Be More Chill (13 page)

“Jeremy! I’m impressed.”

“Yeah,” I answer.

I get buff in two weeks.

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. That night, in my bedroom, when I jiggle the mouse to wake the computer, the squip has something to say.

S
TOP MASTURBATING.

Right. I forgot this was one of your policies.

A
REN
’
T YOU TIRED FROM THE PUSH-UPS
?

Not so tired that I can’t talk to girls online.

J
EREMY, IF YOU
’
RE NOT TOO TIRED TO KEEP FROM MANUALLY STIMULATING YOURSELF, YOU MUST DO MORE PUSH-UPS.
W
OMEN CAN
TELL
IF YOU MASTURBATE AND IT CASTS A BAD LIGHT ON YOUR APPEARANCE.
A
LSO, MANY OF THE
“
GIRLS
”
YOU TALK TO
ONLINE ARE ACTUALLY MEN WITH MAJOR PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS—

Shutdown.

There it goes. Silence. It’s nice to take a break. I go online with my pants unzipped and Michael is there, waiting.

“what’s up popular asshole?” he says on AIM.

“call me” I say back.

Michael phones. I pick up so quickly, my parents only hear half a ring.

“What’s up, popular asshole?” he says.

“Look, I’m sorry man. I just
had
to stick around with those girls, you know?”

“You’re a f_ _ _ _ _ _ dick, Jeremy. I drove you to the mall just like I drove you to the bowling alley last week for no _uck_ _ _ reason and you ditched me and ended up talking to
two
cute girls and you didn’t give me _h_t. You treated me like a
burden
—”

“Both of the girls weren’t cute! Only Chloe was cute.”

“I think Anne’s pretty cute too, dick! I’ll take your castoffs.”

“Well.” I’m at a loss for words. Startup.

T
ELL HIM YOU WERE IN A VERY DELICATE SITUATION TRYING TO GET THE PHONE NUMBER OFF
C
HLOE.

“I was really trying for Chloe’s number, dude; you just showed up at the wrong time.”

G
IVE HIM THE FIVE-MINUTE RAP.

“If you had come by
five minutes later
we would have left together.”

“Well…did you get her number?”

That’s the only thing that’s going to make Michael feel better now: my failure. Too bad.

“Heh. Yeah. It’s right here.” I point to my head. That reminds me, should I call Chloe tonight?

A
BSOLUTELY NOT.

“How’d you get her number?” he whines.

“I’m getting slick, man.”

“_u_ _.” Michael hangs up. He does that a lot. I start to call him back.

N
O
, the squip says. L
ET IT GO
. Y
OU DON
’
T NEED HIM
. H
E
’
S UNSTABLE
. T
OMORROW AT SCHOOL WE
’
RE GOING TO BUILD YOU A NEW CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.

What? No way. (I keep dialing.)

J
EREMY, STOP AND LISTEN TO ME.
A
DVISER, REMEMBER
?

I stop.

T
OMORROW, YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL NEW PEOPLE TO DEAL WITH, DO YOU UNDERSTAND
?

How?

H
OW
? H
OW DOES ANYBODY DO IT
? Y
OU GET GOOD CLOTHES, WALK IN WITH CONFIDENCE AND SHED UNNECESSARY HUMANS
. L
IKE
M
ICHAEL.

He’s not unnecessary—he’s my friend.

L
ISTEN
. (The squip can be very soothing when it wants.) Y
OU
’
RE NOT LOSING HIM FOR GOOD.
J
UST
PUTTING HIM ASIDE A BIT
. O
NCE YOU GET YOURSELF SITUATED IN THIS NEW SITUATION AND HE CALMS DOWN A LITTLE, YOU CAN MAKE THINGS UP TO HIM BY INCLUDING HIM IN WHATEVER YOU AND
YOUR NEW FRIENDS DO.
D
ON
’
T YOU THINK HE
’
LL APPRECIATE THAT
?

I guess.

Y
OU TWO WILL FINALLY GET AHEAD IN
M
IDDLE
B
OROUGH
, J
EREMY
. Y
OU
’
LL BECOME WHAT YOU ALREADY THINK OF YOURSELVES AS—SMART AND INDEPENDENT-MINDED PARTICIPANTS IN HIGH-SCHOOL CULTURE
!

Sh_ _! I totally forgot! What about that work Mr. Gretch wanted? (I put the phone down.)

N
OT TO WORRY.
S
HOW IT TO ME.

I pull out a wrinkled sheet of math problems from my backpack—I lost the textbook for math, so when problems are assigned I have to copy them from someone else’s book, usually
Michael’s. I put the sheet on my desk.

T
HIS DOESN
’
T LOOK HARD.
M
AY
I?

Sure. And then something incredible happens. Something revolutionary and perfect that everybody should have the pleasure of experiencing at least once. I look at each problem on the sheet,
scanning slowly like one of those expensive scanners that gets really good resolution. For every question I see, the squip tells me the answer instantly; I think it even helps move my eyeballs
along at data-entry speed. And these aren’t easy problems—they’re trigonometry proofs. I’m done with the sheet in thirty seconds.

S
EE HOW THAT WORKS
?

That’s amazing.

WAIT. CHANGE THAT ONE AND THAT ONE. YOU NEED TO MAINTAIN CORRECT PERCENTAGES IN THE LOW NINETIES SO AS NOT TO AROUSE SUSPICION IN YOUR INSTITUTION.

Right. You’re amazing. How do you do it?

Q
UANTUM PRINCIPLES,
J
EREMY.

Like what?

Q
UBIT MEMORY, PARALLEL PROCESSING.
T
HOSE THINGS.

What are they? Tell me.

I
T
’
S EASY.
T
AKE YOUR DESK.

What about it?

W
ELL,
SOMETHING
’
S EITHER ON THE DESK OR OFF IT, RIGHT
? I
T CAN
’
T BE
BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.

Right.

M
OST THINGS IN LIFE ARE LIKE THAT.
Y
OU
’
RE EITHER DEAD OR ALIVE.
I
N A CAR OR OUTSIDE IT.

Right.

B
UT THEN AGAIN, THERE
’
S A WHOLE CLASS OF PHENOMENA THAT DON
’
T FIT INTO THAT EITHER
/
OR
CLASSIFICATION.
Y
OU LOVE YOUR MOTHER, BUT YOU HATE HER TOO.
Y
OU WANT TO KILL YOURSELF SOMETIMES, BUT YOU
’
RE STILL A
PRETTY HAPPY KID.
R
IGHT
?

I guess.

E
MOTIONS, HUMAN DILEMMAS, PLANNING, WRITING, RELATIONSHIPS—NONE OF THESE ARE CUT-AND-DRIED.
B
UT WITH NORMAL COMPUTERS, CUT-AND-DRIED ONES AND ZEROS
ARE USED TO REPRESENT INFORMATION.
T
HAT
’
S CALLED BINARY CODE.
Y
OU SEE IT ALL THE TIME.
A
NYTIME
A MOVIE COMES OUT WITH COMPUTERS IN IT, THEY PUT A WHOLE STRING OF ONES AND ZEROS BEHIND THE HERO ON THE POSTER, CORRECT
?

Sure.

S
O A PIECE OF INFORMATION IN A NORMAL COMPUTER CAN BE A ONE OR A ZERO.
T
HAT
’
S CALLED A BIT.
B
UT
I
DON
’
T USE ONES AND ZEROS;
I
USE PHOTONS, TINY PIECES OF LIGHT CALLED
“
QUBITS
.” E
ACH OF THESE QUBITS CAN BE A ONE OR A ZERO OR A SORT OF IN-BETWEEN STATE.

So you have one-halfs instead of just ones and zeros?

S
ORT OF.
I
HAVE INTERMEDIATE STATES THAT ALLOW ME TO WORK IN A MASSIVELY PARALLEL WAY;
I
CAN REPRESENT A GROUP OF NUMBERS IN THE
SAME SPACE IT TAKES A NORMAL COMPUTER TO REPRESENT A SINGLE NUMBER.
I
WORK LIKE YOUR BRAIN.
B
UT BETTER.
A
ND
THAT
’
S WHY
I
DO YOUR HOMEWORK INSTANTLY.

Yeah. Amazing.

D
ON
’
T WASTE THOSE COMPLIMENTS ON ME.
P
RACTICE SAYING THAT TO GIRLS.

“Hi, you’re
amazing
,” I tell the dull air of my room. Then I laugh.

G
ETTING THERE
.

Let’s do some more push-ups.

S
URE
.

I get going. After twenty reps, with the squip encouraging me and telling jokes, I’m so tired that I roll into bed without thinking about jerking off. My eyes just shut and
then…bam, I’m in the world of squip-active dreaming. Which rules.

See, I haven’t had dreams in years, or at least dreams I could remember, and I’ve never ever had sex in my dreams, ever, but tonight I conjure up an unimaginable pastiche of women
and sex and money. Chloe is there, as is the blonde with pigtails from
Dismissed
, as is Christine, as are the women I saw on TV after
Dismissed
, during my push-ups. There are rich and
famous beautiful folks everywhere and I’m talking to all of them, conversing with Keanu Reeves, actually, while Chloe makes out with my ankle (and a chick elf does too, with the other one).
The setting is a garden, but the plants are all stringy muscle cells, tendons, and vein-vines, with nerves growing like bleached trees toward the ceiling. And the ceiling is really the apex of my
skull and right up there is the gray pill, like the sun, with a smiley face painted on its side. “You are cool, Jeremy,” it says, finally moving its lips instead of just thinking to me.
“You are
so
cool.”

I
am
cool. The next day at school I prove it. First the squip tells me I have to wear the “I like the Pope/The Pope smokes dope” T-shirt because Eminem just
died. That’s all they’re talking about on the radio as I walk past Mom.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she says in the kitchen. Mom’s buried in her crossword. If she doesn’t finish it before she has to leave the house, she’s a failure.
“How are you?”

I
GNORE HER
. I get milk out of the fridge.

“I said ‘How are you’—What are you wearing?” She stands up very quickly. “You cannot go to school with that!”

“Wow, I didn’t realize freedom of expression didn’t exist in this house.” I’ve gotten pretty good at repeating what the squip says without missing a beat.

“Freedom of expression doesn’t exist for minors, Jeremy, which is what you
are
.”

T
ELL HER TO GO F
_ _ _
HERSELF.

No!

T
HEN WEAR A DIFFERENT SHIRT OUT OF THE HOUSE AND CHANGE BEFORE YOU GET TO SCHOOL.

Okay. That works. I leave Mom satisfied, wearing an alternate shirt, exit the house, and morph halfway across the field into the Eminem T-shirt, tall grass tickling my chest. I start singing to
myself, one of those silly songs I wrote in my head in sixth grade, back when I wanted to be a rock star: “I’m the—I’m the—I’m the—I’m
the—I’m the—
man
!
Dun-dun-dun
—”

N
O SINGING, PLEASE.

No singing?

Y
ES.
I
T IS ANNOYING.
I
F YOU
’
RE GOING TO MAKE MUSIC IN YOUR HEAD, PLEASE MAKE IT RAP-SLASH-HIP-HOP,
THE ACCEPTABLE MUSIC OF YOUTH CULTURE.

How about this: shutdown.

Phew. I keep the tune going as I cross the field. As I approach school, though, I get nervous and turn the squip on. I climb the stairs and Rich is at the top, hanging with a pack of fawning
females. “Quality shirt,” he says as I approach.

“Hello, Rich,” I nod, squip-prompted. I almost wave but the squip tells me that waving is one of the worst things you can do in any social situation; it makes people question your
nonretardedness. “What’s up?”

“You headed to class?”

“Not in a rush.”

“Huh.” Rich eyes me closely. Does he know? Maybe he’ll be pissed because I went through Rack to get my squip instead of paying him. Maybe he’ll want to kick my
ass—