Kellary splashes through a stale pool of rainwater and the smell of dead worms assaults her nostrils, assaults them like a feisty German squad trying hard to take a bluff–they’re at a disadvantage but they’ve got more moving bodies, since three of the Lieutenant’s men took bullets and he doesn’t know if they’re dead, but what matters now is pushing back, pushing like the red-faced kids on a swingset: apple-cold air and the sudden perfection of autumn, when they can breeze through hours and come home to warm socks, clean rugs and the paper lampshades that all too easily burn.
“The north wall is entirely faculty offices,” says Hansen, the architect, squiggling with a laser pointer. “And entirely windows.”
“Yes.” The president nods firmly. “I like that message–our walls as transparent as our policy, symbolizing a free and open dialogue between educators and educated. Well done, both of you! I’ll have to work that into the groundbreaking speech…”
Dean Beckwith coughs.
“Actually, the construction was requested for a different reason,” says Hansen, a little stiffly.
“Oh?”
“Er, yes,” says the dean. “To help deter students from offering… favors for grades.”
“You’ll notice,” Hansen says, “that the design includes no curtains.”
Genevieve sees the silent light begin to flood through the windows and knows it’s come at last. The roaring in her ears follows soon after.
It’s been a slow day and there’s nobody else in Marks General & Sundry, so she doesn’t have to worry. She hobbles over to one side of the counter: there’s a rotary file there, sitting on an ancient school desk.
The light’s beginning to wash away all color as Genevieve, strength fading, topples the desk towards the blast and sits down behind it. Duck and cover, the way her students would recite together. Cover and duck.
“I hate… I hate having to talk about this when you’re far away,” says Else.
“I know.” His voice chops a little over the cell. “I love you. -ove you.”
“I love you,” she says. “I just want to see you…”
“I love you. I gotta -ta go.”
“Yeah,” she whispers, “bye,” and the connection’s dead before she finishes the word.
“You spend a lot of time talking to him,” says Mom a moment later, cocking an eyebrow as Else climbs back up the stairs.
“Well,” says Else breezily, “he’s having girl troubles,” and she realizes it’s not even a lie.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Fujichia makes sense! As much sense as any cat or bird, and what’s more her dust will make you fly. It’s sparkly. It goes in your nose like soda pop. Her feathers are a bit on the scaly side but you all don’t mind, do you? Her face is as kind as fudgsicles.
Here comes an adventure!
Fujichia is going underwater, where it’s dark, headfirst and so far! Can Fujichia hold her breath that long? This is the way it works: she can but children have to believe she can. Do you believe in Fujichia?
Dance if you believe in Fujichia!
“See, they’re super-heroes,” says Galen eagerly. “Like Justice League. But they’re also secret agents for the government, and that’s where the name comes from!”
“There’s a conceptual problem here,” Zeke says gently. “Originally, you were the bad guys.”
“No way! Kids had our trading cards, man, they loved us!”
“And there’s licensing to think of, Galen–”
“Turbo,” he insists.
“We’re part of MTV, but Turner still owns all the rights to American Gladiators. You’d have to talk to them first.”
“I tried that. They won’t listen.” Galen’s eyes are pleading. “It’d be great, man, you gotta give me a chance!”
Allis bounces toward the nurses’ station where Ander’s slumped, winding down a long shift. Her face broadcasts her eagerness to spill as she leans over the counter; Ander just sighs.
“Okay, but you’re not allowed to say any names,” he says. “HIPAA.”
“He’s forty-two,” she whispers, “and she is not. She is like a factor of forty-two. One of them has a wedding ring. It’s caught on a piercing.”
“What kind of piercing, Allis?”
“VCH.”
He can’t help it–his eyes flick toward the computer screen, then back to her.
“Go ahead,” she says, grinning madly. “Google it, I dare you!”
Jake isn’t sure whether to turn his back. It’d be a little weird not to, because she is changing, and it’s not like they’ve kissed this week. But it’d be equally weird not to look: they are still technically going out.
He ends up lamely flipping through her scrapbook again–an excuse not to watch, which turns out to be a mistake.
“Here,” Ruth says behind him, and slips out the one of her on the escalator, hair in her mouth. She’s very beautiful. “I’d like you to have it.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Wanting you is killing me,” he doesn’t.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
“There,” breathes Marlin as they crest the rise, and Cam sees below a vast, teeming gated community. Hills shield it on every side.
“The Preserve,” Marlin grunts, unwrapping the first oilskin bundle. “All the lowest denominators, Cam–everyone we had to remove from human society. People who trust marketing campaigns absolutely, who use words like ‘carb’ and ‘CPU’ and can’t define them. People whose cell phones play ‘Für Elise’ at eighty decibels. People who’ve tried to power a surge protector by plugging it into itself.”
“And why are we here?” asks Cam.
“Overpopulation.” Marlin smiles, slotting barrel to stock. “And sport.”
Wednesday, August 18, 2004