All Good Children Part 19

"We sometimes have problems with subjects already taking stimulating medications," he says, like that's what's wrong with me. "The treatment works on the central nervous system and there's sometimes an adjustment period. The patch can be mildly sedating, but don't worry. The body will find its balance. Your son's attention will soon come into focus and his marks will improve. Nested children are extremely dedicated to their studies."

"But they lose initiative," Mom says.

He nods. "That's one of the benefits. Untreated students often initiate activities that aren't productive in the cla.s.sroom." He lays his hand on my shoulder and looks at me like I'm terminally ill and there's no hope at all. "His body's chemistry is working out its harmony. I'm sure you'll see improvement soon. And keep in mind that this is a pilot project. If the results prove that the treatment should be discontinued, we'll discontinue it immediately." He smiles and moves on through the crowd.

Everyone who goes to school is lucky, I read on the school notice board. All of my cla.s.smates are my friends. There is nothing more important than completing my work.

Mom reads over my shoulder. "We have to stop this," she whispers.

I snort. "It's a little late for that epiphany."

She stares off into some private distance. "I remember when we first conceived you, Max. The first match was a girl with a likelihood of breast cancer. The second was a boy with"a"she shrugsa""nothing, really. He had nothing wrong with him. Increased chance of heart disease, I think it was. I couldn't choose between you."

I close my RIG and slide it in my pocket. "You don't have to tell me this."

"Your dad misunderstood. He said we could keep trying until we got one just right. But it wasn't that. I wanted all of you. I couldn't choose which ones to destroy. Just because they weren't perfect."

There's something about your mother telling you of the children she terminated that makes you want to be alone. "I'm going for a run."

I do chin-ups in the park until my hands are frozen stiff; then I pound the dark streets for an hour, north and south and north again, working my way closer to the core. The houses grow larger every few streets inward, and soon I'm in my old luxurious neighborhood.

Lights blaze behind the curtains at Dallas's house. I stop on the road and catch my breath. A tall cedar hedge hides my old house from view. I want so badly to jog up the stone pathway, open the blue door and head up to my old room, to work in my sketchbook while Ally b.u.t.ts in every five minutes to show me a toy, and the soft voices of my parents float upstairs until finally Dad sticks his big blond head inside and says, "Time for bed, my friend."

I turn around and run back home to watch Freakshow. It's no fun without Dallas. The studio audience looks zombified. Zipperhead and Squid are the most human beings on the screen. I don't even care who wins.

A nurse comes to our door. She's in her forties, short and plump. She wears white pants, white shoes, white shirt, white coat, white gloves. Her hair is dyed platinum. Even her eyelashes are white.

She shows me an ident.i.ty card. Her name is Lara Fleishman. She works for the city. "I have some questions to follow up your educational support treatment." She steps inside and frowns at the tent and the p.i.s.sy stench of paint.

Mom calls us to the table.

"Maxwell Connors, age fifteen?" Lara asks me.

I nod. "Almost sixteen."

"Roll up your sleeve, please." She takes out a syringe and an empty vial.

"What are you doing?" Mom asks.

"Taking a blood sample."

Mom puts her hand on Lara's. "No."

Lara frowns at the black hand on her white glove. "But that's the main part of the follow-up. I have to take samples."

"No," Mom repeats.

"But I'm a nurse."

"So am I. Can I take your blood?"

"Of course not."

"You can't take theirs either."

Lara talks into her RIG, waits, sighs. "Okay. I'll just check their patches."

"I've done that already," Mom says. "They're fine. You're not touching my children."

Lara huffs. "Your negativity is harmful." She projects a doc.u.ment onto the table. "There's a short survey. Can I do that much?" She asks me twelve questions that sound innocent: Do you have friends at school? What field do you want to work in? Who is your favorite teacher?

Since I just read the notice board, I know the answers: All of my cla.s.smates are my friends. I want to work in the field I excel in. Each teacher is suited to his subject.

Ally takes the survey with the enthusiasm of a chatty corpse. When Lara asks, "Who is the top student in your cla.s.s?" Ally says, "Every student does their best. No matter how small a part we play in the future, we're building our great country together." When Lara asks, "Do you work better alone or in teams?" Ally says, "It's good to be able to work independently, but too much time alone can lead to thoughts and feelings that bring trouble into our lives." These are the teachings I have to look forward to.

Lara closes her screen and turns to Mom. "You're having difficulty adjusting to the treatment." It's a statement, not a question. Lara has been briefed. "Your children haven't changed, Mrs. Connors. The treatment has no ability to physically change the child."

"All medications change the patient physically," Mom says. "That's how they work."

Lara smiles a tight so-that's-how-it-is smile. "We're manipulating them ever so slightly to give them the advantage of being better able to focus on their studies."

Mom doesn't return her smile. "I'm concerned about side effects."

"We all are! That's why we're monitoring the treatment in every area it's been piloted."

"How many areas is that?"

Lara shrugs. "I don't know that sort of thing. But I do know that every child being treated is being given a treat." She giggles. "They could hardly do anything the way they were, and it wasn't cost effective to sort them out."

Mom gasps, like she doesn't do the same thing herself every workday.

"It's not a bad thing!" Lara says. "At least seventy percent of the kids needed it, but one hundred percent benefit from it." She looks at Mom with sincerity. "Kids with behavior problems and learning disabilities used to rule the cla.s.sroom. They brought our standards down so much that even the smartest students wouldn't learn until grade twelve what kids in other countries learn by grade eight."

Mom nods. "I heard that."

"You heard about school closures in places where they couldn't afford to pay the teachers?" Lara asks. "Bands of children had nowhere to turn but crime. But with Nesting, education is so cost-effective that the schools can reopen."

"Have they reopened?" Mom asks.

Lara shrugs. "I think so."

"With larger cla.s.ses?"

"Yes, but kids thrive in larger cla.s.srooms because they scaffold each other."

"How is that possible when they have no initiative?"

"They monitor each other's progress along the program of study. They don't need initiative."

Mom shakes her head. "Our country can't survive without initiative."

Lara smiles. "Our country still has initiative. Those among us who use their initiative for the benefit of the community will always be allowed to have it."

Mom has no response to that.

Lara packs her things. "These kids seem healthy. Not like that poor boy down the hall. He needed a new patch. In this family, it's just you who has the problem." She stands up and stares at Mom with a bright white smile. "So we'll monitor the family unit for the next two months."

"Too bad about that ankle," Coach Emery says when I step out of the trailer in my gear, ready for the championship game. "Go plant yourself on the bench."

The Grizzlies descend from their bus in a long line of beige and brown. They drove ten hours to get here from New Harrisburg, Illinois. Their school is run by a different Chemrose governing board, but they're zombies, all the same. And they're lousy at football.

When our team scores, I stand up and clap, but my hands beat alone, like the only pulse on the field. A whistle blows and everyone joins in. Clap, clap, clap, pause, clap, clap, clap.

Ally shouts, "One, two, three. It's Dallas for me!" She stops before Mom has a chance to shush her.

Brennan plays too intensely for his own good. He swears at a Grizzly who takes him down a few yards from goal. His father pulls him aside for some whispered coaching.

Dallas is a better zombie than the real zombies. I get chills when I look at him. He keeps his mouth moving for my benefit, to look like he's eating brains. When I see him chewing, I know he's still himself. Anyone else would think he dislodged some food from between his teetha"repulsive maybe, but still within allowable zombie limits.

There's one Grizzly who might be a real kid. He leaps for his tackles and looks around the field more than anyone else. But the rest are machines of flesh and chemistry. After a while, I can't even watch them. I close my eyes until it's over.

Clap, clap, clap. We won.

I nudge Dallas in the ribs. "Good job. Wish I could have been with you."

He smiles and shouts, "Don't be silly, Maxwell! Some of us are on the field and some of us are on the bench, but we're all on the same team and our team did a fine job today. So good job to you too." Then he starts chewing brains. I swear he's going to make me laugh out loud some day and blow my cover.

"Please come celebrate at my house," he says. I hesitate, so he repeats, "Please."

Only three kids head over with the coach: me, Bay and Brennan. Three black kids. I don't know if that's significant.

Dallas's house is sparkling clean. The living room has been decorated green since I was last here. "Relaxing, isn't it?" Mrs. Richmond asks when she catches me holding a couch pillow up to a curtain. She wears a gray dress and carries a black RIG, messaging while she mingles.

"You have a nice home," Bay says from behind me.

Mrs. Richmond smiles. "Who won the game?"

Bay scrunches his ma.s.sive brow. "We did, I think."

"Excellent." She wanders toward the adults, her eyes glued to her screen.

Bay follows her. He tugs Coach Emery's sleeve like a five-year-old giant. "We won the game, didn't we, Coach?"

The coach stares at him for a moment before answering. "That's right. We won."

Brennan leads Bay to a corner armchair and sits with him in a green silence.

Dallas joins me on the couch. "Feeble party," he whispers.

"We should fly," I whisper back.

"I wish." There's a sadness in his voice that eats at me.

"Good game though," I tell him. "I mean it. Good job."

He doesn't answer. We sit on the forest-green couch and hug the mint-green pillows. "Who do you think would win in a fight?" he whispers. "Bay as a zombie or Brennan as himself?"

"Shh." I nod toward the doorway. "Austin's home."

Dallas shakes his head. "He won't catch on. His cla.s.s was done last week."

"So he'sa"?"

Dallas chews his brains.

Austin takes off his shoes and tucks them in a slot in the hall closet. He stores his hat on top and straightens his shirt before he enters the living room. His gaze roves around and stops on me. He smiles politely and approaches. "h.e.l.lo, Maxwell. It's nice to see you again." No "Hey, f.a.ggot, come to ask me out?" No "Where's your daddy, little orphan?"

"Hi, Austin. How are you?"

"Very well, thanks. Did you win your game?"

I'm waiting for the punch, or at least the punch line, but there is none. "Yes, we did."

"I'm sorry I couldn't see it. I go to a homework club after school. We're helping each other prepare for next year."

"That's premium."

Austin smiles. "You two have fun." He kisses his mother on the cheek, laughs at a joke his father makes, picks up the empty bottles and exits.

"He's changed a bit," I say.

Dallas's eyes gleam. "Just a bit."

His father's voice carries across the room. "No more police visits for underground fighting. No more s.l.u.tty girls sneaking over the back fence. No more constant arguments." He points at the couch and says, "And with the other one, there's no more detention or loud music or f.a.ggot Christmas productions."

His mom chimes in. "And they eat whatever I make for dinner with no complaints."

Coach Emery smiles politely. Dr. Richmond laughs until he chokes on his whisky.

Dallas hugs his pillow and stares at me. "So who do you think would win in a fight, Max? Us or the rest of the world?"

TWELVE.