He never proselytized like some Abstainers did, but people knew who he was all the same. His clothes were obviously not fabbed fresh each morning—sometimes they were patched or even dirty—and he carried a leather satchel that looked a hundred years old. He had other nicknames, some them undeserved. Clair was pretty sure he wasn’t actually a terrorist, like the members of the World Holistic Leadership. WHOLE was always issuing manifestos and sending viruses through the d-mat network. Cold viruses, not computer ones.
After a delay of some minutes, Jesse replied, “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“The wrong what?” she bumped back.
“Number. Address. Telephones, you know?”
She’d read of telephones in old stories but had never seen one.
“They used numbers, not names?”
There was another delay before he bumped back. She imagined his fingers twitching away, wherever he was, and was too impatient to wait for a reply.
“It’s Clair Hill, from Modern History.”
“I know who you are. You’ve never texted me before.”
Another old word, but she knew what this one meant. “I want to ask you something about d-mat.”
“I don’t know anything about d-mat.”
“What happens when d-mat goes wrong, I mean.”
This time the pause was longer.
“I thought it might’ve been about this morning.”
She frowned. “What about this morning?”
“You were at the station. I saw you.”
“I didn’t see you. What were you doing there?”
The pause dragged on so long, she thought he might not reply at all.
“Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “What do you want to know?”
The delays between bumps were maddening.
“It would be easier to actually talk than do it like this.”
“Sure, but not now. My audio’s on the fritz, and I have a prac after lunch. Meet me at the gate after last period?”
Clair was reluctant. People might see.
Then she felt bad for feeling that way. So what if people saw them together? Besides, there was a chance Libby would get better as the day progressed, and Clair wouldn’t have to go through with it.
“All right,” she bumped back. “Thanks.”
“No probs. See you.”
Clair leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She didn’t want to leave the library, but she had done all she could, for now. And she had some explaining to do. Ronnie would tell her she was overreacting; Tash would go into a worry spiral. Both would make her feel worse. Neither would change her mind.
“Improvement killed my child,” she thought, and then tried her best not to think it again.
“On my way,” she bumped Tash.
“We were beginning to wonder what you were up to,” Tash bumped back.
“And who with,” Ronnie added.
Gathering up her backpack, Clair resigned herself to explanations on several fronts at once.
8
MIDWAY THROUGH THE afternoon, Libby’s caption changed from Disturb at own risk to SiCkO, with a crocodile biting a zebra on the rump. Clair took that as a clear sign that Libby wasn’t feeling better, meaning that Clair had to go through with her meeting with Jesse Linwood. She was already regretting and feeling slightly embarrassed about contacting him. Jesse was so far out of her social circle, he might as well have come from another planet.
Ronnie and Tash waved her off at the end of school, peppering her with provocative bumps.
“Retro is in,” said Tash, “but not that retro.”
Clair walked on, telling herself to be glad they weren’t giving her a hard time about Zep. She had been determinedly honest with them over what had happened at the party. She knew she had done the wrong thing. Forgiveness was optional. She would understand if they reserved their sympathy for Libby.
“I just want to know,” Ronnie had said, “what’re you doing poaching that slimeball when there are eligible bachelors all over campus. You know you can do better, right?”
“He may be a slimeball,” said Tash, “but at least he has taste.”
“I don’t think Zep’s really a slimeball,” Clair started to say.
“Oh no!” cried Ronnie, putting the back of one hand to her forehead. “This can’t be happening!”
“. . . any more than I’m a poacher,” Clair concluded firmly. “It just happened. It won’t happen again.”
They hadn’t sounded convinced.
“Come lat-jumping with me this weekend,” Tash said. “We’re taking the thirtieth. That’ll give you something else to think about.”
“Or come party with me,” said Ronnie. “Plenty more slimeballs where he came from.”
“Pass,” Clair said. She wasn’t interested in circumnavigating the globe latitude by latitude or in available men. “But thanks. I’m glad you’re still talking to me.”
“Just don’t run off with the Stainer, or else we’ll have to communicate by smoke signals. . . .”
Jesse Linwood was waiting for her by the gate, slouched in a way that belied his gangly height, with shaggy brown hair covering his eyes. He was wearing tatty blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt with a blocky logo she didn’t recognize—it looked like an upside-down flowerpot, only bright red. The legendary satchel was on the ground at his feet, slumping listlessly like something melting in the sun. In one hand he held a paperback novel that was so dog-eared, it should probably have been in a museum.
She didn’t catch the title. When he saw her, he put his weight on both feet and stood straighter, slipping the book into his back pocket.
“Hey, Clair,” he said.
“Uh, hey.” She wasn’t quite sure what to say next. Already they’d spoken more words to each other in one day than they had in all their years at school together.
“Shall we go?” he asked her.
“Where?”
“I’ll walk with you to the station. That’s where you’re headed, right?”
At her alarmed expression, he laughed.
“Okay, that sounded weird. I’m not stalking you or anything, honest. I just walk past the station on the way to school, and sometimes I see you.”
“Me and lots of other people.”
“I guess.” He picked up his satchel and indicated the gate. “Yes?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Anywhere’s fine.”
Conscious of the occasional odd look from her fellow students, she set off with him down the road to the station. His legs were long, so his stride far outclassed hers, but he let her set the pace. They walked a dozen steps in silence, Clair feeling foolish but committed now, Jesse concentrating to all appearances on the tips of his sneakers. He was either growing a very slight goatee or he hadn’t gotten around to shaving his chin for a few days. She tried not to stare at it, but with his eyes hidden behind his hair, it was hard to avoid.
“So . . . ,” she said. “This is about a friend. I’m worried that . . . actually, I don’t know what I’m worried about. There’s this d-mat meme going around. Have you heard of Improvement?”
He shook his head. “I’m not really the target audience.”
“Yeah, right. Anyway, my friend d-matted ninety times yesterday and she’s convinced Improvement worked—changed her—although it can’t possibly have, and I’m worried about her because she’s behaving a little oddly.”
“Oddly how?”
Clair shrugged, remembering the fleeting conversation that morning. “Mood swings, headache . . . I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I can tell it’s not normal.”
“What’s Improvement supposed to do?”
“It’s like a chain letter. You receive a message. It tells you that you can be prettier, smarter, taller, whatever. You write a code on a piece of paper and list all the things you’d like to have changed. You take the note with you through d-mat, under your clothes, and supposedly it happens. Do it enough times, the meme says, and you’ll be . . . Improved.”