All Good Children (22 page)

He amazes the audience with pie charts of cost savings and bar graphs of academic achievements. “Chemrose practically donated the treatments,” he says. “We barely had to pay half the cost.” The audience claps while the black-suited man bows.

“How much was paid, exactly?” Mom asks.

Mr. Graham pretends he doesn't hear. Nearby parents glance our way and laugh. Their sons and daughters stand stiffly beside them, staring at the stage.

“This is the best thing we have ever done for our children,” the principal says. “I know we'd do it even if the cost of education increased. It's in the interests of our students to keep their marks up so they can remain entitled to the privilege of coming here. Or to the trade schools. Jobs are coming and companies need workers who will work.”

Clap, clap, clap, pause, clap, clap, clap.
You'd think the adults had been dosed. “You don't want them disadvantaged in this competitive world,” they all say through the coffee and donuts.

“I heard that the top student in each class doesn't get the treatment,” a woman says beside me. “Is that true?” She's talking to Coach Emery, who shrugs as if it has nothing to do with him.

I catch Brennan's eye, but he quickly looks away.

“I'm sorry Nesting hasn't impressed you,” a man says behind us. It's the black suit from the stage. He's tall and handsome with a wide face and close-cropped hair. He smiles and extends his hand to Mom. “I'm Bill Walters from Chemrose.” I stare at him with more interest than a zombie ought to show.

“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 classroom.” 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 classmates 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”—she shrugs—“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 butts 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 identity 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 pissy 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 document 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 classmates 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 class?” 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 classroom. 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 classes?”

“Yes, but kids thrive in larger classrooms 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 teeth—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.