Sony Hints at Next Generation of Wearable Computers 9 страница
“Awww,” Brooke looks down. She’s not bad looking. NO SHE’S NOT. “Who’d you break up with?”
“Katrina.”
“Katrina Lohst?”
“Yeah.” That really is Katrina’s last name; it’s like a cosmic joke—
“You never went out with Katrina!” a shrill, dry voice accuses me from across the circle. It belongs to Ibby—the only thing anyone knows about her is that she got in a romantic situation with a football guy on Middle Borough’s staircase and she was on her knees on one step while he was on the step above her and then the entire football team came charging up the stairs and she freaked out and popped off him and slid down on her knees and had to wear knee bandages for the next few weeks. “I don’t know what’s up with you, Jeremy. Like three days go you knew you were a loser and you didn’t butt into our conversations and stuff.”
RETALIATION, the squip advises before submitting a line.
“Hey, Ibby,” I scuff my shoe on school property. “I heard there was this sale on kneepads at Tar-get.” I pronounce Target with the French ending the way the girls do.
“F_ _k you.” Ibby leaves; one of her friends goes with her, but the other girls stay loyal to the cause.
“I don’t know what’s up with that,” I say to the group, squip-prompted again. “It’s like some people just prejudge everybody and don’t give anyone a chance to be themselves, you know?”
“Yeah.” Brooke smiles.
“So you went out with Katrina too?” Rich asks me. That makes me wonder if he really went out with her, but the squip tells me that it isn’t important who did or didn’t go out with Katrina in this universe—it gives you status to say it, and it’s possible in so many universes, you might as well just say it.
“Only a little,” I respond.
“F_ _ _ that c_ _ _ _ _ _ _,” Rich spits. The girls jump; Rich was always a great curser, even before he got a squip. “So who’s going to class and who’s gonna hang with me in the dank and creepy spot?”
“I’m out,” says Celine, as are Tal and this girl Jessica from my play.…_ _ _k, I totally forgot about the play!
WHAT ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT? LINES?
Oh, right. Abby and Brooke stick around so it’s just Rich, two girls and myself—an illustrious foursome—who make our way to the “dank and creepy spot” to do something dank and creepy. I hope.
Twenty-seven
Wow. People are in class right now.
YES, YES. DON’T MUSE SO MUCH. TAKE THE PIECE.
Rich is passing me his pipe because we’re smoking pot outside school in some bushes. Who knew the dank and creepy spot would really be this dank and creepy? I can see the bike rack through a hedge and a few kids kowtowing to it, kneeling to lock up their rides as the late bell rings. The late bell! Jeez, how can I ever worry about the late bell again?
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JEEZ?
Sorry.
I take the pipe as it’s passed to me. I’ve never smoked pot before—
AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO NOW. IT IMPEDES COMMUNICATION PARAMETERS.
What do I do, then?
SMOKE NORMALLY; I’LL FILTER THE ACTIVE COMPOUNDS OUT OF THE CAPILLARIES IN YOUR SKULL.
“Jeremy, you crackin’ out over there? You gonna hit it or not?”
I pull with my lips, but no smoke comes into my mouth. IT HAS A CARB. PUT YOUR FINGER OVER THAT LITTLE HOLE. I do, then pull again. It works. I pass to Brooke, sitting cross-legged next to me, as I exhale carefully away from her face. Uck.
So if I can’t smoke pot because of you, how come Rich is smoking?
HE’S PROBABLY FILTERING AS WELL. HE HAS TO KEEP UP APPEARANCES. OR HE HAS HIS SQUIP OFF.
That’s ridiculous. Do you stop people from drinking, too?
ABSOLUTELY. YOU HAVE TO SHUT ME OFF BEFORE YOU DRINK. I’LL START ORDERING YOU TO KILL PEOPLE.
Really?
POSSIBLY.
“So Jeremy, I’ve never seen you smoke before,” Brooke says, passing to Abby with experienced grace.
DO THE DUST JOKE.
“That’s because I’m so busy smoking dust,” I say. “You know, PCP? I chief that sh_ _ in a shed outside my house all day and have visions.”
“Shut up!” Brooke hits me playfully. “You do not!”
“Yeah, he does; I’ve seen him,” Rich nods, hitting. “Jeremy’s a madman, this kid.” Rich slips an arm around Abby; she blushes. Awww…
DON’T YOU THINK YOU’D BETTER FOLLOW SUIT?
Right, right. I look at Brooke. How to tackle this? There are so many parts of a girl’s body and they’re all so compelling. Do I put a hand on her leg?
NO. SIT CLOSE TO HER SO YOUR LEGS ARE TOUCHING.
I comply.
NOW PUT YOUR HAND BEHIND HER AND START TRACING YOUR FINGERS UP AND DOWN HER BACK.
“That’s because I’m so busy smoking dust,” I say. “You know, PCP? I chief that sh_ _ in a shed outside my house all day and have visions.”
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“Shut up!” Brooke hits me playfully. “You do not!”
“Yeah, he does; I’ve seen him,” Rich nods, hitting. “Jeremy’s a madman, this kid.” Rich slips an arm around Abby; she blushes. Awww…
DON’T YOU THINK YOU’D BETTER FOLLOW SUIT?
Right, right. I look at Brooke. How to tackle this? There are so many parts of a girl’s body and they’re all so compelling. Do I put a hand on her leg?
NO. SIT CLOSE TO HER SO YOUR LEGS ARE TOUCHING.
I comply.
NOW PUT YOUR HAND BEHIND HER AND START TRACING YOUR FINGERS UP AND DOWN HER BACK.
This is impossible; this is impossible; this is not something I could ever do, but I look over at Rich and he’s already doing it so what the _ _ck, I do it. I put an arm behind Brooke and smile at her and she smiles back as I touch the little womanly dent between the side of her back and her hip. Then I start to trace up and down.
“That’s nice,” she whispers.
“Jeremy!” Rich barks. “You want this?”
“No,” I say without looking at the pipe. Brooke shakes her head too. My fingers curl and uncurl on her back. KEEP LOOKING HER IN THE FACE. YOU’RE DOING FINE. Her eyes are pretty, green I think, and one strand of hair has fallen over them. NOW LEAN IN. YOU’VE GOT THIS. YOU’VE GOT THIS LOCKED UP. My body leans forward tiny degree after tiny degree and there I am, with my lips wetting themselves on Brooke’s, kissing. My first kiss!
DON’T MESS THIS UP! PART HER LIPS SLOWLY WITH YOUR TONGUE. HAVE YOUR HAND GRAB HER BACK. DON’T LET IT JUST REST ON HER. YOU’RE THE MAN; YOU HAVE TO LEAD THIS.
Gosh, people’s mouths taste so weird. It’s like, well, I guess I expected Brooke’s to taste better than mine or at least different. You get used to the way your own mouth tastes and you get so obsessed about other people’s that when you finally get to one, you think it’ll taste like something, something beside pot smoke, you know, like chocolate maybe? Her tongue traces lines on mine and I put my other hand on her leg, just holding it there, trying to put my tongue in deeper.
DOING OKAY, DOING OKAY. RUB HER BACK.
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Damn! Brooke’s mouth is big! Now it’s all the way open and I’m in there licking away—it’s like a never-ending cave! Wow!
WOULD YOU SHUT UP AND CONCENTRATE?
Brooke’s hands are in my hair; I hope my dandruff isn’t attacking her too much. I open my eyes, which have been closed the whole time—not because I was told to close them, just naturally—and her eyes are open too, curious, twinkling. We both laugh and pull apart at our accidental eye contact. Then we keep kissing.
“Mgmmmph,” she says.
TAKE YOUR TIME, the squip says. BUT IN SIXTY SECONDS YOU’RE GOING TO WANT TO START TOUCHING HER BREASTS. OTHERWISE SHE’LL GET OFFENDED.
Okay. Brooke has very small breasts; that was something I noticed back on top of the steps.
THAT’S WHY YOU’VE GOT TO MAKE SURE TO TOUCH THEM. OTHERWISE SHE’LL FEEL BAD. IT DOESN’T MATTER IF THEY’RE SMALL; WHAT’S IMPORTANT IS THAT THEY HAVE NIPPLES ON THEM. GIRLS LIKE THEIR NIPPLES.
I move my tongue back and forth and up and down and in and out—I even move it a little bit in four-dimensional space, since I take so much time. Heh-heh. I bet I’m moving in 5D space too, like hyperspace, like I’m a hyperspace kisser—
NOW, JEREMY! NOW! NOW!
My hand moves up Brooke’s leg to her chest.
FEEL THROUGH THE FABRIC OF HER SHIRT. SEE IF YOU CAN FIND A NIPPLE. IF YOU’RE DOING YOUR JOB, IT SHOULD BE HARD. IT’S ABOUT THE SIZE OF A PENCIL ERASER. YOU KNOW HOW YOU CHEW PENCIL ERASERS IN CLASS? LOOK FOR SOMETHING THAT SIZE.
Assuming that you’re going by, uh “stage right,” I’m feeling Brooke’s right breast. “Oh…” she says very quietly, disconnecting herself from my lips.
“Oh…” It sounds like a bad oh, but she’s not offering any resistance so I keep palming until a small nub—just like a pencil eraser; good job, squip!—makes itself known by sliding across my hand.
NOW HERE’S THE TRICK. NEVER RUB THE NIPPLES UP AND DOWN. ALWAYS BACK AND FORTH. AND STOP KISSING HER MOUTH. KISS HER NECK.
I comply and Brooke leans back and makes little breathing noises that sound like baby horses with allergies. I use my index finger to rub the unseen but compelling nub back and forth, slowly at first, then really really fast, then kind of fast, then slow and hard, then really really fast again. It’s fun.
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TIME FOR THE SHIRT TO COME OFF. THEN YOU CAN KISS THE NIPPLES; THAT’S HIGHLY EFFECTIVE. USE YOUR OTHER HAND.
I look back—Rich is lounging on the ground and Abby is licking his belly button, just like Samartha was doing at the dance. That must be his thing. I make some slick squipped eye contact; he understands, leading Abby out of the dank and creepy spot so Brooke and I are alone. I bet he has a backup spot.
GREAT JOB. NOW BOTH HANDS FOR THE SHIRT.
My other hand was in the dirt—pretty useless, huh? I pick it up and pull the lower lip of Brooke’s shirt over her navel (with a ring, whoop-de-doo) and then her solar plexus. Finally, in one of those epic moments that I thought only happened on your deathbed, her shirt is up by her neck and her breasts are splayed out! Damn! Although they’re not really “splayed out,” they’re more like “laid out,” like two little hotcakes from McDonald’s with cookies-and-cream nuggets on the top of each one. They are much smaller in person than they were under the shirt; they look like they belong to a ten-year-old. Boy.
“One of your nipples is pierced,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” Brooke smiles. “Just got it done.”
GO! GO!
I bury my face on Brooke’s breast, “stage left” this time, aiming for the ring. I want to stick my tongue through it, this crazy metal sexy thing—
“Aaaaa! Jeremy! Ow! Stop!”
UH-OH.
I look up. “What?”
“It’s infected! You can’t lick it.”
“It’s infected?” I squint at the nipple placed at the end of my nose. Jesus, it’s all purple and yellow around the part where the hoop goes through the skin! And green! “Oh man, I’m sorry, what did I do?”
RETREAT! RETREAT! DISEASE! RETREAT!
I pull my head back; Brooke grabs her shirt in a fist and swishes it over her breasts. “I wasn’t sure if—”
YOU COULD HAVE TOLD US.
“You could have told us—I mean, me—I mean, wait.” I stand up, brush myself off and then kneel down next to her. “I wouldn’t have…uh, does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts, and I just got it; I don’t want it to close up.…”
UH-OH. BAD SITUATION HERE, JEREMY.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Brooke says.
TALK TO HER A LITTLE BIT. BE KIND—
“Brooke, no, I’m sorry.…” I put my bony arm around her and lie down, pull her with me so she’s resting on my stomach and I’m resting on the ground with the pot ash and Starburst wrappers.
OOD MOVE.
“Maybe, you know, it was a bad idea or whatever.…”
“Okay,” she says, holding my leg. “It’ll be healed soon. You could kiss it later, in, like, two weeks.…” She keeps her face on my stomach. After we lie like that for five minutes, I excuse myself and go to class.
GOOD JOB. THAT’S THE WAY TO DO IT. NEVER EVER BE MEAN TO GIRLS, UNLESS THEY’RE UGLY. EVERYTHING YOU DO WILL COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU. SHE’LL TELL HER FRIENDS HOW GOOD YOU WERE AND WE CAN BUILD FROM THERE. THAT NIPPLE REALLY WAS A KICKER; I DIDN’T SEE IT COMING.
Well, I keep seeing the nipple—puffy and rainbowed and skewered, a really sad specimen, worse than anything I’ve seen on the Internet—in front of my face as I go to class. I turn the squip off in school so I can think about the stuff I used to think about.
Twenty-eight
Silence in my head doesn’t last long. The squip is back on and very much necessary as I stumble into rehearsal. Recently, I haven’t been concentrating much on my responsibilities as Lysander. I need the help.
SO THAT’S CHRISTINE.
We’re sitting in the front of the theater—squip’s advice. It says that if you’re in class or some other mandatory dorky place, you sit in back to show you hate it, but if you’re in something you’ve volunteered for, you sit up front to show you’re the f_ _ _ _n_ best at it. Mr. Reyes is going on about the importance of blocking and physical humor in “the work,” which is “the very pinnacle—maaaaaaaa!—of Shakespeare’s comedies.” The squip tells me a faulty squip might be making him talk like that.
I try to stay focused on Christine. Isn’t she pretty? I bet she doesn’t have an infected nipple.
SHE’S OKAY.
She’s two seats to my right, next to Jake; I don’t like sitting so close to her in these rows. It’s easier to be next to her in a circle, where the curve of our seating lets me eye her without turning my head. Here, I have to actually look at her to see her—and she notices.
JEREMY, WOULD YOU STOP WORRYING? YOU DON’T NEED TO LOOK AT HER. SHE’LL HEAR ABOUT YOUR EXPLOITS AND GRAVITATE TOWARD YOU NATURALLY, BECAUSE OF PHEROMONES.
Exploits? I don’t know if mouthing a diseased breast counts as an “exploit”…and what’s a phero—
Ow! Something snaps the back of my neck; I swivel to see Mark Jackson laughing fifteen rows behind me with his Game Boy. All that thumb work has given him some aim with rubber bands or staples or whatever it was. I instinctively reach for my Humiliation Sheet, then remember: the squip made me throw them all away. DON’T BE A COMPLETE SCHMUCK, JEREMY, it had said. THIS ISN’T A SITCOM. NO ONE WILL FIND THOSE “CUTE.”
IGNORE MARK. WE’LL DEAL WITH HIM IN A MINUTE. LET ME EXPLAIN ABOUT PHEROMONES.
Okay.
PHEROMONES ARE YOUR BODY’S CHEMICAL SIGNALS. THEY CAN BE ODORLESS AND COLORLESS, BUT TARGET FEMALES PICK THEM UP. THE MOST COMMON THING THEY DENOTE IS SEXUAL AVAILABILITY. WHEN YOU HAVE ANY KIND OF ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER, LIKE THE ONE WE JUST HAD IN THE BUSHES, YOUR BODY RELEASES ALL SORTS OF“JUST GOT SOME” PHEROMONES THAT FEMALES PICK UP ON. HOW DO YOU THINK GUYS WITH GIRLFRIENDS BECOME SO ATTRACTIVE TO OUTSIDE FEMALES THAT THEY’RE FORCED TO CHEAT? PHEROMONES.
Well, sh_ _! Can’t you make some of them?
CAN’T. NEXT GENERATION WILL.
Next generation of what? People?
NO, SQUIPS, OBVIOUSLY. I’M 2.5. YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT THEY HAVE PLANNED FOR 4.0.
What about 3?
OH, 3 IS COOL TOO. BUT 4.0 HAS STUFF I CAN’T EVEN TALK ABOUT.
Right.
NOW LET’S DEAL WITH MARK. GET UP AND WALK BACK TO HIM.
Mr. Reyes has finished talking and some of the actors are going on stage to block a scene, so nobody notices me striding to Mark’s seat. The squip has a great plan, and I execute it perfectly.
“Hey, Mark, did you shoot some crap at me before?” I ask, standing in the aisle beside his row.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Then snickers. Grrr. I walk toward him, climbing over seats. As I get close, the screen on his Game Boy SP starts to shudder, like interference on an old TV signal. My head hurts. YOU’RE GIVING OFF A LOT OF ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION. OF COURSE IT’S GOING TO HURT.
I make my voice as menacing as I can, which isn’t too menacing, but hey—the squip showed me how to tap into new depths of my vocal cords. “Don’t ever f_ _k with me again, Mark,” I rumble. His screen is freaking out now. He looks up in total disbelief. I pull back like in the PG-13 movies and clench my fist and bring it down and punch him—in the neck. I meant to hit his face, but uh…I hit his neck.
“Ow! _ _ _t!” Mark grabs his neck. I punched as hard as I could, but he’s not bleeding or anything! THAT’S BECAUSE YOUR BODY IS INCONSEQUENTIAL, JEREMY. MORE PUSH-UPS. “What the fu_ _ is wrong with you, dude? I didn’t do anything!”
“What’s going on back there, hmmmm?” Mr. Reyes shouts from his stool on stage. “Jeremy?”
I must look a little suspicious, standing over Mark with my fists clenched, panting, with Mark’s neck all red. But I look down at the Game Boy SP. The actual game has vanished. It just says, in white on black lettering: DO NOT DICK AROUND WITH JEREMY HEERE OR YOU WILL DIE.
“Nothing, Mr. Reyes!” Mark pipes up, quite chipper. “We’re just messing around, that’s all!” And then he actually hugs me, the second hug today I’ve gotten from a former foe; I sit down next to him to make a nice scene for Mr. Reyes. His screen clears and he goes back to playing Kill All People 3.
“Are you some kind of demon or something?” he shudders, not looking at me.
“Nothing like that at all.”
DOESN’T IT RULE TO HAVE POWER OVER SMALL-SCALE ELECTRONICS?
Twenty-nine
SO IF WE’RE EVER GOING TO GET WITH CHRISTINE, WE’VE GOT TO PREP HER.
Okay.
SHE’S WITH THIS GUY JAKE RIGHT NOW, SO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO IS POSITION YOURSELF FOR THE INEVITABLE FALLOUT WHEN THEY BREAK UP.
Gotcha.
SO YOU NEED TO BE VERY CUTE.
Check.
ALSO, JEREMY, YOU CAN’T PLAY WITH YOUR TESTICLES THROUGH YOUR PANTS. EVER.
Right. I stop. It’s an hour later; I’m sitting at the side of the stage, smack dab in the middle of the most boring part of rehearsal, tilting my plastic seat farther and farther back as the action unfolds. (They’re working on chairs with tilt alarms, so you’ll never fall off.) It’s one of many scenes where Puck gets some instructions from Oberon; there’s something compelling about the way Christine delivers that Shakespearean phrasing in a halter top. I don’t even know if it is a halter top, because I don’t know what a halter top is exactly. But halter top—that’s a sexy word.
STOP TILTING YOUR SEAT BACK.
I stop. I’m on in thirty seconds and this scene is fun. I get to lie down as Christine sprinkles me with magic dust; then I have to get up and be in love with Hermia, who’s played by this girl Ellen, who I’d really have to be under the influence of magic dust to be in love with. I stand at the edge of the thick curtain and burst on stage when I’m supposed to; Mr. Reyes, of course, is asleep.
“‘Fair love, you faint with wand’ring in the wood,’” I declare. “And…and stuff…”
“AND TO SPEAK TROTH, I HAVE FORGOT OUR WAY.”
“‘And to speak troth, I have forgot our way.…’”
“WE’LL REST.…”
“‘We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day.’” Phew. That wasn’t so bad. People give me funny, out-of-character looks as I stumble through the next couple of stanzas. (They might also be giving me funny looks because they’ve talked with Mark Jackson, who’s playing Game Boy SP obediently under a table.) I lie down and wait for Christine to sprinkle me with magic dust—she uses actual sparkles, which I hate, because they don’t wash off for, like, a month, but I forgive her.
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