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Usually, it’s because her team has failed. But sometimes, and there are just enough of those times, it’s because they’ve succeeded.
“You can add or subtract blocks,” my mother continues. “Hover over and you see what each does. Or”—tap, drag, tap—“you can picture each element as a colored blob or as a tile in a mosaic. But either way you can run forward and see the effect.”
“The effect on what?”
“On your person.”
“My what?”
“Your person.” She enunciates carefully. “Per. Son. The person you’re creating.”
I lean forward and The Leg shifts slightly. “You almost sound like you’re talking about a real human being.”
She blinks and brushes back an errant strand of hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not real. That would be illegal. The fines would be astronomical. The government would probably shut us down. I might even go to jail. Me!”
“I didn’t—”
“No, no, no. This just provides students with an opportunity to learn how to…”
“To play God?” I supply.
She snaps her fingers. “Exactly. Exactly, exactly.” Deep sigh. “Exactly. We want to enable the average person, a person like … like him”—her eyes flit toward Solo—“to understand what makes humans … human.” She waves a dismissive hand and trails Bulgari.
“‘Like him’?” I repeat.
“You know what I mean: Someone who’s not a scientist.”
“A mere mortal,” Solo suggests.
“Stupidity is relative,” my mother says, still addressing me. “And it’s also case-specific. Thomas, the scientist most directly responsible for this project, has an IQ of 169. He also has his entire body covered in ridiculous tattoos. He’s very smart at science. You, Eve, are very smart at school, particularly science, and very stupid at choosing your friends.”
“Oh, snap,” I say.
“What?”
“Sorry. I was flashing back to 2005.”
The corners of Solo’s mouth flirt with a smile.
“The point is, you get to play God.”
“Can I play Portal instead?”
“You play Portal?” Solo asks.
“I have,” I say cautiously. “Is it all right with you if a girl plays Portal?”
“A girl?” He’s puzzled.
“Yes. I am, in fact, a girl.”
“I noticed,” he says.
“No, you did not notice she’s a girl,” my mother snarls. “You noticed she’s my daughter.”
My mother favors Solo with a look that has reduced many a grown man and woman to sniveling terror. She is in full feral mode.
But Solo is not afraid.
