Stupid Perfect World

Hamlet, Dad’s lameness, Barefoot Tillman in a swimsuit, Mikey the hamster, the way Maria Borsotti might be cute if she wasn’t such a meeker. But it wasn’t exactly sleep. I had so many thoughts, it was the opposite of unconsciousness; I was suddenly conscious of every sound in my room, every worry in my head, and especially every itch and crick in my motionless body.

I wasn’t supposed to move, but my muscles kept demanding random adjustments. By the end of the first hour, I was tangled in the parkas and ended up throwing half of them across my room. (Is that where “tossing and turning” came from?) I hadn’t noticed any unconsciousness, but then I started wondering how you could even know you were unconscious, because you wouldn’t be conscious to know anything at all, which started my head spinning with thoughts and thoughts and more thoughts.

Finally, I sat up, not caring if I failed Scarcity, anything to escape the crushing, sweaty boredom of not sleeping.

And lo and behold, my three hours were almost up.

But it hadn’t seemed that long. Was that because I’d never been still that long before, so I had nothing to compare it to? Or had there been a little bit of missing time in all that tossing and turning—a tiny sliver of sleep?

If so, that was kind of cool—almost like some lame form of time travel. My head felt a little fuzzy, but I knew a quick shot of Antarctic wind would clear that up. I slipped on a tempsuit and headed for the teleporter, for the first time thinking that this project might not totally suck.

It wasn’t until later that day that I really started to feel weird.

Four

KIERAN BLACK LOOKED LIKE crap. Crap covered with icicles.

“Are you okay?”

A shiver went through him. “Yeah, fine, Maria. I was just down at Amundsen-Scott Station. That’s at the South Pole.”

“Um, Kieran? No kidding.” I reached across the space between our desks and pulled away a tiny icicle clinging to his hair. It gave my fingertips a cold little kiss, then melted in my palm.

“This weird thing happened,” he said. “I was smoothing down the outside of my habitat with a blowtorch, and I started feeling funny. So I sat down in the snow, which you’re not supposed to do in winter, really. I was sitting there and sort of lost track of time…until my bioframe gave me a frostbite warning.”

My jaw dropped. “You mean you fell asleep? Already?”

He nodded, and I sighed. Even Kieran Black was ahead of me. I hadn’t felt anything yet, except maybe more than the usual annoyance at my mother, who’d insisted on criticizing every item of clothing I’d worn today. Like I’d never been in an all-black mood before.

“I’m not totally sure,” Kieran said. A shiny sliver of tempsuit was sticking out from his shirt top, radiating warmth like he’d forgotten to turn it off. The icicles were melting fast. “I definitely didn’t get much last night.”

“But you got some? What was it like?”

“I don’t know.” He blinked. “I think when you’re asleep you don’t know it. So…it’s not like anything.”

I frowned. I’d been expecting this project to make Kieran Black more interesting. But apparently it was just making him kind of slow.

I started to check and see if that was normal, but no sooner had headspace appeared than it faded back into flat reality.

Scarcity was starting.

“So how was everyone’s first day?” Mr. Solomon asked.

“I have to change my project, Mr. Solomon,” Lao Wrigley began. “It isn’t safe.”

She’d spoken without raising her hand, which Mr. Solomon usually corrected. But today he calmly interlaced his fingers, like he’d been expecting a few complaints. “Not safe?”

“Not at all!” Lao gripped the sides of her desk. “I took the boat thing this morning, and the ocean was completely messed up!”

“Could you be referring to waves, Miss Wrigley?”

Barefoot Tillman, who always bragged about her stupid surfing trophies, stifled a laugh, and I grinned at Kieran. He didn’t respond.

His expression was strangely peaceful, and he didn’t stir as the last icicles melted from his hair, drops rolling down his neck and into his shirt. Watching it, I felt a matching trickle of sweat on my own back, hot instead of cold.

That was an interesting feeling.

“Yes, the ocean does have waves,” Mr. Solomon was patiently explaining. “But ships are designed for waves. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe out there.”

Lao shook her head. “Oh, yeah? Well, if ships are so safe, why is there a word for them turning upside down?”

“Pardon me?”

“Capsizing, Mr. Solomon!” Lao said. “That’s a special word just for ships turning upside down. I checked in headspace, and I couldn’t find a single word for trains turning upside down! Or cars or hovercraft—just ships. Think about it!”

“Miss Wrigley, I doubt your cargo ship is in danger of capsizing.”

“But it’s awful!” Her head fell into her hands. “I also did the math wrong.”

“The math?”

“Turns out it takes two hours each way!”

A smiled flickered on Solomon’s face. “But of course, Miss Wrigley. Did you forget you had to come back?”

I raised an eyebrow. Those extra two hours would have gotten past me, too. It wasn’t like it had ever taken me longer than five seconds to get anywhere in the world. Even Mars was only a three-minute teleport away.

Lao looked up from her hands, swallowing, and I noticed that her skin was paler than usual. “Four hours every day! And when I tried to get some reading done this morning, the waves made me feel really weird!”

“Ah…” Mr. Solomon nodded. “I believe you have something called seasickness. If you check headspace later, you’ll probably find a few old bioframe patches for it. Your Scarcity project has no medical restrictions, after all.” He chuckled. “But there’s no cure for having to go both ways in a journey. I’m afraid you’re stuck with that. How’s everyone else?”

As more hands went up, I looked closer at Lao. Now that I’d noticed it, she definitely was a weird color. Hints of blue-green in her face, like the sea. Is that why they called it seasickness?

Barefoot raised her hand. “My common cold is going great. I like the way it makes my voice sound.”

I frowned. Her voice was sort of lower, like a soft growl. Leave it to Barefoot to bag a project that made her even sexier.

At least Kieran wasn’t staring at her today. His gaze was lost in the black depths of the chalkboard.

I raised my hand. “Mr. Solomon? I think something’s wrong with Kieran.”

At the sound of his name, Kieran snapped out of his catatonic state to glare at me. “No, I’m fine.”

“Just checking.” I smiled sweetly.

“I’m sure Kieran simply feels a little unusual,” Mr. Solomon said. “I believe the technical term is ‘sleepy.’ But you’re all going to feel a lot stranger as these projects go on. Today is only the beginning, so stop gnawing on your sleeve, Sho.”

“My sleeve isn’t food!”

“No, but it’s annoying.” Mr. Solomon sighed, looking at Lao Wrigley again. She had started making weird noises in the back of her throat, and her face was definitely the green of a shallow sea.

I looked down at my blank notebook, fingers curling around my pen.

The green of a shallow sea, I wrote. The words looked frail and fragile in my spindly hand. All that time spent learning to write, and I’d hardly taken any notes this semester.