Free Peace Out (The Futures Trilogy Book 1) by G.M. Whitley

wouldn’t celebrate her birthday on her actual birthday. I had an OChem test the next day. I was going to take her out that weekend. She flipped out on me.”
    “Communications major,” Anna guessed.
    “Close. English,” Scott said. “How about you? How does someone like you not have a boyfriend?”
    “I don ’t want one,” Anna said. “I’m nineteen years old. I’m not ready for anything serious. Even if I met the perfect man, the one I’d want to have babies with, I don’t think we’d be ready for each other.”
    “So I ’m just a summer fling?”
    “Statistically speaking, yes,” Anna said. “You go to Stanford. I go to Princeton. You have one year of college left. I have two. Then we have med school, grad school. Figure in residency and fellowships. Those will take us all over the country. The chances of us being able to coordinate geography every step of the way are pretty slim. And long-distance relationships never work.”
    “We’re doomed before we start?”
    “Not doomed,” Anna said. “Just really unlikely to go beyond what will undoubtedly be a fantastic summer.”
    “I’ve never met a girl like you.”
    “You never will again,” Anna promised. “Let ’s go!”
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    MARTY AND JENNY
     
     
    Don’t let them come into schools, man. They talk to the kids about overpopulation and limited resources. They show footage of the worst fucking nursing homes from the twenties. They take them to the fucking Centers and show off the fancy buildings and pretty gardens. What do these kids know? Then they come back senior year of high school and help these kids register to vote with a fucking box they can check to adopt a fucking Peace Out Directive. Then the government holds onto that, man. How many of those kids forget they signed that? Right? That’s how they get you. Like when people check the organ donor box and the doctors screw saving you and see the dollar signs attached to your fucking heart and lungs and kidneys. You got a Peace Out Directive? Then it’s the gas chamber for you, man. Fucking Nazis.
    Reader Video Response RE NY Times Article, “The Value of Peace Out Education,” 9/12/2040 Peter Campbell, age 40, Wichita, KS.
     
     
    Marty didn’t bother making himself dinner. He just waited, stomach rumbling, until the doorbell rang.
    “Hi Jenny,” he said, opening the door.
    “Hi Mr. Lawson,” she said, holding a plate of salmon, wild rice, and green beans. The green beans even had those little slivered almonds in them. “Why didn’t you come over?” she asked. “We waited for you.”
    “I just didn ’t feel up to it,” he said.
    “I ’ve seen you,” she said. “You still drive. You go grocery shopping once a week. You take out your own trash. You could have walked next door to our house.”
    “I didn ’t feel up to it,” he repeated. “How many hours do you have left?”
    “Seventeen,” she said. “I counted the time I spent baking for you.”
    “OK,” he said. “So I figure I’ve got about two more weeks of meals before you disappear. Let’s keep this a business transaction. You don’t have to invite me over anymore.”
    “I ’m just trying to help,” she said. “I checked your Index. I thought you might be lonely.”
    “You Indexed me?”
    “My mom made me do it before she let me come over.”
    “Why the sudden interest Jenny? I ’ve lived next door to you since you were five.”
    “I need volunteer hours.”
    “Bullshit. Tell me the truth. What? You think if you’re nice to me I’ll leave my money to you? Poor lonely guy with no family makes an easy target? Made a bet with friends that you can get me to Peace Out? If so, you’re wasting your time.” Marty glared at her.
    Jenny ’s face was pale. “My grandpa died last week,” she said. “Index it.” Jenny shoved the plate at Marty and walked away, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat.
    Marty shut the door. Damn, he thought. Damn. Damn.