- FACE VALUE -

A Young Adult (YA) sci-fi dystopia centred in 2050s United States^{High school senior Caela Sterling is six months away from her birthday -- July 04th, the day of graduation. However, her past, or rather, a past she can't remember, has come back to haunt her. After an unexpected in-lunch detention slip as the auto pilot in her PsyCall chip seems to go awry, Caela is given a rude awakening of actions she has to make up for that she's certain she never did. However, what happens when her sense of memory and identity are put to the test, not only by the unlikely friends and foes she makes along the way but by a mother who claims she knows best and a father too absent to be true?One's sense of self is also one's greatest weapon. But what happens when you're raised without one? Can you truly live without one?}_{TW/CW: religious abuse, theocracy through Christian evangelism; bullying; projected & internalised racism, sexism, ableism}

- FACE VALUE -

• -- Preface

• -- Prologue

• -- 01 - High School is Killing Me

- Preface -

^{-----This is written from the imagination and fear of a multi-conscious mind with a life filled with religious exploitation on social and cultural levels thanks to the negligence, cowardice, and pride of the wealthy few who refuse to see where they stand in contrast to those who have fought for recognition that said few will never provide due to their complexes. This is thus written for the children and neglected educated hidden from the knowledge of some of their own experiences. This is written for the youth we never could be, the childhoods corrupted as our own world collapsed long before a nation could make us unable to leave.
-----This may be a dystopia for you, an apocalypse, but it is someone’s life on Earth today, during this very moment you read.
-----Why? Because this book is based on ours.
-----My name is Lauri Cunningham Caelestis, and I chose that name for myself. I am not one that normally speaks for our whole mind, as I have my own inner demons before I am as public as others, but I can say with certainty that we of one body all consent to this book being made, we consent to this story being told, & we consent to the spark of introspection, inspiration, and clarity we can only hope this brings.
Sonder is an emotion so rarely known, let alone acknowledged and allowed to be felt in climates riddled with apathy, othering, and shifting blame rather than frith and accountability. It is the feeling and recognition that others have their own lives, their own circumstances, and that they are just as true and more than worthy of experiences to know so we can respect them. Sonder is the fundamental feeling to understand and commit to community and intersectionality – something I and ourselves hope to emphasize with this novel.
-----Read this story carefully. Very, very carefully.
-----And to the children with no words to explain how they are, know you are loved as you are by those that will truly understand and give you unconditional love, by those that truly know better than to make life & affection transactional by prioritizing their fantasies over your reality.
-----What others claim is an illness, a demon, a sin, will forever be your greatest power yet & the greatest threat to those that want to claim you are bad for stepping “out of line”.
-----Your individuality is neither a superpower nor a curse. It makes you unique and capable of so many things if you look into yourself.
Be brave. Be yourself. Help yourself. And help others.}

• -- Prologue

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- Prologue-

^{----- I don’t remember it well. I mean, I remember what happened, but I don’t know if I was scared. I mean, I should have been, right?
Right?
----- I remember that the house was all ready for the big day. Music was softly playing on the TV, the light low, and songs  celebrating Jesus’ original birth played. Yes, it was Christmas time: December 25th, 2042.
----- The rooms were decorated from head to toe in red, white, blue, and popcorn-coloured garland, the tree covered in red, white, and blue ornaments. The flag behind it almost gleamed, the green from the tree absorbed by the bright hues of our homeland. The stockings weren’t too far away, either, strewn in a line with colours like a festive rainbow, each with an initial for all of us. Next to the tree especially was the picture of a man with bronze skin like a statue, thin blond hair like its own halo, stark blue eyes like the brightest rays of Heaven, a square face and round body that was welcoming, and a very stern yet protecting face as he wore the robes of his past self. That was our President in Christ, and he would watch over all of us.
No more Santa Claus. We were taught of Santa Claus, but especially how the President in Christ did away with him. Kids my age are taught that Saint Nick was of the Devil, and the President sought to de-canonize him because of it, whatever de-canonizing means. Apparently, it means that everyone can’t talk about him or celebrate him anymore because he’s now considered evil. But, his story was about giving gifts to the poor, right?
----- Right?
----- In the middle of the night, just before we could wake up for presents under the tree in the living room, the front door was kicked down. I could hear it from my room, and it woke me up. However, I was scared, trying to curl up under my blanket, putting my pillow above my head as I felt like all I could do was look at the door.
----- Look and listen.
----- The people that knocked the front door down took no time to start barking, like aggressive canines from dogfights you’d see in movies.
----- “Get up, all of you!”
----- “Hands where I can see them!”
----- “Sterlings, come out with your hands up!”
----- A man in a mask, helmet, and thick outfit all in black destroyed my bedroom door with his shoulder. before shining his gun’s light on me, right in my eyes. I couldn’t help but get distracted by how many pockets he had, despite my fear. I couldn’t comprehend what was going on as the light suddenly made my ears ring. I heard crying, though I don’t remember if it was me. It has to be me, because the one thing that stopped the ringing was the man slamming his gun into my face before throwing me into the broken door. My back rammed right into the doorknob, and I lost my breath as gravity took me to the floor.
----- I coughed violently, which the man didn’t like.
----- “Shut up and get on the couch!” he scowled.
----- I remember our whole family being huddled into the living room… Well, almost everybody. My brother was missing, but the men with guns were still finding him. Even Aunt Mary, Uncle Josh, Uncle Joe, Aunt Rebecca, Grandpa Job, and everyone else in the family was here. They normally bring their collie Pally, though. Where was Pally?
----- While two guards in black watched us, the others took all of our things: our tree, our presents, our decorations, our family pictures, Dad’s favorite safe, my toys… everything. The TV that played such sweet holiday music was even turned off and stripped from the wall, just before it could complete one of my favorite carol lines:
“Hark the herald angels sing–”
----- I remember humming in response.
----- Glory to the newborn king.
----- They even began taking our furniture from our bedrooms. They even took my brother’s medication.
Where was he? I heard him begging for his medicine and then there was a pop. After that pop he stopped screaming. Did they let him sleep? He’s so sick from severe allergic reactions to pollen, mold, water, and also having thin blood that we have to keep him home and in bed a lot. Maybe the guards knew he was special and were nice to him? I hope so.
----- “Well,” one of the standing guards in the room said, “looks like you got quite the collection. I’m sure God and Uncle Sam will be pleased to have these liquidated to help maintain our Eden.”
----- “But, what did we do!?” my mother gasped.
----- The guard pointed his gun at her. “ ‘But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence’.” He barked. “First Timothy’s 2:12. Speak again and you’re dead for minimizing the government, you hoyden bitch!” The guard proceeded to point his gun at Dad. “And you, put your brood in her fucking place. She should know better than to speak like that to a man that isn’t her son or her husband, else you better pray God won’t listen to my prayer to have you sent to the deepest—“
----- “Ansel!” His fellow soldier snapped. “Are we going against Exodus again? One more word like that and you’re put on leave!”
Ansel’s eyes widened, what was visible of his face going pasty white.
The room fell silent, my mom just as pale as the guard as sweat fell down her face like rain. Was it raining? Was the roof broken? Because it seemed everyone else in the family was wet, too.
----- I looked at the American flag that hung on the wall right behind where the Christmas tree was, looking at its stars and wondering if God would make them grow and carry me away, carry all of us away. Something in me felt scared, but I couldn’t say it was my being scared.
----- The stars would help us, they had to. At least that’s what I was told. Every star represents a state, and every state has an angel. Honestly, the stars represent the angels more than the states. Other places we control don't get stars, because they were not originally God’s chosen, and only God’s chosen get angels. Apparently we just took over them and told them they’re destined for God’s greatness, and now they’re under our flag. God chose his people to love, and because we chose them and not God himself then they are undeserving.
----- Our state, Michigan, has the angel Gabriel — same as all of the Midwest and the South, who watches us and tells God if we are deserving of presents every year. New England and the East Coast have Raphael, then the rest of the country has Michael.
----- So, aren’t we loved? Where is Gabriel? He has to tell God or Jesus that something is wrong, right?
----- Right?
----- If we’re loved, why are we being hurt?
----- Wait, we’re being hurt?
----- That’s… right. We’re being hurt. We’re being hurt because we did something to lose God’s love.
That has to be it.
----- But, why? What did we do?
----- “You probably heard the oil reserves dried up,” said Ansel, his gun down and the light off. ----- ”Techcoin ain’t doing enough to cover expenses anymore. You know what that means, don’cha?”
I didn’t know, but it seemed Dad did.
----- “It means we must prove our love to God again so we can live.”
----- Ansel and his buddy laughed like animals as they held their stomachs, leaning into each other like all-too-happy girls at a party.
----- “Did you hear that, Kirby!?”
----- “Ooh, that is too rich!” Kirby chortled. “That’s IF you can live again. You expect to be in God’s good graces again after losing all your hard work? Naw, you’ve gotta earn it! You better hope what job you get in prison’s enough to even give you a start at being His Son’s beloved again, cuz you’ve got nothing now that all the oil is gone!”
----- I knew they were saying things, but I couldn’t fully process what they meant. I was just too engrossed with the stars, wishing, praying, pleasing for Gabriel. For a moment I thought I saw him begin to appear, a man with fair skin with hair like barley and eyes, live sapphires, wings white as the sun and so, so large. The light that emanated from his halo made his face unrecognizable.
----- …Or was that just an image I saw of him before? Angels’ faces are never drawn. Even God’s face isn’t drawn. The only face we know is the Son of God, President Trolion of Christ.
----- I could suddenly hear high, loud beeps. A gun was pointed at me again, the light still on, and Dad had to stop Mom from grabbing me.
“Shut your brat’s brain up!” Ansel roared. The light right at my face made me hear ringing again. I felt so disoriented.
----- Kirby continued while I felt forced into a bath of light, like I was being demanded to focus on the words.
----- “Freedom doesn't mean free thinking. Freedom means safety from the Lord’s wrath, so you’ll respect that freedom and stay exactly where He tells you to and talk how He makes you.”
----- That’s right. God marked America as His by sending his Son to Earth. the Second Coming of Christ. America was chosen as the new Garden of Eden while the world was reset thanks to Satan’s rule over the rest of the world.
“We live in an apocalypse now because the world wants us to relent, and God had his Son made President of Christ, and you respect Him!”
----- The screaming. Oh, all the screaming…
----- After Ansel’s shrieking like someone talking about the end of the world, it felt like the world fell silent. I felt so, so disconnected and confused. But one thing was for sure, I just… knew that my brother could come over and help us. He had to have. He’s still so strong, since he’s older than me, right?
Something in me felt… safe, just at the thought of this hope. There was a warmth to it, a safety, that my soul felt drawn to. I was hypnotized. As I felt the world slowly go dark, I could barely make out the screams of shock from the military men. Can I even remember what they were talking about…?
----- I remember something about how their helmets were on fire from their headphones all of a sudden. There wasn’t any fire, though. Nothing was even red. They cried that it was so hot. When they kept saying it was so hot, I almost thought of fire. Then of campfires. Oh, there’s that comfort again.
----- I’ll just let my big brother, Caleb, do the job… He knows what to do. He can push them away and get us safe while their heads hurt.
----- Yeah. Yeah, that’s it! Get them, Caleb!
----- … Wait, what was I talking about again?
----- After he pushed the guards down there was a big flash of red in the hallway they were pushed into that caused a big fire to start crashing in like a wave. Suddenly my brother was gone, but all of my family began to frantically move, especially towards the big truck the guards brought to apparently take our stuff. We were all so cramped, some even went to the back with all of the furniture and we started moving very, very quickly.
----- “Good job, darling,” mom said, breathy and turning back and forth to see if anyone was behind us. She patted Caleb’s shoulder, and I’m sure it was very concerned, confused stamping. Why was she confused, though? Shouldn’t she be scared?
----- Dad drove us very, very far away, having to drive very slowly through some trees so that we could find a place where people would take us in. We found people in the middle of nowhere that took us in and took no time bringing in our things. Who thought a house could have so many people!
----- It was big, though it looked old. The color seemed like it had been missing morning dew on grass for the past… ten years. That’s a lot of years, right!?
----- We were given the beds at their place for the night, and I remember my mom talking with one of the people there that stuck with me.
----- “We’ll always be in your debt,” she said. “Thank you for taking us in.”
----- A lady responded, her voice low but nasal. “Oh, but of course, Missus Sterling. You gave us quite the help before all this, so this is the least we could do.”
----- A male voice, almost silly and with a southern drawl, but not a good one, popped in. “Heck yeah,” he interjected. “Shoot, I’d say the world oughta be in your debt for what you’ve done for us! Look at all this furniture and food! This could hold us and help us set a garden off grid in no time!”
----- The people were nice, but I don’t remember their names. I don’t think they told me their names.
What I do remember, though, is mom saying something very strong but… weird.
----- “Just trust me, Caela”, she said. “I’m not letting this happen again. Not to me, not to you, not to your father, not to anyone. I have an idea.”}

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01 - High School is Killing Me

^{“Caela!”
Mom calling my name always seemed to wake me up. Sometimes it’d be when I don’t want to be woken up, like during a nice, calming dream. Other times  it'd be when I wish to be taken away from the darkest nightmares. It’s always so strong, so heavy. I guess that’s why people are so afraid of nightmares.
“Galeie,” I heard her again, “come on down for breakfast or you’ll end up late for school!”
Oh, that’s right… Well, crap, Christmas Break is over. How did time go by so fast? Whenever I try to think back on the holidays it’s hard for some reason.. It must just be the early-morning grogginess taking over. I should be fine later, I hope. I groan. Why now? Why can't break be just a little longer? I don’t want to be this close to graduating yet.
I gingerly got out of bed before turning on my alarm clock’s radio, checking the time. It was 4:30 in the morning, still dark outside with the moon bright and lights fogging up the stars. I didn’t quite care what was on while I got ready… at first.
In the beginning I just wanted noise while figuring something out to wear. Normally I don’t care much about what I wear, but I keep hearing rumors about me being a teacher’s pet. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I was confused on why they said it. Was it because of what I wear? I tend to cover up a lot compared to some other seniors, so I guess that's true...?
Then a pretty interesting song with a syncopated riff came on. Normally Christian Rock is straight in its beats, but this had a really nice flow to it. But then the lyrics started playing. This… this is Christian Rock, right?}“Make way, make way
For the second coming
Betrayed, betrayed
By Judas and his cunning
Viewing his master in rapacity
He let his master closet his own liberty
To be free
Oh, did he know what freedom really means?”This felt… wrong. It felt so weird. The music itself was almost chipper, triumphant, but the lyrics felt so spiteful. God “closeting” his own humankind? Why would anyone think that?
I couldn’t stop listening:“Make haste, make haste
Arise a new rebellion
Engaged, engaged
By God’s neglected children
Told the scourge and bloodshed are all our fault
As to be a Good Samaritan’s a sin of us all!(Hark! Hark!)
Running for a living
(Hark! Hark!)
Hearts asylum seeking
(Hark! Hark!)
The cry of every child
Taught to just take things
At Face Value(Hark! Hark!)
Do you hear what I hear?
(Hark! Hark!)
Do you see what I see?
(Hark! Hark!)
The Garden is a curse, it
Feeds us filling lies to be the
Souls that never breathed”I turned the radio off. I couldn’t hear myself think with it, but now the silence had me hearing way too much. How could a song like that be on the radio, and how could it do something like this?  My brain still throbbed to the beat of the song, it almost made me nauseous. It was all a lot to take in. I didn’t expect it, it was so much. It was like my brain couldn’t take what feelings and questions this song pushed.
Just… how? How is it like this?
“Oh Galeie! Are you alright up there?”
Mom. She sounded so cheery... My saving grace. I couldn’t help but want to just stay home and be happy when she called me that. Sometimes I’d lose track of time when that happened. She’s always said time flies when you’re having fun, so I guess that made sense.
But, I needed to figure out what to wear. So, I went with instinct: a light grey dress shirt, a long and grey handkerchief skirt with dark grey leggings, a brown belt, and dark grey shoes with dark green laces.
I added a little flair with a silver pin clipped on the shirt pocket in the shape of a star with a tail like a meteor and a few sparkles shining around it. I dunno, I just like stars. I wanted to show a little bit of myself at school, cuz it’s hard sometimes with the dress code for girls.
No shoulders, no ankles, no upper arms, no hair in tight braids or traditional styles, and no makeup... though people still use makeup anyway because bullies are cruel about acne and skin color.
I looked at myself in the mirror, making sure everything worked well with my hair, eyes, and whatnot. I’m whiter than a popcorn kernel. The only color on me is from my freckles and how bright red my cheeks were. So, I just wear them with pride, or as much pride as I can get. Why worry about makeup, hair dye, and contacts when all those can damage your body, right?
After figuring myself all out, I finally made my way downstairs. My pace slowed on the steps as I zoned out in thought. I guess a lot of choices boil down to not caring. There’s a freedom in not caring, I guess. What’s that called…? Ignorance? Complacency? No, complacency sounded too mean of a word.
Then again, ignorance is too disconnected.
Man…
Eventually I got to the dining room and open kitchen, the waft of waffles and sausages filling the main floor like some sort of statement.
The plate at my seat seemed to shine, demanding it be left to bask in its picture-ready glory. It looked… generated. It honestly made it almost too disgusting to eat – not because it’d taste bad, but it looked too perfect. What especially did it was the sunny-side up egg on top of the waffles. Man, mom really loves to make things “professionally”, doesn't she…
Part of me felt like she was compensating for something, but I didn’t want to focus on that. I needed to focus on getting ready for school.
My mom looked just as pristine as the food. She loved to dress in vintage clothing, and today was no exception. Today was her "traditional" outfit: a white ruffled apron over an orange sleeved dress and pretty, but unnecessary gloves. Her blonde hair was short, some gel or something in it to  accentuate just how shiny her manufactured curls were. It just made her eyes all the more noticeable, and even scary at times.
Sometimes I forget how much I take after Dad in looks.
“I hope you like them!” my mom sang, beaming just as much as the food itself.
I raised a brow.
“Don’t I always?” I noted, trying to giggle. “It’s your food, Mom, and your food’s always good.”
She looked at me, struggling to hide her pride with polite confusion.
“And why do you say that?”
Why so many questions like this? She’s like a broken record.
I held back my annoyance.
“Because I know it’s homemade...?”
“Well, what makes homemade food so special for you, then?” She asked, sounding genuine, but… something seemed off. I don’t know if it was from me still being groggy from just waking up, but there was definitely something.
“It’s made from home and the ingredients are fresher…?” I replied.
Mom couldn’t hide it anymore; she was beaming.
“Aw, well, we don’t have room for a garden, but I try my best!”
I don’t know how to feel about Mom sometimes, I swear…
I decided to change the subject.
“Is Dad running a double again?” I ask. I was kind of hoping Dad would’ve been able to join us for food, but like many times before he’s off the radar to say the least. When was the last time I even saw him when he wasn’t tired or stressed out of his mind, anyway?
Mom sighed, “When isn’t he?” she asked back. “I swear, if he isn’t at work, he’s at his computer. I feel bad he doesn’t put in the effort to be with you like I do.”
She didn't have to be so rude about him. He had his own way of showing he cared. Just because he couldn't be at home didn't mean he didn't love us. Sometimes Mom annoys me with how she talks about him...
“Galeie, you’re spacing out again, dear.”
I knew her pointing it out was just to get my goat a bit, but that nickname just always put me at ease. It never ceased to give me a nice, happy fog, almost. I never ask why, though. It’s like every time I hear it that things go slow.

^~ ★ ~ ⍟ ~ ★ ~Before I knew it, I was just… walking into school.
I think it’s just autopilot kicking in sometimes, thanks to the Chip. It’s like if you “zone out” to your next objective; you don’t remember or care about how you get there, just that you get there. The zoning out is typically harmless, though, since you’re just going where you need to go. The Chip kind of helps your body keep muscle memory active while cognitive memory recharges – at least that’s what everybody, and I mean everybody, says. Like heck, it might be the only thing everybody says about it, and that’s kind of okay.
Sometimes I wonder, though: how much of my life don’t I know about?
I walked through the hall with my schoolbag trapped from one shoulder to the other hip. I quickly focused, feeling excited about school. Honestly, there are some things I enjoy about learning – namely literature. I love to read and introspect on material. You can probably guess I get made fun of for being a bookworm, and you bet I do. There’s other rumors, too, apparently, and they’re spreading fast today.
At least I got a nice routine: go to classes, learn some new stuff, go home, and repeat all this until my birthday.
...My birthday. Why did my birthday have to be graduation day, though? Fourth of July. Could I have been born on a day without fanfare, fireworks, and walking in grad garb? Mom already took me shopping like I’m picking a wedding dress, though to be honest it was a lot more for her than it was for me. Then again, my birthday’s not really for me that often.
I mean, imagine it’s your birthday and the one day is taken over by graduation. Sure, it’s a neat thing to celebrate, but why have them the same day? Can’t I have my graduation after it so I can just… I dunno, have a birthday…?
Trying to get out of my thoughts, I looked down for a moment, feeling something in my hand. It’s a… an in-lunch detention slip.
A detention slip!? A Chip-auto wouldn't make me forget something like this! Mom’s gonna kill me!
My other hand clutched tightly onto the strap of my bookbag. It’s weight was like that of the world at this point. Kids were whispering and peeking at me as I walked down the hall to my home room class. I felt so out of it. How was I here? Why was this in my hand? Why were people giving me these looks? Shouldn't their Chips auto them to their homeroom classes? For the first time in my life, I felt almost too terrified to walk, but my feet kept going.
Good, my Chip-Auto was on, but... not completely? I'm so confused, but also terrified.
This is great. Mom is going to kill me. Mom told me if I kept my record clean I'd get to go to a good college, but now that's out the window. I worked so hard to keep up my ‘good kid’ reputation, now it’s ruined. If colleges even bother to look at me they’ll no doubt throw out my application once they see that I’m just some troubled freak.
…Shoot, and we took our NAAs – our National Academic Assessments – before Winter Break.  The Chaplains were always persistent on our NAAs, and how, if anyone failed, the Church was always open for "refuge".
The worst part was that they only talked to us if we had a "good enough" score. There’s a rumor that the test scores are rigged against certain students. So rigged that all colleges in the country already have the list of students they will and won’t accept. Personally, I don’t like to believe it. It’s probably just people trying to get under my skin since they think I’ll get an auto-in over my mom being in politics and my dad in tech. I try to see it as just another one of those rumors that spread through every school, like a girl getting pregnant in middle school by a gym teacher or the school’s architect making blueprints for Florida’s 'Gator Camp' in the 2020s. But a small part of my brain always says, “Yeah, but rumors have to start from something real. Who knows? You might just be one of those kids.”
...Back to the slip, though; I’ve never had a detention slip in my life, and this is how I’m supposed to start Spring semester!?
This… is gonna be an interesting first day from Winter Break, that’s for sure.
At least my homeroom teacher is nice.
Mister Beau Owenson always tried to make everyone feel safe, like there wasn’t anything wrong in our lives. That’s why I loved him and his class.. He’s honestly a good guy, looking like he came straight out of a kid’s storybook but in a way that wasn't generated or so toonified. His wardrobe almost consisted of nothing but dress shirts and formal pants with suspenders and an old school paperboy hat nearly every day. I swear, he’d fit right in pictures from our unit on labor history and the Great Depression... or was it the Great Recession?
He stood like a rad uncle that doesn’t get in trouble but knows a heck of a lot about true crime, law, and history on the side, though he doesn't talk about what he specifically watches. He kind of gives the school Chaplain a bad name given how helpful he actually is. That… actually isn’t common among the other teachers. I only get to see him for homeroom at the start of the day, but at least I have him for English as my last class. After that school always has closing prayer and announcements in the auditorium. That was a bonus, I guess.
I made my way to my homeroom through the chattering stampede of fellow students. Mr. Owenson sat at his desk, wallpaper of bookshelves on the wall to remind us of what books actually are. His desk, like everyone else’s, was bare, though, outside of his folders and his electronics.
The whiteboard was as dirty as it always was; the projector, with some of the plates missing and wires exposed like some open wound. The one thing that looked like it didn’t need a touch up was a little shrine just above the whiteboard, between the security camera and the intercom speaker, and man, was it decked out.
It was a pristine, varnished rosewood that looked like it could never mold. At the sides were little clear vases with two American flags each. One flared out to see all the stars and stripes pointing outwards, and one draped and leaned inward to the special picture of our President in Christ: face bright in its own orange halo complimented by his bright blond hair, stark blue eyes, and his traditional tunic and drape. His hands were outstretched, palms out with holes exposed, bowing to the viewer with a giant smile -- gums and all. The frame of his image was mahogany with a plum sash like curtains and silver stars on a thin but gaudy garland to embellish the top. To go with it was a small rosewood table with a plum tablecloth and mahogany bowl for tithings.
If I didn’t know any better I’d say the picture of our President in Christ looked like something for the dead.
“G'mornin', everyone!” Mister Owenson cheered as students came in.
I felt oddly grounded hearing him, but it only made me remember that I was in trouble.
Right, the detention slip.
…Well, shoot.
I forced a smile. “Mister Owenson! Good morning!”
My homeroom teacher looked at me with a warm smile.
“Well, hey, if it ain’t the little Sterling girl!” he cheered. “How w's break?”
I tried to play off a happy-go-lucky smirk from the nickname.
“Oh, you know,” I rambled, “one of the rare times I get to see Dad, so that’s always a nice gift, right?”
Mister Owenson gave a somber smile. “I see,” he said. “How… often, do you see–” he trailed. “Nevermind, now’s not the time for that.”
He became a statue for a split second. If you could see the lightbulb light up above him you would have.
“Actually, Caela, that reminds me; come with me to the hall for a quick moment.”
Wait…
…Oh. Yeah…
I could barely make out the shift in the room. The more I noticed it the more my brain just… gravitated to it, focused on it, and got almost infatuated from it. All the sounds changed, turning a classroom bright and colourful to fight the morning fatigue into a room where interrogation and lies intermingled and replaced the air you breathed. I couldn’t see others for a moment, only able to hear what I could only understand as cattiness:“Han, Jen, did you hear what Caela Sterling did today?”
“What’s the tea, Melly?”
“Wait, today? What did she do this time?”
“She started talking shit on a Judas again, right when she saw him! You shouldda been there; she ripped ass!"
“Isn’t that last year’s news? And what beef does she have with that Judas, anyway, Jenny?”
“No idea, Mel.”
“The frick she think she is? She could get away with murder and she'd never get kicked out!”
“She did get that Judas held back a year, though, Han. Maybe I could keep my classes if I did that, too, Han!”
“Bet! Bodycount time, Mel!”
“Sterling does have a knack for acting like she don't know nothing, though. Keeps the adults pitying her. We’re gonna have to do something like that, too, but what?”
“What’s her problem, anyway? Judases are people, too; just let them be and let them get their schooling while they can.”
“Hah! Giving miscegenator today, huh, Jenny?”
“Oh, come on, quit using book words, Mel! Just call her an oreo lover and be done with it!”
“Oreo lover!? What is this, the 20th century!? 'Least I can go without my boyfriend every class, Hannah!”
"DON'T YOU BADMOUTH SKY-DADDY; HE'S REAL!" Hannah said while Jenny and Melly were cackling.
"HANNAH, YOU NAMED YOUR CLANKERBOY SKY-DADDY! OH. YOU'RE MAD COOKED!"They were so… snakelike. Not just to me, but to themselves. They knew so much more that I don’t, and one of them even saw me...? How? And why don’t I remember any of this?
On the other hand, why did they talk about being around or liking someone different than you – a Judas, no less – as being a “miscegenator” or “oreo lover”? I’ve never heard of or asked about those words before, but they seem so… awful.
Should I ask Mom…?
In the haze from those girls’ words, I made my way back to the hall, students and teachers passing by as Mister Owenson and I stood close and talked quietly. Others were still going in and out of the halls from the lobby to their homerooms, after all, with the occasional slam of a locker and laughter.
What I heard next, though, grabbed my attention in the most frightening way that I could’ve expected.
“How’s your home life been going? Has your dad been out again?”
Dad…
I signed and lowered my brows. “Yeah, he’s…” I frowned. “He’s at it again, I guess. Got another big project going on at work where he has to just about live there.”
Mister Owenson frowned in concern. “I’m sorry to hear that, Caela,” he replied. “It’s… got to be hard.” He leaned in a little, his voice to a whisper. “I don’t know all that’s going on, but I don’t think taking it out on a student is a good thing to do.”
I felt a sting of fear strike through my back. “…What?”
“You harassed a Ju–” he stopped, a finger up before he collected his thoughts.. “You harassed Judas Feingold this morning,” he said, though I expected he’d sound more disappointed. Instead he sounded as confused as I am. “And I've been told you have a record with him at a previous school.”
...What was he saying?
“Does Crow Elementary sound familiar to you?”
I could only gawk at him in shock. “No… not at all. When was I there?” I asked.
Mister Owenson looked at me, taking in what I said. I’m being honest; I don’t remember Crow Elementary at all. When was I even there? How could I have been somewhere I don’t remember? Why don’t I remember?
“Why don’t I…?”
I stopped before finally finding the words.
“No... Why can’t I remember, Mister Owenson?”
The look on his face… I could tell he was trying to hide his confusion. No, it was stronger than that. Was he scared…? Was he scared of me?
Should I be afraid of myself?I think I should be…Oh, God, what am I…!?“You’re a dirty sinner…”…I could feel these words humming in the back of my head.“You’re a dirty sinner and you made myself forget my sins. You lied to yourself so you could get to heaven like everyone else.”Do I deserve heaven…?“...No.”What do I deserve?“You deserve to repent. Denounce yourself. You’re not a child of God. If you were, you wouldn’t sin. You were borne of sin, and you must be better than that.”I need to repent. I can’t be human anymore if I sin. I can’t be.What am I?WHAT AM–
“Caela?”
“Wha-” I jolted, hand immediately coming up to rub my eyes violently, stammering. “S-sorry, Mister Owenson. I–”
My teacher looked at me calmly, a smile trying and failing to hide his concern. “It’s okay, Caela. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
I couldn’t stop my face from drooping. “I… I don’t know. I don’t notice, I just… come to school.” My hand comes up to point at my head as I forced a chuckle, trying to calm myself. "It's the Chip, y'know. One of the side-effects is memory problems."
I think. I don’t have any extracurriculars – on request of the board. Mom says they don’t want me making a scene, so I don't do anything outside of classes. Look how that turned out…
“Well,” Mister Owenson whispered, glancing looks at my slip, “just… try to focus today. It looks like it's just an in-lunch detention today. It’s the start of the semester, but you’ve got a pass. Y’know, from–”
“Please,” I barked -- no, it sounded like a yelp, only loud enough for him to register in the hall. “If it makes me a normal girl, tell my mom what happened, then.” My hand tightened on my bookbag strap. “I deal with it enough from other students; I don’t need it from you, too, sir.”
As if on cue, the intercom sang to life with the final bell before the morning screech. With a solemn, maybe worried smile, Mister Owenson nodded to me. "Let's head in, Caela," he insisted softly, "The mornin' roundup's gonna start."
I nodded, heading to my desk and trying miserably to not worry about any looks.
Mister Owenson quickly went back to his jovial self. However, he wasn't dumb, like a lot of seniors thought.
"Oh, Hannah?" he sang, "did I hear right that you've got your phone on you?"
Like clockwork some of the others in class cooed, the humiliation premating the air.
The girl stammered. "I-i was just talking about it. It's in my locker, I swear!"
"Then is that a phone in your pocket, or's Sky-Daddy happy to see you, Han?"
"MEL!"
Mister Owenson sighed, holding a hand out. Like clockwork, though, the catty girl listened, almost slamming her phone in his hand in shame. He placed it in a thick fabric pouch, sliding it in his desk just before the intercom bell rang again.
This bell was different than earlier, though. The sound was different, and the melody switched. It was... higher, tingier, and Mister Owenson didn't even react. But the students' heads were up and locked on the intercom.
They were taking their sweet time starting things up. I guess the folks behind the curtain were still waking up, 'cus man, you could hear how much they were trying to seem cheery.
“Good morning, students,” an older woman cheered, sounding straight out of a cartoon for toddlers. “This is Vice Principal Vira Maggie, and welcome back to Dvalinnberg Academy! We hope you all had an amazing Winter Break, spending time with your families and keeping up with your assignments during our blessed Winter Break.”
Oh yeah, we had assignments over break. I did them all first-thing when break started, and I knew that for a fact, so that was… reassuring, I guess.
“We know that breaks are considered times to relax for some, and that goes double for celebrating our Lord and Savior, but we here at the academy always strive for perseverance and ability, so we hope you aren’t taking the grace of your teachers in vain,” she continued, almost sing-songy. “Our motto is and always will be ‘make life worth living’, after all.”
I guess she had a point. The school always pushed for looking on the bright side, or at least it felt like it.  Maybe the constant homework was just “tough love” like Mom always talked about.
“Now, everyone get your bibles out of your bookbags, and Chaplain Roderick Beaufoy will lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance and the Morning Prayer.”
We students all did what we were told, grabbing our bibles and putting them on our desks.

^ The bibles weren’t like the ones you got from churches; no, they were special ones for school. The ones in churches were in Latin, Greek, and “Early Modern English” – all of them bookspeak. Instead our school-bibles are in everyday English, and each front cover has a large, embossed silhouette of a cross with its signature sash and a tuft above it to reference the crown of thorns turned into a crown of hair.
“Please stand for the Pledge,” the Chaplain’s voice rang. His voice alone was... intimidating; I don’t think anyone felt comfortable around him, let alone hearing him, so we often did what we were told when he was around or heard. It was probably for the best, anyway.
...I couldn't bring myself to stand, though.
I couldn't tell you why; I just... couldn't. It was like I couldn't even compute the thought to stand.
I felt like I could hear something weird, though; all around me was a weird buzz. Was it the Chip, or could anyone else hear it? Were the lights going out? Was it a fly around just me specifically? I couldn’t say anything.
I was so shocked; I could see the lights flicker, the room switching from tranquil to untrustworthy with every flash.
And it wouldn’t stop.
This happens a lot, though. As scared as I am, I'm always told I'm seeing things. I can't not be scared, though.
Something sounded off, and I couldn’t help but look through the corner of my eye. Something in the back of my head – that same horrible voice – was telling me to just stand up, just recite like I always did, but I just… couldn’t. Not today, at least, and I had no idea why. My lips and legs just wouldn’t move; they were too scared to.
The more I saw, the more the other students’ movements suddenly stopped feeling… fluid.
…feeling human. I knew this was normal, but today I was on alert. It was so much.
I had to stop myself from turning my head, but from my peripheral vision I saw some of their hands moving to their books and hearts stiff like automatons.
It was… weird. Why was I noticing all of this now?
And then, they spoke.
In my panic I somehow managed to mouth along, just barely, voiceless as I continued trying to sneak glances at everyone, acting like them as I kept my main gaze to the shrine.
…And to the camera. The camera always had to be acknowledged. He had to be acknowledged. Mom always said so.
Mom... Oh, I was gonna get a talking to for sure for this.“I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America
And to His Eden for which it stands
As we deliver with sacred hands
One message, under God:
Indivisible, with liberty and justice for all”"You may be seated."
And they obeyed when the bell chimed from the intercom....They're not watching. They're just doing as they're told....I hope you're right."And now for the 6:30 morning prayer. We will have the next minute to give thanks to the Lord this day. Everyone please bow your heads."
Right... prayer. Was this all in my head? Was I just creeping myself out?
I kept my head low... and did as I was told. I prayed.
Dear God: thank you for this day. I recognize you've put me in fear to teach me to listen. That is no doubt why you have given me the gift of... attention, through this angel on my shoulder, in my heart, critical of me and knowing what's best for me as I make mistake after mistake. Lord God, I ask that you help guide me and stay true to your covenant. I ask that you help me find the strength in company to find myself and keep to your Word. Whatever devil on my shoulder stands between me and my memory, please give me the tools to exorcise myself of it in Your name.
I beg you, Lord: guide me. I can only give everything I am to you. That is all I know to do, Lord, as my mother has done and raised me to do for you.
In Jesus' name:
Amen.
...If I hadn't known any better, I could've sworn I'd heard His voice as I prayed. Was I answered? Maybe I should talk to Chaplain Beaufoy.
Maybe... But with the rumors, I don't want to. Mom did also stay to keep men at a distance, anyway...When the Vice Principal continued the rest of the announcement while the Chaplain left, I felt like I could finally breathe. You could hear it over the intercom as the Vice Principal talked. But, I knew I couldn't let it out; they'll see me. I forced it slow, pursing my lips as I kept my eyes closed, my head down.

^{~ ★ ~ ⍟ ~ ★ ~}DiIiNg DiIiNg DiIiNg
The crunchy, out of tune intercom penetrated my ears. The sharp, throbbing pitch like an ear infection, but today made it all the worse.
Every student hurled from their seats, the air only filled by one voice as everyone prepped their books into their bags to head out.
"Don't forget, class," my English teacher noted loud, fighting against tablet cases slamming shut and fabric jostling, "I'll need your essays on how the South saved Christmas by this Friday; and for seniors, don't forget to get me your thesis topics by Monday."
After my first four periods, it was finally my lunchtime. I guess I was put in first block -- 10:30 in the morning -- this semester. Guess beggars can't be choosers since we started classes so early, anyway.
It couldn't have come sooner, though. It was so hard to focus on any of my classes I was just on auto-pilot. It didn't feel like the Chip's auto, though. I'm still shaking. Normally after a Chip-auto I feel fine, so what... what gives?
What's wrong...?
I couldn't focus on that. Unfortunately, right now I had to get to the room assigned for my detention.
I didn't want to be seen, though...
It felt like being stuck in the backrooms, trying to find the detention room. The halls and pillars of the building's structure left blank save for the lockers, classroom doors, and windows. Holding my bag close to me did nothing to keep me feeling safe, though.
Keeping the satchel itself at my side with an iron grip around all the items inside, I stayed close to the wall. I couldn't stay close, though, or the railing at the ramps would dig into my side... I had to slip through the elementary sector for a "shortcut" -- more like a long-cut -- to get to the right spot. Thankfully the room was in the sector, but it didn't make the walls any better.
Actually, I think they would've been better blank like the Middle and High School sectors.
I... couldn't look at them. I think it's best I just forget they exist. They make me uncomfortable. I don't remember seeing stuff like this when I was in elementary.
...It took me a while, but I found the right room. Room AO-12. The even-number rooms of the Account Office were in the Elementary sector, with the odds for the others, though 1-3 always work together and... they've got a reputation.
Walking in, the benches were almost packed. There were a lot of Judases, but they were focused on their food and books. That's... good.
There was a thin individual at a table, probably 5'10", and oddly enough by their lonesome as they hunched forward, elbows supporting their posture. Strawberry blond hair curtained long over their face like willow leaves, but the yellow sea parted when they held up a forkfull of mashed potatoes. While their arms were bright white with speckles of color and blush, their cargo jeans and t-shirt, their bookbag, even their lunchbox were nothing but black. Their one hand was occupied with a strange toy I'd never seen, though. What was that, a mini laptop? Why were they using a pen to touch it? Was it delicate?
I couldn't explain it, and I know it was bad that I couldn't, but I didn't feel comfortable sitting around others. This person seemed... approachable, even though they looked almost straight out of a "goth" cartoon, or whatever that word means. I heard it used a lot when talking about folks that wear all black, but I never thought of figuring out much else.
So, I walked over.
"May I have a seat?"
The individual looked up at me, and I got a good look at deep green eyes with more angel kisses across their cheeks. Their face was as slim as their body, brows darker and a tad bushy with nose just a titch bulbous like a miser or banker, but their expression wasn't friendly. Really, I couldn't tell how they were looking at all. They just seemed... done?
"Well, you're new."
...Well, that's certainly a way to answer my question.
I sighed, grabbing for my lunch in my bad. "Yeah," I replied, "it's my... first time. May I sit here?"
The other kid raised a brow, the rest of their face never changing. "Not like I can stop you," they replied, if a bit terse. But, they didn't seem to mean it being so harsh, as their body relaxed and their focus went back to their lunch.
Unsure, but taking it as an okay, I sat down, still looking for my lunch inside. My memory's been so bad today that I forget if Mom even packed me something. I'm normally on top of grabbing that in the morning, so I don't know if I--
...There it is.
I pull my lunchbag out, smiling as I couldn't help but wonder what was inside. My hand zipped around as quick as the zipper itself, flinging the top open with my thumbs and reaching in like a kid reaching deep in a bag for candy on Halloween. Finding my box inside, my face grinned before pulling it out, grabbing the lid to look inside.
...And found nothing.
"That's rough, buddy," the other kid commented, holding out a bite of reheated mashed potato from his lunch. "Need some?"
How big was the frown on my face...? I was told I had a problem with controlling my face around strangers.
I looked up at the other kid. "Is that okay?" I clarified.
"It wouldn't be if I didn't offer, would it?" they replied, confused. "Go on; I have an extra fork anyway."
"R-right..."
I took the lad's work gently, bringing a hand under the food in face it fell before taking the bite.
It was a lot better than Mom's potatoes. It was salty, but also garlicky with an almost creamy texture. Definitely better than the curdy lumps at home.
"This is really good," I couldn't help but comment, nodding my head for my surprise and gratitude. "Thank you."
"Not a problem," they replied, shrugging as they whipped their spare utensil from their lunchbag with a small lidded carton. "I tend to have extra for if I'm feeling snacky, anyway, so I'm good to share."
That was... really kind.
"Thanks," I said again, nodding again.
They put the new carton in front of me. "I'm Louis. Louis Cullen."
"Nice to meet you," I replied. "I'm Caela."
Louis raised a brow again. Oh great, they've heard of me...
"Sterling?"
I nodded, regretfully.
"First time?" they asked, occasionally glancing back to their gadget. "Like first time first time?"
My head fell. "I don't know," I sighed. "I think it is, but my memory's really bad."
Louis shrugged. "Side-effect of too much Chip-auto, prob'bly," they commented. "Might wanna lay off the commands. Use 'em too much and you lose your mind."
I think I get that, now... "Right..."
“Your Chip’s on pure auto, i’n’t it?”
I gave a micro-shrug. "I'm pretty sure it is," I admitted. My voice shook a little bit. "I really don't know. I don't even know how to check that kind of thing. I just... trust it."
I saw a spark of shock blink in their eyes for a moment as they went wide. "You...just trust it?" they asked, aghast. "You...do know how dangerous that is, right?"
Dangerous...?
"Well, I-"
Considering today, maybe they had a point.
"...no. No, I don't"
"'Guess to be expected for a rich girl," Louis commented. It hurt a bit, but their tone was a lot softer than I first thought. Did they pity me...?
The long-haired individual grimaced. "Sorry, that came out wrong," they apologized. "I'm... not good with words a lot of the time."
I nodded.
"But really," they continued, voice softening in almost concern. "You can't just listen to what it says or whatever others think it says. You gotta think for yourself, y'know, see the forest for the trees."
I chuckled. "Wow," I spoke without thinking, "you sound like my old Poppop."
Louis grinned from ear to ear. "I get that a lot," they chirped, rather proud of themselves for that. "But yeah, try t' think of your own ideas for a little bit. The more you use your brain, the less the chip'll butt in."
"I... see."
I don't get it.
Louis sighed, reading my face easily. "Want me t' give you some examples?"
"Please," I blurted. "I... don't really trust how I act right now. Not after this."
I gestured to around me.
"I don't even remember hurting someone... but I did."
Louis raised a brow. "Who?"
...Then the door opened again.
I turned around, and there he was. Mocha skin, raven hair, and piercing grey eyes like overcast clouds lit up by lightning. He had a bright mint t-shirt, denim pants, old sneakers, and a well, well worn backpack. He carried his backpack over his shoulder like a coat, his expression as flat as a frozen waterbed.
He looked familiar. And that scared me.
And he wasn't happy to see me, either.
I grabbed the food Louis gave me, slammed it into my lunchbag, and rushed to another table. I couldn't look at him.
Louis sure knew him, though.
"Hey, Jude!" they sang. "What took ya so long?"
The young man fast-walked to his seat -- the spot I apparently took.
"Lee," he voiced, terse. "Picto. Now."
Louis raised a brow. "Got yours?"
The short-haired male scrambled through his bag.
"...Oh, you gotta be--!"
The new student in the room slammed himself into his seat. I couldn't look his way. It almost sounded like he was on the verge of pulling Louis in and starting a fight. Oh God, I couldn't watch...
But I could hear. Oh man, could I hear...
Even with them whispering, why was it so easy to hear? It was like the catty girls all over again."Lee, dude, did you forget what I told you about Crow!?"
"I remember, man. What about it?"
"That's her."
"...no way, her?"
"Her."
"...I don't think she even knows, man."
"Bullshit she don't know. Why'd she come at me this morning, then, if she didn't!?"
"...Oh, fuck, are you for real?"...Was he really for real? Why couldn't I remember? When was this?
But if what they say is true...
...I don't think I could eat anymore. I don't... think I even should. It doesn't feel right. If I did something wrong, then I shouldn't receive anything for it.
I know I went back to Louis to give them their food back. It helped I ate barely any of it. When I sat back down, I scoot to the wall. It kept me out of earshot...
... but not out enough. I could still hear them. Faintly."...your food!?"
"Seriously, I didn't--"
"You stupid!? Why...her...food!? ...struggle as is!"
"...help..."
"HELP!? PEOPLE LIKE HER DON'T NEED HELP! THEY NEED JAIL!"...That...was harsh. Really harsh. But if I really hurt him, I can't exactly blame him. If I shouldn't use the auto just to deal with today, I guess now is the best start... meaning I can't block this out.
I shouldn't.
And I couldn't. He just kept going. His rage couldn't really silence his whispers."Rich shits like her don't know any better, and that's the point. They won't, and they never will. So don't talk to her!"...My name really did go around, didn't it...? I never realized... I just tried to focus on school, especially since my family and I just moved here.
...Though I guess now it finally makes sense why we moved."She's like all the rest of the preps. And she's at the top. She's a Sterling, remember? They're leeches. Just like the Pres in Christ, and he's the ultimate bully. Don't give them nothin', and they leave you alone. That's all we can do."
"I got it, man, I got it."Yeah... I got it......Why don't I know what I did?
Should I talk to Mom?...That might be a good idea.

^{~ ★ ~ ⍟ ~ ★ ~}I couldn't think of anything else from lunch on, at least for a while. Biology, Algebra, Arts, and P.E. went by quick and I focused on just taking notes and keeping my mouth shut. Thankfully my teachers noticed and didn't point me out.
I'm glad I was left on my own. Well, except for my Biology teacher, but she was really nice about it.
My Biology teacher is the Irish homeroom teacher -- Miss Ellis Ward, She was really sweet and kept homework simple, but man were students bad. I thought girls could be gossipy and crummy on their own, but the guys here are vile -- and apparently it's the same at other schools. One really prominent bully, Cameron, would keep calling the teacher 'Sir" and "Eli" when he'd answer or ask questions. I really hate when he does this, but last time I tried to call him out he almost smacked me before using my name to say I'm lucky... again.
Man, my name has me hated and saved from getting hit? Can't I just be a normal kid?
Then again, if a normal kid is being an ass, then maybe it's good I try not to be.
Anyway, when Miss Ward would try to do something about Cameron before Christmas Break, I heard it only made Facebook blow up. She already had to move before to teach here after she was bullied out of her last school for teaching, so I heard, and it just sounds like kids are the same anywhere. Man... I really hope Miss Ward stays.
She's really sweet, and she makes science honestly seem like a lot of fun. She likes to sprinkle in some information about cell structure, atoms, and how Punnett Squares are too good to be true while the books said all life came only 6250 years ago, give or take. Man, if I didn't know any better, she made science sound like a marvel. I think I remember her saying it actually was banned in Europe for a long while because people were scared it was magic brought by Muslims. Heck, we didn't know how important it was to wash our hands until a century ago. To think: the civil wars were fought with blood and guts on peoples' hands so often.While other students had to go on the two rickety buses the school had and waste 30 to 90 minutes to get home, my dad got off work just in time to pick me up, just like always. It was the only time I could see him most days. Double shift or not, he uses his break to come see me like clockwork.
And he didn't seem to know a thing about today... or my school life at all. Either that, or he didn't want me to think about it. A lot of times I couldn't tell, but honestly spending time with him helps me to forget about it all. I just... feel like a normal kid with Dad.
Every time he pulled up he was beaming, and today's no different. His dark hair slicked back, though his bangs poked out a little, with a business casual polo and pants like his work used golf courses as meetings. His glasses lens were so large they'd put a movie camera lens to shame. But, that's what made him look like a dad to me, more than anything.
His work tab danced on his shirt pocket like a rearview mirror charm: "Joseph C. Sterling"
Seeing him smile. I couldn't help but smile back as I got in shotgun.
"Well if it ain't my little starling!" my Dad joked, grinning. I couldn't help but chuckle as he laughed at his own joke. Man, he seemed to always know how to get me to calm down after everything.
I beamed back. "Hey, Dad!" I chirped. "How's work going?"
My dad flattened his lips as he danced in a shrug. "Eh," he sang, "Same old same old. I.T.'s a beach, y'know. Not even the genbots can help some folks with turning things off and back on again. Gotta love people, eh?"
I giggled. "Man, even with the PsyCall? You'd think auto'd help people think, right?"
"Hah. Yeah. Help 'em think how to be lazy."
We erupted in laugher while Dad slowly drove out the school parking lot to get us home.
...That probably came out wrong. I wouldn't be surprised if other students heard us and were probably staring if they did.
"Hey," Dad chirped, nudging me with his elbow before we hit the road proper. "No time like the present, though, right?"
"Definitely," I commented. I couldn't stop smiling.
I swear, Dad's got a have a sixth sense sometimes. Was it on my face that I had a bad day or something? Before we made our way home, he turned right. I knew exactly what detour we were taking.
"Does mom want anything?"
"Nope. Just you and me, kiddo."
I swear, Dad spoils me whenever he can. I really wish he didn't work so much.
"Since I'm working overnight again, they're doubling my breaktime. Wanna sit down?"
"Absolutely."
Culver's. We didn't touch McDonald's. Their burgers were too flat. Heck, Dad even told me a rumor from fifty years ago that they used horse meat. Or was that Wendy's? Anyway, Culver's was a local chain we liked, though Dad swore there were more spots before McDonald's bought out so many of them. Plus, their custard was out of this world. I mean, you couldn't go wrong with burgers grilled with butter.
We didn't have it often, which made it all the more a treat.
It did take us a bit to get to the nearest one, though. About 20 minutes. But, Dad always knew how to fill the air, and how to keep me smiling. He always loved to show me some of his favorite songs from when he was my age, and he really loved to branch out: Nightwish from Finland, Dark Moor from Spain, ABBA from Sweden, on top of some OLD old American Classics: Boston, Rush, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Redbone, and Michael Jackson, to name a few.
As much as he liked to sing along, though, his singing was horrible, though. Not even Mom "adding some spirit" to his virgin Long Island could save him. But I loved singing with him regardless.
I could almost forget about Louis and that Ju--
...and about Judas... Judas Feingold.
When we walked in the shop, the screens at the registers flickered for a moment as I heard a camera whir from near the ceiling. The smell of cooking oil and searing meat wafted from the open kitchen to the front of house. Almost instantaneously the screens shined back on, with the menu and its costs -- on body and wallet -- in a bold and deep electric blue. Everyone working had the same colored aprons and caps, with letters switched to white with their nametags inverted like the menus. The four registers at the long table were ready, if maybe a bit run down, but only one line and clerk were available.
...There was also the automated stand right next to the front doors, but Dad always preferred the "human experience."
Our cashier, with a tag reading "Reggie", beamed with glassy eyes. "Welcome to Culver's!" he chirped. "What can I get for you today?"
The burgers were really expensive today. That, or Dad came here way too often. Man, the prices were so high. About double what he said they cost when he was in high school. I guess one of the perks of being a "rich kid" was that that didn't matter.
I felt bad in my heart, though, thinking about it. So, I ordered a cheaper chicken sandwich basket instead while Dad got his usual burger. We got free drinks with out stuff, though, so we both got some tea.
Like old school, we took a plaque with a number and took it to whatever seat we wanted. Dad and I always picked out favorite kind of spot: a booth behind a partition near the back of the shop.
"So, how was your first day back, Cae?"
...Darn it, Dad.
I pursed my lips to the side. "It was... fine," I pushed. "Mister Owenson and Miss Ward were probably the nicest they've been today. No big homework start with them, which gives me time for my thesis."
I knew from his look that he knew something was up.
"Are you sure 'bout that?" he asked. "Did something happen?"
...Well.
I sighed. "You know how you say sometimes that relying too much on the chips makes people lazy? Or that it makes your head all hazy?"
His face drooped a little. "What happened?"
"I... bullied someone again. And I don't even remember it happening, just like at Crow."
"Oh, Caela..."
I know...
"We talked about this..."
I know..!
Dad sighed, though his tone still soft. "I know your mother says PsyCall isn't all that bad, but this is the second time at a new school that you've done this."
I kept my eyes down. I couldn't look up at him.
"Do you know why this happened?"
I shook my head. "I was just on auto after leaving the house."
"Just like last year..."
Yeah...
Dad cleared his throat softly. "Do you remember some of the tips I told you last time?"
I shook my head.
He smiled. "Look at me, kiddo. It's okay."
I couldn't help but believe him. I looked up. His smile was so sincere.
"Want me to get you a journal? Writing things down helped me get my memory back up to snuff. It just takes a while to lock it in, so you got to be patient with yourself."
I sauntered my head for a moment, my eyes squinting. It didn't seem like a bad idea at all, honestly.
"Besides, I know there's some things you don't want to tell me or your mother. So, how about I get you one with a lock?"
I raised a brow. "Wait, those exist? I thought locked books went out of print in the '30s."
Dad smirked. "Nah, not really," he snickered. "They're just harder to find."
A clerk came up with a bright blue tray lined with that looked like old-school colored newspaper. "Here you two go," they chirped, switching it out with the plaque Dad grabbed earlier and had put on the table. Dad made sure to thank them, slipping a Grant bill in their apron pocket without them noticing before they walked off.
Dad looked back at me, shuffling his pockets to get his phone. "Don't you worry, kiddo," he grinned, "I'll get one for you at the house by tonight. Just don't let your mother see."
"Alrighty."
...Though why wasn't Mom supposed to know?
"And you know what?" he snickered, "remind me to give you something this weekend. I've been holding onto it since I was your age. It's got a few games with it and still works like a champ."
Wait, games?

^{~ ★ ~ ⍟ ~ ★ ~}After our linner ritual, Dad dropped me off home before blasting off again to work to finish up his double. Just as he said, there was a cardboard box with an arrow smile on the taping. I know he had to pay top dollar for that to be here day-of, but man was he a man of his word.
This was it. Picking it up, I quickly opened the box and put the book inside in my bookbag to hide it. Dad said Mom shouldn't know about it, so... I guess I was going to keep it that way.
Tossing the box in the recycling bin outside the door, I went inside.
And with the creak of the front door, Mom beamed from the kitchen, cooking again. I could smell it from the front of the house: Hamburg steaks with garlic mashed potatoes and corn. She always said it was a "humbling meal", but I was honestly getting tired of it. This was, what, the twelfth week in a row, now?
"Welcome home, Gaelie!"
...That nickname again. Mom always knew how to calm me down.
But I needed to focus.
I smiled. "Hey, Mom!" I cheered.
"Anything good happen at school?"
Quick, Caela, think.
"Not really. Gotta focus on my thesis."
Good save.
"Oh!" Mom cheered, nosy. "And what are you gonna right about, sweetie?"
"I dunno yet. I need to use tonight to figure that out. My topic's due Friday."
I could hear her chuckling. "Oh, the grind never ends with you, does it?" she commented, grinding some spices to go with dinner. "I'll call you down when food's ready, okay? It's just you and me again tonight since your father's got his double. 'Should be ready in about ten minutes, alright?"
I smiled. "Alright, thank you ten."
...Man, I didn't have much time to digest my last dinner before this one, did I? Mom loved to make every second of my day count, it seemed. I was lucky I didn't have any extra-curriculars -- mostly because Mom wouldn't allow it. She said they were too expensive, but if we were so rich... why couldn't we afford that? Mom always said she wanted us to live a simple life and stop being so lavish like Poppop did with her, but was performing in the theatre troupe or kicking a soccer ball really that risky?
I dunno, and I didn't really feel comfortable saying anything about it. Last time I did as a kid I was told that was talking back. Girls should be seen and not heard, cuz Corinthians says women are barred from talking against authority -- in the church or in the home, or a "family's church." The only reason Mom says she can talk is because "someone has to lead while your father's away."
Maybe that's why Dad got me the journal.
...Wait, right, the journal!
Walking into my room, I quickly closed the door and flipped the lock. I wanted to have some sort of privacy while I pried this thing open. I couldn't stop myself from smiling as I searched around for it in my bag. Man, I felt like I was four all over again on Christmas morning.
Forget the one gift opened on Christmas Eve, this was the "big guns", as Dad liked to say.
And when I pulled it out and finally got a good look at it, I couldn't disagree more.
The journal was gorgeous, beautiful with its simple design. The front cover was cut into four squares with a four corner star in the middle split in two, perfectly aligning all the parts. The corners of the covers had those triangular bookend things on them in the same gold as the star. The squares were neat, too, each their own color that created almost a spiraled gradient into itself: green, cyan, indigo, and purple.
The outside parts of the pages were also gold. Pushing them in my hands showed a diomara of circles and sparkles with the same symbol at the center of the cover in the middle of all the magic. Holy cow, Dad didn't mess around.
And then there was the lock. It was the same luster as the other metallic parts, but this time had an engraving on it: a circle divided into four with two teardrops framing a star that drooped from the bottom. The key that came with it, taped on the front and on a chain to wear as a necklace, had the same little symbol.
"Wow..." I gasped, keeping my voice down. I almost felt like a fairytale pirate finding a treasure chest I wasn't expecting. What could be the gold inside?
I took the key, taking the tape off and tossing it aside, before turning the lock.
...And I opened the cover.
The words on the front page were so simple, but... so strong.
"This journal belongs to"
"--------------------------"
This really does belong to me, now. And I could prove it with my own name.
My own little world, under lock and key.
It felt too good to be true.
And I was so excited to start it.
I sank into my bookbag again, fishing out my pen holder and swiping out a, emerald green glitter pen.
I couldn't help but think: how should I write my name? Should I buy a calligraphy pen instead and write it in some fancy style? Should I just use normal cursive? Cursive is a dying art, and it'd look so neat. Maybe I could write my signature like I was taught how to for checks? Or maybe just write it in print.
...Nah, cursive it is.
"Let's see if I remember how to."
I mean, I should. Mom was always persistent about writing my essays by hand. Even when my wrist was in a cast.
So, I wrote my name. But, I didn't want to put down my last name. That didn't feel right.
"Caela"
Much better than Mom's little nickname for me.
Caela. That's it.
"Oh, Gaelie!"
Man, had it been ten minutes already?
"Yeah, Mom?"
"Dinner's about done. You wanna come down and eat?"
"Coming!"
I closed the journal, locking it back closed with the key and putting the book under my pillow before shoving it in my skirt pocket before heading downstairs.Throughout dinner Mom didn't seem too fussed about anything. The one time I'd wish I would auto like normal was when she'd smacktalk Dad. But, I didn't feel like it'd be a good idea to do that this time. Not after school today. Thankfully Mom seemed too busy with talking about the stress of her work, of keeping the house all spick and span, and how much she slaved over food and keeping to her role as a good mother as He intended to ask much about my classes. Heck, it took her a good half hour before she even asked me about my thesis again.
After Dad's gift, though, I think I finally had an idea.
"I think I wanna write about how people think versus how PsyCall makes us think."
Mom went silent.
"I... see. And how do you think that will go?"
I shrugged. "I dunno yet," I admitted. "But, I think it'll be good to talk about how we think for ourselves versus how we think based on an algorithm."
Mom set her fork down, sitting straight. "Well," she iterated, voice flat, if cold, "I think that's a wonderful idea. Let me know if you need help looking for resources, dear. You shouldn't need to look far."
Why was Mom so put off by this? She wasn't stopping me, at least, like last time I was gonna write an essay.
"I mean," I hummed, nervously, "I'm sure I'll find something at the library. This is kind of a niche subject nowadays."
"Well, why not use your phone and a web search?"
"That's too easy, Mom. I wanna challenge myself, like you were at your age in school."
"I... see..."
Dinner went silent after that. The dining room felt still. It was honestly a bit hard for me to finish my plate. Maybe it was from having food with Dad before tonight, but maybe...When I finally went upstairs to my room again, I threw the key out of my pocket, tossing it on my pillow before going through my clothes for my favorite green pajamas. Dimming the lights down, I saw the little sparkles and stars on the top parts of the walls, almost like LEDs but more snazzy.
Like my own little part of space.
And as if it could glow in the dark itself, shining like a prize, I opened my journal again.
With my green pen, I wrote a little something on the first lined page:"Jan. 8th, 2052"
How do you start a journal entry...?
"Dear journal,"
Nah, scratch that out; it's not a letter.
"Hello, journal,"
...It's not a person, either.
I guess just... write?"I had a really rough day starting school after Christmas Break this year. It's my birthday on graduation, which I know is a good while away, but I'm still pretty scared. I don't really remember my time as a kid, and now I'm turning 18 soon? It's all going by so fast. Almost too fast, both my good grades and all the bad I've done.
"I moved schools at the start of the school year from Crow High School. I'm told it's because I bullied someone, but I genuinely don't remember it. But, just because I don't remember it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Just like a lot of my time as a kid, huh?
But today was really strange. I think I met the boy I hurt. His name is Judas Feingold. I met his friend, Louis, in in-lunch detention, because I apparently saw Judas and bullied him again. I swear, this PsyCall chip is going to kill my memory, because the more I auto to get through school, the more I forget. I get so confused when I hear I'm such a bad person, but I don't get it.
"But do I really have a choice?
"So, what do I do? How am I going to be good, like I think I am?
"I know Judas told Louis not to talk to me, but maybe I can ask them about some ideas. I really do feel bad that I bullied someone, and it's even scarier that I don't know how I did it. I don't care how mean I was; if I don't want to be that, I can't let myself do that anymore. I need to do better. I need to be a better me.
"So, tomorrow's a new day."

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