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They were misfits.
A mishmash of jeans and T-shirts, untucked and wrinkled, boots with loose laces. Cuss words and dirty jokes, staying up past curfew and banging on the walls, throwing toilet paper through open doors and wrestling in the hall.
The stars of Kringletown.
Ryder stayed low and watched, did what the board told him to do. Boring kept him off the stream. Most of the others were happy with the spotlight.
Thanksgiving arrived.
He followed the others to the elevator. Like everything else, it was big—large enough to park two trucks inside. It also went in all directions. Sometimes, Ryder couldn’t tell which way it was going.
They arrived at the library.
It was a circular room that went up five stories like the inside of a silo. A flock of drones hovered near the ceiling. Kringletown was only two stories tall.
We’re belowground.
A few naughties raced up to the fifth floor. Cheers followed them to the vaulted ceiling and back, laughter ricocheting wall to wall. Claustrophobia pressed down on Ryder. If the library was this far belowground, what else was down there?
He watched from one of the archways, where stacks of books smelled like old paper. His bandaged thumb pulsed. He’d spent the morning dicing potatoes to be boiled and mashed, the knife nicking his thumb just before he was finished. With all the technology, slicing potatoes hardly seemed necessary.
Billy loves work, Soup had told him. Pointless, mindless work.
Apparently free speech was still an option. His clip made the stream. Drama was good ratings.
The nicies were gathered on the other side of the library, their white shirts without wrinkles, slacks pressed and creased. Ties tightly fitted to the boys’ necks. The girls wore variations of the standard attire, some in dresses and others in pants. They spoke calmly, laughed like adults, and covered their mouths when it was too loud.
Only one other person was acting quiet. It was the girl with a pixie haircut, the one who lived next to the board. She leaned against one of the arching doorways with a black hardback propped open. She didn’t look up, her focus racing from page to page, folds of concentration bunching between her eyes.
His personal spy had joined the others, a bunch of oblong, one-eyed futuristic starlings. Ryder felt the torn wrapping paper in his pocket.
“You know the bunk above yours?” Soup startled him.
“What?”
“The bed above yours, that was Paul’s. Paul’s not here anymore. Know why?”
Ryder shook his head.
“Paul hooked up with Janine.”
A roar of cheers rose up as another race to the top began. Soup cupped his hands and bellowed a name, pumping his fist.
“Who’s Janine?”
“Exactly. It would’ve been on episode 1240, but then you don’t watch the stream. Even if you did, you wouldn’t have seen it. Billy cut it out. Doesn’t want the public to get the wrong idea, you know, girls living across from boys, all hormony and whatnot. Cut them out, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sent them packing, bo. Reassigned. New home, somewhere else. They weren’t fit for Kringletown, couldn’t control themselves, pick a reason. One day they were here; the next they were gone.”
The race started back down the spiraling staircase. Soup joined the chorus as the drones followed. They’d been listening to what he was saying. If it was true, it wouldn’t make the stream.
“I’m just saying,” Soup said between hoots, “don’t get your hopes up. You’ll get used to it.”
The girl was still in her book. Ryder knew everyone’s name. Just not hers.
“Unless you’re a nicy,” he added. “They all flirt. I mean, they’re all probably getting down, but Jocko and Jane are barely hiding it. Sort of the cookie Billy dangles, you know. Hey, be nice, you can hook up. But then you look like that, smell like them.”
He pretended to puke. It was loud. The nicies were looking.
“Hi, I’m Jocko John,” Soup droned. He did robot arms. “My shirt matches my teeth.”
A flush of heat warmed Ryder’s cheeks. All the eyes were on them. He wanted to crawl under a table. The race to the bottom was a close one, and the attention quickly dissolved. Jonas won by tripping on the last flight. Arf got between them before a fight started.
The naughties booed.
“You name your tattletale yet?” Soup pointed at his drone.
Ryder had been told to forget it was there, like it was just part of the scenery. Not own it like a pet. It was hard to ignore.
“Kooper,” Ryder blurted.
“Like Bradley Cooper?” Soup grimaced.
“No, just... it was a, uh, a name of a dog.”
“That thing ain’t a pet, bo. It’s a traitor, loyal to the great and almighty Billy Big Game. You should name it Turdbird. Fartsmeller’s taken. I don’t know, Bradley Cooper works. I guess.”
“It’s not...”
Ryder waved him off. His thumb was beginning to throb. It would calm down when this was over and the attention cooled down. The girl was the only one who hadn’t looked at them. She wore baggy clothes and dark colors and stayed buried in her book. He wanted to be like that, around people but not with them. He imagined them standing side by side with a book, even though he didn’t read. They wouldn’t need to even talk. You know, just hang out.
“Cherry,” Soup said. When Ryder turned, he said, “As in ‘on top.’”
“Cherry?”
“Her name, bo. Cherry Stone is the oldest naughty on the block, been on the wing longer than any of us. She perfected invisibility, carving the rules like an Olympic snowboarder—just enough boring to avoid the eyes, but not enough to get booted out of Kringletown.”
Ryder frowned. They couldn’t get thrown out for being boring.
“Thou shalt entertain,” Soup said.
She could feel them looking. Ryder sensed a hesitation as she turned a page, an agitation of unwanted attention. She snapped the book closed, the pop of heavy pages echoing throughout the library. The drones turned, so did everyone else. Without looking, she dipped out of sight.
“See that?” Soup said. “She made a little scene, but it won’t make the stream. She’s a Zen master. You should try talking to her. You’ll have a great time.”
He raised a thumbs-down and mouth-farted. It sounded like he’d tried. Maybe they all did. Thou shalt entertain.
The floor lit up.
A spontaneous moment of silence was followed by excitement. The drones suddenly positioned at the perimeter of the room. A large circle of white light glowed in the center of the room and engulfed everyone standing on it. The illumination beamed all the way to the ceiling, throwing sharp shadows.
Everyone backed away, but someone remained. They were a dark form contrasting with the bright light. It looked like he was inflating.
“This is so stupid,” Soup muttered.
Arf was next to him, his eyes lazy, mouth open. No one looked rattled by the growing man, who was now as tall as the second floor. They looked sort of bored. At least the naughties did.
“Hallo!” a deep voice called.
The giant figure emerged in full detail—burly and red-bearded, a stocking cap folded just above his eyebrows. Ryder recognized him from pictures. Billy Big Game Sinterklaas.
BG to you and me, Soup had said.
“My apologies, children.” His hearty laughter shook the walls. “My expedition took an unexpected turn and I won’t be back for Thanksgiving.”
The nicies genuinely moaned. The naughties made an effort.
“I can’t wait to tell you about my discoveries. In the meantime, I want to belatedly join everyone in welcoming the newest member of the family.”
He looked down at Ryder. The heat of attention turned up the thermostat. Every eye was on him, human and drone.
“I hope your arrival has been warm and welcome,” he said. “We are so happy to finally have you home.”
There was applause. Soup muttered, “He has never said that to anyone ever before.”
“This trip has been lonesome,” BG added. “And I miss every one of you. The greatest discovery of all is at hand, children. It’s so very close. With just a little help, we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
“He literally says that every year.”
The weird thing wasn’t what he said but what he did when he said it. With just a little help, he’d said and looked right at Ryder. Did nobody notice? Or was he just imagining it?
“Let’s give thanks.”
Everyone shuffled to the edge of the lighted circle. The nicies laced their fingers together, forming a long hand-in-hand chain that connected to the naughty side. Arf grabbed Ryder and pulled him up to the circle.
“I want to give thanks for my family,” BG started. “Without your hearts and minds, our lives would be cold and empty. Our house would not be a home. It’s the people around us that make our lives what they become.”
He nodded.
The thanks continued around the circle, each person sending up gratitude. Some were long and thoughtful; others short and poignant. The drones aimed and recorded what would be a spectacularly heartfelt episode. Ryder’s heart began to thump.
“I give thanks for being here,” Arf said. He totally meant it.
Everyone nodded. Then they waited. A fire was roasting Ryder’s cheeks. His throat was dry and his tongue was the size of a Christmas ornament.
“Go,” Soup whispered.
Arf squeezed his hand so hard that his knuckles crunched and, for a moment, the pain made him forget the world was watching.
“Thank you.”
“I want to thank my socks,” Soup blurted out. There were moans and eyerolls. “What? My feet are cold.”
That might have come naturally, but he did that on purpose. No one was looking at Ryder anymore. Thank you, Soup.
“Happy Thanksgiving, children!” BG bellowed. “I’ll see you at the big game.”
Hands above his head, the larger-than-life figure winked out. The lighted circle faded back to waxy concrete. A large set of arching doors began to move. The tops brushed the second floor as they split open. There was a long room on the other side with a wide table running the length of it. The smell of food wafted out.
“What game?” Ryder said.
***
The room was candlelit.
Turkey and yams and turnips and mashed potatoes and pies and fixings covered the table. The nicies spread napkins on their laps and waited for everyone to be seated. The naughties filled their plates and ignored the napkins.
The walls were dark with large oak columns and rough-hewn beams. A chandelier of antlers flickered with artificial candlelight. Heads of various game watched them eat—glassy-eyed antelope and elk, deer and ram.
A moose was mounted at the head of the table, its rack spanning wider than all the others’. Jane sat at one setting and John at the other. The one between them was untaken.
Mouths full, laughter shot food across the table. Silverware clattered on the floor, drinks were spilled and shoulders rubbed. Ryder’s plate was still empty when a glass began to ring. Jane stood up and played her cup with a spoon. It took several attempts to get their attention. A fight nearly broke out across the table.
“BG can’t be with us,” she said.
“But that doesn’t mean we’re without leaders,” John finished. “We lead each other with actions and words.”
“To recognize our unity, we’d like to invite a guest of honor up front this year,” Jane said.
A wildfire ignited Ryder’s belly and raced into his head. The birthmark was burning when his name was called. He didn’t hear anything else. He felt encouraging pats on the back and was lifted onto his feet and shoved toward the front, where the moose was watching. John pulled out the chair.
“As Ryder so simply and eloquently put it,” she said, “thank you.”
There was a long uncomfortable pause before John raised his glass and Thanksgiving commenced. The room was once again filled with laughter and conversation. Jane and John put very little food on their plates. They took small bites and ate with their lips tightly sealed. Mostly, they watched. The naughties slaughtered their side of the table with gravy drips and careless crumbs.
Ryder wasn’t hungry.
When he didn’t reach for anything, John and Jane filled his plate and insisted. His stomach was knotted. Anything that hit it was going to rebound like a trampoline. He scrambled the mashed potatoes and managed to eat half a roll. He mostly drank water. No one was watching him except the glassy eyes.
“What’s the big game?” he asked.
“Teamwork and structure,” Jane said, dabbing her lips. “It’s why we do chores.”
“We also have fun,” John said stiffly. Ryder doubted he knew what the word meant. “You seriously haven’t seen the stream?”
Ryder shook his head.
They looked at each other and laughed. “Relax. It’ll be fun,” Jane said.
When plates were empty and everyone was full, a board appeared on the wall. Some moaned; others sighed. It was mostly the naughties who complained.
Actually, it was only the naughties.
Ryder was relieved to see his name next to Soup’s and Arf’s. They were on cleanup duty. Ryder’s plate was a mix of mashed potatoes, turkey and cranberries. He carried it to a nearby tub where everyone was stacking their plates.
“Next time,” John said, “only take what you can eat.”
Ryder hadn’t put the food on his plate, but didn’t argue. Because drama equals attention.
“Take this.” Soup handed him a tub. “Or is it too much? I mean, all the love they’re putting on you must be heavy.”
“Shut up,” Ryder said.
“That’s the spirit.” Soup dropped more dishes in the tub.