All Our Wrong Todays(15)
Unfortunately, the company didn’t particularly care about profit. When you live in a world of universal plenty, people genuinely aspire to make things that work well. They didn’t want to trick their customers. They wanted to help them be happier.
Whereas it turns out my specialty is disappointment and ruin.
I spent my postcollegiate decade coasting, resenting the opportunities that came my way because of my father while simultaneously not pursuing any other opportunities. I’m aware that this isn’t an endearing quality in an adult human—my ex-girlfriends each repeated this point with varying levels of intensity on numerous occasions. When you have a healthy relationship with even one of your parents, it’s hard to understand what the hell the problem is—just, you know, grow up. But blaming my father feels so good, an itch that always wants to be scratched.
If you could peel away everything about me and Penelope except what made us tick at the most essential level, that’s what we had in common—like a clock with a broken oscillator, some people can’t keep time no matter how often they’re wound.
23
The time I ran away from home, I made a crucial and in retrospect pretty sharp decision—I wouldn’t speak to anyone who looked older than sixteen. I packed a bag with a food synthesizer, a clothing recycler, and an entertainment interface, disabled the embedded tracking protocols, and walked out the front door.
I made my way via transit capsule to one of Toronto’s outer boroughs and approached the first kid I saw. I told him I’d run away from home and needed somewhere to crash that night. He immediately decided that was badass and let me sleep at his place. His parents never even knew I was there. We hung out in his room and played virtual immersion games deep into the night. The next day I moved on, caught a capsule to another borough, and did the same thing—found a kid, told him the truth, crashed at his place without his parents ever finding out, and moved on the next day.
At first, I approached only boys because I was twelve and girls were intimidating. I expected at least some of the kids I encountered would rat me out, but not one did. After two weeks, I approached a girl. She was even more into it than any of the boys. She’d been waiting her whole life for a total stranger to walk up and propose an adventure, but one that didn’t require leaving the safety of her bedroom. We didn’t play games that night, unless you count making out for four hours a game. It was the first time I’d ever kissed a girl. Her name was Robin Swelter.
I stayed with Robin for five nights, until her older brother caught us in her bedroom wearing nothing but underwear. He yanked me off of her while she covered her semi-formed chest and he punched me in the face. Their parents blundered in and they were too mortified that I’d been living in their home for five days without their knowing it to get properly angry. They called my parents while their home medical drone iced my black eye. My mother came to pick me up with a grim look on her face.
Over those five nights of adolescent fumbling, Robin and I learned enough about the organics of our complementary physiques to propel us into the top ranks of sexual experience at our respective schools. I walked down the halls a newborn legend. Every girl that had resolutely ignored me suddenly took note. And thanks to Robin and her bony, generous curiosity, I knew a little about what to do with that attention.
Robin and I kept in touch, but we both knew the spell between us had broken. I can’t say I loved her, but I’ve never appreciated another human being more.
My mother convinced herself I ran away because of Robin, not that I’d met her on my travels. Youthful romance was acceptable. My father’s thoughtless challenge was not.
As for my father, he was mildly concerned, mostly because my mother’s panic and worry over those nineteen days had colonized his normal routine. When he found out that I could’ve survived indefinitely if I hadn’t been seduced by Robin Swelter’s pillowy embrace, he decided that he’d completed his job as a father. If sent out on my own, I wouldn’t die. I could even get to third base.
24
Returning to school after I ran away, I made the most important discovery of my adolescence—it doesn’t matter if you’re smart or skilled if you can somehow be first.
My five days with Robin Swelter made me a pioneer in the high-status field of adolescent sexuality. The boys were halting and gruff, desperate to hear about my discoveries yet insistent they already knew whatever I might say. I soon learned another important lesson—nobody likes a know-it-all. Envy soured into resentment and the boys closed ranks on me. But I didn’t care because I had the girls. And the girls didn’t want description. They wanted evidence. For once, my appeal had nothing to do with my last name. Where I come from, it’s actually kind of hard to be a bad student. Every kid’s education plan is tailored to personalized learning methods that are routinely evaluated and updated to ensure nobody falls behind. So it was particularly wayward of me, the only child of the great Victor Barren, to neglect my studies and devote myself to a sole extracurricular activity: hooking up with anyone who wanted me.
For a while, anyway. I had no sense that the currency of my early experience would be radically devalued with oversaturation. By age fifteen, wrung dry of my secret knowledge, I collided with an impenetrable obstacle. The girls wanted it to mean something. They wanted to count on me. They wanted me to confide in them. Sex wasn’t enough anymore. They wanted love.