Mostly.

She may not know who the visitor is, but she's as uneasy as I am. I go to my dressing room and find the shoes I want to wear. Even the simplest things like shoes are so different now. I have spent the past year getting used to this new world, and Dr. Gatsbro has spent as much time teaching us about it. We have learned centuries' worth of new technology and history. Some of it has made me gasp, other parts, laugh, and still other parts, cry. But I allow myself to cry only when I'm in my room alone and no one can see me. Maybe Miesha is right. Maybe I am just a boy. But I saw my father cry three times, and he seemed like more of a man than anyone I ever knew. I wish I knew what happened to my family. I think about them every day and wonder if what I did destroyed their lives.

I slide my feet into the shoes on the floor. "Shoes. Fit." I think brown goes with what I have on, so I add, "Dark brown." The shoes comply, molding to my feet, so it truly feels like I'm walking with nothing on them, then they change to the color I have requested. My mom would have loved shoes like these. She always complained about her feet after working long shifts at the market, and kicked off her shoes the minute she walked in the door. Some things have definitely improved. Other things not so much.

When I was poisoned by rogue BeeBots in the garden, I realized how different the world was now. BeeBots don't have the ability to sting but have developed a defense system by concentrating plant toxins on their back legs. They leave nasty welts if you try to obstruct their purpose, and now their purpose, like any other animal, is to survive. About the only real honeybees that exist anymore are in Insectoriums. They've tried reintroducing them into the environment, but they can't compete with the BeeBots that pollinate crops now. Eradicating the rogue BeeBots has proven difficult too, since they developed a unique way to procreate--splitting their bodies in half and then repairing themselves as they were already programmed to do. In all our historical and environmental studies, there was no mention of rogue BeeBots, and until I showed him the welts on my hands and arms, Dr. Gatsbro never mentioned them, either.

All the changes he has told us about or we have viewed on Vgrams are good. Like waste to energy. I secretly laughed when I thought how my visits to the bathroom were helping to energize the world. And I thought robots performing most dangerous tasks was a good idea. My uncle was a police officer who had his brains blown out when he was making a routine stop. I wish there had been Roboticers back then. And I love my iScroll--a tiny patch on my palm that allows me to do just about everything. There isn't a game I can't play. I'm even getting good at boxing with my Vgram instructor, Percel. He says I'm one of his best students. Of course, I know he isn't real, and I am probably not one of his best students, but his holographic punches still manage to hurt and land me on my ass. A lot.

Ass. That's another change. They don't blink at some words anymore. In fact, I can use a lot of words right in front of Miesha and Cole that would have launched one of my mother's classic lectures. If you can't say it in God's house, Locke, then you can't say it in our house. It's like Miesha and Cole don't have a clue. But maybe I don't have a clue, either, about a lot of things. Maybe that's what Miesha was talking about. Maybe there's a lot that you can't learn from holographic lessons--like the kinds of things I used to pick up on the streets of Boston but we never talked about in the classroom. What am I missing? Is there more Dr. Gatsbro hasn't told us?

I walk back to my mirror and comb my hair with my fingers. My hair looks exactly like it used to, the dark brown color and texture a perfect match, but there's still a difference, a subtle one that I miss. The cowlick above my right eye that I used to hate is gone. My hair all lies in the same direction. I lick my fingers and pull a strand out of place. It bobs over my eye. Miesha wouldn't approve. Dr. Gatsbro, who is always so perfectly groomed, wouldn't approve, either. But I do.

I turn away from the mirror, but then remember. The visitor. I look back at my reflection. A man. A boy. A something. I really don't know what I am anymore, but I slick the strand back into place. For Kara's sake--and mine--I need to follow the rules. I can't take a chance. The last time I took a chance it cost us 260 years.

Chapter 9

Kara walks into my room, letting the door bang into the wall. "The maestro has summoned us. You rehearsed for our song and dance?"

"Is that what you call it?"

"Don't be such a schmuck, Locke. He's obviously showing us off." She twirls, modeling her new dress, the fabric rippling out, red and brilliant like her lips. She stops, and her expression darkens. She crosses the room toward me and then, when her face is just inches from mine, she screws it into the silly Kara face of so long ago. In the next instant she presses her lips to mine and swipes her tongue along my teeth. Her lips are soft and cold. She pulls back and studies my face. I work hard to keep it blank. This is not the kind of kiss I want. It is a throwaway kiss. A pat on the head. An amusement. I want a kiss that means something.

She laughs. "For God's sake, lighten up, Locke! What's the matter with you?"

I wish I knew. I force a small smile. "Nervous about the visitor, I guess."

"Come on," she says, slipping her arm through mine and pulling me toward the door. "Nothing to worry about. We jump through a few hoops, sit up, roll over, we get our treats."

I don't like the way she talks about Dr. Gatsbro. If not for him, we would still be there, in the place we don't even mention because just a few words about it can make us both go dead for hours. Even though he can be suffocating in his own way at times, Dr. Gatsbro is the one who saved us.