removed as it could be from that thought. He leaned into the doorway between her tiny kitchenette and the rest of the apartment, looking defeated.
“Hey, kid.”
“I need help with this homework. I don’t know how to answer this.” He trudged over, datapad dangling from his grip.
“I can’t read it right now; I’m trying not to destroy dinner. What’s the question?” She squinted at her pad. “What the hell is thyme? Did they spell it wrong? I’m supposed to add time to it? I guess it wants me to let it sit longer.”
Evan shrugged. The datapad animated a small bottle labeled ‘thyme’ upended over the food and shaken.
“Oh, it must be some kind of seasoning. Bother, we don’t have any. Black pepper works.”
“Umm, I gotta write about the Corporate War. This one guy says the government started it, this lady says the corp-rations started it. I gotta watch these videos and write a ‘pinion on which one I wanna believe and give at least two ideas how the war could have been prevented.”
Kirsten almost dropped the spatula. “What the hell? You’re in third grade, what kind of question is that?”
He dug his toe into the rug. “History.”
She jumped when the hunk of meat spat hard enough to flip over. “Well, I kind of got the condensed version at the department school. I…”
Evan wandered over and patted her on the back. “It’s okay if you don’t know. Why didn’t your mom let you go to school?”
The heat off, she yanked the pan from the stove and jammed the spatula under the meat. The chicken landed atop pasta bows she had made long enough ago to be cold. She used the reassembler to generate mixed vegetables; the horror of her attempt to cook hydroponic ones drowned amid suds in the sink. Evan trailed her to the table, letting his datapad clatter to the side of the plate.
“She did… online.” Kirsten stared at the food. “She was careful to make everything look just normal enough to the outside world. I’m confused… That question sounds like something they’d ask in eighth or ninth grade, not third.”
He ate with one hand while poking at his datapad with the other. After a few minutes, he scowled at it.
“What?”
“This datapad is broken. I’m touching the icon for my history homework, but when I open it, it’s labeled Pol Sci 101.”
“Let me see that?” Kirsten took the pad, examining the page headers inside the presentation.
She backed out to the main menu, which took on a far more childish appearance than the layout of the quiz. A cartoon Mars pioneer smiled, pointing at a note indicating history homework for Mrs. Wolf’s third-grade class. When she poked it, the datapad went into a splash screen introduction to a sophomore-level political science course.
“That isn’t your homework, hon. I think the teacher sent a corrupt link.”
“It was probably Abernathy playing a prank.” He smirked.
“Oh wow, is he still there?” She giggled, sighed, and got somber. “I wonder what’s keeping him here. He was such a sweet old guy.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “He’s only nice to girls. He keeps messing with me since I can see him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He’s like a giant five-year-old. Stupid little pranks.”
Kirsten fiddled with his datapad, getting a new link from the system that went to the proper assignment. Third grade-level questions about early Mars colonization.
“There, that’s the right homework.”
His pout made her laugh. “Thanks, Mom. I could’ve had an excuse tomorrow.”
“You don’t want to make a habit of cutting corners like that. Unless you want to move to Mars or some far-off colony when you’re old enough to have to work, you need to get through university.”
“I’m gonna be like you when I’m big.” He beamed.
“Then do it because I’m asking you to. You might feel differently about it when you grow up. It’s better to have options.” She paused a moment to adore the sparkle in his green eyes.
She
“Hey, kid.”
“I need help with this homework. I don’t know how to answer this.” He trudged over, datapad dangling from his grip.
“I can’t read it right now; I’m trying not to destroy dinner. What’s the question?” She squinted at her pad. “What the hell is thyme? Did they spell it wrong? I’m supposed to add time to it? I guess it wants me to let it sit longer.”
Evan shrugged. The datapad animated a small bottle labeled ‘thyme’ upended over the food and shaken.
“Oh, it must be some kind of seasoning. Bother, we don’t have any. Black pepper works.”
“Umm, I gotta write about the Corporate War. This one guy says the government started it, this lady says the corp-rations started it. I gotta watch these videos and write a ‘pinion on which one I wanna believe and give at least two ideas how the war could have been prevented.”
Kirsten almost dropped the spatula. “What the hell? You’re in third grade, what kind of question is that?”
He dug his toe into the rug. “History.”
She jumped when the hunk of meat spat hard enough to flip over. “Well, I kind of got the condensed version at the department school. I…”
Evan wandered over and patted her on the back. “It’s okay if you don’t know. Why didn’t your mom let you go to school?”
The heat off, she yanked the pan from the stove and jammed the spatula under the meat. The chicken landed atop pasta bows she had made long enough ago to be cold. She used the reassembler to generate mixed vegetables; the horror of her attempt to cook hydroponic ones drowned amid suds in the sink. Evan trailed her to the table, letting his datapad clatter to the side of the plate.
“She did… online.” Kirsten stared at the food. “She was careful to make everything look just normal enough to the outside world. I’m confused… That question sounds like something they’d ask in eighth or ninth grade, not third.”
He ate with one hand while poking at his datapad with the other. After a few minutes, he scowled at it.
“What?”
“This datapad is broken. I’m touching the icon for my history homework, but when I open it, it’s labeled Pol Sci 101.”
“Let me see that?” Kirsten took the pad, examining the page headers inside the presentation.
She backed out to the main menu, which took on a far more childish appearance than the layout of the quiz. A cartoon Mars pioneer smiled, pointing at a note indicating history homework for Mrs. Wolf’s third-grade class. When she poked it, the datapad went into a splash screen introduction to a sophomore-level political science course.
“That isn’t your homework, hon. I think the teacher sent a corrupt link.”
“It was probably Abernathy playing a prank.” He smirked.
“Oh wow, is he still there?” She giggled, sighed, and got somber. “I wonder what’s keeping him here. He was such a sweet old guy.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “He’s only nice to girls. He keeps messing with me since I can see him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He’s like a giant five-year-old. Stupid little pranks.”
Kirsten fiddled with his datapad, getting a new link from the system that went to the proper assignment. Third grade-level questions about early Mars colonization.
“There, that’s the right homework.”
His pout made her laugh. “Thanks, Mom. I could’ve had an excuse tomorrow.”
“You don’t want to make a habit of cutting corners like that. Unless you want to move to Mars or some far-off colony when you’re old enough to have to work, you need to get through university.”
“I’m gonna be like you when I’m big.” He beamed.
“Then do it because I’m asking you to. You might feel differently about it when you grow up. It’s better to have options.” She paused a moment to adore the sparkle in his green eyes.
She
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