Documentos de Académico
Documentos de Profesional
Documentos de Cultura
You see, last year, when I went to Bernabit P.S. 1035, only about half the
kids used the Remote Connection Movement Devices, the RCMDs. Mostly they
were the rich kids whose parents could afford to pay for them to lie in bed at home
with a camera hookup and a joystick, showing off. The rest of us kids, the ones
who were actually walking to school (as we became a smaller and smaller minority
toward the end of the school year), just gave the big blue plastic shells on wheels
(and the video camera and monitor in the front) dirty looks. The good thing is, the
plastic arms are so hard to move with a joystick, the rich kids couldn’t punch us.
Besides, we would have run away first. It’s impossible to move those things
quickly, they’re so huge.
Each one of our group, who actually did attend school in-person, banded
together and swore not to defect to the RCMD group. We’d say nasty things about
them, shoot dirty looks, and (when the lunch ladies weren’t watching) cream their
video camera “eyes” with the disgusting artificial key lime pie tapioca we got at
lunch, so they couldn’t see anything until a custodian wiped them down. The best
thing ever was to do a Helen Keller—where we plugged up their audio receivers
and their video camera eyes, so they couldn’t hear or see a thing going on at
school.
Those were pretty awesome times. But one by one, the people in our group
—even the ones who had sworn the loudest never to leave, said the worst things
about the RCMD’s—would convince their parents to buy them one. And as soon
as that happened, they would stride into—excuse me—wheel into—school with a
smug expression on their face, and start laughing and hanging out with the rest of
the RCMD’s as though we had never existed.
By the time my last school year at Bernabit drew to an end, there were only
five people—including me—in the group that actually walked to school, as far as
we knew of. Everyone else came in an RCMD. Even some of the teachers started
“tele-commuting.” Mr. Taffat, our gym teacher, was the first to do that. He’s
extraordinarily plump for a gym teacher (well, actually, it seems like all gym
teachers are that way) and, from what we could see, hated exercising—so the
remote connection opportunity was perfect for him. He could follow us around the
track without moving a muscle.
I reflected sadly on the state of affairs with the rest of my lunch group—four
other people—two days before the last day of school at Bernabit.
“I still can’t believe that traitor Sarah,” Lilah fumed, violently creaming her
potatoes with her fork with a vicious glance toward Sarah’s RCMD. “She said just
four weeks ago that there was no way, even if her parents bought her one, that she
would ever leave like Beryl did!”
“Rich kids,” sniffed Juliette, which was a little odd, since Juliette’s parents
made the most out of any in our group—that said, it was from working at a nuclear
cleanup plant, so maybe not the most ideal job.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Well, just think. See Berne over there?” Lilah pointed to a particularly
gregarious RCMD from which a lot of noise was issuing. “He’s going to GULAG.
So is Yuri, and so is Josh. Not to mention—”
Over the next few days, I tried to convince myself that certainly there would
be some other kid at GULAG who didn’t commute in an RCMD, but none of the
people I knew (in-person) from Bernabit (which was the largest public school in
the area) were going, and since, from what I’d heard, Bernabit was actually higher
in non-RCMD school attendance than most schools, there was not too much
chance that my life at GULAG would be very pleasant. There would probably be
one other person in the entire school who couldn’t get an RCMD because their
parents were too poor. One other person! And I thought I was unlucky to have a
group of four at Bernabit.
The front doors of the school are long and thin, made of two panes of glass,
with a continuous stream of water running between the two panes, giving the door
a rippling appearance. I almost thought the doors were made of water, but then I
realized that there was a handle to grip and pull. Feeling very stupid, I pulled and
walked inside.
At first it felt more like a hospital or corporate lobby more than it did a
school. It was cool and airy, with a large empty square atrium. In the center there
was another water installation, a long sheet of glass off which water dripped into a
shallow mosaic pool. Around the pool were various potted plants, probably getting
sun through the greenhouse-like rooftop. I looked around for a second and
marveled. This school was rich, for sure. The floor was made of marble and
granite. The different colors created the large school insignia and motto—“To
Learn is to Live. To Live is to Learn.”
Looking up I noticed that there were three floors above me. Each floor had
their own hallway, balcony-style, above the atrium. The glass paneling around
each hallway also had the water going through it, like the doors had. I wondered
how much it all had cost.
“Good morning,” said the flabby, unsmiling woman in the monitor. It looked
as though she was sitting up against a headboard. “Are you new here?”
“Yes,” I nodded, feeling smaller than ever in front of the RCMD that
towered above me.
“Welcome to the Gumbe Urquhart Lipsitt Academy for the Gifted,” she
droned. “From what I see, you’re taking—did you sign up for Jussert or Mandel?”
“Alright, good. Your first class starts in about three minutes, in room 245,”
she said. “Take the hallway to your left and turn left again. 245 will be the one
with the red door. Questions? No? Have a good day.” With that, she—the RCMD
—whirred abruptly away.
I started walking toward the hallway, and that was when I heard a massive
noise. At first I thought it was chatter, or perhaps rain, but then I realized it was the
joined noise of what must have been forty or fifty RCMD’s. I saw them coming
toward me and for a single, absurd moment I had a vision that they would run me
down, but I immediately told myself that that was the stupidest thing to think
about. I did not, however, want to walk toward them when they were coming my
way, so instead I swerved into the girl’s restroom.
It was a long, big restroom, with at least ten stalls, but it was utterly silent
and totally, completely empty. Each stall’s door was open. Indeed, there was a fine
film of dust on everything—the sink, the toilets, the toilet paper—even though
otherwise it was impeccable. It meant, I realized, that no one had been here for a
long time. I suddenly felt homesick for Bernabit, its crowded bathroom, the long
line of girls waiting to use the not particularly fancy but serviceable three bathroom
stalls—but even that, or much of it, was a thing of the past, because the long line of
girls had dwindled down to a few, and the noise of running sinks was quieter.
I walked through the hallway. As far as I could see, there were only
RCMD’s—in front of me, behind me, to my left and to my right. I saw their video
camera eyes swivel toward me occasionally. I would almost have been happy to
see Berne, or Yuri, or Josh, or even the traitor Sarah—at least they would have
been RCMD’s I’d known, back when they actually came to class in person. But I
doubt Berne, or Yuri, or Josh, or even Sarah would want to see me. Especially not
Sarah, I realized. After Lilah and I did the Helen Keller on her?
“—that’s a shame. Your parents still wouldn’t get you an RCMD? They
have a really nice new version, high-def too. They’re talking about better 3D
enhancements, I hear Yuri’s dad is working on the new version. By the way,” she
said sweetly, “I forgive you for the whole cream pie in the RCMD’s face thing. I
know it was Lilah’s idea, not yours. But you really need to convince your parents
to buy you one of the new RC’s, Etta!”
“I wouldn’t for the world, Sarah,” I said in what I hoped was as strong a
voice as possible (although I thought I’d said it rather dejectedly) and she
attempted to turn around. It was comical to watch her as she turned so slowly,
huffing at her joystick, to whir off. It was the worst imitation of turning on one’s
heel and stalking off from an argument that I had ever seen. That was one thing I
had over the RCMD’s—but that reminded me that I’d be lucky to even get into
another argument. Most of them would probably stay away from me.
The bell rang to release—it was Friday, an early release day—and everyone
poured outside, where all the RCMD’s immediately began chattering with each
other, making the most of the few minutes before the custodian (also an RCMD)
would tell them to go into the storage unit where they disconnected. As the
RCMD’s headed off, grumbling, to the storage unit, I started thinking about how I
would ask my parents to buy the RCMD. Maybe they had the money, maybe they
didn’t. I would have to ask.
It felt colder now outside than it had inside the school, pleasantly so, and I
took a deep breath of fresh air. As I did so, I caught the smell of blackberries,
hanging over from an adjoining house’s lot, and their roses, thorny pink and yellow
roses—and I realized I had something that the RCMD’s—even with all the latest
technology, 3D enhancements, and all—I had something that the RCMD’s didn’t.
Surely they could talk about being able to lie in bed and go to school at the same
time.
THE END.