M. T. Anderson (23 page)

We sat on the grass.

I was like, “I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t know that they had sent you that. The refusal. I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

I kept being silent so she could bring stuff up, if she wanted to. She didn’t bring any of it up. She just talked about music, and told me about some concerts she’d been to, a few years before. She didn’t like fun music, but sarcastic music like bore-core.

I kept waiting for something to happen. I wanted her to do something, like grab my hand.

Her father watched us through the window, with his lips pursed.

After a while, I started to want her to grab my hand so much that I put it on the grass right next to her hip. She kept talking about Diatribe on tour. It was like we weren’t going out. I felt like I wanted to bump up against her accidentally, so we’d touch. But I wasn’t going to touch her if she didn’t touch me first.

We stopped talking, and she asked if I had to go. I said I probably should, because it was a long ride to get home. She asked if I felt better, and I said I couldn’t feel anything.

I stood up and looked in the window at her father. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the bottom of a garbage can. Violet walked me out to the upcar. I waited near it for her to try to kiss me. She didn’t, so I said good-bye, and crawled in.

She looked at me, and started to smile. She raised her hand.

I closed the door.

I lifted off.

The next day, her arms stopped working for an hour, and she panicked and had to be given a sedative.

That night I could feel another message caching. It was a big one. It was huge. It started,
It’s three again. I’m awake. I’ve been listening to requiems, and ordering more. I’ve been listening to burial rites from all over the world.

Some places they dance and chant. Some places they tear their clothes. Some places they play choirs of bamboo clarinets. Some places they scream. In Polynesia, they wail, but the wailing is close to a song. It’s strange — once you start listening to wailing that’s also singing, that’s also like a ritual, you start to wonder — how much does anyone really miss anyone else? How much are they just crying because it’s what they have to do, the song they have to sing? Some Australian women have to fall silent when they’re grieving — it’s required — and they speak for the rest of their lives only with their hands.

Titus, I’m afraid of silence. I’m afraid my memory will go soon. When I try to think about that year that disappeared, from six to seven, it’s nothing. I mean, I can’t remember anything. I can remember remembering, but I can’t remember anything that happened to me right before I got the feed. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my past. Who are we, if we don’t have a past?

So I’m going to tell you some things. Especially the things before I got the feed. You’re the most important person in my life. I’m going to tell you everything. Some day, I might want you to tell it back to me.

She kept sending things. I didn’t open them. I let them sit. I was walking around School™ the next day, feeling them like, feeling them crowd me. It was like something was always spilling. It was always there.

I went home that afternoon. In the upcar, I was afraid I would look at the memories. They were getting bigger. She was sending them every few minutes. Sometimes, something would bleed through — her father, younger, throwing her a baseball. Her mother, wearing sandals and a proton lid. The smell of some sauce cooking. Stories she told, from before she got the feed. I would get a few words, something about an aunt, or a camel, or a guitar, or some shit.

I didn’t listen to any of them, any of the stories. I just kept them. I didn’t touch them on the way home. They just bled.

I got home. I had a headache. I told the feed to shut off the headache. It sent me a message about how much I was caching, and asked if I wanted to open it.

I sat down at the table, and then walked around. She was bombarding me.

Finally, I got a message that she’d stopped. My lines were clear.

I went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. I filled a glass. I looked at the window over the sink.

I deleted everything she had sent me.

I went into the living room and sat on the sofa. I didn’t feel good.

I sat on the sofa. I looked at the fireplace. I had deleted all her memories.

Later on, she chatted me, saying,
What’s your answer about the weekend idea? We’ll have to sneak around my dad, because he doesn’t want me to see you — but don’t worry — don’t worry. We’ll be together, whatever happens.

I didn’t know what weekend idea she was talking about, so I didn’t answer her.

The walls of my room were all white. They had hotspots, where if you looked at them, posters would appear, but I shut them off. There was nothing on my walls.

I didn’t do my homework.

I went to bed.

I lied there, face up.

I didn’t sleep.

I couldn’t think on Friday night, because Smell Factor was crying and running around the house throwing things. My dad hadn’t been home for a few weeks, and my mom was really angry and kept yelling at Smell Factor, and he kept running all up and down the carpets. He was directing these like blasts of kids’ programs in different directions so it hurt to walk around because you kept getting caught in his beams, like,

IS YOUR HEAD A SQUARE? POINT TO ONE NOW!

. . . CHUCKIE, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR SOCKS . . . AGAIN?!?

. . . Or suddenly you’re like doubling over, and it’s

. . . ROBOT PALS YOU CAN KEEP IN YOUR HAIR! SIX TO A PACKAGE, GIVE MOM A SCARE! (“Wow!” “Meg brag!” “Mine’s called Looty!”)

I was staying in my room to avoid having my like brain blown up by Smell Factor’s broadcasts. I heard Mom running after him, telling him she’d give him some cookie dough if he’d stop. I sat there and wondered what to do, because I was bored of the games I had, and it was just Friday, but I didn’t know if anyone was going out, or what we were supposed to do that weekend.

Mom called up to me, “Hey! Violet’s here!”

She said it like I was expecting Violet.

I got up and went to my bedroom door. I just stood there, and didn’t push the button to open it. My hand was on the button, but I didn’t push it. I stood by the door.

“Hey!” my mom called. I heard her say, “You can just go up. He’s probably asleep.”

I pressed the button.

She was coming up the stairs.

She waved, kind of pathetic, like I was going to yell at her.

I just stood by the door to let her in my room.

She didn’t come in. She stood just outside the room.

I was just inside.

She said, “Can I come in?”

I let her in. She came in, and I shut the door.

“You didn’t give me an answer about this weekend,” she said, “but I just figured, I’m going anyway. I don’t know how much time I have.”

“What?” I said.

“I’m going to the mountains. You can come if you want.” She was like, “I’d like it if you’d come.”

“When?”

“Now. For the weekend. Didn’t you get my message?”

I shook my head. “Oh,” I said. “No.”

“The other night?”

“I guess not.”

“Or the memories?”

I said, “What memories?”

“I sent you all these memories. I sent you hours’ worth.”

I looked at the rug. I said to her, “No. No, I didn’t get anything. Any memories or anything.”

She sat down on the bed. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, great. So that’s going wrong, too. My chat and messaging. I wondered why you didn’t say anything. Oh, god. Oh, shit.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stood there.

She looked up. She told me, “I got here in a taxi.”

I went over to my dresser and leaned on it.

She said, “I told my dad I was going to a friend’s house. He doesn’t know it’s you. I figure, what’s he going to do? Ground me for the rest of my life? Meaning, like, fifteen minutes?”

She laughed really short and harsh. I didn’t think she should joke about that, because you just don’t joke about your life. Especially because it can make people really uncomfortable, if you have something wrong with you, and you keep bringing it up in certain ways.

She was like, “Are you coming or not? This is my big time. I’m going to really live.” She said, “I’m going to fucking live. I’m going to go up to the mountains and see things, and I’m going to come home on Monday or Tuesday and be like,
I’ve seen it. I’ve used every second.
And then each day after that, I’m going to do something different. I don’t care. Museums. Shows. Anything.”

I said, “I’m kind of busy. I wish I’d got the message.”

She stared at me like she couldn’t believe me.

I said, “If I’d got it, I could’ve changed my plans, what I have to do.”

“Okay,” she said. She was angry. She stood up. She said, “Okay.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“You don’t want to run away together? You don’t think that sounds exciting? Better than doing . . . whatever you’re doing?”

We were standing there, and Smell Factor was running down the hall behind us, shooting out his broadcast beams
(“HEADS UP, TEEN ENFORCERS, ’CAUSE THAT SURE AIN’T THE WELCOME WAGON!”)
. Mom was running along the carpet behind him, shouting at him. She slammed some doors. I think she must’ve caught up to him.

Violet said, “It’ll be fun.”

She sent me pictures of a cabin with some pine trees, and a fire, and two people with smudged faces that could be her and me sitting there under one comforter.

“Come on,” said Violet. “What are you going to do otherwise?”

I didn’t want to answer her.

Seriously,
she chatted.
What’s scheduled?

I thought about the pictures again, the cabin and the pine trees. I thought about the comforter, and her sitting next to me. I thought about me erasing the copies of her memories.

I said, “Okay.”

“You’ll go?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, this is great. We’re going to have a great time.”

“Okay.”

She said get my clothes, so I did, I took out some clothes and started putting them in a duffel bag. She was all cheerful and kept bouncing herself on the bed and talking about where we were going. She picked up my boxer shorts when I was folding them, and she had this smile, and she put her finger through the vent in the front and twiddled it. It stood up like an elephant’s trunk. I watched her. Then she tossed the boxer shorts onto the duffel bag, and I folded them again and put them in.

I told my mom that we were going to a concert and that I was going to stay over at Violet’s house afterward, because I thought she would freak if she knew I was going to go off somewhere without having any real plan and spend money on a hotel or cabin. Mom said,
Great, have a good time,
because she was busy running on a treadmill that lit things up while Smell Factor tried to throw marbles at her knees.

Violet and I went out to my upcar and we got in. I asked her whether she shouldn’t tell her dad where we were going, and she said no, he was being very protective, and he would birth meg cow if he found out she was gone for the weekend, and with me. I said,
Oh great.
We were flying now, going up the droptube, and I was waiting for her directions. She sent them right to the upcar and it sent confirmation. I could feel it calculating a flight pattern.

I asked her, “So have you been okay?” and she said, “Things happen — immobility — then a few hours later, it stops, and I can move. I’m worried about the chat, though. That’s new. I didn’t know. Did you try to send me things?”

I lied to her: “A few things. They were short,” but I didn’t feel good about it. I said, “You could send the memories to me again.”

She looked at me real intense.

She goes, “You can join me. We can prepare. I have this dream that I’ll be able to learn to live without the feed. I wish they could just switch it off.”

“Can’t they?”

“Not dormant. Off. I mean, completely. They can’t right now. It replaces too many basic functions. It’s tied in to everything.” She was looking at the ceiling. “One little thing,” she said. “I caved in. The other day, Nina said she’d noticed all of the requiem masses I’d been listening to. She suggested some others. Here’s the hideous thing.”