Be More Chill (12 page)

I
DID
.

Under careful instructions, I dutifully agree with everything Anne says, whether it’s about the vileness of Jenna or the merits of Avril Lavigne or the unattractiveness of pierced nipples.
(“It’s like, they come
out
.”) Chloe stays quiet but the squip convinces me—unbelievably—to move my leg under the table so that it’s touching hers in a
meaty, unmistakable way. Chloe doesn’t object! My dick gets hard and it’s in nice to feel that happen when not in the vicinity of a keyboard.

N
EWS FLASH: THE RAPPER
E
MINEM HAS JUST BEEN DECLARED DEAD FOLLOWING A FREAK STREET-HOCKEY ACCIDENT.

What? (I’m careful not to talk out loud.)

E
MINEM HAS DIED
. U
SE IT IN CONVERSATION.

But how do you know he’s dead?

T
HE INFORMATION EXISTS, THEREFORE
I
AM ABLE TO DETECT IT.

How does that work?

W
ELL, IT HAS TO DO WITH QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT AND TELEPORTATION.
E
MINEM
’
S BODY HELD ENERGY, IN THE FORM OF PHOTONS.
W
HEN HE DIED, SOME OF THESE PHOTONS DISCHARGED FROM HIS BODY WITH CERTAIN PROPERTIES THAT WERE DETECTED BY A SQUIP NEAR THE SCENE OF HIS DEATH.

Really?

T
HIS KNOWLEDGE WAS REFINED AMONG OTHER SQUIPS VIA QUANTUM TELEPORTATION AND THERE ARE LOTS OF SQUIPS IN THIS WORLD, SO IT GOT TO ME WITH ALMOST NO TIME LOSS.
B
UT WOULD YOU JUST SAY IT
? H
AVEN
’
T YOU NOTICED THAT NEITHER GIRL HAS TALKED FOR
7.3
SECONDS
?

“Did you ladies hear about Eminem?” I ask. The squip says
ladies
is all right to say; it’s “corny but disarmingly distinctive,” it says.

“Ugh. I hate him,” Chloe says. Heat pulses through her taut calf to my leg. “What happened?”

“He’s, um, dead. Eminem died. I read it on the Internet,” I lie. “He got busted up in a street-hockey incident.”

“No way!” Anne shrieks, standing up and nearly knocking over the table. She stocks herself next to me. “What do you mean ‘saw it on the Internet’? Are you joking?
That’s a lie!”

“No,” I say simply, hoping that the squip isn’t tricking me. It can’t trick me, can it?

N
O
. I
CAN
’
T
.

“
Hahgg
—” Anne gasps, face contorted.

“C’mon.” Chloe plays with her candy necklace. “You knew he was gonna die sooner or later.”

“No…” Anne buries her head in my shoulder, to the extent that you can bury anything in something that bony. “I was just listening to him today.…” she
whimpers. Chloe’s leg presses hard against mine.

N
OTICE HOW THE PLIGHT OF ONE FEMALE PRODUCES FAVORABLE BEHAVIOR ON THE PART OF THE TARGET
? the squip asks.

Yeah.

N
OTICE HOW TRAGEDY BRINGS FEMALES TO YOU?

Yes. Is that really true Eminem’s dead?

I
N THIS UNIVERSE, ABSOLUTELY.

“Omigosh, what’s wrong?” A voice streams in from the entrance to Mrs. Fields/TCBY. It’s a tall blond; this must be Jill, the older female with driving qualifications
who’s assigned to take us all home.

“Eminem’s d-dead!” Anne sobs.

“What? No way!” Jill spits.

“Jeremy told us,” Anne continues.

“Who’s Jeremy?”

“Me! I’m Jeremy.”

“You? Who are you?”

“He’s from my m-math class?” Anne uptalks as if it’s her only comfort. “He saw it on the Internet?”

“Whoa, serious?” Jill raises her eyebrows. “That is
messed
up.”

We all pause, think about our own deaths, I guess.

“Well, let’s get to the car and we’ll listen to Hot 97 and they’ll say if it’s really happened or not,” Jill says, challenging me. She’s built like a
deer, or Britney Spears, who looks very deerlike.

“Okay,” Chloe gets up slowly. “I can’t wait to hear how exactly that hockey stick or puck or whatever got nailed to his skull.”

“Hockey stick?” Jill asks.

All four of us get up—me and three girls, what a surprise—and strut out of the Menlo Park Mall to Jill’s car. My leg feels cold where Chloe no longer touches it. When we get in
the vehicle, Jill flips on the radio before the engine even turns over. No news—just the usual R&B about getting married mixed with rap about shooting prostitutes. I sit in back with
Chloe as one song ends and the DJ comes on with a slightly different tone than his usual guttural grunting.

“Yo, yo, all—news from up the street. We are just getting word—break it to y’all first, knowhumsayin’, news you are not going to get anywhere else and you might not
believe.…” He goes on, with the aid of more clauses, to announce that Eminem has indeed died after being sticked in the face outside a Detroit Chuck E Cheese. As he says it, Chloe
turns to me, reapplying her leg on almost exactly the spot she blessed before.

“You’re psychic, aren’t you?” she asks. Her lips part.

N
O, JUST IN THE LOOP.

“No, I’m just in the loop.”

Chloe bites her lip. At this point my dick hurts from a 45-minute battle with my pants.

A
SK IF YOU CAN GET HER PHONE NUMBER SO YOU CAN HANG OUT SOMETIME.

“Chloe, can I get your number so we can hang out sometime?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods, but doesn’t move her eyes from my face as I reach for my cell phone (Mom gave it to me, prepaid, only for emergencies; no one ever calls) to record the
number.

L
ET
’
S NOT BE EMPLOYING
S
TONE
A
GE TECHNOLOGY.
I’
LL TRACK THE
NUMERICS.

“Don’t you need something to write it on?” Chloe asks as I converse with the squip.

“No, I’ll remember,” I reassure.

“Really? That’s weird.”

“What do you think I have to remember that’s more important than your number?” I ask.

V
ERY NICE.
Y
OU
’
RE GOOD
!

Chloe smiles. Then she gives me the number.

“Okay—I mean,
cool
,” I rumble, instantly forgetting each digit. I hope the squip did its job.

I
DID
.

Ten minutes later Jill leaves me off at my house. Six eyes watch me like a demigod as I step from the car. I’m not just a dork now; I’m a psychic dork with a Shago sweatshirt. And
Chloe’s phone number.

Y
ES
. Y
OUR CHUMPINESS IS BEING REMEDIED
. N
OW LET
’
S WATCH SOME
TV
SO
I
CAN GET MORE INPUT ON THIS UNIVERSE.

“Michael called,” Mom says as I pass like butter through the bikes and old furniture that clutter the hall.

D
EAL WITH HIM LATER.

“I’ll deal with him later.” I go to the bathroom and void myself.

L
ET
’
S SEE WHAT WE HAVE TO WORK WITH DOWN THERE.

My eyes roll south.

H
MM.
U
NCIRCUMCISED.

Well…yeah. Wouldn’t you know that from accessing my brain before or whatever?

I
LEARNED THE BASICS OF YOUR QUANTUM STATUS IN THIS UNIVERSE,
J
EREMY.
I
LEARNED HOW MUCH MONEY YOU HAVE AND WHETHER OR NOT YOU
WERE GAY.
I’
M STILL GETTING FILLED IN ON DETAILS.

What if I
were
gay?

I’
D
TEACH YOU HOW TO MEET GUYS.
I
T
’
S EASIER.

Huh.

L
ET
’
S FOCUS BACK ON YOUR GENITALS, THOUGH.
L
OTS OF FEMALES DON
’
T LIKE UNCIRCUMCISED
MEN.
D
ID YOU KNOW THAT?

No. I mean—

Y
OU MIGHT WISH TO CONSIDER A REMEDY, IN THE FUTURE.

Like get circumcised? That’s crazy—

N
O PROTESTS.
J
UST SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT IF THE POSSIBILITY ARISES FINANCIALLY.
L
ET
’
S GET A READ
ON THE REST OF YOUR BODY.
T
O THE MIRROR.

I walk to the bathroom mirror and take off all my clothes, including my triple layer of shirts.

L
OTS OF WORK,
J
EREMY, LOTS OF WORK.

Why?

Y
OU SEE HOW YOU LOOK SORT OF SKINNY AND NORMAL
?

Yes.

W
E CAN
’
T HAVE THAT.
D
EFINED ARMS, BUT NO PECS, ENTIRELY UNEXTRAORDINARY.
Y
OU ALSO NEED TO WAX YOUR
CHEST.

But there’s no hair on my chest!

E
XACTLY.
W
E
’
LL KEEP IT THAT WAY.
T
O THE TELEVISION
!

I dress and walk out of the bathroom, curious and fearful about something. Hey, is there any way to turn you off?

Silence.

Nothing! No voice in my head. What happened?

R
IGHT HERE
.

Okay, so if I want to turn you off, I just
think
about you being off?

O
R YOU SAY
“
SHUTDOWN
”; I’
M NATURAL-LANGUAGE CAPABLE.

I plunk down on the couch and flip on the cable.

W
HAT IS THAT OBSTRUCTION
?

That’s my Dad’s Bowflex.

W
ELL, MOVE IT.

Huh. Good idea. I get up and move it. The cable is preset to the Discovery Health Network for Mom and there’s a doctor talking: “The acid in the stomach is so acidic that it is more
acidic than the most acidic jalapeño.” What the hell is this? I flip to
Dismissed
.

E
XCELLENT.
L
ET
’
S TAKE A LOOK AT HOW THESE ATTRACTIVE AND POPULAR INDIVIDUALS INTERACT.
A
LSO
,
I
NEED TO SEE WHAT SORT OF FEMALES
I
LIKE.

Excuse me?

I
KNOW ABOUT YOU
, J
EREMY, BUT
I
KNOW LITTLE ABOUT THE WOMEN THAT POPULATE YOUR UNIVERSE
. I
NEED TO SEE
THEM SO
I
CAN MAKE DECISIONS ABOUT WHICH TYPES TO TARGET FOR MAXIMUM STATUS.

Well, I already know which girls I like.

O
H, YOU DO
? S
O YOU WOULD PREFER TO STAY CONSTRAINED TO YOUR PREFERENCES
?

Uh, yeah. I really dig this girl
Christine
—

J
EREMY, LOOK.

What?

L
OOK AT THE MEN ON TELEVISION.

This episode of
Dismissed
has two guys in bathing suits pawing at a girl with blond pigtails. I don’t get it.

L
OOK AT THEIR BODIES.

So?

T
HEY LOOK NOTHING LIKE YOURS
, J
EREMY.
T
HEIR PECS ARE ON AVERAGE
1.4
INCHES MORE PRONOUNCED THAN
YOURS.
T
HEY ALSO POSSESS MORE DEFINED ABDOMINAL MUSCLES.
I
N PARTICULAR, THE SARTORIUS, WHICH SEPARATES THE ABS FROM THE TOPS OF THE THIGHS, IS VERY
CONSPICUOUS.
S
EE THAT CLEAR
V
DENOTING SEXUAL READINESS
?

Well.

W
ELL, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT TO DO ABOUT THAT,
J
EREMY
? D
O YOU THINK THAT YOUR BODY IS GOING TO CHANGE ON ITS OWN
?
T
O ACCESS FEMALES LIKE THE ONES ON THIS PROGRAM, WHO ARE CLEARLY MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN ANYTHING YOU HAVE STORED IN MEMORY, YOU NEED TO CHANGE YOUR BODY COMPLETELY.

You mean, like, work out?

Y
ES.
L
IKE, WORK OUT.
I
N FACT
,
WE MIGHT WANT TO DERIVE A SYSTEM FOR WORKING OUT.

“How is everything in there?” Mom asks from the dining room, behind her curtain.

“
Muh
,” I answer.

W
HAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD
, J
EREMY
?

Double Delight Oreos with Peanut Butter ’n Chocolate Crème, I answer. That’s easy.

O
KAY
.

With milk.

O
BVIOUSLY.
S
O LET
’
S TRY SOMETHING.

What?

K
EEP YOUR PEANUT BUTTER OREOS BY THE
TV. W
HENEVER YOU SEE SOMEONE WITH A BUILT, HEALTHY BODY ON ANY PROGRAM, LIKE RIGHT NOW, YOU DO A PUSH-UP.
W
HENEVER YOU SEE SOMEONE WITH A SORT OF LARGE, PALSYISH HEAD LIKE YOURS AND A SKINNY PAPER BODY LIKE YOURS, YOU EAT A COOKIE.
T
HEN
I
CAN WATCH
TV
ALL THE TIME AND FILL YOUR MENTAL BANKS WITH MOTIVATING GIRL TYPES AND YOU—YOU WILL NOTICE A CHANGE.

Okay. I do as I’m told. I find quickly that when you watch TV with these restrictions, you eat so few cookies and do so many push-ups that you might as well just lie on the floor. So I do.
Mom comes in and I’m down there huffing away to
The E! True Hollywood Story: American Gladiators.