The Unidentified (3 page)

why, but it felt too complicated to make public things that were important to me. Or maybe I was just frustrated because it felt like I couldn’t express what was important to me even when I really tried.

“The administrators are worried about your failure to engage.”

Failure. It was official. I was a loser. It practically said so in my record. I played with the scrap of latex I’d picked up at the crime scene so I wouldn’t have to look at Winterson’s concerned expression. The face drawn on the balloon piece looked the way I felt. Like this:

“Why do they care?” I said, stretching the rubber until it snapped back on my fingers. “Ow.”

Winterson cleared her throat, then said, “The administrators need to have more insight into your interests to better tailor the Game to your needs.”

She said the words as if she were reading them from a teleprompter, overarticulating each syllable.

“Are you upselling?”

Winterson’s laugh sounded almost bitter. “This is your education, not fries and a Poke(r) cola.”

I just sat there staring at the inscrutable balloon face.

“Katey?” Winterson said.

“Yeah?” I looked at her. The speckled iris of her eye.

The wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. The stripes of her shirt. Her chewed pinky nail.

“Is something wrong?”

“What? No, it’s just…” It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t articulate my feelings with a cleverly designed app, or that when I added up points on personality quizzes I didn’t recognize the person they described me to be. It’s not like I
liked
being this average, this unremarkable. I blurted out, “You don’t think the sponsors would ever try to sell suicide or something, do you?”

“What?” she looked genuinely surprised, and maybe a little scared. “You’re not, um, in the market for a product like that, are you?”

Oh Google, she thought I was suicidal. “No, no no,” I assured her and told her about the dummy suicide in the Pit.

She watched me carefully, then said she hadn’t heard anything about it. “I don’t agree with the sponsors on a lot of things, but I doubt they would ever advocate the sale of suicide to kids.”

Her assurances were disturbingly unconvincing, though. I think it was because Winterson herself was disturbingly unconvinced.

I left the meeting with Winterson kind of weirded out. I couldn’t decide what was worse, that the dummy drop was something the sponsors might have organized, or that it was some completely random person’s idea of a good time.

I glanced at the wide, gray double doors that led to the headquarters, where the school administrators had their offices. The people working back there never came out into the Game, and kids never went in there unless they were sick or in trouble. Mikey had been in a few times for some stupid stuff. He just got too rowdy sometimes.

I stopped by the Pit again. Everything looked so different. I half expected to see a chalk outline, or yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. OK, I knew they didn’t call the cops for dummy suicides. Protecht security, maybe.

But still.

The goop was gone, no signs of the PR prank. I looked up at the railings on the fifth floor, where I had seen the struggle—at least two people messing around by the railing. Even that looked different. The sun had come out, and the blue sky made everything seem impossible.

I’d been thinking of the whole thing as a suicide because of the note on the back: UNIDENTIFIED. CHOOSE YOUR SUICIDE. But it wasn’t a fake suicide. Someone up there pushed the body over. It was more like a mock homicide.

Sick.

I checked my intouch(r) for updates I missed and to see if anyone was commenting on the PR prank.

#spons:
swiftx has high score on buy sell & destroy. beat him in the arcade.

mikes:
is going to smash this flip. doubters, get fuct.

#spons:
new release screening on PRESENT screen in 7_mins.

toy321:
ATTENTION! ATTENTION! admin plans to ban my flipstream goggles. no reason given.

aria:
wants opinions: lilac or sea foam?

No word about the dummy suicide. I couldn’t believe Tesla was starting to get legal hassles for her latest invention, but that was kind of why I subscribed to her stream. Her drama was always the realest.

Mikey was in the Park. I continued past the Pit and thumbed in my update.

kidzero:
is not living up to her potential.

I laughed, even though Mikey was probably the only one who would get my joke. I wrote to him.

kidzero:
did you sign us up for studio time? @MIKEY A minute later, he buzzed.

mikes:
oops. @KID
mikes:
got a frustration-high in the Park @KID I sighed and replied.

kidzero:
is coming to intervene @MIKEY The Park was a giant playground for adrenaline junkies, and Mikey definitely had a problem. Actually, it was a problem everyone in the Game had to some degree. The designers of the Game had manufactured just the right conditions to create maximum motivation in players. They programmed the system so that each of its learning tasks engaged our present level of abilities and developed new skills in the process that were needed to take on the challenge of the next task. Always managing to hit that sweet spot between boredom and frustration to keep the obsessive freak in all of us coming back for more. There were times I’d just get lost in a mission, spending hours playing it again and again and not even realize how much progress I had made.

Yeah, it was addictive. But sweet Google, it was FUN.

The Park was located in the far corner of the first floor.

It looked as if the dead department store had been possessed by a carnival, and risen up to claim the bodies of restless souls who wanted to see if they could die twice.

There was a climbing wall with varying levels of difficulty, giant trampolines, a bike racetrack, bungee Velcro walls, and a million other fun-filled ways to break your bones.

Mikey was one of the chaos of kids popping tricks off the ramps, weaving along the concrete curves of the skate park. The clatter of lost boards, the cheers and hollers of kids nailing their tricks all echoed in the space. I leaned against a wall and watched Mikey attempt his trick for the forty-seventh time.

He failed spectacularly.

I cheered him on from behind the railing, not like a supersized jerk. For real. I knew he would get it…eventually.

“I almost got it,” he called back at me, rubbing his wrist and kicking off again.

Mikey had a high tolerance for frustration. Some people would think it was unwise or insane to keep banging one’s head against the same wall again and again, but I thought it was admirable. Talent or skill wasn’t how you recognized a genius. A genius was the person giving the world the eff-you salute while doing the impossible. Mikey’s scores were low, but, technically, he was probably the best player in the Game. No one could beat his raw determination.

But still . I couldn’t just stand there and watch him wound himself. I absentmindedly started messing around with the piece of balloon again, wondering how I could find out more about what that stunt was all about. I amused myself by pulling and stretching it out, changing the expression of the ink lines with a tug here or there.

I worked out a way to fasten the balloon scrap to my wristband, honoring the dead dummy with a kind of mourning band.
We will not forget.

Mikey was still trying and failing, so I turned to check out what else was happening in the Park. It was the usual anthill insanity of kids waiting restlessly in lines to get on rides or play the most physical of sports. The scoreboard showed the “Times to Beat” for the bike races and lap swimming and waterslide.

I found myself watching one guy make his way through the crowd. The crowd itself seemed to notice him too.

People quit shoving and turned to watch when he passed.

He was saying something to each of them, whispering to kids waiting in line to get on the trampoline or get a spot on the SlingShot. I wondered what he’d told them, because it left them staring after him. Maybe that’s what I noticed, not the guy himself, but the reaction in the people around him.

He must be branded. I’d never seen him before, but cool hunters should have been all over him with his ability to shift a crowd like that.

He wasn’t particularly attractive, or at least not my type.

He had a genuine dread mullet—as opposed to the more common ironic dread mullet—and pretty mean-looking muscles. His cheekbones and the straight line of his nose led my eyes directly to his and trapped them there.

There was something about him. I couldn’t figure it out.

As he came closer, I heard what he was telling people:

“You’re in…you’re out…no, sorry…cut, uh-uh…out.”

What was that supposed to mean? I noticed he was heading in my direction and started to feel irrationally nervous. By the time I finally made the decision to leave, it was too late.

He stopped in front of me, blocking my escape. He was wearing a climbing harness strapped over his clothes, which Ari said was a really grab accessory for Urban Climbers right now.

I looked up into his dark eyes, not saying a word. This was probably stupid, but I was holding my breath. I wanted to know if this total stranger thought I was in or out. I wanted to know what he saw when he looked at me.

“So?” I asked, ready for whatever he was going to say.

His eyes flicked down to my rubber-face-man wristband. He nodded twice, almost smiling.

“Yeah, you’re in,” he said quietly, leaning in close. His voice shook me like an intouch(r) vibration.

Then he walked on. I watched him go.

“What did he say to you?” Mikey said from behind, startling me. He was still sweaty from the skate park, his board tucked under his arm.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. It was kind of embarrassing how special it made me feel that I’d made the cut for…whatever it was he was recruiting people for.

“Hey,” Mikey said, shoving my shoulder playfully. “Did you hear the championship War Game’s on for next Sunday?”

I shook my head. “Who’s playing?”

“Save the Princess versus Meat Hammer.”

I gagged. “Meat Hammer sounds so gross. Couldn’t they think of a better team name? Was One-Eyed Flesh Spear taken?”

“Yeah, well. I told Swift I’d be there. He’s playing wingman for Meat Hammer. And this is the game to see which team goes on to the league championship.”

The War Gamers had been fighting for Team Player status for the last two years. Now that simulated interactive computer war games had a national tournament, they were starting to get credit. The players formed four-man (or - woman) platoons and were supposed to use communication, strategy, and wicked sniper skills to defeat the enemy.

There was this whole big debate over whether war games were too violent to be in the curriculum, but the administrators concluded that it was no more detrimental than football, so whatever. To cover collective ass, players were required to take empathy exams and psychological tests every so often to make sure that no one was getting vred and losing touch with reality.

“Wait, so Save the Princess could have a shot at going national?” I asked. Save the Princess was the only all-girl team in school. There were a few teams with the token female player, but it was predominantly a boys’ club…thus the popularity of names like Meat Hammer and, I don’t know, Man Muscle.

“Yeah, the girlies are taking names, kicking ass. You wanna join up? I hear they’re recruiting for next season.”

“Yeah, right.”

Mikey grinned evilly. “I forgot. You can barely handle single-player games. How many friends do you have on Network now, anyway?”

“Shut up.” I said, shoving him hard. But he was right, I wasn’t much of a Team Player, not really into organized sports at all.

I wasn’t a total social retard, I just liked keeping my friendships close and manageable. And I actually loved playing with other people despite what my Network status said. The compositions Mikey and Ari and I worked on together were so, so different than what I’d do by myself, and if I got to choose, I’d pick collaborating with them every time. I liked that indefinable thing that happened
between
people. The connection.

My intouch(r) buzzed in my pocket. I looked at it.

aria:
is devastated that no one’s helping her choose.

I thumbed a reply immediately.

kidzero:
deciding what to play at rehearsals? @ARI Ari was our official analog instrument specialist. Her parents had given her lessons for every possible classical instrument when she was playing Level 8-12. Piano, flute, violin. She could probably single-handedly play parts for an entire geek orchestra, but she would rather be in an
Idol
band winning votes and fame. It was starting to become obvious, of the painful sort, that we didn’t have the same ambitions when it came to the band.

aria:
please. i’m serious. come to 4, beeotch @KID “It’s Ari,” I said, putting it back into my pocket. “She’s having a crisis of decision.”

“Sweet Google, that girl’s been getting on my twitchy last nerve.”

I shrugged. “She’s cliqued now, that’s all .”

“Yeah, OK. But that doesn’t mean everything has to be such a show.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Yes, it fills me with teen angst.”

We both laughed in that wincing sort of way you have to when the truth hurts. I didn’t mind that Ari was so involved with the Craftsters, I just wished she wasn’t always a no-show for our band practices. I told Mikey I’d let him know if I could book some Studio time and went to see what the little drama queen wanted.

Ari had practically supernovaed when she got cliqued a few months ago.

All last season, Ari, me, and some other clique- hopefuls would go to the Sweatshop to orbit around the tight group of Craftsters. Ari did everything she could to impress Rocket, the unofficial leader of the Craftsters.

Some of the girls, like Tesla Toyer, had some really inspiring projects, but I knew I didn’t really fit in with their style. I tried to be a part of the scene only because it was important to Ari.