Free Hungry by H. A. Swain Page B

tucked behind her ear. Yaz always looks the part she’s playing, which today is Good Student. Unlike me who refuses. I’m in a bright blue fleece hoodie and a pair of real denim jeans, so soft and worn from my grandma’s farm days that the knees and butt have patches.
    “What’s that thing supposed to be, anyway?” I ask, staring at the pink monstrosity dancing toward another kid who’s come to stare.
    Yaz shakes her head like she can’t believe the things I don’t know. “New game launch. That’s the mascot—Hedgy.” She starts digging in her bag. “I should put this on my PRC. Didn’t you read your ICM dox?”
    “Didn’t even download them,” I tell her.
    “Of course not,” she mutters as she launches her HoverCam. “And you’ll still score higher than the rest of us on the final.”
    “Tests are stupid,” I say, then wonder if this Hedgy thing is what AnonyGal is hoping to hack. Even though I’ve vowed to never mess with a product launch because it would upset my dad too much, I wouldn’t mind watching the Dynasaurs take this one down.
    I step back and watch Yaz film a quick duet with the pink creature. Even I have to admit it’s kind of hilarious, especially when she blows it a kiss as it floats away.
    “You know,” I say when the photo op is done, “you’re really good at engaging others, even animated others.”
    She stashes her camera in her bag and shrugs like it’s no big deal.
    “You should do something with that talent,” I say as we head into the atrium.
    “I’m trying to,” she says. “That’s what the PRC is for.”
    “I mean something that makes people think and question the status quo instead of perpetuating it.”
    Yaz stops and puts a hand on her hip. “We don’t all have that luxury in our lives, Thalia.”
    “It’s not a luxury,” I argue.
    “Not if you’re you, but it is if you’re me. You can be so judgmental sometimes,” she says.
    Jilly starts yapping step-by-step instructions about how to get to our dreaded Interpersonal Classroom Meeting as if we’re likely to walk into a wall without her help.
    “Sorry…” I say. “I don’t mean to be judgy. I just think you could be doing something more interesting with your PRC.”
    “Interesting to who?” she asks. “You?”
    She’s got me there, so I drop it.
    We pass more Hedgy projections on the windows of every real-time toy store, where kids can pick up and play with the merchandise, since they’re the one group that won’t fall for pure VirtuShops. Then we step onto an escalator that bisects the center of the atrium.
    “My dad told me once that everything in a mall is thought out and has a purpose,” I say. “And do you know what that purpose is?”
    Yaz looks at me with a blank face. “The real question is, do I care?”
    “It’s to get people to spend more money.”
    “Duh,” she says.
    “I mean, look at this. The escalator forces you to pass by every floor. And since this building is circular and there are no solid walls in here, just windows and glass beams, you can see inside every shop.” I point to the store for dolls, the one for toy cars and trucks, the one for dress-ups.
    Yaz sighs. “I loved coming here when I was a kid.”
    “You know they’re watching you, right?” I ask.
    “Who?”
    “One World marketeers!”
    “Again I say, duh . How else are they going to know how consumers react? I mean take Hedgy there.” She points to yet another projection of the pink beast, this one in flowered bell-bottom pants boogying beneath an ancient disco ball. “If everyone was walking right past, or worse, scared and running away, they’d need to know that.”
    “What kind of animal is it supposed to be, anyway?”
    “I think it’s called a hedgehog or something. Apparently cats and monkeys are so last year.”
    “A giant singing and dancing pink hedgehog?” I ask. “That’s idiotic.”
    “Speaking of which, look what I got.” She slips her jacket off her shoulder so I can