Read Asimov's Science Fiction: October/November 2013 for Free Online Page A

experimental generative video performances in the Bay Area. Her first published story is about an unmanageable teenager, her dangerous environment, and what it truly means to be...
     
    The petals drifted down from the sky, like the confetti we tossed at Dad and Becca's wedding—except these were white and big as my thumbnail. They started falling right after eighth period and stuck to the raised letters on the big sign outside the main doors. By the time Clare and I left only the capital "M" showed in "Lincoln Middle School." We ditched the quarantine bus and walked home instead, swirling our hands to make the petals dance. Clare fell on her butt, and I scooped up handfuls and dumped them on her, and she shrieked and threw them back. I scooped up another handful and was about to toss it when a horn honked. It was Mom, on her way home early from work. She must have figured I'd want to play in the petals—it was a beautiful day, spring in January.
    She pulled the van up beside us. Of course, she wore full gear: helmet, air mask, coversuit, gloves. Her voice blared into my earplants. "Maxine Bianca Belucci! Why aren't you on the quarantine bus?"
    I let the handful of petals sift through my fingers.
    "Get in the van. Both of you."
    Clare stuck her tongue out at me, and I rolled my eyes. We both knew I was grounded.
    When I opened the door, Mom shouted at us to clean off, which was impossible because the petals fell so fast. Clare and I tried to brush them away, and then we slid into the backseat. Mom kept the driver's compartment sealed. She plugged her com-line into the dashboard. Her voice sounded tinny on the overheads.
    "Where's your gear?"
    "In my locker. Only one bus was running today, so we didn't feel like waiting. How was I supposed to know all these petals would appear? They didn't start until after we left school."
    I expected Mom to yell, but petals gunked up the windshield. She clutched the wheel and concentrated on driving. I picked petals off my coat and rolled them between my fingers. They smelled sweet at first, then like burnt plastic when I crushed them.
    Mom dropped Clare off at her house and drove me back to school. She parked in a guest space and then made me march in front of her, past the five quarantine buses waiting beside the airlocks. Hordes of kids crowded the vestibule, a few of them in coversuits. But most of them just wore normal clothes.
    Keeping her mask and helmet on in the vestibule, Mom ordered me to grab my gear and be quick about it. I wished I could call Dad to pick me up, but he'd gone to Brazil on business, and of course Becca went too, like they were still honeymooning.
    I tried to stall by taking the long way to my locker, but teachers were clearing everyone out, so they made me get my stuff and go.
    Only one busload of kids had left by the time I got back. So there, in the vestibule, in front of half the school, Mom made me put on the suit. She even held it for me to step into, like I was a three-year-old. I looked over her shoulder—she's shorter than me—and saw Jill Heisman and Jasmine Duncan smooching their lips and blowing baby kisses at me. Other kids snickered and shoved close to watch. By the time I put on the helmet, I was ready to cry. I stared straight ahead and tried not to blink. When I walked toward the airlock doors, everyone backed away. Some of the girls held their noses and whispered, "bubble girl." If Mom heard them too, she didn't show it. She just strode into the airlock ahead of me and didn't look back.
    The drive home took forever. We passed so many accidents on Broad Street that Mom turned off it and crept through the subdivisions. Every couple of blocks she had to get out and scrape off the windshield, because the petals gunked up the wipers. I cried so hard my faceplate fogged, so I took off the helmet. Petals littered the seat. I curled up on it anyway, and a bunch of them stuck to my cheek. I streamed some music into my earplants and stared at the baggy