water.”
“Look at her ketone level here,” Mom says. “It shouldn’t be that high.”
I sit on the couch, hugging a pillow, while they discuss me like I’m some sort of chemistry project.
“When was her last inoculation?” Grandma asks my mom.
“Three months ago,” Mom says. “So she’s not due for another three months.”
They flip through screen after screen showing how my body operated on an hourly basis for the past two days.
“That’s odd,” says Grandma Grace. “Her dopamine level shot up here. When was that? Zoom in.” Mom commands the chart to enlarge. “Friday night around eight p.m.”
They both turn to me. “What were you doing then?” Mom asks.
My heart begins to race and my palms sweat. I know from biochem that dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s released in the brain when something unexpected and good happens. I remember sitting next to Basil that night. How close my thigh was to his while we were smelling roasted chicken and chocolate. I almost get dizzy thinking about it. I bet my dopamine level’s sky-high about now.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to act nonchalant. “Maybe playing some game at the PlugIn.”
“The time-released benzodiazepines in her inocs should suppress spikes like that,” says Grandma Grace.
“Unless she’s not getting the right dose,” Mom says.
Grandma turns to me. “How much do you weigh now?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
She frowns. “Why not?”
When I was little, Grandma Grace’s frown scared me. And now with a bold stripe of gray down the front of her jet black hair, she looks even more fierce, like she could face down an angry mob looting a hospital pharmacy, which according to Papa Peter, she did once during the wars.
“I never weigh myself,” I tell her, annoyed.
She doesn’t budge. Doesn’t change her face. Doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me until I hoist myself off the couch and slink into the little vestibule in the back of our house. Between the water tap (which is connected to the Whisson Windmill on the roof) and the closet with our urinal is the cabinet holding our monthly supply of Synthamil—our personal cocktails designed to optimize each person’s brain and bodily functions. Small bottles of blue for me. Red for Mom. Green for Dad. And orange for Grandma Apple. Each one is wrapped in a gold embossed label bearing our names. Technically, you’re supposed to weigh yourself once a week, and do an at-home spit test, urine sample, finger prick, and hair follicle analysis to make sure all your nutritional needs are being met, but almost no one does it. Except for little kids who are still growing. Their doses need recalibrating all the time. Although I bet Grandma Grace and my mother do it, since they do everything by the book they helped write in the first place. I step on the scale and wait for the number to appear. One hundred twenty-two pounds.
By the time I walk back into the living room, they’ve pulled up my weight on the screen.
“Three pounds less,” Mom says. “A little odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.”
“No,” Grandma says. “But it could be an indication that her metabolism shifted slightly.”
Mom and Grandma Grace both whip out their Gizmos and start calculating.
Papa Peter rolls his eyes at them then drops down on the couch beside me. He leans in close so I can smell his aftershave, which reminds me of the pine trees programmed in December. When I was little, I loved rubbing his cheeks so I could get his scent on my fingers. “In the old days,” he tells me, “I would’ve told your mama to fatten you up on some hamburgers and french fries.”
I can’t help but grin. There’s something about Papa Peter that just makes people comfortable and happy. “What are french fries?”
“What are french fries?” He shakes his head. “Hm-mm-mm. Only the best thing there ever was. First you took a potato—that was a tuber that grew underground. Then you sliced it up
“Look at her ketone level here,” Mom says. “It shouldn’t be that high.”
I sit on the couch, hugging a pillow, while they discuss me like I’m some sort of chemistry project.
“When was her last inoculation?” Grandma asks my mom.
“Three months ago,” Mom says. “So she’s not due for another three months.”
They flip through screen after screen showing how my body operated on an hourly basis for the past two days.
“That’s odd,” says Grandma Grace. “Her dopamine level shot up here. When was that? Zoom in.” Mom commands the chart to enlarge. “Friday night around eight p.m.”
They both turn to me. “What were you doing then?” Mom asks.
My heart begins to race and my palms sweat. I know from biochem that dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s released in the brain when something unexpected and good happens. I remember sitting next to Basil that night. How close my thigh was to his while we were smelling roasted chicken and chocolate. I almost get dizzy thinking about it. I bet my dopamine level’s sky-high about now.
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to act nonchalant. “Maybe playing some game at the PlugIn.”
“The time-released benzodiazepines in her inocs should suppress spikes like that,” says Grandma Grace.
“Unless she’s not getting the right dose,” Mom says.
Grandma turns to me. “How much do you weigh now?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
She frowns. “Why not?”
When I was little, Grandma Grace’s frown scared me. And now with a bold stripe of gray down the front of her jet black hair, she looks even more fierce, like she could face down an angry mob looting a hospital pharmacy, which according to Papa Peter, she did once during the wars.
“I never weigh myself,” I tell her, annoyed.
She doesn’t budge. Doesn’t change her face. Doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me until I hoist myself off the couch and slink into the little vestibule in the back of our house. Between the water tap (which is connected to the Whisson Windmill on the roof) and the closet with our urinal is the cabinet holding our monthly supply of Synthamil—our personal cocktails designed to optimize each person’s brain and bodily functions. Small bottles of blue for me. Red for Mom. Green for Dad. And orange for Grandma Apple. Each one is wrapped in a gold embossed label bearing our names. Technically, you’re supposed to weigh yourself once a week, and do an at-home spit test, urine sample, finger prick, and hair follicle analysis to make sure all your nutritional needs are being met, but almost no one does it. Except for little kids who are still growing. Their doses need recalibrating all the time. Although I bet Grandma Grace and my mother do it, since they do everything by the book they helped write in the first place. I step on the scale and wait for the number to appear. One hundred twenty-two pounds.
By the time I walk back into the living room, they’ve pulled up my weight on the screen.
“Three pounds less,” Mom says. “A little odd, but nothing to be alarmed about.”
“No,” Grandma says. “But it could be an indication that her metabolism shifted slightly.”
Mom and Grandma Grace both whip out their Gizmos and start calculating.
Papa Peter rolls his eyes at them then drops down on the couch beside me. He leans in close so I can smell his aftershave, which reminds me of the pine trees programmed in December. When I was little, I loved rubbing his cheeks so I could get his scent on my fingers. “In the old days,” he tells me, “I would’ve told your mama to fatten you up on some hamburgers and french fries.”
I can’t help but grin. There’s something about Papa Peter that just makes people comfortable and happy. “What are french fries?”
“What are french fries?” He shakes his head. “Hm-mm-mm. Only the best thing there ever was. First you took a potato—that was a tuber that grew underground. Then you sliced it up
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