Mad Skills (15 page)

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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Mad Skills
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“Hey, you’re that chick.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are. You’re that chick. The one who had the operation.”
“Oh. Yeah … I guess.”
“Awesome! Do you really have a computer chip implanted in your brain?”
Another one interrupted, “Can we see the scar?”
“Shut up, dude!” the first one said. “Can’t you see she’s a retard?”
A third said, “Don’t say
retard
, man—it’s not cool. The word is
mentally disabled
.”
“She ain’t retarded! Are you?”
“Maybe I am,” Maddy replied.
“No way!”
The rudest one, a short, stocky boy, demanded, “How come you’re with the retard class? She’s retarded, I told you!”
“You don’t have to be retarded to be in there,” said the taller kid. “Last year, I knew a kid whose big toenail got infected, and they put him in Special Ed until he could walk again.”
“Bull
shit
, man.”
“Yuh-huh—Wayne Drabinski.”
“Wayne Drabinski—who the hell’s Wayne Drabinski?”
“Just some retard.”
Maddy erupted. “Hey! Could you guys please back off?”
“Hey, whoa. I’m
sorry
. What’s your name?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Seriously, what’s your name? Don’t pay any attention to these assholes.”
Trying to cut him some slack—he couldn’t help being stupid—she sighed. “Maddy, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Does it hurt to have wires stuck in your brain?”
Another blurted, “What was the accident like? When that guy died?”
Feeling her face getting hot, Maddy tried to ignore them. A lot of people were watching them. She could see Stephanie at the edge of the crowd. Why was the line moving so slowly?
The first one said, “
Blevin
—Ben Blevin.”
“Yeah, Ben Blevin. Wasn’t he your stepbrother or something? I heard you were in the Tunnel of Love when he died. That must have been
awesome
.”
“Shut up, man,” said someone farther back.
“Hey, I’m just saying! Did you and him plan that? I mean, did you set it all up on purpose so you could get it on? Because that would be dope, seriously. I would pay to see that.”
The other boys pretended to be shocked, saying, “Shut the fuck
up
, Eric!” But they didn’t mean it; this was a moment of over-the-top hilarity they would repeat again and again. Eric was their idol, and he ruled.
Maddy turned and stepped near the one named Eric. The inner workings of his pea brain were scrolling across his forehead like a stock ticker.
“Why are you trying so hard?” she said in a low voice.
“Huh?”
“What are you ashamed of? Is it because your friends would treat you differently if they knew the truth?”
“What?”
“Maybe they’ve already noticed how nervous you are in the locker room, so careful not to give yourself away.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Is that why you got into swimming? The Speedos and waxed chests?”
The crowd tittered, and the boy lashed out. “Step back, bitch.”
“Something happened, didn’t it, a long time ago? Something that made you feel different from the other boys?”
“
Fuck
you.”
“Wait—don’t lose your place in line. Nobody’s judging you. You were a child; it was innocent curiosity.”
“
You’re
the freak—”
“That’s been your defense mechanism all these years, hasn’t it? Accusing others in order to shift attention from yourself? Hanging around people too dumb to see through the act. But it’s so
obvious
…”
“Fuck you up, bitch.”
“It’s easier to change the subject than to change your sex.”
Eric was ready to explode, his ears bright red. One of the other guys spoke up: “Come on, dude, she’s just messin’ with you.”
“Then she better shut her fucking mouth before I do it for her.”
Shifting her attention to the other boy, Maddy studied his features, his body rhythms, and said, “You’ve been feeling tired, haven’t you?”
“What? Shut up, I’m not talking to you.”
“Seriously, how’s your game?”
“My
game
?”
“You’ve been skipping practice, right?”
“What’re you, stalking me?”
“I don’t have to—your hair’s not bleached to the root, and your hands aren’t pruned. Also, you’ve lost weight recently. It shows first in the face, around the eyes. You’re cold all the time. And your color’s funky—haven’t you noticed? You’re a ghost, kid.”
“Yeah, so I’ve had the flu, so what?”
“No. This has been going on too long for that. Your blood cells are destroying themselves.”
“Are you serious, you crazy bitch?”
“Idiopathic autoimmune hemolytic anemia—I’d bet on it. You should go to the doctor before you have a massive coronary.”
“What! Yeah, like I’m gonna go to the doctor because—”
“You should. Just to rule out leukemia. Or AIDS.”
“Give me a
break
.”
“And Eric? It’s not a crime to be into water sports. But you have to find someone your own age. Don’t obsess about the past, and try not to abuse the Internet—you never know who might be watching.”
With the crowd laughing and jeering him, Eric went berserk, fighting the intervening boys to get at her. Maddy felt a hand on her arm, gently pulling her out of line.
“Come on,” said Stephanie. “You should get out of here.”
“What do you care?” Maddy said, jerking free and running from the cafeteria.
Sobbing, she left the building and fled across the Great Lawn, drawing stares from students and the attention of faculty yard monitors, who gave chase. Seeking a restroom, Maddy ducked indoors and passed bright classrooms with row after row of identical desks … and it suddenly seemed to her that the people behind those desks were also identical, all reading identical books, thinking identical thoughts. Robots. Disposable, interchangeable robots. Existing only to perpetuate the status quo.
Maddy had been a good little robot, too. Only now she was defective, she didn’t fit in. They used euphemisms like
special
and
gifted
, but what they really meant was defective. Unstable. And it was no big mystery what happened to defective machines: They got thrown away.
Maddy crashed through the office doors and burst in on Principal Batrachian. He was in a conference with several teachers, and they all jumped up in surprise as Maddy vaulted over his desk and plunged a cafeteria fork into their principal’s fat throat.
As they wrestled her off, Maddy was babbling unintelligibly about heavy isotopes, atomic decay, and planned obsolescence. It took three burly EMTs to get her to the ambulance.
SEVENTEEN
 
RETURN TO SENDER
 
THE hospital again. Elvis on the speakers (or was it just in her head?), singing “Return to Sender.”
Wheeled around on a gurney, dipping in and out of consciousness, Maddy could tell at once that nobody at Braintree was surprised to see her. The doctors all had the sympathetic, slightly condescending manner of people who were not accustomed to being proven wrong. Dr. Stevens loomed overhead, talking in slow motion.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Grant, just as we anticipated might happen, your daughter Madeline has experienced a bit of difficulty adapting to the RCA interface. It’s nothing to be alarmed about—I’m confident that with the right conditioning, we can get her back on track. It’s just a matter of fine-tuning the program to distribute her psychic workload more evenly. Avert this kind of crisis in the future by repeatedly inducing the appropriate response in a controlled environment. A conditioned reflex. For that reason, it’s very important that we keep her here at the facility—I wouldn’t recommend outpatient therapy again until we have greater confidence in her ability to cope.”
“Dear God. How long do you think she’ll have to stay here this time?”
“Well, it could be worse. If it had gone to court, she could have been permanently institutionalized. Short of that, I do think an open-ended commitment of at least six months would be conservative.”
“Six months!” cried Mrs. Grant.
The doctor said, “I realize it’s difficult, but this is the time when intervention can make the most difference in your daughter’s recovery. Her damaged cortex is knitting right now, generating new synaptic pathways that will decide her personality for the rest of her life. Once her brain fully incorporates the implant, it will be much harder to modify. Whatever glitches still exist, she’ll have to live with them permanently. And these things can be progressive, leading to a complete mental breakdown, as we’ve just seen. Better to get it right the first time.”
“If you’d gotten it right the first time, I wouldn’t be back in here.”
“Well! Good morning, Maddy. Feeling better, I hope?”
“Jeez, Doc, give me a chance to wake up. Hi Mom, hi Dad. How long have you guys been here?”
“Hi, baby. All night—we rode with you. Are you okay?”
“I think so. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here. What was that about six months?”
“Dr. Stevens was just telling us that they’d like you to stay here for another six months of therapy. Inpatient this time. Do you understand?”
“Yeah … I think so …”
“What do you think of that? Your dad and I hate the idea, but the doctor thinks it could make a lot of difference. You can call us anytime you want, and we’ll drive right over. We won’t make you do it if you don’t want to.”
Maddy thought about it.
“If it’ll mean I don’t have to go back to school.”
 
 
BY the next day, Maddy felt better already. Her head was perfectly, beautifully clear. She had slept soundly, and for the first time all week she could really hear herself think. When Dr. Stevens and Dr. Plummer came in, she said, “Hey, I feel pretty good. What if I’m all better? Do I still have to stay here for six months?”
Dr. Stevens said, “Actually, Maddy, that’s what we’re here to talk to you about.”
Dr. Plummer placed a thick file folder in Maddy’s lap. It had her name on it.
“What’s this?”
He said, “Open it up and take a look.”
Maddy opened the folder. Inside was a sheaf of documents, a plastic billfold, a zipper bag containing a set of keys and a fancy cell phone, and a sleek device that resembled a tiny computer modem.
“What is all this?”
“It’s yours. Take a look.”
Maddy opened the wallet and was a bit disconcerted to see a brand-new photo ID with an unflattering picture of herself. She couldn’t remember ever having that picture taken. Then again, she didn’t remember a lot of things. More intriguing was the money in the wallet, a wad of twenties—at least a couple of hundred bucks—and a credit card. Like the ID, the credit card had her name on it. There it was, in big, embossed letters: MADELINE Z. GRANT. Which was quite interesting because Maddy was fairly certain she would remember if she’d ever owned a credit card. It was something she’d been bugging her mother about for years.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“Well,” said Dr. Plummer, “you may be glad to know that your next phase of treatment doesn’t involve puzzles or tests or doctors poking at you. It doesn’t involve living here at the hospital at all. That kind of clinical examination can no longer tell us what we really need to know, which is how that new brain of yours responds to real-world stimuli. In other words: field-testing.”
“Wait—didn’t we just try that?”
“We did, but in sending you home, we assumed it would
reduce
your stress—that the benefits of familiarity would outweigh the risk. Unfortunately, we were wrong.”
“Great.”
“This time, we’d like to apply similar stresses, but in a controlled way, strictly monitored, with fail-safes in place to prevent another overload. So, starting tomorrow, you’ll be transferred to an off-site treatment facility, our Practical Recovery Unit, where you can explore your potential more effectively. In a real-world situation.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning you’ll essentially be living independently, in a private dormitory. We’ll be tracking your progress via this wireless modem, but you’ll have considerable discretion over the use of your time … and money. That being the major point of the exercise.”
Dr. Stevens continued, “Before you get too excited, keep in mind that maintaining proficiency in your studies is part of your therapy, as is managing your day-to-day living expenses. The debit account is just a loan until you find a job, after which you must establish a payment schedule as part of your budget. The whole program is loaded into your PDA.”

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