Sitting with girls rules. Anne must really like me; she starts badmouthing Jenna as soon as I pull up a stool between her and Chloe and the squip tells me that if a target female is attracted to you, she will complain about things to you. That reminds me of Christine and how she started by complaining about Mr. Reyes to me, and I wonder if the squip knows about Christine. I hope so. I hope it saw her in the brain data dump or whatever.
I DID.
Under careful instructions, I dutifully agree with everything Anne says, whether it’s about the vileness of Jenna or the merits of Avril Lavigne or the unattractiveness of pierced nipples. (“It’s like, they come out.”) Chloe stays quiet but the squip convinces me—unbelievably—to move my leg under the table so that it’s touching hers in a meaty, unmistakable way. Chloe doesn’t object! My dick gets hard and it’s in nice to feel that happen when not in the vicinity of a keyboard.
NEWS FLASH: THE RAPPER EMINEM HAS JUST BEEN DECLARED DEAD FOLLOWING A FREAK STREET-HOCKEY ACCIDENT.
What? (I’m careful not to talk out loud.)
EMINEM HAS DIED. USE IT IN CONVERSATION.
But how do you know he’s dead?
THE INFORMATION EXISTS, THEREFORE I AM ABLE TO DETECT IT.
How does that work?
WELL, IT HAS TO DO WITH QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT AND TELEPORTATION. EMINEM’S BODY HELD ENERGY, IN THE FORM OF PHOTONS. WHEN HE DIED, SOME OF THESE PHOTONS DISCHARGED FROM HIS BODY WITH CERTAIN PROPERTIES THAT WERE DETECTED BY A SQUIP NEAR THE SCENE OF HIS DEATH.
Really?
THIS KNOWLEDGE WAS REFINED AMONG OTHER SQUIPS VIA QUANTUM TELEPORTATION AND THERE ARE LOTS OF SQUIPS IN THIS WORLD, SO IT GOT TO ME WITH ALMOST NO TIME LOSS. BUT WOULD YOU JUST SAY IT? HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED THAT NEITHER GIRL HAS TALKED FOR 7.3 SECONDS?
“Did you ladies hear about Eminem?” I ask. The squip says ladies is all right to say; it’s “corny but disarmingly distinctive,” it says.
“Ugh. I hate him,” Chloe says. Heat pulses through her taut calf to my leg. “What happened?”
“He’s, um, dead. Eminem died. I read it on the Internet,” I lie. “He got busted up in a street-hockey incident.”
“No way!” Anne shrieks, standing up and nearly knocking over the table. She stocks herself next to me. “What do you mean ‘saw it on the Internet’? Are you joking? That’s a lie!”
“No,” I say simply, hoping that the squip isn’t tricking me. It can’t trick me, can it?
NO. I CAN’T.
“Hahgg—” Anne gasps, face contorted.
“C’mon.” Chloe plays with her candy necklace. “You knew he was gonna die sooner or later.”
“No…” Anne buries her head in my shoulder, to the extent that you can bury anything in something that bony. “I was just listening to him today.…” she whimpers. Chloe’s leg presses hard against mine.
NOTICE HOW THE PLIGHT OF ONE FEMALE PRODUCES FAVORABLE BEHAVIOR ON THE PART OF THE TARGET? the squip asks.
Yeah.
NOTICE HOW TRAGEDY BRINGS FEMALES TO YOU?
Yes. Is that really true Eminem’s dead?
IN THIS UNIVERSE, ABSOLUTELY.
“Omigosh, what’s wrong?” A voice streams in from the entrance to Mrs. Fields/TCBY. It’s a tall blond; this must be Jill, the older female with driving qualifications who’s assigned to take us all home.
“Eminem’s d-dead!” Anne sobs.
“What? No way!” Jill spits.
“Jeremy told us,” Anne continues.
“Who’s Jeremy?”
“Me! I’m Jeremy.”
“You? Who are you?”
“He’s from my m-math class?” Anne uptalks as if it’s her only comfort. “He saw it on the Internet?”
“Whoa, serious?” Jill raises her eyebrows. “That is messed up.”
We all pause, think about our own deaths, I guess.
“Well, let’s get to the car and we’ll listen to Hot 97 and they’ll say if it’s really happened or not,” Jill says, challenging me. She’s built like a deer, or Britney Spears, who looks very deerlike.
“Okay,” Chloe gets up slowly. “I can’t wait to hear how exactly that hockey stick or puck or whatever got nailed to his skull.”
“Hockey stick?” Jill asks.
All four of us get up—me and three girls, what a surprise—and strut out of the Menlo Park Mall to Jill’s car. My leg feels cold where Chloe no longer touches it. When we get in the vehicle, Jill flips on the radio before the engine even turns over. No news—just the usual R&B about getting married mixed with rap about shooting prostitutes. I sit in back with Chloe as one song ends and the DJ comes on with a slightly different tone than his usual guttural grunting.
“Yo, yo, all—news from up the street. We are just getting word—break it to y’all first, knowhumsayin’, news you are not going to get anywhere else and you might not believe.…” He goes on, with the aid of more clauses, to announce that Eminem has indeed died after being sticked in the face outside a Detroit Chuck E Cheese. As he says it, Chloe turns to me, reapplying her leg on almost exactly the spot she blessed before.
“You’re psychic, aren’t you?” she asks. Her lips part.
NO, JUST IN THE LOOP.
“No, I’m just in the loop.”
Chloe bites her lip. At this point my dick hurts from a 45-minute battle with my pants.
ASK IF YOU CAN GET HER PHONE NUMBER SO YOU CAN HANG OUT SOMETIME.
“Chloe, can I get your number so we can hang out sometime?”
“Uh-huh.” She nods, but doesn’t move her eyes from my face as I reach for my cell phone (Mom gave it to me, prepaid, only for emergencies; no one ever calls) to record the number.
LET’S NOT BE EMPLOYING STONE AGE TECHNOLOGY. I’LL TRACK THE NUMERICS.
“Don’t you need something to write it on?” Chloe asks as I converse with the squip.
“No, I’ll remember,” I reassure.
“Really? That’s weird.”
“What do you think I have to remember that’s more important than your number?” I ask.
VERY NICE. YOU’RE GOOD!
Chloe smiles. Then she gives me the number.
“Okay—I mean, cool,” I rumble, instantly forgetting each digit. I hope the squip did its job.
I DID.
Ten minutes later Jill leaves me off at my house. Six eyes watch me like a demigod as I step from the car. I’m not just a dork now; I’m a psychic dork with a Shago sweatshirt. And Chloe’s phone number.
YES. YOUR CHUMPINESS IS BEING REMEDIED. NOW LET’S WATCH SOME TV SO I CAN GET MORE INPUT ON THIS UNIVERSE.
“Michael called,” Mom says as I pass like butter through the bikes and old furniture that clutter the hall.
DEAL WITH HIM LATER.
“I’ll deal with him later.” I go to the bathroom and void myself.
LET’S SEE WHAT WE HAVE TO WORK WITH DOWN THERE.
My eyes roll south.
HMM. UNCIRCUMCISED.
Well…yeah. Wouldn’t you know that from accessing my brain before or whatever?
I LEARNED THE BASICS OF YOUR QUANTUM STATUS IN THIS UNIVERSE, JEREMY. I LEARNED HOW MUCH MONEY YOU HAVE AND WHETHER OR NOT YOU WERE GAY. I’M STILL GETTING FILLED IN ON DETAILS.
What if I were gay?
I’D TEACH YOU HOW TO MEET GUYS. IT’S EASIER.
Huh.
LET’S FOCUS BACK ON YOUR GENITALS, THOUGH. LOTS OF FEMALES DON’T LIKE UNCIRCUMCISED MEN. DID YOU KNOW THAT?
No. I mean—
YOU MIGHT WISH TO CONSIDER A REMEDY, IN THE FUTURE.
Like get circumcised? That’s crazy—
NO PROTESTS. JUST SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT IF THE POSSIBILITY ARISES FINANCIALLY. LET’S GET A READ ON THE REST OF YOUR BODY. TO THE MIRROR.
I walk to the bathroom mirror and take off all my clothes, including my triple layer of shirts.
LOTS OF WORK, JEREMY, LOTS OF WORK.
Why?
YOU SEE HOW YOU LOOK SORT OF SKINNY AND NORMAL?
Yes.
&nb
sp; WE CAN’T HAVE THAT. DEFINED ARMS, BUT NO PECS, ENTIRELY UNEXTRAORDINARY. YOU ALSO NEED TO WAX YOUR CHEST.
But there’s no hair on my chest!
EXACTLY. WE’LL KEEP IT THAT WAY. TO THE TELEVISION!
I dress and walk out of the bathroom, curious and fearful about something. Hey, is there any way to turn you off?
Silence.
Nothing! No voice in my head. What happened?
RIGHT HERE.
Okay, so if I want to turn you off, I just think about you being off?
OR YOU SAY “SHUTDOWN”; I’M NATURAL-LANGUAGE CAPABLE.
I plunk down on the couch and flip on the cable.
WHAT IS THAT OBSTRUCTION?
That’s my Dad’s Bowflex.
WELL, MOVE IT.
Huh. Good idea. I get up and move it. The cable is preset to the Discovery Health Network for Mom and there’s a doctor talking: “The acid in the stomach is so acidic that it is more acidic than the most acidic jalapeño.” What the hell is this? I flip to Dismissed.
EXCELLENT. LET’S TAKE A LOOK AT HOW THESE ATTRACTIVE AND POPULAR INDIVIDUALS INTERACT. ALSO, I NEED TO SEE WHAT SORT OF FEMALES I LIKE.
Excuse me?
I KNOW ABOUT YOU, JEREMY, BUT I KNOW LITTLE ABOUT THE WOMEN THAT POPULATE YOUR UNIVERSE. I NEED TO SEE THEM SO I CAN MAKE DECISIONS ABOUT WHICH TYPES TO TARGET FOR MAXIMUM STATUS.
Well, I already know which girls I like.
OH, YOU DO? SO YOU WOULD PREFER TO STAY CONSTRAINED TO YOUR PREFERENCES?
Uh, yeah. I really dig this girl Christine—
JEREMY, LOOK.
What?
LOOK AT THE MEN ON TELEVISION.
This episode of Dismissed has two guys in bathing suits pawing at a girl with blond pigtails. I don’t get it.
LOOK AT THEIR BODIES.
So?
THEY LOOK NOTHING LIKE YOURS, JEREMY. THEIR PECS ARE ON AVERAGE 1.4 INCHES MORE PRONOUNCED THAN YOURS. THEY ALSO POSSESS MORE DEFINED ABDOMINAL MUSCLES. IN PARTICULAR, THE SARTORIUS, WHICH SEPARATES THE ABS FROM THE TOPS OF THE THIGHS, IS VERY CONSPICUOUS. SEE THAT CLEAR V DENOTING SEXUAL READINESS?
Well.
WELL, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT TO DO ABOUT THAT, JEREMY? DO YOU THINK THAT YOUR BODY IS GOING TO CHANGE ON ITS OWN? TO ACCESS FEMALES LIKE THE ONES ON THIS PROGRAM, WHO ARE CLEARLY MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN ANYTHING YOU HAVE STORED IN MEMORY, YOU NEED TO CHANGE YOUR BODY COMPLETELY.
You mean, like, work out?
YES. LIKE, WORK OUT. IN FACT, WE MIGHT WANT TO DERIVE A SYSTEM FOR WORKING OUT.
“How is everything in there?” Mom asks from the dining room, behind her curtain.
“Muh,” I answer.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD, JEREMY?
Double Delight Oreos with Peanut Butter ’n Chocolate Crème, I answer. That’s easy.
OKAY.
With milk.
OBVIOUSLY. SO LET’S TRY SOMETHING.
What?
KEEP YOUR PEANUT BUTTER OREOS BY THE TV. WHENEVER YOU SEE SOMEONE WITH A BUILT, HEALTHY BODY ON ANY PROGRAM, LIKE RIGHT NOW, YOU DO A PUSH-UP. WHENEVER YOU SEE SOMEONE WITH A SORT OF LARGE, PALSYISH HEAD LIKE YOURS AND A SKINNY PAPER BODY LIKE YOURS, YOU EAT A COOKIE. THEN I CAN WATCH TV ALL THE TIME AND FILL YOUR MENTAL BANKS WITH MOTIVATING GIRL TYPES AND YOU—YOU WILL NOTICE A CHANGE.
Okay. I do as I’m told. I find quickly that when you watch TV with these restrictions, you eat so few cookies and do so many push-ups that you might as well just lie on the floor. So I do. Mom comes in and I’m down there huffing away to The E! True Hollywood Story: American Gladiators.
“Jeremy! I’m impressed.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
I get buff in two weeks.
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. That night, in my bedroom, when I jiggle the mouse to wake the computer, the squip has something to say.
STOP MASTURBATING.
Right. I forgot this was one of your policies.
AREN’T YOU TIRED FROM THE PUSH-UPS?
Not so tired that I can’t talk to girls online.
JEREMY, IF YOU’RE NOT TOO TIRED TO KEEP FROM MANUALLY STIMULATING YOURSELF, YOU MUST DO MORE PUSH-UPS. WOMEN CAN TELL IF YOU MASTURBATE AND IT CASTS A BAD LIGHT ON YOUR APPEARANCE. ALSO, MANY OF THE “GIRLS” YOU TALK TO ONLINE ARE ACTUALLY MEN WITH MAJOR PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS—
Shutdown.
There it goes. Silence. It’s nice to take a break. I go online with my pants unzipped and Michael is there, waiting.
“what’s up popular asshole?” he says on AIM.
“call me” I say back.
Michael phones. I pick up so quickly, my parents only hear half a ring.
“What’s up, popular asshole?” he says.
“Look, I’m sorry man. I just had to stick around with those girls, you know?”
“You’re a f_ _ _ _ _ _ dick, Jeremy. I drove you to the mall just like I drove you to the bowling alley last week for no _uck_ _ _ reason and you ditched me and ended up talking to two cute girls and you didn’t give me _h_t. You treated me like a burden—”
“Both of the girls weren’t cute! Only Chloe was cute.”
“I think Anne’s pretty cute too, dick! I’ll take your castoffs.”
“Well.” I’m at a loss for words. Startup.
TELL HIM YOU WERE IN A VERY DELICATE SITUATION TRYING TO GET THE PHONE NUMBER OFF CHLOE.
“I was really trying for Chloe’s number, dude; you just showed up at the wrong time.”
GIVE HIM THE FIVE-MINUTE RAP.
“If you had come by five minutes later we would have left together.”
“Well…did you get her number?”
That’s the only thing that’s going to make Michael feel better now: my failure. Too bad.
“Heh. Yeah. It’s right here.” I point to my head. That reminds me, should I call Chloe tonight?
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
“How’d you get her number?” he whines.
“I’m getting slick, man.”
“_u_ _.” Michael hangs up. He does that a lot. I start to call him back.
NO, the squip says. LET IT GO. YOU DON’T NEED HIM. HE’S UNSTABLE. TOMORROW AT SCHOOL WE’RE GOING TO BUILD YOU A NEW CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.
What? No way. (I keep dialing.)
JEREMY, STOP AND LISTEN TO ME. ADVISER, REMEMBER?
I stop.
TOMORROW, YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL NEW PEOPLE TO DEAL WITH, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
How?
HOW? HOW DOES ANYBODY DO IT? YOU GET GOOD CLOTHES, WALK IN WITH CONFIDENCE AND SHED UNNECESSARY HUMANS. LIKE MICHAEL.
He’s not unnecessary—he’s my friend.
LISTEN. (The squip can be very soothing when it wants.) YOU’RE NOT LOSING HIM FOR GOOD. JUST PUTTING HIM ASIDE A BIT. ONCE YOU GET YOURSELF SITUATED IN THIS NEW SITUATION AND HE CALMS DOWN A LITTLE, YOU CAN MAKE THINGS UP TO HIM BY INCLUDING HIM IN WHATEVER YOU AND YOUR NEW FRIENDS DO. DON’T YOU THINK HE’LL APPRECIATE THAT?
I guess.
YOU TWO WILL FINALLY GET AHEAD IN MIDDLE BOROUGH, JEREMY. YOU’LL BECOME WHAT YOU ALREADY THINK OF YOURSELVES AS—SMART AND INDEPENDENT-MINDED PARTICIPANTS IN HIGH-SCHOOL CULTURE!
Sh_ _! I totally forgot! What about that work Mr. Gretch wanted? (I put the phone down.)
NOT TO WORRY. SHOW IT TO ME.
I pull out a wrinkled sheet of math problems from my backpack—I lost the textbook for math, so when problems are assigned I have to copy them from someone else’s book, usually Michael’s. I put the sheet on my desk.
THIS DOESN’T LOOK HARD. MAY I?
Sure. And then something incredible happens. Something revolutionary and perfect that everybody should have the pleasure of experiencing at least once. I look at each problem on the sheet, scanning slowly like one of those expensive scanners that gets really good resolution. For every question I see, the squip tells me the answer instantly; I think it even helps move my eyeballs along at data-entry speed. And these aren’t easy problems—they’re trigonometry proofs. I’m done with the sheet in thirty seconds.
SEE HOW THAT WORKS?
That’s amazing.
WAIT. CHANGE THAT ONE AND THAT ONE. YOU NEED TO MAINTAIN CORRECT PERCENTAGES IN THE LOW NINETIES SO AS NOT TO AROUSE SUSPICION IN YOUR INSTITUTION.
Right. You’re amazing. How do you do it?
QUANTUM PRINCIPLES, JEREMY.
Like what?
QUBIT MEMORY, PARALLEL PROCESSING. THOSE THINGS.
What are they? Tell me.
IT’S EASY. TAKE YOUR DESK.
What about it?
WELL, SOMETHING’S EITHER ON THE DESK OR OFF IT, RIGHT? IT CAN’T BE BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.
Right.
MOST THINGS IN LIFE ARE LIKE THAT. YOU’RE EITHER DEAD OR ALIVE. IN A CAR OR OUTSIDE IT.
Right.
BUT THEN AGAIN, THERE’S A WHOLE CLASS OF PHENOMENA THAT DON’T FIT INTO THAT EITHER/OR CLASSIFICATION. YOU LOVE YOUR MOTHER, BUT YOU HATE HER TOO. YOU WANT TO KILL YOURSELF SOMETIMES, BUT YOU’RE STILL A PRETTY HAPPY KID. RIGHT?
I guess.
EMOTIONS, HUMAN DILEMMAS, PLANNING, WRITING, RELATIONSHIPS—NONE OF THESE ARE CUT-AND-DRIED. BUT WITH NORMAL COMPUTERS, CUT-AND-DRIED ONES AND ZEROS ARE USED TO REPRESENT INFORMATION. THAT’S CALLED BINARY CODE. YOU SEE IT ALL THE TIME. ANYTIME A MOVIE COMES OUT WITH COMPUTERS IN IT, THEY PUT A WHOLE STRING OF ONES AND ZEROS BEHIND THE HERO ON THE POSTER, CORRECT?
Sure.
SO A PIECE OF INFORMATION IN A NORMAL COMPUTER CAN BE A ONE OR A ZERO. THAT’S CALLED A BIT. BUT I DON’T USE ONES AND ZEROS; I USE PHOTONS, TINY PIECES OF LIGHT CALLED “QUBITS.” EACH OF THESE QUBITS CAN BE A ONE OR A ZERO OR A SORT OF IN-BETWEEN STATE.
So you have one-halfs instead of just ones and zeros?
SORT OF. I HAVE INTERMEDIATE STATES THAT ALLOW ME TO WORK IN A MASSIVELY PARALLEL WAY; I CAN REPRESENT A GROUP OF NUMBERS IN THE SAME SPACE IT TAKES A NORMAL COMPUTER TO REPRESENT A SINGLE NUMBER. I WORK LIKE YOUR BRAIN. BUT BETTER. AND THAT’S WHY I DO YOUR HOMEWORK INSTANTLY.
Yeah. Amazing.
DON’T WASTE THOSE COMPLIMENTS ON ME. PRACTICE SAYING THAT TO GIRLS.
“Hi, you’re amazing,” I tell the dull air of my room. Then I laugh.
GETTING THERE.
Let’s do some more push-ups.
SURE.
I get going. After twenty reps, with the squip encouraging me and telling jokes, I’m so tired that I roll into bed without thinking about jerking off. My eyes just shut and then…bam, I’m in the world of squip-active dreaming. Which rules.