Consolidating Dad

The dream machine makes me uncomfortable.

- Mary Alexandra Agner

Slick black cube larger than my head. Unlabeled ports. Snaky cords that attach it to my body for eight hours every night. I’ve been using it since Dad got it second hand, over a year ago, but I still grimace as I Velcro the cord around my wrist and press its sticky white pads against my temples. After the MPLAT, the Multi-Purpose Life Aptitude Test, I can ditch it, at least until college or whatever I end up doing next.

Mom stops in my doorway. “Goodnight, Heather. Sleep well. Dream about—”

“Engineering equations. I know, Mom. Night.”

Instead, I dream of Dad.

I wake up when Mom calls, as she’s leaving: “I’m in court this afternoon. And it’s your night to start dinner!”

I squeeze my eyes closed as the apartment door slides shut. Usually Dad starts dinner, not Mom and me on alternating nights. But that’s all changed now his deployment’s been extended. He won’t be home for the MPLAT.

School’s in a renovated mill building with floor-to-ceiling windows and open floor plan, but there’s the usual bottleneck at the entrance where we all drop off the slap-bracelet screens we use to connect with our phones. I hate giving up my slap-screen and rub my empty wrist as I leave it behind. I pick a terminal—half-pod, half-desk—near the pool; the neon koi are never boring. 

Chell nudges me as she slides into a nearby terminal. She whispers, “How were your dreams last night?” A perfect imitation of my mom’s voice, no sign of Chell’s Jamaican accent.

“Stupid MPLAT. Why does it have to be the most important thing to colleges and startups and, you know, everything?” I sigh. “I hate it when my mom’s right.”