And I did need it. There was no way I could be gone for so long and do all the necessary work to case the Van de Kamps’ house otherwise. Especially since it hadn’t just been piano that I’d quit, but student government and basketball in the spring, before a summer of returning haggard and red-eyed after doing stamps with Ethan. If only I’d known then what I was going to try to pull off, I would’ve washed the dishes every night, stayed clean, studied for all my tests. “Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am.” Building currency. But as it was, I was on ultra-thin ice with my parents. They knew something was up and were terribly close to putting me in drug counseling.
“Yeah, you have been spending an awful lot of time with Ethan,” my father chimed in, always preferring to pile on, rather than risk making a fresh point.
“Well, he’s my friend. That’s what friends do—they spend time with each other. That’s kind of the idea.”
“Well, of course. But we hardly ever see you, and then you quit something you’ve always loved. Obviously, we’re going to be a little concerned. We wouldn’t be worth our salt as parents if we weren’t,” said Dad.
This was typical Dad. If he’d had a good day at the office he’d come home and speak in a really calm, sage-like voice, like he was doing now. But it was hard to take seriously because the rest of the time he’d act like a ten-year-old, whining to Mom about how unfair his shift supervisor was. His interest in us could never transcend how he was feeling.
Jaden raised his eyebrows and looked at me again. “I think they think you’re on drugs.”
Mom tensed a little in her chair. “No, dear, we’re just worried.”
“Worried that he’s on drugs,” Jaden continued. “And with cause since those peepers are looking pretty darn red.”
He reached over and grabbed my wrist before I knew what was happening. “And how about that pulse! Whoa, whoa, whoa. Do you have something to be anxious about?”
For a second I thought he was letting me know that he knew about the robbery and my heart beat even faster, but there was no particular accentuation in his phrasing to hint at hidden meaning. Besides, I’d never been so careful about anything before. He couldn’t know.
I scowled at him and snatched my hand back. “Don’t.”
“Or what?”
“Just don’t.” I tried to inject urgency into my stare so he’d understand to dial back the persecution, but he was pretending not to get the message.
Dad coughed. “Dorian, we don’t think you’re on drugs. Your brother was just—”
“I take a urine test every two weeks for the track team. And can show you the results; they’re public record on the link.”
“Well, that clears up that then . . . not. Everyone knows they’re a sham.” Grinning, Jaden turned toward Mom and Dad. “They don’t actually watch you piss in the cup, because having a teacher see your dick would violate some school code or something. So, they just file everybody into bathroom stalls, where ya can swap it out. It’s a hoot to watch Mrs. Fletcher shield her eyes when you go in front of her instead. She thinks we’re trying to entrap her or something, but it’s—”
“I’ll do it right now,” I announced. Since Mom and Dad had already selected the drug counselor they were going to take me to, this douche, Dr. Metzinger, I had to do something bold to at least implant some doubt in their minds.
“What?” asked Mom.
I stood up. “The right way. We’ll run the diagnostics from the test kit and make it bulletproof.”
I drained the remaining water in my glass and then began fiddling with my zipper.
“Jesus. Sit back down,” Dad said.
“Dorian . . .,” said Mom.
Mr. Jefferson reached up to cover his large, glowing eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mom, he’s bluffing.”
“You think so? I don’t like being accused of things.” I looked to be a second away from having my dick out when Dad came around the table and snatched the cup from my hand. “For God’s sake, Dorian, your mother’s right there.”
He put both of his hands on my shoulders and pressed down until I was parked back in the chair. “Let’s show a bit more class at the dinner table, huh?”
“Just wanted to give all ya worrywarts some piece of mind.”
Jaden snickered and clapped his hands. “Some top-flight dinner theater right there, folks. Fucking top-flight. Ya really wolfed down that bait, Pops.”
“Don’t swear, Jaden,” Mom said as sternly as she could, before turning to me and saying in a sweeter, softer tone, “Honey, we believe you, we’re just concerned because we love you—that’s why we think it would be a good idea to meet with Dr. Metzinger. At least once.”
It wouldn’t just be once, though, because the drug test he’d give me would light up like a Christmas tree from all the stamps Ethan and I had taken this summer. From there it’d be twice-a-week counseling, GPS monitoring through my film, and random, broad-spectrum assays that would uncover any gene-mod Revision I got. It would completely kneecap me.
“You know, it could be worse. He could be on stamps instead of just Cal Drops,” said Jaden.
I had to bite my inner lip to keep from smiling. Everyone was on Cal Drops (aka Calbenezine). Teachers, coaches. Probably even my parents. It being the non-addictive, less stigmatizing alternative to opioids, ranking somewhere between alcohol and sex in the hierarchy of parental concerns. And Jaden building it up like it was some big deal over the past few minutes was a masterstroke.
“So he’s not on stamps, then?” asked my father, confused, bringing his fork full of casserole back down to his plate.
Jaden made a dismissive face. “He’s too in love with himself, worried they’d mess up his big, beautiful brain. But he pops these Cal Drops like they’re freaking candy in his room and wh—”
“Hey,” I cut in, trying to simultaneously sound embarrassed and indignant. “I do not.”
“I hate to break it to you, man, but Cal Drops have side effects, too. Sigma-1 receptor antagonists screw with your nervous system. And getting arthritis someday would make it pretty hard to play the piano.”
“He’s right, Dorian. You shouldn’t take so many,” said Dad, looking visibly relieved now, his posture deflating as he eased back in his chair.
“He shouldn’t take any,” said Mom.
This was too good.
While Mom and Dad looked at each other, making faces, Jaden subtly turned and gave me a wink. “Well, maybe this Dr. Metzinger can talk some sense into him,” he said.
“Maybe . . . but if its Cal Drops . . .” Dad started and stopped. I could finish it for him, though: If it was Cal Drops there was no way they were going to pay two hundred fifty BFs an hour out of pocket.
“Okay, okay. I’ve had a few every now and again. I would’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea and think I was some fiend or something.”
“We don’t think you’re a fiend,” said Dad.
“It’s just when we don’t see you we wonder, that’s all. You’ve been gone so much lately,” said Mom. “So, of course we’re going to worry.”
My mother did have quite the penchant for worrying about us, having shed her own interests once she realized things weren’t going to work out for her the way she’d hoped they would. I loved her a lot, but I couldn’t help getting frustrated every time she tried making me her surrogate.
“Well you shouldn’t,” I said, alternately glancing at each of them. “It’s just that we’ve . . . Ethan, Michael, and I’ve been working on making Syd fly better, which’s meant lots of time at the library: they have premium feeds to all the best code warehouses so we can mix and match stuff. Really, that’s all it’s been.”
Dad frowned. “A mechanical bird’s a fine hobby, especially with the pollinator thing, but don’t you think you should be concentrating on something more school-related?”
“Piano wasn’t school-related.”
“It would’ve been if you’d joined jazz band,” Jaden interjecte
d.
“Piss off,” I said to him, glaring, then turned back to Dad. “Or is it only okay when I pick up a hobby you like? Besides, it’s not like we don’t study, too. Haven’t my grades stayed good?”
Mom looked at Dad.
“You don’t have to worry. Seriously. Have I ever given you real cause for concern?”
I had. A lot lately. Yet the reassurance that washed over Mom’s face made me conscious of just how anxious she’d been a few moments ago. Of how much she wanted to still believe me. Of how much she loved me and how all the small things I did that I never thought twice about were blown up a hundred-fold in her eyes. The thought made me feel so valuable and cared about, yet simultaneously rotten because I wasn’t returning it. I wasn’t giving a reason for it, I was just taking. And she knew it, yet she was giving anyway. And so was Dad in his own subdued way. It made me almost want to cry.
On the way out of the dining room I stopped and gave them each a hug.
My room was far messier than I liked it. Sticky spots from spills dotted the desk. A pile of dirty clothes was forming by my bed. Coffee cups strained against the lid of the trash can, with an upended one leaking down the side. Worst of all I’d started seeing little funnel weaver spiders in the closet and occasionally up in the corner above the door to the bathroom Jaden and I shared. It was probably still neater than most every other high school senior’s room, but since casing houses had taken over every free second that I had, I felt like the mess was slowly swallowing me.
After spending several hours finding the holes in a user-uploaded drone activity map of our neighborhood, I was about to flick off my workstation for the evening when I heard a knock outside my door. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, like three quick heartbeats.
“Who is it?” I called.
“You know who it is.”
“It’s unlocked.”
Jaden walked across the room and sat down on the side of my bed, still wearing his clothes from school. We didn’t have a dress code, so his cardigan-over-shirt-and-tie ensemble was an absurd, breathtakingly cynical bid to make Mom feel guilty for not being able to afford a private education for us. And the fact that he hated dressing up and was willing to do it just to mess with her made it all the more unsettling.
He had the features to pull it off, though, even if only in an apathetic, smoking-in-the-bathroom kind of way. His pale skin was like that of a white peach, slightly bruised under both his eyes, as if to show off how delicate it was, and his cheekbones were almost too high—shifting what would otherwise be a graceful, cherubic face into something more dire.
“Jesus Christ, you little turd,” I said. “That came this close to blowing up.”
“Which’s exactly why it worked,” Jaden answered, simultaneously smug and patronizing.
I was happy it had, but I shook my head, still half regretting I’d let Ethan talk me into this. I’d taken so long casing houses and missed enough sessions in his uncle’s scrapyard, fixing up the glass cutters, that finally he was like, “Just get Jaden to cover for you. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” And he’d been right in a way. Yet, at the same time, there was a perfectly legitimate reason I’d been so hesitant.
“Come on, this is my jam. And I think a little ‘thank you’ is in order for beating such an Emmy-worthy performance out of you. You’re pretty convincing when you get all defensive.”
“Thanks, Jaden.”
“Anything for a bud, right?”
I nodded.
Jaden was always asking some variant of this “buds” question. No matter what happened, he needed me to constantly affirm it. But not wanting to seem insecure, he’d always pair it with something tougher, like his next words, “Though that might not keep me from turning you in when I figure out what’s actually going on.”
“Jaden. If anyone’s going to get turned in, it’s you,” I said, playfully swiveling my chair around to face him. That was kind of the trump card I had. Two years ago there’d been a devastating biological attack on New York City and a law had subsequently been passed saying that anyone who possessed severe psychological irregularities (like those possessed by the assailants) had to disclose them to a registry. And Jaden had a lot of severe psychological irregularities. Shallow affect, lack of empathy, and pathological lying, for starters. To be certain, I gave him a take-home EEG test, which showed a decrease of alpha band inside the left central temporal and parietal central parts of his brain, as well as abnormally high beta activity on the left parietal temporal region. This meant pretty much textbook psychopath.
I’d considered telling Dad to send him to a psychiatrist when I got the results, but the problem was this “registry” was like a cattle brand. Seeking medical help was confidential in theory, but in practice client lists were hacked and leaked often enough that it effectively “outed” you. So, I’d taken the role of shrink upon myself. And ultimately it had been the leverage that the registry provided that had gotten me comfortable enough to enlist Jaden to help with Mom and Dad.
“After all the time you’ve invested?”
“There’s a name for that . . . sunk something.”
Jaden’s lip curled slightly.
“And there wouldn’t be anything you could do about it anyways because . . .” I looked him in the eyes. “It’s harmless.”
“So, what do I get for helping cover up this harmless thing?”
I kept my stare steady. I’d been expecting this and paused a few seconds for dramatic effect. “I’ll help make you a real boy.”
“What if I like being Pinocchio?”
“You don’t.”
We were similar yet different in that regard. He had a bunch of things about him that he wanted replaced, and I had a bunch of things I wanted to add. But it all amounted to the same thing. After years of haziness, just a hint of the word was enough to send us under the cloud line where the world was still vivid and defined. I felt buzzed just thinking about it.
“So, it has to do with Revision then,” he said, not even pretending to play coy. And then, with such enthusiasm and fervor that it caught me off guard, “I could help even more, you know. I’ll work as hard as you need me to. I’ve got some money saved up if there’s something that’d be useful, like a faster comp, film, bug, anything. I’m game. I’m so game, man. I just want . . . I just want to . . .”
His eyes were burning. Pleading.
“I know you do,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. Some part of me wanted to let him. We’d always been a good team, playing multi-player VR shooters, football, and basketball. Always anticipating each other, always improvising in lockstep. But we were competitive, too, taking things well past where other siblings would. One time we fought each other in the backyard with old boxing gloves until both of our faces were pulp, and Mom had to take us to the emergency room to get stitches. Another time we’d nearly gotten stranded in a blizzard racing each other up Longs Peak during a family vacation in Colorado. But given the stakes, it was too risky.
“Though if you’re out causing trouble, there’ll be more people wanting to add your name to the registry.”
For a moment Jaden seemed hurt, but then looked up, his eyes sparkling like he’d caught the scent of something. “Cause you’re causing trouble?”
“No, I’m not causing trouble. It was just a . . . ,” I said, hesitating for a second before redirecting to, “And as for helping, well, you’re already helping a lot just with Mom and Dad. That back there was pretty freaking slick. Cal Drops.” I shook my head again, unable to help myself from breaking into a grin at the mention of it.
“There’s more I can do,” he said, staying solemn and not taking another victory lap like I thought he would.
“I know, but let’s just start slow.”
There was another long silence, and it looked like Jaden was trying to make up his mind about something as he stared out the window into the backyard. His mouth hung open and part of his face appeared lost, but his forehead was
scrunched up and his eyes seemed like they were focused on a large, intractable-enough problem, that he had to zoom out of the present moment to see it all.
Finally, just as I was about to ask him what he was thinking about, he laughed and sighed. “It’ll take some pretty serious gene therapy to fix all my fuckups, won’t it?”
“I mean . . . maybe.”
“And when it’s done, I’ll be able to feel the same things as everyone else?”
“Hopefully.”
It would sure be easier than what we’d done so far. Given the psychopath’s main dysfunction is his lack of empathy, my early treatments tried to plug the gap with reason. We read essays on humanity’s value and the importance of justice, and I used history to show that while violence and deception were often effective at first, they created so many enemies that they weren’t sustainable in the long run, the later Roman Emperors being especially illustrative. I stressed that this was even more the case in our time, since computation made everything play out faster.
I also helped train him to feign emotion, so he could better blend in. We spent dozens of hours watching footage of people in different mental states, and spent hundreds more role-playing together until he could mirror back whatever he thought someone would want to see. I read Sam Meisner’s entire Meisner on Acting to him as a bedtime story. I took him to Shakespeare in the Park every May.
“Good. ’Cause I don’t know how much longer I can last.”
Jaden stopped and took a long breath before continuing, like he wasn’t going to be coming up for air for a while. His voice had a wobbling, desperate quality that almost begged you to feel sorry for him, but was overdone just enough on occasion to make you think it might be the very acting he’d been practicing.
“Sometimes it’s okay, but sometimes it isn’t . . . like last week we had to write a poem about a ‘seminal’ event in our lives and this girl, Jane Smith, reads hers in front of the class about how both of her parents died in a car crash. A lot of people are tearing up, and I have this super-concerned look on my face—hanging my head and rubbing my eyes. But the whole time I’m thinking, Jesus, you’d think if her parents gave her a boring name like Jane Smith, they’d be more boring drivers. Because I pulled it up on my film while she was reading, and they were doing ninety in a fifty-five. Maniacs.”
Sunlight 24 Page 3
