Mad Skills (10 page)
Authors: Walter Greatshell
“Why should I have to trade?”
“Think of Adam and Eve, or the Tower of Babel. You know God expects us to choose between Faith and Knowledge. One path leads to salvation, the other to …”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t believe in Hell anymore. And I don’t think you do, either.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because right now you’re less afraid of Hell than you are of me.”
Turning pale, the principal excused himself and fell into hearty conversation with someone else.
The next time her mother came by to see how she was doing, Maddy asked, “Mom, why isn’t Mr. Blevin here?”
Taken aback, Beth Grant said, “Wouldn’t you rather talk about this later? When we can be alone?”
“I’d prefer to talk about it now, actually.”
“Well, honey, after what happened, Sam and I aren’t seeing each other anymore. He moved away.”
Maddy was shocked. “When was this?”
“It’s been months now. I think it was too painful for him. Seeing you always reminded him too much of Ben.”
“But that’s why I wanted to talk to him.”
“I know, honey. But I think that would be very difficult for him. I’m sorry. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner because I thought you should be the one to bring it up.”
“So you’re back on the market, then.”
“No. Actually your dad’s moving in with us for the time being.”
“Seriously?”
“We’ve been discussing it, and he and I both feel it’s better for all of us to be together right now.”
Maddy smiled for the first time in a long, long time. “That’s great,” she said. “That’s really great.”
TEN
SOLITAIRE
IN the week after the party, everything settled down to a low hum. The first few days were blissfully free of obligation, and Maddy found that by sequestering herself within the four walls, she could dull her attention to the competing info-streams, more easily tune them out, or perhaps they just dried up of their own accord. Either way, she was at least able to savor the musty, all-U-can-eat banquet of the familiar. This house, her home, with all its deeply ingrained smells and textures, evoked a familiar history as sticky sweet as maple syrup.
Maddy spent most of her time zoned out on the couch. She was not bored; in her mind, she surfed the curious patterns of megadigit prime numerals and plumbed discrepancies in the Standard Theory, eking and tweaking her own equations for a comprehensive Unified Field Solution that she mentally filed alongside solitaire on her list of pleasant ways to kill time.
If other people were around, a lot of what she did was just playacting, performing the role of Maddy Grant, all-American girl, as she knew they expected her to be. But the more she did it, the more she realized how impossible it would be to inhabit this mythical Maddy, to actually will the silly creature into being. To become herself again.
What had Maddy Grant been all about? Inspecting her room was like browsing a museum … or a mausoleum. It was all there. Physical vanity, mostly—she had been a typical teenager agonizing over every blemish. Self-conscious, self-loathing, even occasionally self-mutilating (although this mainly manifested itself in biting her nails too short), the girl was a bundle of postpubescent neuroses, some of which could be at least partially attributed to her parents’ divorce. The positive stuff was not much better: hanging out at the mall, obsessing about boys, and worshipping some inane pop star. Marina Sweet—Jesus.
What a dip I was,
Maddy thought, looking at all the Marina memorabilia.
What a dip I was,
Maddy thought, looking at all the Marina memorabilia.
“We weren’t sure what to do with all this,” her mother said over her shoulder. “After what happened to Marina.”
“Why? What happened to her?”
Her mother shrank back. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry—I thought you’d remember. We told you. It happened so long ago …”
“What? What, for God’s sake?”
“Marina Sweet is dead. She died in a plane crash.”
Maddy was startled, and shocked that she was startled—as if the news of some platinum-bobbed teen queen’s death should mean anything to her now.
“Oh,” she said.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Her mother took something down from a shelf in the closet: a box of magazine and newspaper articles. “I saved these for you in case you wanted them. It happened right after you and Ben went to her concert. At first I blamed her in some way for everything, but then I realized it wasn’t her fault.”
Her mom handed her a clipping, and Maddy read it at a glance.
POP SINGER SUFFERS BREAKDOWNAssociated Press: Former teen sensation Marina Sweet is reportedly in seclusion today, following her sudden disappearance during a stage performance in Colorado. The remaining dates of her 12-state concert tour have been canceled.“Marina is suffering from exhaustion, pure and simple,” said her father and longtime manager, David Sweet. “She apologizes to her fans and looks forward to going back on the road as soon as possible. For the time being, she needs to rest and focus on writing the songs for her upcoming studio album. We ask that the press respect our family’s need for privacy during this period of recuperation. Thank you.”When asked where his daughter was recuperating, Mr. Sweet replied that it was a private psychiatric facility near the family’s home. He denied rumors that her collapse was due to substance abuse, saying only, “Marina treats her body like a well-oiled machine. She’s a consummate professional, totally focused on her long-term goals, and I deeply resent any suggestion to the contrary.”
There was another article stapled to the first one. It read:
MARINA SWEET DEAD AT 15UPI: Teenage superstar Marina Sweet has been confirmed dead after a fiery helicopter crash. Also killed in the accident were her father, David Sweet, 47, and the helicopter’s pilot, Paul Talbott, 33.The popular teen entertainer, best known for playing the character Amber Grease in the popular
Middle School
films, and for her syndicated TV show
Sweet!
, was returning to her home after being treated for exhaustion, when the helicopter in which she was traveling appears to have lost power, going down in a mountainous area of north-west Idaho. By the time searchers located the remote crash site, fire had consumed most of the wreckage.All across the country, spontaneous candlelight vigils are being held, and several suicides of young girls have been attributed to grief over the death of their idol.
Maddy shrugged, reluctant to let her mother see how she felt. “I’m okay,” she said. “Let’s get rid of this junk.”
ELEVEN
MOUSETRAP
TRAPPINGS of a life so circumscribed it was suffocating: watch TV, surf the Internet, play video games, eat, sleep, wake up—lather, rinse, repeat. None of it any good now. All she saw when she looked at the TV or the Web was the crude technology: flat images made of fluorescent chemicals, poorly simulating the color and depth of life. It was incredible to think she had spent hours of every day staring at this crap! For
years
. Especially since there was no reason for it to be so bad—Maddy could think of a hundred ways to simplify and improve the experience, starting with eliminating the video screen altogether. Human beings already had a built-in screen, one that was 3-D and stereoscopic: their eyes. To fully replicate the sense of sight, it was simply necessary to refract images into the pupils, turning each eyeball into a portable, personal camera obscura.
years
. Especially since there was no reason for it to be so bad—Maddy could think of a hundred ways to simplify and improve the experience, starting with eliminating the video screen altogether. Human beings already had a built-in screen, one that was 3-D and stereoscopic: their eyes. To fully replicate the sense of sight, it was simply necessary to refract images into the pupils, turning each eyeball into a portable, personal camera obscura.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t change the fact that the shows themselves were totally unwatchable, not to mention the incessant, hectoring commercials. She sat with her folks in the evening to view their favorite programs, and it was a nightmare: grindingly repetitive legal dramas, hospital dramas, police dramas; vacuous “news” about celebrities and diets; fake comedy and true crime; depressing “inspirational” programs and flat-out lies. Maddy was first astonished, then disgusted by the lack of substance, which was clearly by design—anything that might disturb the national slumber party was forbidden.
“God, what the hell happened to TV while I was gone?” she asked.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” asked her dad.
“It’s gotten so
evil
. Every show is like every other show, and it’s all just to crush any sense of shared humanity or larger purpose.”
evil
. Every show is like every other show, and it’s all just to crush any sense of shared humanity or larger purpose.”
“But that’s silly, sweetheart. It’s just harmless entertainment.”
“Harmless? This stuff is in every home, every day, pushing this horrible agenda. No wonder people need antidepressants.”
“What agenda?”
“Are you serious? That we should all be
terrified
. About crime, about money, about our health, about our looks. And for everything that scares us, somebody’s selling the cure. Except it’s all just bullshit, intended to distract us from what we should really be worried about, which is the assholes who are twisting human civilization into a giant pig farm. Terror as a tool of mass manipulation—isn’t that the definition of terrorism?”
terrified
. About crime, about money, about our health, about our looks. And for everything that scares us, somebody’s selling the cure. Except it’s all just bullshit, intended to distract us from what we should really be worried about, which is the assholes who are twisting human civilization into a giant pig farm. Terror as a tool of mass manipulation—isn’t that the definition of terrorism?”
Her mother said, “I’m sorry, honey, but could you just try to watch your language? Please? For me?”
“Sure, of course—sorry, Mom. I guess I’m still adjusting.”
Trying to dispel the awkwardness, her dad said, “Listen, if you don’t want to watch TV, we don’t have to watch TV.” He clicked the set off. “We’ll do whatever you want to do, Mads.”
“Can we just talk a little while?”
“Certainly. That would be nice. What would you like to talk about?”
“Well, first I just want to apologize to you guys. I know I’ve been kind of bitchy since I got home, and I don’t mean to be. I want to let you know I’m not all depressed or anything. It probably seems like I hate everything all the time, which is not true—there are a lot of beautiful things going on that I never noticed before. I’m just not used to talking about them.”
“That’s wonderful, honey,” said her mother. “Like what?”
“Well, for instance, I really like that we’re all together like this. I wanted to thank you guys for that. I know it’s been tough for you, and I appreciate it.”
“Oh, baby, I’m so glad.”
“We should be the ones thanking you,” said her father. He took his wife’s hand, and they beamed at each other. “You helped us realize that what really matters is family. Through thick and thin.”
They all stood up and hugged over the coffee table, weeping. After a moment, they settled back into their seats.
Wiping her eyes, Maddy said, “Also, I love crystals.”
“Oh?”
“They’re so amazing, don’t you think?”
“I guess they are at that,” ventured Mr. Grant.
Mrs. Grant said, “It’s so nice in the morning when the sun shines through them, and they make little rainbows all over the room.”
Maddy nodded in polite agreement. “Oh, definitely. It’s also fun to play around with hypothetical variants on the four basic cell-unit types and the geometric tessellations of the seven crystalline systems, just to see what happens. Why stop with the fourteen Bravais Lattices? I’ve worked out Face-Centered, Base-Centered, and Body-Centered Dodecahedral and Octoclinic Systems—you name it. The theoretical configurations are infinite.”
“My goodness.”
“It’s better than Legos.”
Her folks sat nodding for a moment, then looked at each other. “Well!” her dad said heartily. “And on that note, I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”
THE Internet was another level of mindlessness altogether, though at least she could bypass all the “user-friendly” junk and write her own programming code. Still, technology was the holdup: Everything was slow—agonizingly slow. The sad fact was it was not all that different from the crude level of consciousness she had experienced in her brain-dead state. To go back to either of those conditions now, Maddy would feel like a goldfish stranded in a puddle. Flopping around and gasping for breath. Which was exactly what she was: a big fish in a little pond.
So she pretended.
She was good at pretending: Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, angels—she had once fervently believed in them all. One summer her camp counselors dug up an old Ouija board and held a séance, at which Maddy truly thought she had witnessed the raising of spirits. Clearly, she could believe anything. But to resurrect the spirit of Maddy Grant, she needed others around her just as credulous—fortunately, good old Mom and Dad were also sitting at the table, hands joined, intently waiting for the candles to flicker.
They baked cookies, did dishes together, ironed and folded laundry, played cards and board games in the evenings. All three participated with determined enthusiasm, pushing themselves to conform to their own highest expectations of how a happy family should act. Her folks fulfilled their roles as a loving couple, Dad having moved back in to complete the family unit, and Mom pretending to forgive his infidelities. Maddy was pretty sure they weren’t sleeping in the same bed, but it was the thought that counted. The hope. And, taxing as the effort was, all three of them did sense something real stirring, a spark of normalcy in the damp tinder … or perhaps they just wanted it so badly.
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