide the third bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. Someone’s got to keep her head in this family.
Half
an hour later, Moose, Chang, and I lie sprawled across the living room couch, MEEP devices in front of us, feet propped on the coffee table. While clearing the dining room table and loading the dishwasher, we engaged in some serious debate about how to divvy up the $300 credit. Now we’re ready for playtime.
“Once again, to summarize,” Chang says, referring to his notebook, “solo battle against skeleton horde, one hundred strong. Two weapons each. Rapunzel’s Tower. Thirty minutes. And steer clear of the Black.”
I roll my eyes. Lately, Chang’s been obsessing about the Black, the empty space that supposedly surrounds the edges of the MEEP world, though I’ve never seen it, nor has he. Chang insists that the Black is dangerous, that it will fry your brain if you even touch it. I think Chang’s been reading too many conspiracy theories—the kind of viral “news” manufactured by bored teens and internet trolls who like to incite hysteria for kicks.
“Yeah, Moose, watch out for Bigfoot too, I hear he’ll rip your head off if you even make eye contact,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.
“Whatever,” says Moose, “I just want to know what my reward is when I beat the pants off you two scrubs.”
“Winner gets the last piece of pie,” replies Chang, ignoring my previous snark. “Losers scrub the pots and pans.”
Moose and I murmur our agreement as we fiddle with our device settings.
“Begin weapons draft. Nixy goes first,” continues Chang, like he’s initiating countdown on a nuclear deployment.
“Ultra crossbow,” I say, eager to test my Christmas exchange gift in timed battle.
“Optic boomerang,” says Moose, pretending to fling one through the living room. “Gonna take the crack-a-lacking heads right off those boneheads, CR-ACK, CR-ACK, till they cry wee wee wee all the way home!”
The Leveller Page 2
