EVER SINCE STEVE had missed Andrew’s rescue of the pony, he had slept very little. He watched Antarctic Historical Survivor during the day, together with the accompanying educational documentaries and family interviews. Then he went to work and watched the day’s episode again along with the real-time footage. He was using so much electricity at home that soon he wouldn’t be able to afford his small luxuries like new comic books. As the Secretary of Entertainment intended, his twelve-inch television, which sat in the middle of his tiny hut, was becoming the focal point of his life.
“Although the weather looks ominous, the contestants are still heading for the Pole,” Johnny Sparks’s oily voice was saying. “Earlier, Robert fired an incredible shot that killed a seal. Grace’s dogs showed their stuff in a mad dash toward the dead animal. Only when the dogs were on the verge of devouring the seal did Grace succeed in getting them under control. Now let’s break and interview family members.”
The scene shifted to an immaculate living room. “Mrs. Pritchard,” Johnny Sparks asked a small, demure-looking woman sitting in a wheelchair, “how do you think your daughter is doing so far?”
“I have to say well, Johnny. Polly’s no outdoors girl, but she’s certainly making her contribution.”
“Are you aware that over thirty-three percent of the viewers are voting for her as Most Valuable Player?”
“I had heard that figure.”
“You know that award means an extra ninety thousand dollars.”
The woman nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. “Johnny, I don’t care about the money. I just want my little girl back.”
Johnny smiled. “We can certainly understand that. It’s been easy to guess what her super talent is.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “She’s had the Memory since she was a little girl. Her father, rest his soul, had it.”
“Do you think Robert is treating her as well as he should?”
“I think Robert would be better off if he listened more to Polly.”
“Do you think Polly should lead the group instead?”
Steve hated how Johnny Sparks would never quit until he had gotten the contestants’ parents to say something ugly.
Mrs. Pritchard hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that. I just think each member of the team has strengths, and Robert undervalues Polly’s contribution.”
“But you would say that Robert doesn’t listen, wouldn’t you?”
“He’s not a great listener, but he seems to do many things well.”
“Robert’s mother said that Polly is a prissy little girl who shouldn’t be a contestant at all.”
“How I wish that Polly weren’t a contestant!” Mrs. Pritchard’s bottom lip trembled as if she was about to cry. She reminded Steve of his own sweet mom, and Steve wanted to reach out and hug her.
“So you don’t like television.” Johnny Sparks smirked. Criticizing EduTV was a crime.
“I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. I think television serves a useful purpose in calming people.” She grimaced. “After all, I lost the use of my legs in the first Urban Trash War.”
Steve pushed the MUTE button. He couldn’t stand listening to Johnny Sparks anymore. He picked up his favorite long-sleeved T-shirt from the mat on his floor and slipped it over his head. He opened a bag of tomato, spinach, and cheese chips and began eating breakfast.
The sound of his neighbor’s television penetrated the thin walls. “Mr. Morton …” he heard Johnny Sparks say, beginning his interview with Andrew’s dad. Then silence.
“Mom, what are you doing?” a child’s voice objected.
“I’m turning this off.” His next-door neighbor’s voice came through the walls. Her name was Mrs. Poppers, and she had two kids. “You guys have watched enough. Our government jails us if we trash the streets, but they trash your minds.”
“Mom, we have to watch this. It’s tele-school.”
“You can earn an F on this, for all I care. I can’t stand to hear any more about those poor kids or their poor families. It’s too sad and depressing.”
Steve had never paid much attention to Mrs. Poppers before; she seemed like just a typical overworked mother. But now her words filled him with hope.
“You’re crazy, Mom!” a kid shouted at her.
“She’s not crazy!” Steve said in a loud voice.
The Poppers’ shanty fell silent. Then Steve heard Johnny Sparks’s voice again. “If Andrew wins, what will you buy?”
“A new television. Ours is falling apart,” Mr. Morton said.
“I told you, turn that thing off!” Mrs. Poppers yelled.
Mrs. Poppers must have won the argument this time, because the next-door shanty grew quiet again.
If Mrs. Poppers didn’t like Antarctic Historical Survivor, then maybe, just maybe, the Secretary’s latest series was backfiring. Steve decided to leave early for work, hang around a street or two, and see what he could find out.
Near the DOE a man wearing a Planet Hollywood cap was hawking Survivor souvenirs. Steve looked at the Polly and Grace dolls and the Andrew, Billy, and Robert T-shirts. “How are they selling?”
“Like hotcakes,” the vendor said. “The Secretary, she’s really good for business.”
Steve bent toward the man and said in a whisper, “I’m just curious. Do you watch the series? What do you think of it?” They could both go to jail if the telepolice heard him.
“Who are you?” The man’s eyes darted around anxiously.
“I’m not the telepolice. I just want to know.”
The man stared hard at Steve and then pulled open the bottom drawer of his cart. He lifted a T-shirt and spread it out. On the front, images of the five kids were frozen inside blue, green, purple, red, and pink Popsicles. The Secretary, her red lips open, was just about to eat the frozen bar with Andrew inside. The caption was “POPSICKLES”
“Why did you show me that shirt?” Steve asked.
The man chewed his lip and shrugged. “Thought you might be interested.”
“You don’t like her, either,” Steve exulted.
The man only arched his eyebrow.