Read The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015 for Free Online Page A

the finger, too. I was this shitty, disgusting kid with a lamp and a plaque for parents but I was there with Cee and the time was exactly now. It was like there was a beautiful starry place we’d never get into—didn’t
deserve
to get into—but at the same time we were better than any brightness. Two sick girls underneath the stars.
    Fuck you, Neighbor!
It felt so great. If I could go anywhere I’d want to go there.
    Â 
    The counselors came for us after a while. A circle of them with big flashlights, talking in handsets. Jodi told us they’d been looking everywhere for us. “We were pretty worried about you girls!”
    For the first time I didn’t feel sorry for her; I felt like I wanted to kick her in the shins. Shit, I forgot about that until right now. I forget so much. I’m like a sieve. Sometimes I tell Pete I think I’m going senile. Like premature senile dementia. Last month I suggested we go to Clearview for our next vacation and he said, “Tish, you hate Clearview, don’t you remember?”
    It’s true, I hated Clearview: the beach was okay, but at night there was nothing to do but drink. So we’re going to go to the Palace Suites instead. At least you can gamble there.
    Cee, I wonder about you still, so much—I wonder what happened to you and where you are. I wonder if you’ve ever tried to find me. It wouldn’t be hard. If you linked to the register you’d know our graduating class ended up in food services. I’m in charge of inventory for a chain of grocery stores, Pete drives delivery, Katie stocks the shelves. The year before us, the graduates of our camp went into the army; the year after us they also went into the army; the year after that they went into communications technologies; the year after that I stopped paying attention. I stopped wondering what life would have been like if I’d graduated in a different year. We’re okay. Me and Pete—we make it work, you know? He’s sad because I don’t want to have kids, but he hasn’t brought it up for a couple of years. We do the usual stuff, hobbies and vacations. Work. Pete’s into gardening. Once a week we have dinner with some of the gang. We keep our Parent Figures on the hall table, like everyone else. Sometimes I think about how if you’d graduated with us, you’d be doing some kind of job in food services, too. That’s weird, right?
    Â 
    But you didn’t graduate with us. I guess you never graduated at all.
    Â 
    I’ve looked for you on the buses and in the streets. Wondering if I’d suddenly see you. God, I’d jump off the bus so quick, I wouldn’t even wait for it to stop moving. I wouldn’t care if I fell in the gutter. I remember your tense face, your nervous look, when you found out that we were going to have a checkup.
    â€œI can’t have a checkup,” you said.
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€œBecause,” you said, “because they’ll see my bug is gone.”
    And I just—I don’t know. I felt sort of embarrassed for you. I’d convinced myself the whole bug thing was a mistake, a hallucination. I looked down at my book, and when I looked up you were standing in the same place, with an alert look on your face, as if you were listening.
    You looked at me and said, “I have to run.”
    It was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. The whole camp was monitored practically up to the moon. There was no way to get outside.
    But you tried. You left my room, and you went straight out your window and broke your ankle.
    A week later, you were back. You were on crutches and you looked . . . wrecked. Destroyed. Somebody’d cut your hair, shaved it close to the scalp. Your eyes stood out, huge and shining.
    â€œThey put a bug in me,” you whispered.
    And I just knew. I knew what you were going to do.
    Â 
    Max came to see me a few days ago. I’ve felt