the patch off my back. “Ouch!” I yell when it won’t come off.
“You have to wear it for the full twenty-four hours before it will release,” she says.
I slump back on the couch and mutter, “You might as well put a chip in my head.”
At this my dad perks up. “Actually…”
Mom shoots him a look, and he stops short of launching into his diatribe about singularity—his favorite topic.
“What?” I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom. “Do I already have a chip in my head?”
“Not yet,” Dad says with a smile.
“Max,” Mom says, exasperation in her voice. “Could we talk about that another time?”
He shrugs and goes back to the docudrama.
Mom takes a deep breath and tries to reason with me. “I’m collecting this data for your own good. Your Synthamil formula has been precisely calculated, and any little shift—”
“You said you wouldn’t look at the data until tomorrow,” I point out.
“I wouldn’t have except there are built-in warning signals if a patient’s vitals suddenly go haywire.”
At this I feel myself turn pink. When did my signals go bonkers? When I met Basil? When we were using his device to smell roasted chicken and chocolate brownies? When I ran through the streets? I certainly don’t want my mother knowing any of that. I should have hacked the dumb patch. “I shouldn’t be made to feel abnormal,” I say, reciting Basil’s argument, but somehow it sounds ridiculous when I say it to my mother.
“I didn’t say you were abnormal.” She screws up her face like I’m babbling nonsense. “I think your metabolism is out of whack for some reason, so we might need to tweak your Synthamil formula.”
“Well,” I huff at her, “I’m not your test subject.”
“First of all, I’m not experimenting on you. Secondly, it’s a privilege to have a personal optimized formula. Not everyone gets that.”
“So I should be grateful?” I snipe.
She draws a long breath in through her nose, trying to stay calm. “Thalia, I only want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Obviously, I’m all right.”
Dad looks over. “She’s got a point, Lil.”
Mom sighs and rubs her forehead. Finally she says, “Data doesn’t lie.”
“But daughters do?”
“I didn’t say that,” Mom says with her teeth gritted. We stare at one another for a few seconds until she says, “I just want to know that you’re safe and healthy.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I tell her as I haul myself off the couch and stomp toward my room.
As I’m leaving, I hear her say to my dad, “She has no appreciation for the work I’ve done in my life. No appreciation at all!”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. How many times have I heard her speech? How if it weren’t for her and One World, all humankind would be dead. How her breakthrough in the lab helped refine the inocs so no one experiences hunger anymore or procreates without permission or gets horrible fatal diseases. And how without nutritional beverages like Synthamil, humans would still be starving and fighting. The thing is, I do appreciate it. Of course I do. I wouldn’t want to watch the people I love starve or kill each other for meager scraps of food. But I don’t like having it shoved down my throat all the time. Like I have to agree with everything she says just because she was instrumental in saving humanity. She’s still my mom and she can still be annoying.
* * *
The next night, Mom, Papa Peter, and Grandma Grace gather around the main screen in our living room to discuss my vitals, which Mom uploaded from the patch.
“Her insulin level is definitely spiking.” Grandma Grace points to a sharp line. “It should stabilize between her morning and evening ingestion of Synthamil.”
“And her glucose is falling too rapidly,” Papa Peter adds. “Which would explain the headaches and fatigue. But her hydration level is fine, so she’s getting enough
“You have to wear it for the full twenty-four hours before it will release,” she says.
I slump back on the couch and mutter, “You might as well put a chip in my head.”
At this my dad perks up. “Actually…”
Mom shoots him a look, and he stops short of launching into his diatribe about singularity—his favorite topic.
“What?” I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom. “Do I already have a chip in my head?”
“Not yet,” Dad says with a smile.
“Max,” Mom says, exasperation in her voice. “Could we talk about that another time?”
He shrugs and goes back to the docudrama.
Mom takes a deep breath and tries to reason with me. “I’m collecting this data for your own good. Your Synthamil formula has been precisely calculated, and any little shift—”
“You said you wouldn’t look at the data until tomorrow,” I point out.
“I wouldn’t have except there are built-in warning signals if a patient’s vitals suddenly go haywire.”
At this I feel myself turn pink. When did my signals go bonkers? When I met Basil? When we were using his device to smell roasted chicken and chocolate brownies? When I ran through the streets? I certainly don’t want my mother knowing any of that. I should have hacked the dumb patch. “I shouldn’t be made to feel abnormal,” I say, reciting Basil’s argument, but somehow it sounds ridiculous when I say it to my mother.
“I didn’t say you were abnormal.” She screws up her face like I’m babbling nonsense. “I think your metabolism is out of whack for some reason, so we might need to tweak your Synthamil formula.”
“Well,” I huff at her, “I’m not your test subject.”
“First of all, I’m not experimenting on you. Secondly, it’s a privilege to have a personal optimized formula. Not everyone gets that.”
“So I should be grateful?” I snipe.
She draws a long breath in through her nose, trying to stay calm. “Thalia, I only want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I’m sitting here, aren’t I? Obviously, I’m all right.”
Dad looks over. “She’s got a point, Lil.”
Mom sighs and rubs her forehead. Finally she says, “Data doesn’t lie.”
“But daughters do?”
“I didn’t say that,” Mom says with her teeth gritted. We stare at one another for a few seconds until she says, “I just want to know that you’re safe and healthy.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” I tell her as I haul myself off the couch and stomp toward my room.
As I’m leaving, I hear her say to my dad, “She has no appreciation for the work I’ve done in my life. No appreciation at all!”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. How many times have I heard her speech? How if it weren’t for her and One World, all humankind would be dead. How her breakthrough in the lab helped refine the inocs so no one experiences hunger anymore or procreates without permission or gets horrible fatal diseases. And how without nutritional beverages like Synthamil, humans would still be starving and fighting. The thing is, I do appreciate it. Of course I do. I wouldn’t want to watch the people I love starve or kill each other for meager scraps of food. But I don’t like having it shoved down my throat all the time. Like I have to agree with everything she says just because she was instrumental in saving humanity. She’s still my mom and she can still be annoying.
* * *
The next night, Mom, Papa Peter, and Grandma Grace gather around the main screen in our living room to discuss my vitals, which Mom uploaded from the patch.
“Her insulin level is definitely spiking.” Grandma Grace points to a sharp line. “It should stabilize between her morning and evening ingestion of Synthamil.”
“And her glucose is falling too rapidly,” Papa Peter adds. “Which would explain the headaches and fatigue. But her hydration level is fine, so she’s getting enough
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