Morgan Abrams
4 days until arrest
Barely have enough time to contemplate the enormity of the ‘small’ cup of root beer in front of you (almost as big as your head, you’re sure) before Brayden sits down at the table across from you. He drops his tray with a clang, making the carton of fries and the wrapped burgers jump and jostle around.
The giant white X in a black circle on everything in here looks tacky. You’ve never gone to this particular chain and for good reason. ‘Xanatoast’ doesn’t sound like a fast-food place, it sounds like a murder cult.
“You any better?” Brayden asks.
You push your head up off the table and make yourself nod. Head up. Head down. Repeat. A lie, sure, but the last thing you want is to invite a conversation with Brayden about your health. Not when Cassandra’s in the bathroom and Riley’s still waiting for her order at the counter.
She spots you staring in her direction and waves. You offer a limp shake of the arm back. She needs to get over here and save you from this.
“You’re not like, sick or something, are you?” Brayden says, forcing you to once again acknowledge his presence.
You shake your head. You’re fine. Just stupid.
“Okay… good,” he says.
After a second of silence spent unwrapping one of the burgers he adds, “I’m still pissed at you. Riley too.”
You give him a look over the top of your absurdly large ‘small’ soda.
Yeah.
You can tell.
“I’m…” he’s mentally reciting something Cassandra told him to say, picking his words with a frustrated care, “…sorry. For losing my cool. I said some messed up stuff. And… that wasn’t fair of me.” There’s a pause, an expectation for you to accept the apology. Apologize in return.
You opt to let the silence stretch.
He exhales. Sets an unwrapped burger to the side where Cassandra is sitting and places the fries halfway between him and her seat. Starts unwrapping his own burger. Realizing you aren’t going to say anything, he continues; “I guess like, we used to be friends, right? I mean, okay. I know we aren’t now. You made that pretty fucking clear. But we used to be. For like, years, man.”
You take a sip of your root beer, letting the carbonated syrup sit in your mouth so your teeth can rot faster.
“I just–” he’s folding down the sides of the wrapper now, two steps away from turning it into origami, “–you told Riley but not me?”
Okay, so maybe you feel a little bad about keeping him in the dark now, in retrospect. Seeing how hurt he is by it. You had good reason though! Reasons that were completely validated by how badly he lost it at you!
And anyway, if yours or Rivka’s glitch ever had started to seem relevant, you’d have brought it up then.
Well, maybe.
You should probably say something here if you’re going to say anything at all. Something about how like, you had never intended to tell Riley either. She was just nosey as hell and couldn’t keep her hands to herself whenever she came over, going through your stuff. Or about how you came to like getting to share a secret with just her. That it made you feel closer in a way you knew you’d never get to have otherwise with her. Because yes, you have it bad for Riley Parson and that can never, ever go anywhere.
And when does Brayden ever apologize for anything? Or have anything approaching a heartfelt discussion? This is what, the second time now? Who is this fucking guy and where was he before?
You’re taking too long to say anything. He’s starting to think it was a mistake to even try. Maybe it was, but you’ve got to at least try back, don’t you?
“It’s not like I never t-t-told you anything,” you say out loud finally.
Brayden jerks his head up at that, as if stung. “I– yeah. Okay.” More slowly, cautious, he adds, “how’s that… going, by the way?
You look down at your nails. Let your fingers find the bracelet around your wrist and thumb the charm that’s a pair of crossed swords.
“Bad.”
He frowns at that but keeps his dumb mouth shut. You see his eyes shift to someone coming up from behind. Catch her presence in the static a half second later, just in time to not be surprised as Cassandra makes it to the table. She practically jumps into the booth next to Braydon, bouncing on impact.
“So!” Cassandra flashes a smile a both of you. “Morgan! What number am I thinking of?”
“I– w-what?”
Seriously, what?
“What number am I thinking of? Right now?”
Oh.
“It d-d-doesn’t– it doesn’t work. Like– like that, like–”
Brayden rolls his eyes. “Oh, so you were lying, then.”
Fucker. He knows what he’s doing and he knows it’s going to work on you, the smug asshole. Can’t believe you felt guilty for even a second about not telling him.
Ugh. There’s so much static here. The crowd of people coming in for dinner. The workers. The people passing by outside, figurative wisps of wind for all the distinction they have. Encasing it all is the buzz of the wires in the wall, the hum of the lights, the machinery that makes this restaurant just one small part of the larger living being of the arcology.
All pulsing in time together. A steady buzzing humming thrumming and you’re not exactly at your best right now. You keep slipping, the harder you try to pay attention the more it feels like it’ll swallow you up. In the end, the only thing that finally allows you to single out Cassandra from the rest of the static is the fact that she’s doing the mental equivalent of screaming the number she’s thinking about.
With a deep sigh, you answer: “Twenty-seven.”
“Wow! So cool!” Cassandra cheers.
“Lucky guess,” Brayden hedges.
Sliding her bag off her shoulder, Cassandra sits it on her lap and pulls out a tiny black paper box. In what could be an almost Pavlovian weariness, you find yourself slumping down in your seat.
“Cass, what are you doing?” Brayden asks.
In answer, Cassandra opens the box and tips out what looks like a set of cards. “I’ve always wanted to try this,” she says as she shuffles the cards. One by one she sets out three cards face down on the table, boxing in her still wrapped burger.
Okay, no. This needs to be nipped in the bud right now.
“I’m n-n-not psychic. Or– or magic. Or whatever. I can’t…” you wave your hands in the air, “divine the future.”
“What are we divining?” Riley asks as she slides into the booth seat next to you with a tray of her own.
“Cass is being Cass,” Brayden supplies.
“Rude!” Cassandra pouts. To you she says, “You really don’t know what any of these three cards could be?”
You shake your head. Refuse to even guess.
Riley takes one of the wrapped sandwiches on her tray and puts it in front of you. “What the hell kind of cards are those anyway?”
“Tarot cards!” Cassandra is way too enthusiastic about this.
“Oh, you’re like, one of those girls.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nooothing.”
With a skeptical look towards Riley, Cass picks up the three cards and holds them in her hand, looking them over. “So, Morgan, could you guess what they are now?”
You shrug, poking at the sandwich in front of you. You told Riley you didn’t want anything, damnit.
“Maybe.”
“Well…?”
All three of them are looking at you now. Expectant.
Closing your eyes, you concentrate. Pick Cassandra out of the static again. She’s not conveniently screaming the answer inside her head this time but she is looking at the cards. You can work with that.
“Um… There’s an upside down guy?” You don’t know what any of these images are supposed to represent.
“Mhm, mhm!” Cassandra nods along.
Encouraged, you continue. “Uh… six… wine glasses? Are they supposed to be upside down?” At Cassandra’s nod, you keep going, “And some… blindfolded lady duel wielding swords.”
Grinning, Cassandra lays all three cards back down on the table, face up this time. “The Hanged Man, the Six of Cups Reversed, and the Two of Swords.”
“Cool, right?” Riley beams at you like she’s showing off a prized pony. Thanks, Riley.
Rubbing the sides of your head in a preemptive ward against a headache, you watch Cassandra put the cards away to the side so she can start unwrapping her burger. Thank god, no more party tricks.
“Convinced now?”
“Oh, I believed you right away!” Cassandra says. Shoots you another smile. “I just wanted to see for myself. You can really just do that whenever you want?”
“Um. Sort of? It’s– it’s hard, to um, like…” You try to snap your fingers and just sort of flail them in the air soundlessly. “Mostly it’s just– just noise. Static. R-r-random body feelings. All j-j-jumbled together. I have to… to really work if I want to get something um, in p-p-particular.”
Mostly you just use it to compensate for your inability to read body language, or facial expressions. Like, you know what a frown is, or what a sad face might mean. But without that extra help you don’t always catch that it’s happening.
It’s easier as you get familiar with people, you don’t add. Easier to pick them out of the noise, easier to get something intelligible. You don’t want to creep anyone out. Better for everyone to be reassured their interior lives are largely still private.
“And your mom has the exact same glitch?” Cassandra asks, leaning over the table now.
“Uh. N-n-not exactly?” How to put it, how to say it… They’re all paying attention to you. Even Riley – you don’t normally like to talk about any of this. “It’s not like– it’s not a mod. You know? I– I think um, that Rivka d-d-doesn’t have as much of a, um, a problem with uh, b-b-background noise.”
“Isn’t that worse for us? You’re saying it’s even harder to hide shit from her,” Brayden says.
“No, I think I get it?” Cassandra says.
She almost certainly doesn’t, but you’re in no mood to contest that.
“You do?”
“We just have to not think about it, right?” she says, looking to you for confirmation.
Before you can give an answer, however, Brayden rolls his eyes with a snort. “Yeah, okay. Don’t think about pink elephants then.”
A pause.
Then Cassandra pouts. “Well, how can I not now? That’s so cute!”
“Aren’t those the drunk ones?” Riley asks.
Cassandra tilts her head. “Are they?”
You cough into your hand. Need to cut this off before they all panic. “It’s– it’s n-n-not that bad. Really. It’s not like– like um, she c-c-can just pull whatever she wants. Okay? It’s limited. Surface thoughts. Like, if you don’t um– if you avoid thinking in words, then…”
“Look guys, Morgan’s the expert here at hiding things from his mom,” Riley says, finally taking a break from inhaling her food. “If he says it’s possible, it’s possible.”
Brayden makes a face, unconvinced. “Sure, I get it. Just don’t think.”
Riley points at him with finger guns. “Exactly!”
“That must be real easy for you then.”
Without breaking her smile, Riley’s finger guns turn into raised middle fingers.
“Bray! Be nice,” Cassandra chides between burger bites. Turning back to you she says, “I didn’t think stuff like this was inheritable.”
“Um… it’s– it’s not? It’s, well, it’s com– com–” Grit teeth. Deep breath. Don’t get angry at your dumb brain. Try again. “It’s complicated.”
“Does this have anything to do with your ‘not’ being adopted?” Brayden asks, dipping fries into a red smear of ketchup on his tray. “You still haven’t explained that one either.”
You know what? Fine!
It’s get everything out in the open day!
Sure!
Who cares!
“Rivka, um, she bought a spare ectogene. Y-y-you know how th-that works?”
“…a what?”
Cassandra gasps, one hand over her mouth. She hastily finishes chewing and swallows. “My parents went the ectogene route too!”
Brayden turns to her now, mystified. “They what?”
Riley waggles her eyebrows at Brayden, smirking. “Artificial womb shit. Or like, designer babies. You see what the rich are like, dude? They can’t even stand to fuck like normal people.”
“Um, I mean, my parent’s aren’t that well off.” Cassandra waves a hand, looking momentarily embarrassed. “But, you know. After how hard a time my aunt had with my cousins, they decided it was worth the cost. You can prep a whole bunch of possible, uh, you know, future babies, and just pick the one with the genes you want. And since it’s not technically a baby yet, it gets you around all the laws against genetic screening, CRISPR mods, and all that.”
“Uh,” you make yourself nod, a little overwhelmed. “Y-yeah. That’s– that’s right.”
As long as the embryo isn’t, well… in somebody, it doesn’t count as a person and so none the normal laws around pregnancy and human embryos apply. Wonder if you count as a real person by now or if you have to wait another year when you’ve turned 18.
“My parents had like, twenty-seven different embryos screened for complications or genetic diseases, and then took like, ten of them and did gene editing for improved memory, metabolism, and then my dad wanted to make sure I was blonde, added eyesight correction–”
“I uh, I got a t-t-treatment for that as a kid,” you volunteer.
“Oh my god, I remember that!” Riley laughs, slapping the table. “You used to look like such a dork with those little glasses.”
You miss wearing them, honestly.
“But Morgan,” Brayden is pulling Cassandra’s arm down, desperate to get a word in, “you said your mom bought a… spare? Like… just somebody else’s surplus baby goop? That’s fucked.”
“They’re not– it’s not a b-b-baby. It’s just. Cells.”
Cassandra is nodding along, enthused. “Right! Selling back the extras happens all the time, it helps make up for some of the cost of the procedure. Hmmm, let me guess, Biotique bought a bunch for medical trials?”
You bite your cheek and nod. “Uh. Y-yeah. Rivka just… decided to buy mine out. For. Some reason.”
Brayden throws his hands in the air. “How am I only just now hearing about any of this?”
Cassandra laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Well, you’re not a woman, silly. It’s not really relevant to you.”
Brayden goes quiet at that, slumping into his seat and shoving his burger into his mouth. An expression flashes across his face, gone just as fast as you notice it, too quick for you to parse the meaning.
Cassandra and Riley don’t notice any of it. Cassandra is already moving on, talking about the trade market in ‘human reproductive biowaste’ and the legal loopholes. Her level of enthusiasm for the subject on full, unnerving display. Whatever you might have expected from the ‘blonde girl’ mold might have been, this had not been anywhere on the radar.
Riley shoots you a look and grins. ‘Cute, right?” she mouths.
You scowl back at her.
“Did your mom have to pay the company for you?” Cassandra asks dragging you back into the conversation. “That feels like it should be some sort of ethical violation, right? Did they like… make a mistake and let an embryo overdevelop or–”
“Cass,” Brayden sighs.
She stops, cheeks reddening. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Um.” You chew on your lip. “I… have n-n-no idea?”
“Never mind ethical, none of this sounds legal,” Brayden says.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought when Morgan first told me, but like, we looked it up,” Riley chimes in.
It’s true. There was a Supreme Court case and everything.
Brayden furrows his brow, unconvinced. “And you just happened to both be psychic or whatever?”
You shrug. Take another drink of your soda. Still ignoring the wrapped sandwich that Riley has now progressed to not-so-casually bumping into your elbow.
“Does it matter?” Riley interjects.
“Of course it–”
“Okay, let’s say Morgan’s mom did do what you’re implying. So what? What does that change about anything? We had our question and answer time. Unless this is gonna get us some new amazing solution to, you know, everything going on, I think you guys should just leave Morgan alone about this,” Riley says, earning back a few of the points she lost by spilling everything in the first place.
Brayden huffs, unsatisfied, but doesn’t push back.
You scooch away from the table and get Riley’s attention. “I’m going to the bathroom,” you sign.
She doesn’t sign back right away, surprised. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” you lie.
***
The meeting officially ends on a weird, half-finished note, everyone agreeing to Cassandra’s idea of looking into the victims in the vague hope that it might reveal something new. After the group splits up on the way out of Xanatoast, you and Riley kill another couple of hours wandering the mall.
“It’s group work,” Riley complains. “Hey, we should just let Cass do it. Knowing her, she’ll just go overboard and cover everything for us.”
“Riley,” you sign back. “That’s not the point.”
“Booooo.”
You harp on the issue for awhile, hoping you might actually convince her as the two of you walk around the mall. Until, at Riley’s insistence, you stop at the electronics store so she can watch a couple of innings of a baseball game on one of the big screens before an employee chases the two of you out.
Can’t decide if you should still be upset at Riley for spilling the beans about your telepathy. It doesn’t – shouldn’t matter. Maybe it’s better this way, even. Maybe this is the start of you having more than a single friend again now that there are no more secrets in the way.
Almost no secrets.
As the clock ticks over to seven, Riley insists on bringing you home with her. Something about needing to keep an eye on you. Which feels like an indictment, like you fucked up somewhere and now have to be monitored for a relapse, but you don’t have the energy to fight about it.
It can be another study night. Riley could certainly use the extra practice. Provided the two of you can survive another dinner without you humiliating yourself in front of her dad. At least her mom works evening shifts.
People shuffle past you in the hallway as they go to or from work. A man with a stained white apron over his shoulder spares you and Riley a single curious look before his eyes slide off you. Radiating exhaustion as he walks onward, down the hallway.
You fall a step back behind Riley, tug the headphones off your ears, music still audible from the speakers around your neck. Hands to your pockets to pause the playback from your phone.
Only a few tiny yellow signs and the wall decorations give any indication of which block of the arcology spire you’re in. Fluorescent lights set into the wall flicker in their sockets; the electric hum runs through your teeth. Across the far wall and extending down the hallway is a screen display of a sprawling forest, low lit, the sky sparkling with stars. The LCD is damaged along the bottom, dead pixels and color distortions giving the effect a surreal, cybernetic glow.
Riley smiles to you, hops up to the door and slaps her phone against the lock. “Home sweet home,” she announces with a sarcastic tilt in her voice. She pushes the door open, leaning in. “I’m home!”
From inside, an older woman yells back, “Riley, is that you?”
Oh.
Silently, you sign, “Isn’t your mom working today?”
Riley scowls as she signs back. “She’s supposed to.”
“Riley.” Riley’s mom appears in the doorway from around a corner. An Asian woman half a foot shorter than you with grey and black hair pulled back into a tight bun with a stick through it. A Zanzi? Something like that. You really ought to try to make more of an effort to keep the names of things straight.
Her Riley-directed frown transforms into a smile on seeing you standing alongside her. “Morgan! I didn’t know you’d be coming by.”
“Surprise, Mom! What are you doing home?”
Mrs. Parson huffs and dusts her hands off on the front of her shirt. Rolls her eyes. “Security had the dishwasher arrested. He was sick, can you believe that? I knew something wasn’t right.”
Can feel the spike of panic that shoots through Riley. She barely restrains herself from throwing her arms around her mom. “Oh f–fffudge, mom, what!? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. They had us all take a vaccine shot and the restaurant is closed until Wednesday while they disinfect everything. It’s a disaster for the business, but it could have been worse.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. Is…”
“Patrick’s fired, of course. But I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet once he’s been treated. Now, enough of that. Come inside, I’m making dinner.”
“Thanks mom,” Riley says, pushing past her. “We’re gonna go hang in my room, okay?”
Before she can get away, her mom stops her with a hand on the arm. “No you don’t, you’re going to help me with preparations, young lady. Especially if you’re inviting guests over without telling me first.”
“Mooooom.”
You hesitate in the doorway. “Um, I c-c-can go.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Parson tsks, looking you over. “Isn’t that mother of yours feeding you?” She lets go of Riley only to approach you and snake her hand behind your back. Pulls you over the threshold with all the determination of a constrictor snake. The door shuts behind you as you get dragged inside, the last opportunity for escape, sealed.
Riley vanishes ahead of you both, shouting something about needing to use the bathroom.
You’ll never get used to being at Riley’s place. Even accounting for the fact that it’s a smaller apartment than the one you share with Rivka, with even more people crammed on top of each other, there’s also just… so much more stuff.
Framed pictures of family, both immediate and extended, on the wall. Row after row of cousins, aunts, and uncles, none of whom you’ve ever met but you have heard of in passing. A sad looking plastic pitcher plant sits on a corner table right as you enter the kitchen. Riley’s pet ‘monster,’ Gary 2 (the original Gary died years ago, after being horrifically overfed by a very enthusiastic if inattentive caretaker).
The kitchen is nothing like Rivka’s, either. An oblong room lined with overfilled cabinets while a dozen appliances compete for counter space. The stovetop is already on, filling the room with the smell of caramelizing onions.
“You and Riley have been getting close this year,” Mrs. Parson says as she finally releases you. A leading statement, the question at the end hovering unasked in the air. You’re content to let it fall flat as Mrs. Parson returns to the cutting board on the counter, chopping vegetables. Shunk shunk shunk, all in rapid recision.
“You’ve been well?” she asks.
“Um. F-fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Not d-d-dead yet,” you joke. Instant regret follows when Mrs. Parson looks back at you with an expression of concern. “K-k-kidding. I’m, uh, I’m fine. Really. Sorry.”
Mercifully you don’t have to survive alone with Mrs. Parson for long. You want to like Riley’s mom. You really do. She certainly seems to like you, for reasons you don’t understand (or maybe would prefer to pretend not to understand).
Before Mrs. Parson can make any thinly veiled questions about the current state of your relationship, Riley slides in from the hallway. Any concern she might have had before is gone. “Mom… what happened to my hair dye?”
Hair dye?
“Don’t run in the house,” Mrs. Parson chides without looking. Using her knife, she slides a cascade of diced peppers onto the frying pan. “I need you to help with dinner, not mess about.”
“But mom–”
“I threw it out.”
Riley’s eyes bug out in disbelief. “Mom! Are you kidding me! I paid for that!”
“You don’t have a job, what money could you possibly have paid with?”
“That– That’s not the point! What the hell! ”
“Language!” Mrs. Parson tsks at the cutting board. “You need to be blending in with the other girls at school, not ruining your hair. Bad enough you cut it short without permission.”
“I can’t believe this! What the hell! It’s just fucking hair dye mom, big deal! I wasn’t even gonna use it until summer break.”
Mrs. Parson slaps her free hand against the countertop, making both you and Riley jump.“Language!”
“Mom, this su– this isn’t fair. You’re gonna drive me off the deep end and into getting like, a dozen tattoos. Is that what you want? Actually – that sounds way hotter.” Riley catches your eye and nods in the direction of her mom. “C’mon Morgan, back me up here.”
“Uh–”
“See, Morgan agrees. A guy agrees. Sorry Mom, you’re outvoted.”
“Well Morgan doesn’t get a vote here. Riley, this kind of behavior is why the Jorgensons don’t want you babysitting their son anymore.”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s because someone clued them into the whole ‘massive dyke’ thing. We have to keep eating babies to keep our skin shiny.”
Mrs. Parson frowns down at the countertop, radiating discomfort into the air around her. She lays out a bundle of bok choy leaves and starts cutting into them with more force than strictly required. “Could you stop ruining your beautiful hair for the night and help me set the table?”
Finally a chance to do something.
You step forward, reaching for the cabinet with the plates. “I’ll help.”
Mrs. Parson hums, pleased. She never stops being surprised at your willingness to do kitchen work. “Well, aren’t you turning out to be a fine young man.”
Something awful twists inside your chest.
“It-it-it’s nothing,” you protest.
Riley makes a face, crossing the kitchen to help you with the plates and silverware. She nudges you with her elbow. “Suck up,” she mouths.
“Who are you talking to honey?” a tweedy, uneven voice calls out. Its owner steps in from the bedroom hallway, adjusting the large thick glasses on his face. Riley’s dad is barely any taller than his wife or daughter. A doughy white man with grey hair and an oversized hearing aid visible on his right ear.
He has a desk job auditing drug prescriptions or something. Always deflects talking about it with complaints over how boring it is. He has a second job as an ASL instructor which he does remote, running classes with students from all over the country on video.
“Oh, Morgan.” He smiles at you before switching to ASL and asking how your practice is coming along.
“Good!” you sign back once your hands are free. “Riley’s always a big help.”
“Is she now?” Mr. Parson raises his eyebrows. “I guess she’s just too cool to take lessons from her old man.”
“I can see you two, you know,” Riley joins in, rolling her eyes.
Still at the counter and stovetop, Mrs. Parson huffs. “We all want to talk in code tonight, I see. Well you aren’t the only ones that can play this game,” she says before switching to Cantonese, barking orders to both Riley and her husband faster than you can even attempt to understand.
If anyone knows how to turn bland NutriPaste into something edible, it’s Riley’s mom. A life as a restaurant chef will do that, you guess. Tonight turns out to be stir-fry faux pork and vegetables. She repeatedly apologizes about being too tired to do something more complex until both her daughter and husband have sufficiently assured her the meal is perfect.
It’s all you can do to resist the urge to sort out everything on your plate into their respective categories before eating anything. The last thing you want to do is come off as rude or weird(er) to Riley’s parents. You just have to suffer the different textured items all mixed together in restrained silence. It’s not enough either to just eat what you want because everyone else in this room has this idea in their heads that you don’t eat enough so you’ll have to force yourself to clear the whole plate – probably even have to contend with a second helping put upon you, although you can usually get away with not finishing that one.
All three of the Parsons talk through dinner. Often over each other. You try your best to listen politely, headphones kept off and hanging around your neck. At best you can follow along enough to know when to smile or nod when one of them addresses you, but it’s exhausting work in its own way.
It’s hard to quash the envy twisting in your chest watching them all. It’s not like Riley’s parents have ever done anything to make you feel unwelcome, or like an outsider. But they don’t need to. It’s self-evident.
As Mrs. Parson is handing you back a plate filled with a second helping, she spots your fingernails and frowns. Tsks her tongue. “Morgan, what on earth happened to your nails?”
You freeze in place, pinned to the chair by the question. You curl your fingers, trying to hid them under your plate.
“I made him do it,” Riley says, covering for you. “Bullied him, really.”
Mrs. Parson turns her disapproving gaze on her as she finally lets go of the plate. “Riley, I know you haven’t forgotten last year. It’s bad enough what you’ve done to yourself. Don’t drag Morgan down with you.”
“Mom, come on. It’s just nail polish.”
“Morgan dear, I have some polish remover you can borrow tonight.”
“Um. Th-thanks.” You put your plate down, keeping your fingers out of sight until the conversation moves on. Good thing you didn’t do anything with your hair today.
It’s hardly the last such barbed comment Riley’s mom has for her over dinner. Most of them have little real heat, at least. You get the impression that at this point Mrs. Parson mostly just feels defeated. Either unwilling or unable to afford anything more drastic to express her disapproval. Eventually, Riley’s mom is the first to get up, citing a desire to get to bed early.
Mr. Parson gives you a knowing look as dinner winds down, sympathetic. And that’s almost worse. A sign that you didn’t do a good enough job keeping yourself under control.
“Too much for you?” he signs.
“It’s okay,” you sign back.
Riley gets up from her seat, grabbing your arm. “Thanks for dinner, mom!” she yells out. And then in a lower voice she adds, “Me and Morgan are gonna chill in my room for a bit, okay?”
“Doing what?” Mrs. Parson asks.
“St-st-studying,” you answer.
“Not until the dishes are done,” Mr. Parson says aloud. “And keep the door open.”
Riley makes a face. “Seriously?”
You stand up. “I can help,” you sign.
***
“Oh my god that was a shit show. I’m so sorry about them. I just wanted to invite you over as like,” Riley wrings her hands, a pained expression on her face, “you know, as an apology for spilling the beans on everything. Not to drag you into the ongoing war-on-lesbianism.”
“It’s okay!” you insist, shaking your head. Is it fine? Is it actually okay? It doesn’t really matter if it is or isn’t. There’s no changing things now. “Your um, parents are nice to-to-to me at least.”
“Yeah, well… good for you.”
“Nicer than my mom.”
“Dude, your mom is a statistical anomaly and shouldn’t be used for comparison.” Riley shuts the door to her bedroom with a foot and flops face down onto the bottom bunk of the her bunkbed.
You can’t help it, you eye the door anxiously. As if one of Riley’s parents is going to magically sense it and come charging in here. “We’re supposed to-to-to have the–”
“I know, I knoooow,” Riley groans. Rolls over onto her back. “Can I just have one second of privacy? Just one.” She glances at you, “You don’t count.”
“Th-thanks?”
Don’t count for what?
You look away from her. Take in the room. When was the last time you were over here? Half a year? At least that long. It’s more messy than ever now that Riley has the entire space to herself. No longer has to split it with her older brother. It feels like the complete inverse of your room. Small. Just enough space for Riley’s bed (a bunk bed – the top bunk is covered in unfolded blankets), a dresser, and a desk with a window-screen positioned over it, a piece of duct-tape stuck over the camera at the bottom. Clothes are scattered haphazardly across the floor, half-hanging out of the open drawers of the dresser. No underwear visible in all the chaos, thankfully.
Into the silence you finally have a chance to ask, “Hair dye?”
“Oh. That.” Riley sighs into the bedsheet. “I don’t know if I was even gonna do it, you know? I just… wanted it. I wanted the option.”
You stare down at your hands. Examine the chipped polish on your nails. “Yeah.”
From the bed, Riley’s voice floats up, “How are you handling everything with your mom?”
You shrug, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Haven’t, um, seen her since… Monday?”
“Monday?”
“Last week.”
Riley sits up, surprised. “Last week? A whole week?”
“She-she-she’s busy!”
“I’d ask my mom to adopt you, but she already wants us married.”
“What? No she doesn’t!”
“You should hear how she talks when you aren’t here! She’s practically rooting for you to fuck the dyke out of me.”
“I– Wha– what!?” you sputter, choking.
“You heard me!”
“I wouldn’t!” You pull at your face. Riley’s parents are somewhere just on the other side of that door, you can not be thinking about this kind of thing. Absolutely not.
Riley laughs at your face, shifts over on the bed to make room so you can sit without touching. “Dude, relax. I know you wouldn’t. I’m just like… I don’t know. Warning you? She’s been a real creep lately.”
You take the offered space and sit down. Kick off your shoes and fold your legs under you.
“Sorry,” you sign.
“It’s whatever,” Riley signs back, brushing it off. Out loud she asks, “What about your mom? She a creep about me?”
“Um… I don’t–” The sudden swerve catches you off guard. Have to take a second to think about it before you can have a response.
You stop, let your hands fall to your sides and shake your head.
That surprises her. “No?”
“She thinks I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”
“Huh. Weird. I mean, she’s right? I am pretty great.” Riley makes a face, turning the sentence over in her head. Unsure how she feels about having parental approval.
Finally, she says, “I don’t understand your mom.”
“Me neither.”
The top of the dresser has a series of posable action figures arranged mid-fight sequence, with what looks like an opened box of make-up brushes being repurposed for a platform. Almost every available wall space has been covered with posters. Baseball players mostly, both men and women. On the ceiling directly over the bed is a poster of the popstar Electra in what feels like an uncomfortably revealing outfit. How Mrs. Parson hasn’t forced Riley to take it down by now, there is no explanation.
You feel a pang of longing. Or jealousy, maybe. Just looking up at it. That there are people in the world that get to look like that while you’re stuck being you.
Riley catches you staring. Grins. “She’s hot, right?”
“Uh–” you bring your eyes back down to the floor. Where it’s safe. “I– I guess?”
“And you’re sure you’re not gay?” Skeptical. Aiming to get a rise out of you.
“How would I– How would I tell?”
“Uhhhh…” Riley shifts position, crosses her legs and rocks back and forth on the bed as she thinks. “I don’t know. You don’t just like, look at someone and get all warm and stupid? Shit, don’t boys… you know–” she gestures vaguely but not vaguely enough, “–isn’t that kind of a giveaway?”
You have to turn away, facing feeling like it’s on fire. “N-no! I don’t– I d-d-don’t think about stuff like that.”
“Dude, you are such a bad liar.” She laughs, enjoying your reaction too much.
“I’m not!” you protest. “I d-d-don’t.”
“Uh huh. Sure. Maaaan, when you finally get over yourself you’re going to be so fucking popular with that telepathy thing and–”
You sputter, “Y-y-you’ve thought about it?”
Your surprise just makes her laugh harder. “You haven’t?”
“No!?” your voice cracks.
You shove her shoulder, knocking her back on the bed as she keeps laughing wildly. It’s impossible to watch her and not feel… something. To want to do something more but you can’t – you can’t. Where does she get off being so confident? Is it all just a front? You could know. Or try to. Could focus and cut through the static and peel apart the layers of noise and figure out how she keeps up such an attitude in the face of everything.
Or she could catch you staring and raise an eyebrow. “What? I got something on my face?”
You should redirect. Evade. But– “How do you know?” you sign.
“Uh…” she switches back to sign too. “How do I know what?”
“That–” you aren’t crazy. A danger. A pervert. Something wrong. A monster. “–that they aren’t right?”
She looks at you, blank. Great. You’re going to have to spell it out.
Your hands flail for a second, searching for the right words. “That what they keep saying about you – about us isn’t–”
Riley’s face creases and she’s sitting up again. Shaking her head and moving into your space to stop your hand mid-gesture.
I squeeze his hand wrist and look right into his eyes when I speak. “Dude, they’re a bunch of losers, okay? Losers.”
She lets go of your hand, pulls back to give you space again. “Has me liking ladies ever actually hurt anyone?” She doesn’t give you a chance to answer. “No, of course it hasn’t. It’s beautiful, a victimless crime. I’ve been talking to some people online – what? How do you think I’ve been picking up all this sick vocab game? – and TBH, whatever happens, I’m seriously thinking about getting out of here after we graduate.”
Something clawed reaches up from inside your throat, squeezing hard.
“You’d… leave the arcology?”
“Yeah. I think so. Probably?” She holds up a hand on seeing the expression on your face. “Dude, I’m just like. Thinking about it, okay? I’m not packing up to the warfront tomorrow. It’s just, you know, we talked about the future before and it got me thinking and I’ve been talking to–”
She stops mid-sign and shakes her head. “So it turns out that there’s a bunch of these… communes?” She has to finger spell the word out. “Out in the mountains and stuff where they embrace, uh, you know,” she gestures down at herself, “our kind of rainbow. And I know what you’re going to say, ‘oh it’s too dangerous, what about Imago? How would you even get there? How will you get food or medicine?’ And you know. All fair points. Except like, you know, if it turns out that not even the arcologies are safe anymore, I don’t think it matters where I am.”
“I guess.”
“Also like, I can’t assume anyone’s going to be willing to, you know, learn ASL just for little old me. I mean, look at the Sour Grapes, right? You were the only one that–”
The sudden opening of the door cuts everything off. Mr. Parson steps in, shaking his head and tapping his foot. He looks between the two of you, sitting frozen in place on her bed.
“What did I say about keeping the door open?” he signs.
More exasperated than angry, you think. A positive sign.
Too easy to forget that not everyone jumps to yelling like Rivka does.
Riley sighs, rolling her eyes. “Dad, it’s just Morgan.”
“I don’t care if it’s the President. Any boys–” he hesitates, anticipating Riley’s next protest, “–anyone at all, that door stays open.”
“Sorry, Mr. Parson,” you sign.
He shoots you a polite smile, acknowledging you for the first time. “Our girl isn’t steamrollering you into something again, is she?”
From the corner of your vision you can see Riley rolling her eyes.
“I’m okay, thank you. I’ve been helping Riley study for the contract exams.”
That makes his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his smile turning genuine. “Riley didn’t mention that part. That’s very generous of you.”
You shake your head. “Happy to help.”
“Are you going to be staying overnight?” he asks.
Before you can answer, Riley interjects. “Of course he is. Can you get the air mattress?”
“I’ll go see where your mother hid it.”
“Great! Thanks Dad, love you!” Riley blows him three kisses as he leaves the room. Door pointedly left ajar.
Aloud, Riley grumbles. “You did that on purpose.”
Have to fight yourself to keep from smiling. “D-did what?”
“Now we have to study. Uuuuuugh.” She collapses dramatically across the bed. “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”
“‘Fraid not.”
The topic of Riley’s escape plan doesn’t come up again. Even as it stays floating in the back of your mind through hours of schoolwork and review. She wants to leave. It should be the least surprising thing in the universe and yet. Fuck. Even if you wanted to go with her, even if she chose to invite you, you can’t. You’re stuck here. Your meds, your injections – you’re never leaving Praxis.
If you don’t get a job here, either by your own merit or Rivka pulling favors, it might as well be the end of your life. Literally. You could never afford to pay for any of the things you need to live otherwise.
Do they have Chattrnet access outside the cities?
Will she be safe?
Would she stay if you asked her to?
Would it be better if you didn’t?
She said she was thinking about it. She could still stay. Maybe if she got a good enough contract offer she would. And if she goes the cybercell route for replacing her implant, she’d have to. She’d need injections just like you do. Though maybe not as often?
Somehow, you manage to keep on task the whole night with Riley’s review, despite all this. Two thought processes running in parallel. Until finally she begs mercy and to put on a movie before crashing out asleep halfway through.
***
There’s nowhere else to sleep overnight except to put the air mattress out on the kitchen floor. Up against the wall to minimize risk of being stepped on by someone on their way to the bathroom. It means you get to wake up early when Mrs. Parson has to get ready to go to work.
You stick around long enough to force down an awkward breakfast of dry cereal and then to say goodbye to Riley. She waves from her bed, still half asleep. And then you go home. Headphones on, listening to KillSignal this time. Something loud and angry to try and keep you awake, at least until you can get back home and crash in your own bed.
Need to change clothes. Need to shower. Need to fix your face. Can feel stubble when you rub it. Horrid enough even without the sickening knowledge that it’s only going to get worse as you get older and older. This whole rotten body. If you could peel it all off with a knife you would.
You researched once what it would take to do one of those full-conversion cybernetic bodies. Even watched a video on the Chattrnet of someone getting one in a sort of gore-sickened fascination. They peel out your brain and spinal cord like they’re de-boning a fish, stick it in a vat turned liquid silver from being full of nanites and then assemble the body around it.
There’s no chance in hell of ever getting something like that. The price to do it is astronomical. You have to be a Special Forces soldier in the army (bad) and sign your life away (worse) or somehow be extremely rich (impossible) to even be in the running. Either way, you don’t actually get to pick for yourself what you look like, so what’s even the point?
As you step off the elevator and hold out your phone to the bored looking security guard on duty to check, you watch him spray something into his mouth. Some kind of stimulant for keeping awake if you were to guess by how his heart speeds up.
Oh. Right. You left your meds at home, haven’t taken anything since last morning except some anti-migraine pills. That might have something to do with why you’re fantasizing about this. As soon as you get inside, you should probably prioritize that before doing anything… else…?
You stop dead outside the door to your apartment. There’s voices coming from inside. Rivka’s and… someone else? Deeper. A man’s?
Rivka’s home?
In the morning??
And she’s with somebody???
Should you go in? Do you stay out here and wait? Go somewhere else until they leave? Fuck. Why didn’t A* warn you ahead of time?
You glance at your phone for answers only to find that A* did in fact try to warn you twenty minutes ago. But you left the dumb thing off from last night. Great job, Morgan.
PDA A*
A*: Good morning, Rosalyn Dr. Abrams would like you to know that she is currently entertaining a visitor.
A*: Rosalyn! Please do not turn off your phone.
***NEW***
M: uh
M: what
A*: Special Agent Alexander Lowe from the FBI has deigned to visit us today.
M: FBI…? Like… the people investigating the Imago attacks???
A*: Correct!
A* Dr. Abrams requests that you please make yourself presentable as quickly as possible.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck–
Before you can put together the brain cells to turn straight around and get out of here, the door is yanked open. Rivka stands in the entrance, a grimace on her face like she’s been forced to eat a basket of lemons.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot,” she snaps. “Get inside.”