pinocchio

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Another essay, another big red F, another "See me". Henry was sick of this shit.

"When I speak with you, it's obvious that you're keeping up with the class content. I don't know why you insist on cheating on these assignments," Ms. Spunk said. As she spoke, her perfect teeth flashed white, somehow even brighter than her platinum-blonde bob.

"I told you, I'm not."

"Really?" Ms. Spunk swiveled her monitor around. There was his essay in the plagiarism checker, all the words highlighted red. 99.9% computer-generated.

Henry's voice came out weaker this time. "I told you, I'm not. The software has to be wrong."

He knew this wouldn't get him anywhere. He'd already tried much more extreme things—bawling, bringing signed letters from his parents, even filming himself working on the essay in real time (upon seeing the video, Ms. Spunk had sarcastically applauded his commitment to lying). No matter what he did, the next two hours were predetermined. He would be marched to the principal's office, miss lunch, and wait for his parents to show up.

"The software's never wrong," Ms. Spunk said, her thin face a mask. Thus began the inevitable march to the principal's office.

This time, they sent him to sit in the hall, right outside the thick oak door. He stared at the owl knocker as voices seeped through.

"You're not treating him like a normal student!"

"We have spoken to his homeroom teacher…"

"Clearly not enough!"

"Well, we can't ask her to excuse academic dishonesty…"

"You know he's not cheating!"

"Yes, but she doesn't…"

"Then tell her."

"Aw baby, they don't know what they're talking about," Henry's mom said. "Don't worry, we'll get them to fix the grades."

A humanoid brought Henry's plate to him. It was steak and vegetables, the ratio of protein and carbohydrates carefully calibrated. It was his favorite, but he could only pick at it.

"Hon, is something wrong with the food? Are you still stressed about the grades? I told you, we'll get them to fix it."

Henry shot to his feet, knocking a humanoid into the ground. Its aluminum body clattered against the tiled floor. It made pained efforts to right itself, joints screeching like a banshee, but it was to no avail. By the time Henry made it to the stairs, the lights in its eyes had blinked out.

"Henry!"

He didn't even look back.

"Teenagers," Henry's dad said. "He'll be fine."

The next day, Ms. Spunk called Henry up to her desk during silent work time. With a briliant blue fingernail, she switched the noise muffler on. Henry braced for another scolding, but she simply said, "I'm sorry. I don't think you're cheating after all."

He looked at her in confusion. "But the software is never wrong, you said."

"It isn't."

"What?"

She drew in a breath and held it for a fraction of a moment. "I misspoke. Of course the software is wrong. Why don't you leave class a couple minutes early? I'll write you a note."

The robocar was waiting for him at the usual spot in the pickup lot. When he pulled the back door open, he was surprised by the radio chatter leaking out.

"…ongoing litigation regarding the human status of those who have undergone the Lawrence-Cooper procedure—"

Henry's mom slammed her hand into the mute button. "I thought school wasn't over for another ten minutes?" She turned to face him, her hand still on the button.

"Ms. Spunk let me out early," Henry said, ducking into the car. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I thought I'd come pick you up, as moral support. Because, you know, yesterday."

They sat in silence as the robocar came to life. With a quiet electric whir, it drove itself out of the pickup lot.

"You can let go of the button, you know," Henry said.

"Oh, right."

Henry lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was struggling to resist his curiosity, the urge to figure out what was wrong with him. He tried to focus on the ceiling, but it was nothing but a flat cool white, and his attention slid off its glassy surface.

It wasn't enough. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then sat himself in front of his laptop.

A study listing 200 participants, most of whom were infants at the time of the procedure. Names and faces redacted with thick black boxes.

The pirate radio station LC FM, run by 12 patients who had figured out what had happened to them.

A brochure, clean and sans-serif fonts, plastered with slogans like "Give your child an edge" and "Make your child part of the future".

And the dastardly consent form that let them replace his brain with a chip.

"I know what you did."

"Baby, what's going on? What do you mean, what I did?"

"What you did to my brain. The Lawrence-Cooper procedure. You pulled my brain out of my head and replaced it with something else. When I was a baby. And you never told me."

"Hon, don't you think it's great? You'd get perfect grades if it wasn't for your stupid homeroom teacher—"

"And you were never going to tell me. Ever."

"Henry, Henry. You don't understand. If we didn't do this, you'd have ended up subpar and…and stupid, and—"

"What, human? I'd have ended up human."

Another essay, another blank laptop screen. What was the point?

He would never be a real boy.