He grins as we lean into the huddle. “Let me guess,” he says. “Coach wants the shotgun, right?”
I don’t answer right away. Staring at Ryan’s expertly rendered face, I remember the touch football games we used to play in my backyard. That was ten years ago when I was just seven, when I could still run without stumbling all the time. What I loved about Ryan was that he never made fun of me when I fell flat on my face during a game. He would just pull me to my feet and say, “Come on, we’re gonna win this thing.”
The memory hurts. I wince and almost lose my goggles again.
I turn away from Ryan and focus on the other Yorktown players. “Yeah, McGrath wants me to pass,” I say. “But I’m in the mood to do some running. Let’s go for the wishbone, on three. Break!”
The players clap and break out of the huddle. They take their places in the wishbone formation, with Ryan right behind me and the two halfbacks behind him. Because the VR goggles are equipped with a microphone, the program hears the play I called and responds accordingly. The Lakeland defense assembles at the line of scrimmage, fronted by five hefty linemen. As I crouch behind Yorktown’s center, I look beyond the defensive line and pay special attention to the opposing linebackers. I thought they would spread across the field, but instead they’re bunched in the middle, ready to plow into Ryan and the halfbacks.
That’s good. Now I know what to do.
“Hike, hike, hike!” I yell. On the third “hike,” the center snaps the football to me and rushes forward. I flick the joystick to the right, putting me in position to hand the ball to Ryan. But at the last instant I shift to the left, keeping possession of the ball and veering toward the sidelines. While Ryan rams into one of the defensive linemen, the halfbacks follow me to the left side of the field.
The simulation blurs a little as I dash across the turf, but it’s still a thrill. On this virtual football field I’m not trapped in a wheelchair. It really feels like I’m running. My chest tightens and my heart thumps and a bead of sweat slides down my neck. Yes! I’m cruising! I’m tearing up the turf! Just try to stop me, suckers!
My virtual halfbacks block the Lakeland linebackers, clearing a path for me along the field’s left edge. The only defenseman in sight is the cornerback, who’s angling toward me from the forty-yard line. But I push the joystick all the way forward and pour on the speed. My avatar can run as fast as I want. I blow past the cornerback, past the forty-yard line, past the thirty. It’s not really fair—the defensemen have no chance of catching up. But who cares? Like I said, it’s my program.
I practically fly into the end zone. Then I zoom right past it. The screen in my VR goggles goes black; I’ve reached the edge of the simulated football field, and of course there’s nothing beyond it. Flicking the joystick in the opposite direction, I return to the field. The crowd is cheering wildly. We’ve beaten Lakeland twenty-seven to twenty-five, and I’m the hero of the game.
The Yorktown players rush toward me, tossing their helmets in triumph, and the cheerleaders sprint onto the field. Brittany Taylor cartwheels into the throng and does a couple of joyous backflips. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the climax, the payoff. I spent three months writing the VR program, all just to experience this moment of victory.
But something’s wrong. The virtual celebration on the screen doesn’t look real. I programmed the players to high-five all their teammates, but the nonstop hand-slapping looks ridiculous. And the cheerleaders won’t stop doing their stunts. Brittany performs three more flips before leaping into the end zone and landing in front of me.
“Oh, Adam!” she cries. “You did it! You did it!”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
“I knew you could do it! You saved the day!”
Her words make me grimace. The real Brittany would never say that. I need to fix this part of the program, rewrite the dialogue options I provided for her character. And the graphics need work too. Brittany’s hair is too perfect. Not a single blond strand is out of place, even after all that leaping and flipping.
“You’ve made me so happy, Adam! I’m the happiest girl in the world right now!”
This is embarrassing. I can’t believe I wrote those lines. I say nothing in response, but the virtual Brittany doesn’t notice my silence. She keeps blurting the stupid things I programmed her to say.
“I love you, Adam! I want to be with you forever!”
Beaming, she steps toward me with outstretched arms. But I wrench the joystick to the left, yanking my avatar away from her. Because she’s not the real Brittany. She’s fake. The whole thing’s fake.
I press the button at the top of the joystick, which freezes the simulation. Writing this program was a mistake. I thought it would make me feel better, make me forget about my illness for a while and enjoy a few minutes of ordinary life. But it didn’t work. The program is just stupid and fake and pathetic.
A question appears on the screen, superimposed over Brittany’s motionless face: Do you wish to exit the program? Yes/No
I click Yes. The virtual football field disappears. The screen goes black, and then the computer’s screen saver comes on. The name UNICORP, written in angular white letters, streams across a blue background.
As I sit there panting, I feel the familiar pain in my chest muscles. It’s bad today, like a knife in my ribs. I’ve had this pain for almost a year now, but in the past few weeks it’s gotten worse. The spasms hit me at least a dozen times a day, whenever I’m tired or nervous or upset. I haven’t told my parents how bad it’s gotten, because that would just freak them out. Mom would start crying and yelling at Dad, who would probably send me to the hospital for another round of useless tests. There’s nothing they can do, so what’s the point? Better to keep my mouth shut and ride it out.
I sit absolutely still and stare at the screen saver. I focus in particular on the upper-right corner of the screen, which shows the date and time. My breathing gradually slows. After a few minutes the pain in my chest eases a little. I try to think of something pleasant.
The current time is 2:15 p.m. At this moment in Yorktown High School, the eighth-period bell is ringing and the students are rushing to their last classes of the day. I don’t need a VR program to picture the scene. I remember it well. I went to Yorktown for ninth and tenth grades.
I was the terror of the school’s corridors, cruising past the lockers in my motorized wheelchair and raising my good hand to offer high fives to everyone. I would’ve gone there for eleventh grade too, but my parents pulled me out of school after my breathing problems started. I haven’t seen the inside of Yorktown High since last June, and it’s been almost that long since the last time I saw Brittany and Ryan. But I can still imagine the place.
I close my eyes and think of the jam-packed hallway next to the lockers. Brittany’s locker is at the far end of the hall, where the eleventh-graders hang out between classes. I picture her wearing her favorite outfit, a pair of jeans and a red T-shirt with the word Revolution written in sequins. In my mind’s eye I see her open her locker and pull out her trigonometry textbook. Then I picture Ryan loping down the hallway in his New York Giants sweatshirt. Brittany gives him a friendly smile, a smile of recognition; the three of us have known each other since kindergarten. But then the picture in my mind changes slightly and I imagine there’s something more behind her smile. Something just for Ryan.