Solo asks.
“I have,” I say cautiously. “Is it all right with you if a girl plays Portal?”
“A girl?” He’s puzzled.
“Yes. I am, in fact, a girl.”
“I noticed,” he says.
“No, you did not notice she’s a girl,” my mother snarls. “You noticed she’s my daughter.”
My mother favors Solo with a look that has reduced many a grown man and woman to sniveling terror. She is in full feral mode.
But Solo is not afraid.
Oh, he pretends to be intimidated, but it’s an act. I see it as plain as day. He’s not intimidated at all. In fact, within his play-acting there’s something deeper going on.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
Oh my God. He hates her.
This startles me. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in those eyes. He actually hates her.
I mean, I hate my mother, too, sometimes. But I’m her daughter. I’m supposed to.
And there are moments, like right now, when I actually kind of love her. At least, I love the way she loves her work.
Whatever’s going on inside Solo’s head, he hides it quickly. He slides his gaze to the side, away from her, and when he looks up his eyes are as distant and unknowable as a starless sky.
He has really nice lashes. Better than mine.
I look for something to do. I reach my hand toward the touch screen. Objects on the wall screen move.
“So I make a human,” I say. “Is this just about how they look?”
“No, no, that would be a paint-by-numbers set.” My mother smiles, but not at me. She’s smiling at the computer-generated image. “No, if you’re playing God, a lot of the fun is in building the brain. The mind.”
She takes a step away. Her hands come up to form a sort of basket of fingers. It’s one of her gestures. She uses it when lecturing her underlings.
“We are at a turning point in the evolution of the human species,” she says, surveying, with slightly crazy eyes, an imaginary audience. “Evolution has blindly felt its way forward. Now we, the product of evolution, are taking the reins. We are taking the wheel.”
“Is it the reins or the wheel?” I ask perkily, but she hears nothing.
“We will soon have the ability to design and create the new human. Evolution still, but guided evolution.”
There is a long pause. I am not entirely sure if she expects us to applaud.
“Of course,” she adds, coming down off her high, “only in computer simulation.”
I don’t know where she was headed with her lecture. But I am definitely sure that this project sounds interesting. The touch screen calls to me. Suddenly I’m wishing everyone would go away and let me play.
“I think I’ll … you know. Just mess around with the program a little,” I say.
My mother is pleased. Solo is … well, I can’t exactly tell.
Ten minutes pass. I look up and I’m alone.
I didn’t even notice them leave.
* * *
I stare at my first choice. The choice I have to make before I get into the details of playing God: male or female?
I consider the looming monitor.
Here’s the thing: I am not beautiful.
I’m pretty. I’ll allow that much. Pretty.
But I’m not the girl boys long for.
Cheerleader? No. Prom queen? No. Voted most likely to get a modeling contract? No.
It’s not like I’ve spent my life beating the boys back with a flaming torch.
So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?
Worse yet … no, maybe it’s better yet … I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll probably tell him so. Within five minutes of knowing him. And if he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wannabe, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.
When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms. Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean, or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many
“I have,” I say cautiously. “Is it all right with you if a girl plays Portal?”
“A girl?” He’s puzzled.
“Yes. I am, in fact, a girl.”
“I noticed,” he says.
“No, you did not notice she’s a girl,” my mother snarls. “You noticed she’s my daughter.”
My mother favors Solo with a look that has reduced many a grown man and woman to sniveling terror. She is in full feral mode.
But Solo is not afraid.
Oh, he pretends to be intimidated, but it’s an act. I see it as plain as day. He’s not intimidated at all. In fact, within his play-acting there’s something deeper going on.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
Oh my God. He hates her.
This startles me. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in those eyes. He actually hates her.
I mean, I hate my mother, too, sometimes. But I’m her daughter. I’m supposed to.
And there are moments, like right now, when I actually kind of love her. At least, I love the way she loves her work.
Whatever’s going on inside Solo’s head, he hides it quickly. He slides his gaze to the side, away from her, and when he looks up his eyes are as distant and unknowable as a starless sky.
He has really nice lashes. Better than mine.
I look for something to do. I reach my hand toward the touch screen. Objects on the wall screen move.
“So I make a human,” I say. “Is this just about how they look?”
“No, no, that would be a paint-by-numbers set.” My mother smiles, but not at me. She’s smiling at the computer-generated image. “No, if you’re playing God, a lot of the fun is in building the brain. The mind.”
She takes a step away. Her hands come up to form a sort of basket of fingers. It’s one of her gestures. She uses it when lecturing her underlings.
“We are at a turning point in the evolution of the human species,” she says, surveying, with slightly crazy eyes, an imaginary audience. “Evolution has blindly felt its way forward. Now we, the product of evolution, are taking the reins. We are taking the wheel.”
“Is it the reins or the wheel?” I ask perkily, but she hears nothing.
“We will soon have the ability to design and create the new human. Evolution still, but guided evolution.”
There is a long pause. I am not entirely sure if she expects us to applaud.
“Of course,” she adds, coming down off her high, “only in computer simulation.”
I don’t know where she was headed with her lecture. But I am definitely sure that this project sounds interesting. The touch screen calls to me. Suddenly I’m wishing everyone would go away and let me play.
“I think I’ll … you know. Just mess around with the program a little,” I say.
My mother is pleased. Solo is … well, I can’t exactly tell.
Ten minutes pass. I look up and I’m alone.
I didn’t even notice them leave.
* * *
I stare at my first choice. The choice I have to make before I get into the details of playing God: male or female?
I consider the looming monitor.
Here’s the thing: I am not beautiful.
I’m pretty. I’ll allow that much. Pretty.
But I’m not the girl boys long for.
Cheerleader? No. Prom queen? No. Voted most likely to get a modeling contract? No.
It’s not like I’ve spent my life beating the boys back with a flaming torch.
So. Am I “creating” a male or a female?
Worse yet … no, maybe it’s better yet … I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll probably tell him so. Within five minutes of knowing him. And if he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wannabe, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.
When you’re at a high school, looking around at the boys, and you subtract all the ones who are looking for Ms. Perfect, and subtract all the childish, ludicrous, boring, mean, or sex-obsessed ones, there aren’t that many
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