of 169. He also has his entire body covered in ridiculous tattoos. He’s very smart at science. You, Evening, are very smart at school, particularly science, and very stupid at choosing your friends.”
“Oh, snap,” I say.
“What?”
“Sorry. I was flashing back to 2005.”
The corners of Solo’s mouth flirt with a smile.
“The point is, you get to play God.”
“Can I play Portal instead?”
“You play Portal?” Solo asks.
“I have,” I say cautiously. “Is it all right with you if a girl plays Portal?”
“A girl?” He’s puzzled.
“Yes, I am, in fact, a girl.”
“I noticed,” he says.
“No, you did not notice she’s a girl,” my mother snarls. “You noticed she’s my daughter.”
My mother favors Solo with a look that has reduced many a grown man and woman to sniveling terror. She is in full feral mode.
But Solo is not afraid.
Oh, he pretends to be intimidated, but it’s an act. I see it as plain as day. He’s not intimidated at all. In fact, within his playacting there’s something else deeper going on.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
Oh my God. He hates her.
This startles me. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in those eyes. He actually hates her.
I mean, I hate my mother, too, sometimes. But I’m her daughter. I’m supposed to.
And there are moments, like right now, when I actually kind of love her. At least, I love the way she loves her work. Whatever’s going on inside Solo’s head, he hides it quickly. He slides his gaze to the side, away from her, and when he looks up his eyes are as distant and unknowable as a starless sky.
He has really nice lashes. Better than mine.
I look for something to do. I reach my hand toward the touch screen. Objects on the wall screen move.
“So I make a human,” I say. “Is this just about how they look?”
“No, no, that would be a paint-by-numbers set.” My mother smiles, but not at me. She’s smiling at the computer-generated image. “No, if you’re playing God, a lot of the fun is in building the brain. The mind.”
She takes a step away. Her hands came up to form a sort of basket of fingers. It’s one of her gestures. She uses it when lecturing her underlings.
“We are at a turning point in the evolution of the human species,” she says, surveying, with slightly crazy eyes, an imaginary audience. “Evolution has blindly felt its way forward. Now we, the product of evolution, are taking the reins. We are taking the wheel.”
“Is it the reins or the wheel?” I ask perkily, but she hears nothing.
“We will soon have the ability to design and create the new human. Evolution still, but guided evolution.”
There is a long pause. I am not entirely sure if she expects us to applaud.
“Of course,” she adds, coming down off her high, “only in computer simulation.”
I don’t know where she was headed with her lecture. But I am definitely sure that this project sounds interesting. The touch screen calls to me. Suddenly I’m wishing everyone would go away and let me play.
“I think I’ll . . . you know. Just mess around with the program a little,” I say.
My mother is pleased. Solo is . . . well, I can’t exactly tell.
Ten minutes pass. I look up and I’m alone.
I didn’t even notice them leave.
I stare at my first choice. The choice I have to make before I get into the details of playing God: male or female?
I consider the looming monitor.
Here’s the thing: I am not beautiful.
I’m pretty. I’ll allow that much. Pretty.
But I’m not the girl boys long for.
Cheerleader? No. Prom queen? No. Voted most likely to get a modeling contract? No.
It’s not like I’ve spent my life beating the boys back with a flaming torch.
So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?
Worse yet . . . no, maybe it’s better yet . . . I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll tell him. Within five minutes of knowing him. If he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wanna-be, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.
When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many left.
It’s not that I think I’m some kind of prize.
No, wait, that’s not true. I do think I’m some kind of prize. I’m smart and occasionally funny and I’m pretty. I don’t see why I should spend long dates with some guy who expresses himself in single syllables and wants to go to slasher movies.
Which does not answer the question: male or female?
I also don’t understand why I should let some guy fondle me when I know the relationship has no future. I don’t need to be groped that badly.
So I’ve been on exactly three dates. The first when I was fourteen. The most recent two years ago.
A guy tried to kiss me once. I didn’t let him.
I live that part of my life vicariously through Aislin.
I hear her stories. And I admit I’m fascinated most of the time. Sometimes kind of appalled. And then fascinated again. I wonder what it would be like to be her. To be that . . . experimental. To be that “What the hell?”. To actually have detailed, well-informed opinions on questions having to do with kissing. Or whatever.
I have no opinion on chest hair versus no chest hair. Aislin could write a treatise on that alone.
So. Who do I want to create with my new simulated god-like powers?
Male or female?
I sigh. I squirm in my wheelchair.
Who am I kidding?
Male.
