The problem with stealing other people’s memories is that you start to lose the difference between what’s theirs and what’s yours. Luckily, I know how to exploit that—as long as the teachers don’t find out, anyway. Normal after-school jobs are overrated if you have a secret in-school business. When your last name is emblazoned on the school crest—and the school letterhead—the other students will let you get away with anything. Like stealing their memories.
On my laptop, I open up my memory-uploading app. A line of students snakes away from me, each one wanting to buy a different experience. And I have loads of experiences to choose from, indexed within the app. I bypass the cool graphic interface normal users of HiveMind see and run the hacking program I wrote back when my dad was first developing the software. It uses a variety of complex algorithms to gain backdoor access to all the files stored in the HiveMind cloud, not just my own.
Usually, my partner in crime, Zoey Flint, doles out numbers as though the students are waiting in line at the deli, except she texted me that she’s running late today, so I’m doing it myself. Once they receive a number, they disperse across the courtyard and mill about like strangers trying to act normal before they break out in a flash mob.
“Hey, Arden.” The first customer out of thirty gives me a quick smile, buttering me up to get the goods. “Can I have the answers to last night’s Biotechnology homework?” She lifts a tablet, revealing a mess of stylus-created scribbles on top of complicated math problems. Dark clouds swirl in the washed-out sky, turning the mirrored building in front of us into a sheet of gray. Cold and clinical, more like an office building than a high school for science geniuses. Laboratory chic.
I hold out my palm, indicating fifty bucks. My standard rate.
“Oh my God, you’re a lifesaver.” The customer digs in her purse and sets the wad of bills in my palm. Once I slide them into my change purse, I get to work transferring over a classmate’s stolen memory. The app syncs directly to users’ minds thanks to cutting-edge technology my dad invented, so my customer will get an instant download of a memory that doesn’t belong to her. But once it copies, it’s hers forever, automatically added to her account via a bidirectional sync.
Someone else’s fingers cover my vision, and gardenia perfume drowns out the acrid scent of oncoming rain. “Guess who.” An excited squeal punctuates the gesture.
“Well, the giggle alone rules out an advancement in robotics. And also someone I’d be friends with.” I pause for dramatic effect, ignoring Zoey Flint’s scoff. “This mystery may never be solved.” I lift one of my best friend’s hands off my face, catching a glimpse of the scar that bulges, pink and angry, on the inside of my wrist. I flinch, heart thumping. I first noticed the scar this morning when getting dressed, but I have no recollection of how I got it. It freaks me out every time I spot it.
“Actually,” Zoey says. The skeletal trees perform a macabre dance set to the symphony of the wind. A sudden chill descends and Zoey tugs on her white cardigan. “I heard some freshman is working on a robotics project that—” She glances over at my phone, and her eyes widen. “Whoa. Twenty-seven customers this morning! Sorry again for being late. Blame Veronica for taking forever in the shower.” She grabs the phone to take over line-control duties and crosses her pantsuit-covered legs. At our school, you never know when a lecture might turn into an important meeting, so she always tries to be prepared. Not to mention we share a parking lot with the lab techs who work on the floors above the school, who may become our coworkers one day.
Zoey handles all the parts of the job I hate: organization, money laundering, and marketing. Without her, I’d be lost. Or at least I’d be without excess cash flow, and every bit of cash helps. It’s all seed money for when I start my own company one day. I shoot her a big grin for keeping me organized and honest. Well, as honest as it comes when performing illicit tasks that would get me expelled if the administration found out.
I flip my arm downward, covering the scar. Out of sight, out of mind.
Except, of course, if you have HiveMind, version 1.0.
Years ago, my dad developed the cloud-based memory-uploading app. Every memory gets backed up and synced to the brain instantly, meaning nothing is ever forgotten. No more blackouts from a night of drinking. No more study sessions that jumble in the brain as you stare at the test. No more excuses.
Users are only supposed to be able to access their own files. But I never do what I’m supposed to do.
“So you’re probably wondering why I’m late.” Zoey leans over me, the ends of her blond hair dangling over my computer screen. “It’s because I have news! According to the triangular love theory, anyway.”
“I already saw the memory.” I tap my finger against the file descriptions and thumbnail images that pop up when I hack into Teddy Day’s mind. For months, Zoey’s had a ritualistic compulsion to dot her i’s with hearts when she thinks of him and an obsessive need to know if he’s thinking of her back. Which means I’ve seen so many of his damn memories, my knowledge extends beyond the banal, like what he eats for breakfast, and escalates into I-so-did-not-need-to-know-that territory: like what kind of boxers he wears. “Teddy called you last night. Clearly this is the first step to admitting his feelings have progressed beyond the avoid-makingeye-contact phase.”
She sighs happily, not picking up on the sarcasm in my voice. After all, he only called her because he was looking for me. He never bothered to find me though.
“It’s the only theory that makes sense. He’s in love with me.”
I laugh. “Yep, a totally logical conclusion.” I scroll through Teddy’s mind and find his memory of completing last night’s homework. As the top genius at a school for geniuses, he’s the only person who doesn’t need to study but always does. When your spot on the school roster comes from an invitation-only admittance policy and a generous grant supplied by Varga Industries, you tend to only slack off in summer, when free time finally fits into your schedule. A brief preview in the software shows Teddy’s view yesterday afternoon as he worked out the answers to the math problems. I drop the memory into the first customer’s mind. “Don’t forget to alter your answer wording and get at least one wrong.”
A few months ago, Mrs. Schlissel discovered three students using the same essay wording verbatim. She gave them all detention and I gave all my customers a stern talking-to about what going to a school for geniuses really means: i.e., use your damn wits. And just in case they didn’t have any to spare after their studies, I jacked up my prices to make the market smaller.
The girl instantly straightens, not even thanking me as her thumb sweeps over the keypad while she ambles away.
When Zoey texts the next customer to step up to the plate, he gives us a horsey smile with bright white teeth. “How are you fine ladies this morning? Love that yellow on you, Arden. Really makes your hair stand out.”
I wave my hand for him to get on with it. It’s never good when people lay it on this thick.
“Here’s a secret.” He invades my personal space by sitting on my other side. I scoot closer to Zoey. “I have a huge crush on Melody Clarendon. I want to get to know her better.”
Time to break out the big guns. I crack my neck from side to side. “Darwin hypothesized that spoken language evolved due to a need for reciprocal altruism, so—”
“What Arden here means”—Zoey shoots me a dirty glare that could only be interpreted as don’t alienate the customers—“is you should go talk to her.”
He strokes his chin. “I was thinking more like … biblically.”
Zoey’s face squishes like she just bit into a lemon.
“Dude, that’s creepy.” I flick my wrist, shooing him. “You know the rules.” I don’t mind violating people’s privacy when it comes to test answers, but I have to draw the line somewhere. No nudity, no revealing other people’s secrets, and no deleting memories.
As the creepy guy ambles away, the next kid in line, Simon Zajek, hurls himself at me. He leans way too close, and I arch my back to avoid his apple-juice breath. “Okay, this is going to sound weird.”
“Doubtful.” I fake a yawn. I’ve heard it all. Especially from him.
Zoey snickers, pushing blond waves behind her ear. The leafless trees sway as though they’re mocking Simon’s jitteriness. Men in white lab coats hustle from the parking lot to the Varga Industries entrance on the other side of the building.
Simon darts his head around the courtyard, knocking his Red Sox cap into my forehead. “You can’t tell anyone.”
I draw my finger across my lips. My backup dancer nods.
“Is … Is Veronica cheating on me?” He holds out a hundred bucks. I shake my head—this falls into category two: secrets.
We can’t show him this. It’ll crush him. And besides, I’d vowed not to give him any more memories. He asks for something new and more exhilarating every time. I’ve even noticed him going through withdrawal symptoms—jitters, irritability—when I refuse to feed his addiction. Each time, it gets harder to find a new form of glory from someone else’s mind. I got lucky last time when I found a memory of some senior’s older brother going skydiving to give him. “Simon, we talked about this. We agreed to a break from memories for a while.”
“You agreed.” He pulls the skin of his cheeks taut. “You’re cutting me off cold turkey?”
I swallow hard and take the analog route, the path that doesn’t violate my rules. “According to rumors, she is. With Blake.” My eyelashes flutter closed to avoid catching a glimpse of his pained expression.
“And Josh,” Zoey adds.
We don’t mention the rest of the names.
His shoulders sink. “Please,” he begs. “I need to see for myself.”
He looks so distraught even though the gossip we just shared is practically common knowledge. I started doing this to help people, and seeing the truth might help Simon. He shouldn’t be with someone who disrespects him enough to cheat on him with multiple people.
“Fine, but … I’m really sorry.” I deposit Veronica’s memories into his mind. His features fold and crumble.
I have to look away, my chest tight. I focus instead on the sleek silver silo used by scientists conducting experiments in renewable-energy advancements as jagged streaks of lightning barrel across the distant sky.
Simon stumbles backward, his face pinching in absolute heartbreak. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a front-row seat to every one of my classmates’ screwups.
A blast of thunder booms. “That was awful.”
Zoey rubs my shoulder. “Maybe this will make you feel better about it? I overheard Veronica whispering about reporting you this morning. Consider this preemptive revenge.”
I bite my lip. It could also be construed as the first strike of a war.
I spend the next twenty minutes dispensing more test answers and experiences that range from scoring the winning goal for a kid cut from the team to virtually attending a concert for a guy whose parents grounded him the night his favorite band played. Misty drops fall from the sky and plink onto the umbrella Zoey holds over the two of us. She doesn’t do a very good job, and rain blends into my now-damp shirt, which clings to me in a scandalous, not-appropriate-for-school-dress-code way. I blink against the rogue drops sticking to my eyelashes. “Is that everyone?”
Zoey glances at the two piles of cash. “For this morning, yep. I’m sure we’ll get a new round at lunch.” She squints into the distance and points an arm lined with gold bracelets, which makes the umbrella wobble. “Wait! Looks like there’s one more customer.”
There’s an unfamiliar boy loping toward us. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and holding an arm over his forehead to combat the pummeling rain. He’d be cute if only he held himself upright. He’s got eyes that can’t seem to make up their mind between green and blue and golden brown, and a hunched, guarded expression. I squint at him as my brain does a poor job of emulating Google’s reverse image search. Admittance into Monica Varga High is a tightly controlled operation and no scenario admits a new student four days before our thesis projects are due.
“Who is that?”
Lightning slices between two clouds, drenching the sky in neon colors too ethereal to be captured in Photoshop.
Zoey throws her head back in laughter. “Very funny, Arden.”
The boy brushes beads of water from his eyes, then pats down the side part on his sandy hair, as if keeping the strands in place is the only thing he can control. He stares at his feet like he’s learning to walk for the first time.
“No, seriously. Who is that? He can’t be new here. My mom would have mentioned a new student joining. Especially someone so cute.”
Zoey’s face suddenly fills with concern. “You’re scaring me.”
My skin goes cold and the smile drops off my lips. I volley my head from Zoey to the stranger, feeling like I’ve missed a joke everyone else is in on.
Pressing her lips together, she plants her palm on my forehead. “You need to go to the nurse and lie down, stat. How many cups of coffee did you have yesterday? That stuff rots your brain. And your kidneys.”
I leap to my feet, panic clawing up my throat. “I’m not tired and I’m not stressed. Just tell me who that boy is.”
Zoey turns white. “You seriously don’t remember him?”
“I’ve never seen him before in my life.” My words sound as dire as if they were followed by a dun dun dun sound effect.
“He’s a student here. In fact, I’m pretty sure you guys are friends.” Her words sound equally grave. “I mean, not best friends, because obviously I already hold that title. But, you know, school friends. Lab partners.”
My heart’s hammering so hard it feels like I just ran a marathon. “I would remember being friends with … someone like that.”
She looks horrified, but then after a few seconds, she snaps her fingers. “Oh wait! I know what’s wrong.” She beams as if she just solved the Navier-Stokes equation. “Sounds like HiveMind might be glitching. I bet the server just needs a reboot.”
Tension drains from my shoulders. “That makes sense.” Technically, HiveMind’s still in beta testing, so there are often glitches like this, though there haven’t been any in quite a while. I twist my necklace in my fingers. The cool metal feels like a familiar comfort blanket. My fingertip skims over the tiny engravings etched into the rectangular pendant:
01000001
01110010
01100100
01100101
01101110
The binary number grooves always remind me of who I am. And what I want to do.
I suck in a deep breath of air tinged with an earthy aftertaste and let the heavy pendant drop against my clavicle.
“Hey, Bash.” Zoey ushers him under her umbrella when he gets closer. “What’s up?”
Bash and Zoey stand shoulder to shoulder, him rigid, her relaxed, as if they’ve stood this close countless times before. He blinks at her. “You know who I am?”
“See?” Zoey gives me a triumphant smile. “It’s happening to him too. Totally a glitch.”
Bash gives her a weird look. “What is?”
“HiveMind,” Zoey says.
Bash blinks at us.
I’m still on edge, so I try to end this conversation fast. “What do you need?” I tap a few keys on my computer to run a diagnostic on my mind.
Bash hesitates. “Apparently there’s a quiz in my first class. I heard you could help me cram?” The warning bell rings a second before thunder conquers it. His entire body stiffens. “Too late.”
“Not if you’re with me,” I say. “I can help. Not help you cram, but…” Much to my surprise, I feel my lips curve into the telltale sign of a smile. “Help.”
He hands me a crumpled piece of paper. His schedule, scribbled on office letterhead, as if he wrote it only a few minutes ago.
“Oh crap. You forgot your schedule?” Zoey shakes her head. “Better get that server rebooted fast.” She pauses. “Well, maybe not too fast. I wouldn’t mind if Ms. Kensington forgets about our essays being due this morning.”
“I’m emailing IT right now.” I pound out an email on my phone as the diagnostic continues to run on my computer.
After I hit send on my email, I snatch the paper out of Bash’s hand. “Wait. You have Biochem Software Development first period?” My stomach hollows out when he nods. “That’s my class too.”
The wind howls and rustles my dark hair, whipping a few strands into my face that stick to my lipstick. Something deep in my core pulses, like a reactor coming to life. First I forget a student and now I forget about a test? This level of glitch has never happened before in HiveMind. Not on this wide a scale. Usually a glitch only results in the loss of a single memory or two. It’s supposed to make sure I never forget anything. That’s the whole point of backing up my memories and storing them in ones and zeroes, accessible from any device with Wi-Fi. “Zo, why didn’t you tell me we had a quiz?” She has Biochem Software Development with the same teacher a few periods later.
Her smile wavers. “We studied for it on Sunday.”
Another bolt of lightning zings, illuminating the sky and tangling with an echo of thunder.
“Screw emailing, I’m marching right up to IT to make them reboot the server.” I turn to Bash. “Walk with me.”
Zoey hands Bash the umbrella. He stares at it for a moment, turning it upside down and letting rain collect in the overturned basin. When he catches Zoey and me staring at him, he scrambles to spin it upright, cheeks red. Water spills onto his head and soaks his shoulders. He moves next to me, body heat radiating, and slides the black umbrella over both our heads. Water drips onto my shirt. “Are you still going to help me?” he asks.
I nod. As we huddle together under the tiny umbrella, his gait slowing when my heels sink into the wet grass, I balance my laptop on my forearm and scroll through the files. Blood whooshes in my ears. I search for someone, anyone, to steal the memory of studying for the quiz from. Despite letting other people cheat on tests for fun and profit, I avoid it myself. But I can’t get a bad grade this close to the adversarial review. My entire future rides on the results of that review.
“What are you doing?” He scans his badge to grant access to the school and holds the school door open for me. The air-conditioning blasts in my face, making me shiver. We step into the nearly empty hallway, the click of my heels reverberating off the blue and red metal lockers.
“Helping you cram.” I find Teddy Day’s file again and set a delay on the memory for twenty minutes before I drop a copy into my brain. I’ll study hard for the next one.… unless I forget again. “This’ll only take a sec.” I look for his account on the server, but my search for Bash comes up empty.
He squints at my screen as he shakes out the umbrella and closes it. “It’s Sebastian, actually. Sebastian Cuomo. I don’t really know why everyone keeps calling me Bash.”
His name pops up and my custom back-end script hacks into his mind with as much ease as everyone else’s. I click on his storage, ready to deposit the same memory into his mind, but … Sebastian has no memories at all. My arm stiffens.
“What?” he asks, his voice growing more panicked. “What?”
“Sorry, there’s an error. One sec.” I shut down the program and restart it. Once again, his brain is empty.… except for three files. One from this morning, one of our current conversation, and the copy of Teddy’s memory I just deposited.
That’s not a glitch. That’s a complete wipeout. How could anyone seriously have zero memories? How could they even live?
My computer dings, the diagnostic of my mind complete. I click on the file and nearly drop my computer onto the floor.
7,694 files missing.
I press my palm to my slick forehead, where a dull sensation throbs, barely noticeable, like the hum of a refrigerator at night. Since I last ran the diagnostic yesterday, seven thousand memories have disappeared from my mind.
I slam my laptop shut and shove it under my arm. I don’t care about class or the quiz or the way Sebastian’s staring at me with a face full of terror. All I care about is finding out why this boy—who everyone but me seems to know—and I are both missing memories.