Glitch

sent to discreetly ob-
    serve and report whether the subject was malfunctioning
    enough to warrant repairs before their biannual diagnostic
    checkup. That was the Monitor’s job: to locate and identify
    anomalous glitchers. And they were experts at it— more ob-
    servant and keen than the average subject, and more aware
    of the minor symptoms of glitching than the brute Regula-
    tors. They had no distinguishing hardware or features. They
    were like ghosts, hidden within the ranks, anywhere and
    nowhere all at once.
    Maybe someone had noticed the way I faltered when I
    glitched at the Academy. Or what if my parents or Markan
    had found my sketches? Would they have reported me if
    they had? I swallowed again. Of course they would. There
    was no such concept as loyalty to the family unit, only loy-
    alty to Community. Even then, it wasn’t an emotion, only
    clear, cold logic. An anomaly observed is an anomaly reported.
    I glanced at the four Regulators stationed at each corner
    of the room. The Regulators at the Academy were younger
    than the ones I’d see patrolling the Markets and at the sub-
    way; they were Regulators- in- training. My chest jumped at
    the sight of them, but I soothed myself with the knowledge
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    Heather Anastasiu
    that there was no need to worry. If someone had reported
    me to Central Systems for what happened on the train plat-
    form this morning, I would have been taken away by now.
    Still, I glanced back and forth between the crowd and my
    salad, lingering at every opportunity on the Regulators,
    and wondering where the green- eyed boy, the Monitor,
    could be.
    I chewed my salad silently, counting to fi ve with each
    bite. Slow. Methodical. A tomato crunched in my mouth
    and the juice exploded between my teeth. I wanted to close
    my eyes and enjoy the wild taste of it— slightly sweet and
    yet not quite. I knew they grew all this produce in under-
    ground hot houses but it still seemed wonderfully impossible
    to create from a tiny seed something so beautiful and com-
    plex. I speared a piece of broccoli with my fork and chewed
    on it thoughtfully, enjoying the texture on my tongue and
    the crunch that echoed in my ears with each bite. I wished I
    could draw this feeling so I could hold it in my hands.
    “Zoel,” said a voice to my right, almost making me jump.
    “I request your assistance on the homework we were as-
    signed today.”
    I looked over at Maximin and had to stop myself from
    smiling. He’d tested through to the biotech track just like I
    had three years ago, and as adults we were both destined to
    become V-chip technicians. But he was hopeless at memori-
    zation. He’d asked for tutoring two months ago, but now
    study lunches with him were part of my daily routine. I kept
    telling him he should ask for memory- enhancement pro-
    grams, but he insisted that with practice and study he could
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    G L I TC H
    learn it on his own. If we were capable of it, I might have
    thought he was stubborn.
    Stubborn was another word I had learned from the old ar-
    chive texts at the central library database. Along with happy ,
    sad , guilty , lonely , angry , afraid. The green- eyed boy’s face fl ashed in my memory. What had the expression on his face
    meant? Angry? Afraid? No, none of those things. A sadness
    passed through my chest. I was just so desperate to see some-
    thing, anything, on someone else’s face that I imagined it.
    “Assistance willingly rendered, Maximin,” I said. “Let me
    retrieve my tablet.”
    I reached down to unclick my case and pulled out the thin
    tablet on the table. As I tapped the screen to load the neuro-
    chem text, I kept thinking about the green- eyed boy from
    the subway. Maybe it was just his eyes. He had probably
    zoned out to the Link and happened to be looking at me,
    not watching me carefully and reporting on my anomalous
    behavior. I needed to stop thinking about him.
    “Shall we begin?” Maximin asked.
    “Yes,” I said, careful to keep my voice placid and even. I
    looked over at Maximin, whose shock of blond hair and pale
    skin looked bright in the cafeteria light, his athletic build fi ll-
    ing out the entire left side of my vision.
    I touched my subcutaneous forearm panel. The two- by-
    six- inch panel lit up underneath my skin and I tapped on it
    to get to my notes.
    “Read through the text again,” I said. “Then we can look
    over my notes.”
    Maximin nodded and took the tablet to read. I watched
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    Heather Anastasiu
    him