Hungry (8 page)

They both turn to me. “What were you doing then?” Mom asks.

My heart begins to race and my palms sweat. I know from biochem that dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s released in the brain when something unexpected and good happens. I remember sitting next to Basil that night. How close my thigh was to his while we were smelling roasted chicken and chocolate. I almost get dizzy thinking about it. I bet my dopamine level’s sky-high about now.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to act nonchalant. “Maybe playing some game at the PlugIn.”

“The time-released benzodiazepines in her inocs should suppress spikes like that,” says Grandma Grace.

“Unless she’s not getting the right dose,” Mom says.

Grandma turns to me. “How much do you weigh now?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

She frowns. “Why not?”

When I was little, Grandma Grace’s frown scared me. And now with a bold stripe of gray down the front of her jet black hair, she looks even more fierce, like she could face down an angry mob looting a hospital pharmacy, which according to Papa Peter, she did once during the wars.

“I never weigh myself,” I tell her, annoyed.

She doesn’t budge. Doesn’t change her face. Doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me until I hoist myself off the couch and slink into the little vestibule in the back of our house. Between the water tap (which is connected to the Whisson Windmill on the roof) and the closet with our urinal is the cabinet holding our monthly supply of Synthamil—our personal cocktails designed to optimize each person’s brain and bodily functions. Small bottles of blue for me. Red for Mom. Green for Dad. And orange for Grandma Apple. Each one is wrapped in a gold embossed label bearing our names. Technically, you’re supposed to weigh yourself once a week, and do an at-home spit test, urine sample, finger prick, and hair follicle analysis to make sure all your nutritional needs are being met, but almost no one does it. Except for little kids who are still growing. Their doses need recalibrating all the time. Although I bet Grandma Grace and my mother do it, since they do everything by the book they helped write in the first place. I step on the scale and wait for the number to appear. One hundred twenty-two pounds.

By the time I walk back into the living room, they’ve pulled up my weight on the screen.

“Three pounds less,” Mom says. “A little odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.”

“No,” Grandma says. “But it could be an indication that her metabolism shifted slightly.”

Mom and Grandma Grace both whip out their Gizmos and start calculating.

Papa Peter rolls his eyes at them then drops down on the couch beside me. He leans in close so I can smell his aftershave, which reminds me of the pine trees programmed in December. When I was little, I loved rubbing his cheeks so I could get his scent on my fingers. “In the old days,” he tells me, “I would’ve told your mama to fatten you up on some hamburgers and french fries.”

I can’t help but grin. There’s something about Papa Peter that just makes people comfortable and happy. “What are french fries?”

“What are french fries?” He shakes his head. “Hm-mm-mm. Only the best thing there ever was. First you took a potato—that was a tuber that grew underground. Then you sliced it up and dropped those slices down in a deep-fat fryer full of bubbling oil. They came out all crispy on the outside but soft and fluffy on the inside. You’d sprinkle them with a little salt, which tasted like tears of joy. Then finally, we’d dip them in something sweet and tangy called ketchup that was made from tomatoes.”

I try to mix all those descriptions together, but my mind gets blurry. “My friend has this little machine,” I start to say, excited to tell Papa Peter about Basil’s gadget, but then I stop.

“And what’s this machine do?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You can tell me.” Papa leans back and crosses his hands lazily over his belly like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing better to do than listen to me.

I wish I could tell Papa Peter. And Grandma Apple. They would probably love Basil’s scent device because they could relive all their favorite foods. But if I tell him, then my mom will have a zillion questions about how and when I met him and who his family is and where they live and what they do. So I change my tack. “Do you ever wish you could see and smell food again?”

“Thalia!” My mom whips around and blinks at me. “What did you just say?”

“I asked if Papa Peter ever wished he could see and smell food.”

Mom and Grandma Grace exchange looks. “You know perfectly well that we don’t do that,” Mom tells me.

I think about this for a second then ask, “Why don’t we?”

Mom is at a loss for words but Grandma Grace says, “Because it’s unnecessary, not to mention illegal.”

“Illegal?” Papa Peter’s eyebrows lift up, causing a line of wrinkles to march across his forehead. “You sure?”

“Of course it is,” snaps Grandma Grace.

“Under the Universal Nutrition Protection Act,” Mom adds.

“The young people call it forno,” Grandma Grace says, and Papa Peter laughs.

“Forno?” I ask.

“Food porno,” Grandma Grace says.

“Mother,” Mom protests, embarrassed.

“She’s seventeen. She should know,” says Grandma, ever the pragmatist. “But him?” She nods at Papa, who’s giggling like a little kid. “He’s hopeless.”

I wonder if Basil and I were actually breaking some stupid law. Did he know it was illegal? I swallow a giggle. He must have been freaking out when I told him he should turn his device into the newest form of entertainment. “But how is that illegal?” I ask.

“Breach of contract,” says Mom, which clarifies nothing.

Papa Peter interrupts. “Well then, I must be breaking the law in my mind right now because I’m sure thinking about french fries!”

“Peter!” Grandma admonishes him, but I laugh.

He closes his eyes. “Now I’m thinking of a chocolate shake. Thick, cold, creamy, chocolaty.”

I remember the smell of chocolate. Deep and heavy, slightly bitter but sweet.

“Watch out, here comes a doozy,” Papa says. “Call security. I’m picturing a banana split with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

Suddenly my stomach groans and gurgles. Papa’s eyes open wide and he laughs. “Well I’ll be darned. Did you hear that? I just made this child’s stomach growl.” He looks at me. “Let’s try that again.” He leans down close to my belly, lifts the bottom of my hoodie and T-shirt like I’m a little kid and he’s going to give me a belly blow. I try to protest, but it’s hard not to laugh when Papa Peter is being such a goofball. “Hello in there!” he calls. “How about a big plate of flaky, buttery biscuits and nice thick sausage gravy? Or a pepperoni pizza with lots of melted mozzarella cheese?”

“Peter Alan Pike!” Grandma snaps at him.

He sits up. “Yes, my dear?”

“What nonsense are you telling our granddaughter?”

He grins at me and lowers my shirt, then pats my belly sweetly. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“I should hope not,” Grandma Grace says, turning back to the screen and her calculations.

“I must be doing this wrong,” my mom says with the same frown Grandma wore earlier. “I keep getting the exact calibration for her Synthamil formula even though obviously it’s not working correctly for her.”

“Me, too,” Grandma admits. “So either we’re making the same error or there’s something we’re overlooking.”

“She’s hungry,” Papa Peter says. Mom and Grandma Grace exchange a quick worried glance.

“But that would mean…” Mom starts to say, then she trails off, bewildered. For half a second I think about telling her I’m not the only one, but I keep my mouth shut. “Do you think I should take her to a specialist?” she asks Grandma Grace.

“No way,” I say from the couch.

Grandma and Mom both turn, put one hand on a hip, and stare at me. “And why not?” they ask me at the same time.

I think of what Basil said about the others who tried to get help. “Because they’ll probably say it’s all in my mind and drug me up.…”

“So you’re a doctor now?” Grandma asks me.

“She’s probably right,” Papa Peter says. Grandma gives him a look that could wilt hologram daisies, but he’s not deterred. “If I were her, I wouldn’t want some stranger poking around me either. Especially when she’s got two of the smartest medical minds in the world right here in the living room.” He grins at both of them and I know what he’s doing. Papa Peter’s favorite saying is “you can catch more flies with honey,” which I think means that you get farther with people if you’re nice, although I have no idea what flies and honey have to do with it. And it seems an odd choice for Grandma Grace, since she uses the exact opposite approach. She only believes in bossing people around. Maybe that’s why they work well together. Opposites attract after all.

“Just give her some extra Synthamil, a little at a time, until her tummy’s not growling anymore,” Papa Peter suggests. I look to my mom hopefully as she considers Papa Peter’s advice. “Sometimes trial and error works just fine,” he adds.

“I suppose we could try it for a few days,” Mom says, but she doesn’t seem convinced.

I sit back, relieved and mouth “Thanks” to Papa Peter.

“But,” Mom adds, “if that doesn’t work, then we have to see someone.”

*   *   *

The next morning, I head off to One World, Happy World for my monthly Interpersonal Communication Meeting. As I walk into the enclosed glass atrium (where all the toy and game design is done), a hologram of a giant pink, banjo-playing animal that has spines all over its back and a little snout sings, “Happy time. Fun time. One World loves us all! Welcome to our happy home. Welcome to our mall!” I stop and stare at it. Not out of amazement or adoration, but out of sheer loathing.
Really?
Do people really feel inspired to buy toys and games if a giant pink, banjo-playing extinct spiny, piglike creature sings some inane song? Most people push right on by and head straight for the shops, but a few slow down or stop, especially the little kids.

A girl, probably five or six, stands across from me, looking up with her mouth hanging open. She’s dressed head to toe in purple Silkese and Cottynelle with ruffles and sequins. She watches in awe as an animated Synthamil bottle with big eyes and chubby hands floats down. “Remember, always drink your Synthamil!” it says, then giggles when the pink animal grabs it, pops off its lid, and chugs its contents. Creepy, if you ask me.

“Can we get one, Mommy, please?” the little girl begs the woman who’s busy snapping pix with her Gizmo because the spiny pink creature has floated down and positioned itself right beside the kid. When the weird animal and the bottle begin to dance and sing around her, the girl squeals with delight.

Someone smacks me on the arm and says, “Can we get one, too, Mommy?” I turn to see Yaz, grinning stupidly at me. Today she’s wearing navy blue trousers and a three-button jacket. Her hair is parted neatly to the side and tucked behind her ear. Yaz always looks the part she’s playing, which today is Good Student. Unlike me who refuses. I’m in a bright blue fleece hoodie and a pair of real denim jeans, so soft and worn from my grandma’s farm days that the knees and butt have patches.

“What’s that thing supposed to be, anyway?” I ask, staring at the pink monstrosity dancing toward another kid who’s come to stare.

Yaz shakes her head like she can’t believe the things I don’t know. “New game launch. That’s the mascot—Hedgy.” She starts digging in her bag. “I should put this on my PRC. Didn’t you read your ICM dox?”

“Didn’t even download them,” I tell her.

“Of course not,” she mutters as she launches her HoverCam. “And you’ll still score higher than the rest of us on the final.”

“Tests are stupid,” I say, then wonder if this Hedgy thing is what AnonyGal is hoping to hack. Even though I’ve vowed to never mess with a product launch because it would upset my dad too much, I wouldn’t mind watching the Dynasaurs take this one down.

I step back and watch Yaz film a quick duet with the pink creature. Even I have to admit it’s kind of hilarious, especially when she blows it a kiss as it floats away.

“You know,” I say when the photo op is done, “you’re really good at engaging others, even animated others.”

She stashes her camera in her bag and shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You should do something with that talent,” I say as we head into the atrium.

“I’m trying to,” she says. “That’s what the PRC is for.”

“I mean something that makes people think and question the status quo instead of perpetuating it.”

Yaz stops and puts a hand on her hip. “We don’t all have that luxury in our lives, Thalia.”

“It’s not a luxury,” I argue.

“Not if you’re you, but it is if you’re me. You can be so judgmental sometimes,” she says.

Jilly starts yapping step-by-step instructions about how to get to our dreaded Interpersonal Classroom Meeting as if we’re likely to walk into a wall without her help.

“Sorry…” I say. “I don’t mean to be judgy. I just think you could be doing something more interesting with your PRC.”

“Interesting to who?” she asks. “You?”

She’s got me there, so I drop it.

We pass more Hedgy projections on the windows of every real-time toy store, where kids can pick up and play with the merchandise, since they’re the one group that won’t fall for pure VirtuShops. Then we step onto an escalator that bisects the center of the atrium.

“My dad told me once that everything in a mall is thought out and has a purpose,” I say. “And do you know what that purpose is?”

Yaz looks at me with a blank face. “The real question is, do I care?”

“It’s to get people to spend more money.”

“Duh,” she says.

“I mean, look at this. The escalator forces you to pass by every floor. And since this building is circular and there are no solid walls in here, just windows and glass beams, you can see inside every shop.” I point to the store for dolls, the one for toy cars and trucks, the one for dress-ups.

Yaz sighs. “I loved coming here when I was a kid.”

“You know they’re watching you, right?” I ask.

“Who?”

“One World marketeers!”