The Swailing

Optima: Hungry

"Are you going level 3? Or 4 again?" Kyri asks as she takes a 3 for herself and scans it with her BuffCuff. The sensor beeps quietly and adds the calories from her lunch to her daily intake. Around us I hear the familiar beeps of our fellow students scanning their own food.

"Four," I answer almost combatively, scan my meal and plop it onto my tray. The cookie last night has whetted my appetite, and this perfectly nutritionally balanced number 4 isn't going to cut it today. I wish I had saved half the cookie for after school.

"You're so lucky," Kyri sighs. "If I ate a 4 every day I'd be as big as a whale."

I try not to roll my eyes as I look down at Kyri's waif-like figure. She is tiny in every way – feet, hands, height, boobs. There isn't an alternative universe in imagination where she'd be whale-like.

"Shut up. You burn just as much as I do. "

Kyri pinches her waist and, by leaning in one direction, is able to grab about a centimeter of extra skin. "Look! I'm disgusting!"

I am so sick of this conversation. So sick of my friends talking about, thinking about, worrying about their size, what they eat, how much they burn. I can't believe that intelligent people can spend so much time on this one topic.

I don't have it in me to counter Kyri's plea for reassurance one more time, so instead I turn towards our table where Logan already sits, his tofu stir-fry and brown rice already half gone. I frown. It's only my dad and me at home, but we never start eating until we both sit down, no matter how hungry we are.

I plop down next to Logan and drizzle vinegar and the pre-portioned amount of olive oil on my salad. On days like today, I long for the past when there were no restrictions on food. People could eat whatever they wanted. No one cared, no one monitored. They had complete and total freedom and, left to their own devices, maybe they had gone a little overboard. That freedom led to lots of health problems: diabetes, heart disease, cancer. People had been softer and rounder, which I think would be nice. What's wrong with a little variety? These days clothing sizes mostly only vary in length. But apparently the health problems were killing a lot of people and costing a lot of money, and things needed to change. Hence, a nutritionally balanced number 4 for lunch. A required burn after school. Problem solved.

As if he can read my mind, Logan asks, "What was your burn at practice this morning?"

I sigh and glance at my BuffCuff, press the tiny screen. My volleyball session pops up on the monitor. "A seven."

"Wow," Logan raises his eyebrows. "That's pretty good for volleyball."

My irritation flares again. Logan always seems like he's competing with me on our daily burns. If I burn a seven one day, he always manages to burn an eight. I swear he goes for runs at night, just to make sure of it.

"We had conditioning," I answer shortly.

"Oh. You going to run after school, too?"

I set my fork down and sigh. "I don't know. Maybe. Why do you care?"

Logan looks surprised at my reaction. I'm not normally this pissy with him, but his cautious kissing and quick retreat from my house, his swabbing off of my germs, and his never-ending competitiveness have left me feeling rejected and grouchy. And this bland, fat-free food isn't helping.

Logan holds up his hands innocently, "Just wanted to know if you wanted to run together, that's all."

I take a deep breath and try to will away my sour mood. "Sorry. I'm just tired. I think I'll go by myself today. I want to run at the beach."

Logan hates running on the beach. He says the sand gets in his shoes but when I tell him to take them off and run barefoot, he finds some excuse not to. Honestly, I think he is afraid of the water. Or sharp shells. Or the crabs that sometimes peek out of their holes. Whatever his real reason, whenever I run at the beach Logan finds a reason not to join me, so I run at the beach more often than I'd like to admit.

"Okay. No problem." His voice is calm, cheerful again. He never stays mad at me for long. I sometimes wish he would so we could at least have the "fun" of making up. Our relationship feels like a long, smooth road that stretches on as far as the eye can see. Not a dip or hill or surprise in sight...

Geeze, what is wrong with me? Who wants a hilly relationship anyway? Isn't that what people try to avoid?

The day drags on and my mood doesn't improve. In history, as usual my teacher breezes over topics related to the former United States and instead focuses intensely on the history of Optima. When I raise my hand several times in a row to ask him to expand on things, things about the United States that I still don't know even though I am just months shy of graduating, I am reprimanded for asking too many questions about the past.

"Isn't that what history is? The past?" I challenge.

He gives me an impatient look and tells me I am slowing down our progress. For reasons I can't quite explain, I egg him on. "So speed is more important than knowledge?"

He gives me another, more stern look.

"I guess so," I say, under my breath but loud enough for him to hear, and he serves me with a reprimand slip. Since it is my third of the year, I have to go talk to my counselor, Ms. Fisher, a skeletal woman with a pinched expression that hints she's never eaten a cookie in her entire life.

"Ember. Is something going on with you?" Ms. Fisher asks once I have plopped myself down on the yoga ball across from her desk. I bounce lightly as she sorts through pages on the screen of her computer, flipping each one with a light touch. "That's three already this year. Unusual, even for you." She looks away from her computer screen for just a moment to give me a small wink.

I shrug, though I know exactly what is wrong. I am bored. Bored of the food I eat and the company I keep. Bored of my boyfriend. Bored of my life. Bored to the point of snapping. But I just smile blandly back at Ms. Fisher.

"Boy troubles?" Ms. Fisher guesses.

I hesitate because even though I do have boy troubles, I'm not sure "boredom" is covered in Ms. Fisher's repertoire of counseling training.

"Well," Ms. Fisher finally turns away from her computer screen. "I know your mother has been gone for some time. That can be difficult."

I hate the way she says that. "Gone for some time," as if my mom were on some kind of vacation or business trip instead of dead. But I understand what Ms. Fisher is saying – a girl would talk to her mother about personal things. And I have no mother. And my dad isn't exactly a chatty open book.

"If you ever need to talk, Ember ... that's what I'm here for."

I finally make eye contact with Ms. Fisher. Her eyes are a warm brown, ironically like the chocolate that has probably never passed her lips. They crinkle at the corners when she smiles and I am tempted to tell her everything. Tell her how I am bored and lonely and hungry and confused about 99% of the time. About how the only things that make me feel alive lately are dangerous things, "listed" things. About how I've tried to seduce my boyfriend, despite Optima's very clear guidelines on sexual consent, and how I'm afraid I will keep trying until he stops turning me down or until something else quenches the fire in my belly. About how I just feel like something is missing, has been missing, for as long as I can remember. Some piece of me that should be here but just isn't. I actually open my mouth to say something, but Ms. Fisher's warm brown eyes flick back to her computer screen and the moment is gone. I let out a slow breath.

"Thanks, Ms. Fisher. I'll keep that in mind."

"Try to stay out of trouble, Ember. Okay?"

I nod and stand up. "I'll try."

My mood hasn't improved by the time I go for my run later. My bare feet pound against the wet sand with dull thuds. The beach is so compacted that I barely leave footprints behind. I pick up my pace until my lungs are burning and when I can barely breathe I stop and stand, hands on my head, staring out at the flat, endless expanse of the ocean.