The iChits? weren’t on our list to take. I didn’t know if that meant they were left for the family, or if another team of Placers would come to claim what we did not. I didn’t care. None of them deserved it. None of them needed it. None of them cared that Bridgette Pell’s idiotic decision had made my life more miserable, and yet it was legal and right for her family and others to sue me.
I put my finger on the closest iChit? and slid it quickly across the table. The thin metal was cool under my finger. Why couldn’t they have sponsored a few for my party? Would it have been such a big deal to give us that? Sam and Saretha loved music. Not that it would have mattered—Placers swept down after my celebration, too. They took back all my Placements and crushed my Squire-Lace? Chips to dust, just like Kel. For all I knew, it might have been Kel and Henri and Margot who did it. If iChit? had sponsored me, they would have gotten their players back, anyway.
I slipped the one under my finger into my pocket. Who would know? Who would care? I told myself Sam and Saretha would love it, though I didn’t do it completely for them. I wanted iChit?, or the Pells, or someone to suffer, just a little. I wanted to put another crack in the shapeless system that seemed to be crushing me. It was stupid and childish, and the little player seemed to burn in my pocket, but part of me was satisfied that I had done something, and part of me was exhilarated when I got away with it.
THREE ROTATIONS: $28.99
“What is this?” Sam asked. He knew what an iChit? was; that wasn’t why he was asking. I placed it in his hand as soon as he got home from school. I was excited to make him and Saretha happy. They so rarely got to enjoy music outside of commercials and what drifted out of stores. Sam turned the smooth rectangle over in his hand and surprised me with a frown.
“I don’t want it,” he said. He tossed it onto our kitchen counter. My heart sank. Why? I looked for some sign he was joking, but his face was uncharacteristically sullen.
Saretha got up from the couch and walked over.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, pushing her long black hair behind her ears and sniffing at it like it was a botched print of Wheatlock?. Her Cuff vibrated at the charge.
Sam looked at me like he knew what I’d done, but how could he know? Did he somehow sense that I’d stolen it? Or maybe he thought I’d spent good family money on it, which might have been worse. I realized at once I’d made a stupid mistake. My tiny act of rebellion had accomplished nothing.
Saretha nudged the player with a finger, then clicked it. It started playing a song by Birdo & Neckfat called “Drops.” She picked up the iChit? and brought it back to where she had been sitting and placed it on the couch’s arm, so when she leaned back, it would be by her ears. The amount and quality of sound put out by the small disposable player was astonishing. Saretha closed her eyes and let it play.
Then I was struck with a horrible thought. What if the player had been somehow customized for Bridgette Pell’s Last Day? What if there was a message after the song? It was a sponsored product. Companies did stuff like that all the time. Sam was already unhappy; if he knew where the player really came from, what would he think of me? I was instantly filled with the worst kind of regret. How had I let myself do something so stupid?
Saretha’s eyes were closed. She looked peaceful. I thought to take it back and click it off, but I couldn’t bear the thought of taking something else away from her. The song ended, and the next one began. Eggs Eggs sang “Your Word.” Saretha let it play. After each song, my body went rigid. Finally, after all six played through, my fear was realized. Bridgette Pell spoke:
“Nine more playbacks. To purchase more plays, double-click now. $28.99 for three rotations,” she said without emotion.
Birdo & Neckfat came on again. Saretha and Sam didn’t react. They had no idea whose voice spoke through the tiny device. I breathed out, believing the worst of it was over. It wasn’t like Bridgette Pell would wish herself a happy birthday. Yet my stomach stayed in knots. The sound of her voice in our room seemed so wrong.
Saretha let it play through the evening until all the rotations were done. Bridgette Pell’s voice came on one last time: “No more playbacks. To purchase more plays, double-click now. $28.99 for three rotations.” I felt sick to my stomach. Her flat tone sounded utterly defeated. Her final message repeated, again and again.
Saretha said, “That’s not such a bad deal,” which cost her $18.95.
Sam got up and threw the player in the trash. Saretha didn’t react at all.
The voice stopped. The player was programmed to sense it had been thrown away. It fizzled in the trash, destroying itself. Sam sat back on his bed and looked out the window. I’d never felt further from him. I craved words to explain myself. This wasn’t what I had wanted at all.
I should have gone to sleep. I could have fit a few hours in, but Bridgette Pell’s voice haunted me, and I found it hard to maintain my hatred for her. She’d had options, unlike Beecher, but they were options she couldn’t see.
My body felt keyed up. I tried not to look angry or upset as I got up, got dressed. Sam didn’t ask where I was going, which was worse than if he had. I slowly and quietly left the apartment and went outside, feeling sure nobody cared where I went or what I did.
BLISSBERRY DELIGHT: $29.98
I was going to walk to Malvika Place and try to get in, right through the front doors, but I only walked a block before I realized that was a laughable plan. I was letting frustration get the better of me. I had already acted rashly, and what good had that done? There would be guards. There would be questions. I would be far better served to enter through the roof, but Malvika Place extended outside the dome. How could I get up there?
I realized it wouldn’t be smart to linger outside too long while I figured this out. I had not forgotten being dragged into that alley. I felt the barely perceptible scar on my chin, running my finger across the bump where the skin had knit slightly imperfectly. Margot’s Phisior? bandage had done most, but not all, of its job.
Across the wide ring with its racing cars, the outer shops were still lit. They would be open for another hour or so. They looked inviting—they were designed to—but I knew better than to head that way. I could only imagine how fast I would be kicked out for a lack of means, or hounded about my silence, or arrested for some trumped-up infraction. I could not even take refuge in a movie because I would not be able to agree to the theater’s Terms of Service before entering.
A block ahead of me, Thomkins Tower beckoned. It was only seven stories tall and not so towerlike. The yellowed, opaque window in Mrs. Stokes’s room was lit above me. Once again, I could think of no other place to be.
I climbed the stairs and made my way to her door. I pressed Mrs. Stokes’s buzzer and waited. I wondered what she would think of my tiny, stupid theft if she ever found out about it. Would she approve? Would she be disappointed?