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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.
Copyright © 2019 by Shana Silver
