her door mere moments before. Canned applause followed.
“It looks so ridiculous,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee.
“Why don’t they just announce who won and show clips from the films or
something? Why bother trying to have an awards ceremony?”
“Do you remember when they still held the ceremony in that
magnificent old theatre in Hollywood?”
“Vaguely. I remember that they used to start playing the music
when the acceptance speeches went on too long.”
“They all swanned down the red carpet, and everyone who was
anyone was in the audience. It was so glamorous, and the fashions were so
beautiful,” Mom sighed.
I’d never been much interested in fashion. As a kid, I’d found
jeans and sneakers comfortable enough. I knew teen girls were supposed to be
obsessed with clothes, but really, what was the point when nobody outside of
family ever saw you in anything but a PPE suit?
Mom cast the odd glance at the screen as she packed away the
weekly groceries — ordered online and delivered by sterile drones — then
spritzed and wiped the kitchen counters with anti-microbial spray. I stepped
aside as she made her way to where I leaned against the refrigerator; she was
quite capable of spraying me, too.
“Well, now it totally looks pathetic.” I peered into the oven.
“What are you baking?”
“It’s a picnic, so I thought I’d make brownies. Remember?”
I did. When Robin and I were kids, before my father died, before
the world went mad, we used to go on family picnics in the city’s parks. Before
we ate, we’d always have a jousting contest. Robin would climb onto Mom’s back
and I’d piggy-back on Dad’s, and then we’d run at each other like knights of
old, trying to score hits with lances made of long loaves of French bread until
we collapsed — Robin and me in giggles, and Mom and Dad in breathless
exhaustion. Then we’d break out the hot dogs and coleslaw. And always, for
dessert, we devoured Mom’s homemade brownies.
But the socials didn’t allow members to bring their own food,
even for picnics. The risk of someone secretly being a terr cell-member and spiking the food or drink was too great. All food, checked and
sterilized and sealed, would be provided by the Social Program and doled out by
the SP hosts.
“You know you can’t take it along, right?” I asked Mom.
“I know, I know. I’m being a bit silly, I guess.” Not silly, no.
Mom was getting anxious as she always did when we went out, and baking soothed
her nerves. “We can have it when we get home. I’ve got some good news for you.
Well, you’ll think it’s good news, I’m not so sure. So I thought we
could make a little celebration of it.”
“What good news?”
Three sharp pips sounded from the T.V. Mom and I turned
automatically to check the screen. There was always the chance it could be an
announcement of an attack, or of a sighting of an infected person in our area
with a caution to stay indoors. But this time it was merely a Public Service
Announcement by Alex Hawke, President of the Southern Sector. I liked Hawke. He
seemed like a strong, honorable guy, and I figured we were lucky to have him as
the leader of our sector. When Mom hadn’t been sure who to vote for in the last
election, I’d persuaded her to vote for him.
“Why him?” she’d asked. “I know he’s popular with you youngsters,
but what precisely do you like about him?”
“I don’t know exactly, I just think he’s someone we can rely on,
like we can trust him to do what’s best.”
Her look had been something close to pity when she replied, “I
think he’s something of a father figure to you, Jinxy .”
Maybe she was right. But as father figures went, I thought —
staring at his thick, wavy brown hair, beginning to grey at the temples, and
strong, square face — you could do a lot worse.
“I think he’s too smooth,
a bit too slick.” Mom never lingered on any conversation that might deal with
Dad. “Then again,
“It looks so ridiculous,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee.
“Why don’t they just announce who won and show clips from the films or
something? Why bother trying to have an awards ceremony?”
“Do you remember when they still held the ceremony in that
magnificent old theatre in Hollywood?”
“Vaguely. I remember that they used to start playing the music
when the acceptance speeches went on too long.”
“They all swanned down the red carpet, and everyone who was
anyone was in the audience. It was so glamorous, and the fashions were so
beautiful,” Mom sighed.
I’d never been much interested in fashion. As a kid, I’d found
jeans and sneakers comfortable enough. I knew teen girls were supposed to be
obsessed with clothes, but really, what was the point when nobody outside of
family ever saw you in anything but a PPE suit?
Mom cast the odd glance at the screen as she packed away the
weekly groceries — ordered online and delivered by sterile drones — then
spritzed and wiped the kitchen counters with anti-microbial spray. I stepped
aside as she made her way to where I leaned against the refrigerator; she was
quite capable of spraying me, too.
“Well, now it totally looks pathetic.” I peered into the oven.
“What are you baking?”
“It’s a picnic, so I thought I’d make brownies. Remember?”
I did. When Robin and I were kids, before my father died, before
the world went mad, we used to go on family picnics in the city’s parks. Before
we ate, we’d always have a jousting contest. Robin would climb onto Mom’s back
and I’d piggy-back on Dad’s, and then we’d run at each other like knights of
old, trying to score hits with lances made of long loaves of French bread until
we collapsed — Robin and me in giggles, and Mom and Dad in breathless
exhaustion. Then we’d break out the hot dogs and coleslaw. And always, for
dessert, we devoured Mom’s homemade brownies.
But the socials didn’t allow members to bring their own food,
even for picnics. The risk of someone secretly being a terr cell-member and spiking the food or drink was too great. All food, checked and
sterilized and sealed, would be provided by the Social Program and doled out by
the SP hosts.
“You know you can’t take it along, right?” I asked Mom.
“I know, I know. I’m being a bit silly, I guess.” Not silly, no.
Mom was getting anxious as she always did when we went out, and baking soothed
her nerves. “We can have it when we get home. I’ve got some good news for you.
Well, you’ll think it’s good news, I’m not so sure. So I thought we
could make a little celebration of it.”
“What good news?”
Three sharp pips sounded from the T.V. Mom and I turned
automatically to check the screen. There was always the chance it could be an
announcement of an attack, or of a sighting of an infected person in our area
with a caution to stay indoors. But this time it was merely a Public Service
Announcement by Alex Hawke, President of the Southern Sector. I liked Hawke. He
seemed like a strong, honorable guy, and I figured we were lucky to have him as
the leader of our sector. When Mom hadn’t been sure who to vote for in the last
election, I’d persuaded her to vote for him.
“Why him?” she’d asked. “I know he’s popular with you youngsters,
but what precisely do you like about him?”
“I don’t know exactly, I just think he’s someone we can rely on,
like we can trust him to do what’s best.”
Her look had been something close to pity when she replied, “I
think he’s something of a father figure to you, Jinxy .”
Maybe she was right. But as father figures went, I thought —
staring at his thick, wavy brown hair, beginning to grey at the temples, and
strong, square face — you could do a lot worse.
“I think he’s too smooth,
a bit too slick.” Mom never lingered on any conversation that might deal with
Dad. “Then again,
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