Be More Chill (27 page)

Christine is at the door that leads from backstage to the beige hall. She rushes away when I approach. Then, at a safe distance, she hisses: “Why’d you have to be so
dumb
?”

I look at her. She eyes me through hands that jail her face. She must not want me to see how tears hurt her Puck makeup. Or maybe she doesn’t want to see
me
. A fairy comes up behind
her, grabs her, ushers her off.

“It wasn’t me. It was the squip.…” I try to explain, but who can explain this? Really.

“If you weren’t so dumb, I would’ve
liked
it!” she yells as she’s whisked away.

I slink into the hall and take off my Lysander outfit. I wonder who’s going to be me for the rest of the play—I never had an understudy. Just as I’m getting my pants off, Mr.
Reyes comes up and holds out his hands.

“I think they’ll fit me,” he says. I’m changing by the same chair I was at before the play started, the one with all my stuff on it. “I haven’t been in
Midsummer
for years. I’m glad you’re giving me a chance to strut my stuff.
Aaaaaaaaa!
”

I hand him my pants, shirt, doublet, pantaloons, whatever the hell the stupid Shakespeare costumery is called. Mr. Reyes clutches the bundle to his chest and kneels in front of me to remove his
shoes.

“I’m treating you like this because you’re smart, Jeremy. You’re smart enough to know how to act like an adult. So you make me treat you like an adult. And if anyone
breaks character in any of my plays, they’re out of my plays.” He stands up and walks to the backstage. “Good luck.”

Good luck. That’s what I thought I had: good luck. Good probability amplitudes. What the hell. Startup. Startup!

Start
up
!

The squip. What am I supposed to do with it? If it
does
show up I think I’m going to blast my own head off to get rid of it, or take enough drugs to scrub it clean, like Rich did,
maybe. I put on my coat and stand up from my seat and stride to the back doors of Middle Borough. I make a few left turns; at the final doors, the school custodian is smoking a cigarette (I smile
at him; he doesn’t know I’m a loser freak yet, unless someone texted him). I exit into the cold night air. I go right up to the mural where I played handball with Michael Mell and sit
down on the curb. I cry like I’m trying to make icicles.

“Jeremy?”

Oh thank God it’s a real voice.

“What?” I raise my eyes. Through a wet haze Michael comes toward me, leaving school through the same door I did. He came to the play to see me; I blocked that out somewhere.

“Dude.”

“Dude.”

“What happened? What were you
doing
?”

“I was trying to get with Christine, obviously!” I dip my head between my knees.

“Yeah, but…” Michael starts laughing, a loud laugh, not one of derision. He sits next to me. “That was the
dumbest
thing I’ve ever seen! I
mean—”

“I know.”

“I mean, did you just think it up right there?”

“No…I sort of…”

“Was it like spur-of-the-moment, overcome by lust and stupidity? Or did you know ahead of time that you were going to do that?”

“Well—”

“Oh, Jeremy,” Michael shakes his head. “You
planned
it.” He gives me a look. “You actually thought that if you stopped a play in the middle and told a girl
that you liked her in front of three hundred people, she would say yes.”

“I didn’t really—”

“How would you two finish the play, then?” Michael gesticulates. His giant headphones perch around his neck. I wonder how he knew I’d be out here. “I mean, let’s
say it works, right? You ask her out on stage. She says yes. Now what—are you going to get backstage and make out with each other and then do another scene? Jeremy”—Michael leans
close—“That’s what the
cast party
is for. You’re supposed to get drunk and hook up at the
cast party
.”

“Well, it wasn’t me!” I throw my arms out. “I’ve never been to a cast party! And…” I give up on this one; now that it’s not working it’s
easier to admit: “And I have a squip, okay?”

Laughter sounds from inside the school. The play must be going all right. I’m sure Mr. Reyes is doing his job.

“What?”

“You know the thing your brother had that got him through the SATs and into Brown that I thought was a joke or whatever? Okay, it wasn’t a joke; it’s real; it’s not
called a ‘script,’ it’s called a ‘squip,’ and I got one, understand?”

Michael just looks at me.

“I got it…a while ago. It’s this supercomputer that went into my brain and it’s been telling me how to be cool and
it
told me to get with Christine. During the
play. Like that.”

“You got one of them?” Michael stretches his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Squips. Man, I knew that’s what they were really called. I was just withholding info from you.”

“Oh no. Do you have one too?” If Michael has a squip, then I’m done for. If he has one, then who doesn’t? Who’s real?

“No, I don’t
have
one. I just didn’t want you to hear about it, man. I knew you’d want one. And they’re not good. It messed up my brother.”

I smile. “Your brother.”

“Oh yeah. You’re a gullible guy, just like him. You want to be famous like most people. The one he had, I guess it was an early version or whatever. It almost drove him
insane.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. That’s evil technology. I mean, there’s a reason it’s not legal.”

“Well, it started out great! It just…messed up.”

“That’s what happens.” Michael looks serious, then grins: “So
this
is why you’ve been such a dick! I thought you were just becoming an actual dick! You had a
squip!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t anymore. It stopped.”

“Stopped what?”

“Stopped talking to me. Usually you say startup and then—”

H
ELLO
.

“Oh my God.” How come everything has to happen at once? “It just started.”

“What? The squip?” Michael gets up.

“Yes. It just started in my head.”

“Trippy. Well ask it what the hell it was thinking!”

J
EREMY
, I’
M SORRY
.

“You’d better be sorry!” I scream. I get up and start running around the parking lot as if the squip were outside me and I could escape it.

I’
M FAULTY
, it says. I’
M BADLY PROGRAMMED
. G
ET VERSION
4.0
WHEN IT COMES OUT
.
I’
M DEPRECATED
.

“That doesn’t help now!” I yell. “You ruined my
life
!”

I
KNOW
, I
KNOW
—

“You know? That’s not what you’re supposed to say! You’re supposed to say it’s not that bad and give me advice on how to
fix
it!”

W
ELL, YOU HAVE NO OPTIONS, SO
I
HAVE NO ADVICE
. T
HAT WAS AN UNPRECEDENTED FAILURE
. I
HAD TO DO A
TEMPORARY SHUTDOWN
. W
HEN SHE DIDN
’
T KISS YOU
, I
COULDN
’
T COMPUTE
. I
HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO HELP YOU NOW
.

“Why not?”

“Jeremy?” Michael asks. He’s still standing by the mural as I run past.

“Yeah?” I wheeze to a stop.

“I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Tell Christine about the squip.”

“Huh?”

“Just tell her,” Michael says. “Tell her like you told me. People are hearing about these things all over now. Lots of people know that Rich had one during that fire. When she
hears it made you do that, she might understand.”

“She’s never gonna understand!” I throw up my hands. “I told my parents, and they thought I was out of my mind!”

“So? Parents don’t believe anything. It’s their job to not believe their kids. What’d they do, send you to therapy?”

H
E
’
S GOT AN ANGLE
.

“Yeah, but…” I back up. “Girls are worse! They don’t understand one
speck
of it. They don’t understand when I like them and when I hate them and when
I fear them uncontrollably and when I want to touch them and when I want to kill them, so they’re certainly not going to understand why I paid six hundred bucks for a pill that got me to make
out with…one, two…two females I wouldn’t have made out with otherwise.”

“Females? Calm down, dude.” Michael puts a hand on my shoulder. “If I understood you, she will. You just have to tell her the whole story.”

“Yeah, right.” I look down. “Who do you think I am? Frickin’
Shakespeare
? I have to tell the whole story of me liking her and going to the dance and getting a
squip and getting with Chloe and taking e and—”

“Taking e?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know? And getting in the play…I don’t even
remember
the whole story.”

I
DO
.

“What?” I ask the squip.

“Wuh?” Michael asks.

“Shhh, not you,” I tell him. “It. It’s talking.”

“Okay.” Michael takes it in stride, leans against the nighttime mural.

I
REMEMBER EVERYTHING
. P
ERFECTLY
.

“The squip remembers everything perfectly,” I relay. Michael nods.

W
HEN YOU SLEEP
, I
LOG YOUR BRAIN ACTIVITY THROUGH DREAMS
. I
T
’
S HOW
I
LEARN
MORE ABOUT YOU WITHOUT BOTHERING YOU IN WAKING HOURS
. I
DON
’
T MEAN MEMORIES
, I
MEAN LOGS
:
EXACTLY WHAT YOU
’
RE THINKING AT ALL TIMES.

“It keeps logs of all my thinkings,” I tell Michael.

“Thinkings?”

“Whatever.” I hit him.

I
HAVE THEM ALL ON FILE
, J
EREMY
. I’
VE BEEN BUILDING SINCE YOU FIRST GOT ME
. A
T THIS POINT
I
HAVE YOUR COMPLETE MENTAL LOG FROM BACK WHEN YOU WERE FOURTEEN
.

“So? So what?”

“What?” Michael asks.

“Not you.”

I
CAN TELL HER
!

“Tell who?”

T
ELL
C
HRISTINE
! I
CAN TELL HER ABOUT WHY YOU DID EVERYTHING YOU DID
! I
CAN SHOW HER THAT YOU REALLY LIKED
HER FROM THE BEGINNING AND THAT IT WAS ALL MY FAULT.

“How?”

W
ELL, WE
’
VE GOT TO DO A DATA DUMP
. T
AKE ALL THE INFORMATION OUT OF YOUR SKULL AND GIVE IT TO HER
.

“Um, hold on,” I say. I turn to Michael. “The squip says that it has my mental log so it can explain to Christine everything that happened.”

“That’s a great idea,” Michael shrugs.

I
T SURE IS
. W
HAT KIND OF FORMAT DO WE WANT
?

“What format do we want?” I ask Michael.

“I dunno…can it make a movie from your head?”

Y
ES
, I
CAN
. C
HRISTINE WOULD SEE EVERYTHING THAT YOU SAW AND HEAR EVERYTHING THAT YOU HEARD SINCE
,
WELL
,
WHENEVER YOU WANTED TO
START THE MOVIE
,
UP TO AND INCLUDING YOU AT FOURTEEN
. Y
OU COULD START IT WITH WHEN YOU GOT ME
.

“No, too late. I was already kind of a dick by then.”

T
HEN WHENEVER
. I
COULD DUMP TO A COMPUTER AND ENCODE A
DVD,
IF YOU HAVE A BURNER
.

“What are you two talking about?” Michael asks.

“Formats, still,” I shush him. Then I think: “A book.”

A
BOOK
?

“A book?” Michael says.

“Yeah,” I sigh. It feels like fluids I didn’t even know I had are draining out of my body. “Write her a book. Write it from my head. Make sure everything’s in
there. She likes text. Letters from her Dad. And if I give that to her and she doesn’t like it, she doesn’t like
me
, and if she doesnt like me, at least she’ll be not
liking me for
me
, you know.”

T
HAT
’
S A GREAT IDEA
.

“That’s a great idea,” Michael says.

“I know it’s a great idea,” I say. “It’s what she would want.”

L
ET
’
S DO IT
.

“Okay.” I turn to Michael. “We’re going to data dump my memories to book format and give Christine the book. Who’s going to write it?”

Michael shrugs.

W
HAT DO YOU MEAN
,
WRITE IT
?

“I mean, my thoughts are kinda garbled. Don’t you have to clean them up a little?”

I
CAN WRITE IT
. W
RITING
’
S NOT EVEN A REAL JOB
. A
NY SQUIP CAN DO IT
.

“Okay, great!” I exclaim. “The squip is going to write it,” I tell Michael. He nods.

T
HERE
’
S ONLY ONE THING WE SHOULD DO
.