Bound to a System, Six Years Too Early

I was pouring hot water over a stale dinner roll when the voice in my head introduced itself. "Hello. I'm the—beep—Personal Development System. I can help you—beep—" I dropped the paper cup. Water splashed across the table, and the roll bobbed in a puddle. Across the Alder House dining room, Tessa stared at me. "You okay?" "Yep." I grabbed a napkin. "The roll attacked." "It does look mean." At twelve, I'd already learned that adults didn't ask follow-up questions when you gave them a joke instead of an answer. I pressed the napkin against the table and listened for the voice again. "Binding complete," it said. "User age mismatch. Recommended activation age: eighteen. Current age: twelve. Variance: six years." I stopped wiping. "Can anyone hear you?" I whispered. Tessa leaned closer. "Hear who?" "No one." "Great. You're having a birthday and a conversation with no one." She lifted her plastic cup. "Honestly, that's still better than last year." Last year, the birthday cake at Alder House had been a grocery-store sheet cake with my name spelled Nola. I'd let it go. There were more important things than frosting, like knowing which closet had the extra blankets and how to ask for a school bus pass without sounding like I was begging. The voice continued. "Please select a development path." "I didn't select anything." "Path options: academic, social, practical, emotional—beep—" "Stop." Tessa's mouth twitched. "Are you arguing with the roll?" "I'm arguing with my head." "That's usually where the arguments are." I couldn't tell her about the voice. I could barely believe it myself. Instead, I took the roll and sat beside her. We were the only two kids at the table. The other residents were at an after-school program, and the staff member on duty, Mr. Pritchard, was in the office taking a call. Tessa slid a small paper bag toward me. "I found this in the lost-and-found bin. It's not lost if I'm giving it to you." Inside was a purple pen with a silver star on the cap. "You stole me a pen?" "Rescued. It had been abandoned for months." I ran my thumb over the star. "Thanks." "You can use it to sign your birthday card." "I don't have one." "I made one." She pointed to the folded paper under her hand. "But I'm still deciding whether your present should include my beautiful handwriting." I smiled. Then I heard a door slam in the hall. Mr. Pritchard came out of the office, his phone in his hand. "Tessa, come with me." Tessa sat up. "Why?" "Just need to talk." She looked at me once before she stood. I watched her follow him down the hall. The office door shut. The voice came back. "New objective available. Ask one clear question before the end of the day." "What?" "Objective: ask one clear question." "What's the reward?" "Skill progress." "That's not a reward." "Skill progress is a reward." I had no idea how to explain the voice's irritating confidence. I put the purple pen in my pocket and tried to listen through the office door. I couldn't make out words, only the rise and fall of adult voices. Tessa's voice was low. Mr. Pritchard's was sharper. I stood up. The door opened before I reached it. Tessa stepped out, her face flat in the way she made it when she didn't want people to see anything. "Hey," I said. "What happened?" "Nothing." "That's not an answer." "It's the answer I've got." She walked toward the stairs. I glanced at Mr. Pritchard, who was watching her go. "What was that about?" I asked. "Not your business, Nora." I had my question. It was the wrong one. That night, after the staff had checked our rooms, I sat on the edge of my bed with the purple pen in my hand. Tessa was in the next room. Her door was open a c***k, but I couldn't see her. The voice spoke quietly. "Objective incomplete." "I asked a question." "You did not receive information." "I don't control what people tell me." "Correct." "So what do I get?" "Skill progress." A small warmth moved through my chest, like I'd swallowed a sip of tea. It faded before I could decide whether I'd imagined it. I turned the pen between my fingers. From the hall came a muffled sound, a single sniff, then silence. I knew Tessa well enough not to knock. I knew her well enough to worry anyway. I also knew that when adults called a meeting, the truth didn't always come out in the room.