Free Noology by Alanna Markey Page A

prize.
    “Fine, you win this time, but it’s only
because you are studying so much for your SMART’s. Normally, I could take you
any day,” I reply with self-assured confidence.
    “Avey! Tate! Are you ready for dinner?”
my mother beckons from below. Caught up in the dispute over our sleeping
arrangements, I totally forgot where we currently are. My family has been
waiting on us for almost a half-hour.
    “We will be down in a second,” I shout
back. “Quick, Tate. I will change in the bathroom and you can stay in here. I
will meet you downstairs in a few.”
    I don’t bother waiting for a response,
and scurry down the hallway to the gaping bathroom door. With soldier-like
efficiency, I strip down to my underwear and pull on my nicest crimson
crew-neck sweater and dun corduroy slacks. Prying the door open again, I
shuffle downstairs to rejoin the rest of the household.
     
    “Oh, you look wonderful dear,” my mother
fusses. “That sweater really complements your beautiful blue eyes.”
    I evaluate her full face, wrinkling with
years of beaming and undisguised worry. It’s a bizarre phenomenon: to be able
to gauge what you will look like in the distant future from the face of
another. Since the standardization of human physical forms, it has become
possible to interact with a carbon copy of yourself, save the distinct eyes, on
a daily basis. At first, the concept is highly unsettling and hair-raising, but
there is something comforting in knowing that people judge you by the fluidity
of your thoughts rather than the alignment of your corporeal features. In this
physically homogenous nation, the eyes truly become the windows to one’s soul,
since the irises and the mind are the sole distinctions in a person’s
construction.
    “Thanks mom,” I reply with sincerity. I
spend so much time with Tate that I rarely receive any complements on my style
choices. It’s not like we have much freedom in that respect anyways; years of
exposure to pests and the elements have ravaged most of the clothing that
remained after the collapse, and what is left is a sparse collection of
mismatched socks and frayed denim jeans.
    “Let’s go see your father.” She steers me
down the corridor to the kitchen where everyone has congregated around the cold
granite countertop.
    “Dad!” I exclaim, sprinting across the
tile and throwing myself into his waiting arms.
    “How’s my baby girl?” he softly murmurs
into my untamed mane, clutching me close to his chest. “I got off work early at
the hospital to come meet my girls for dinner.”
    “I’ve missed you so much!” I admit,
fighting to suppress a fountain of joyful tears. We finally separate, and he
casts a critical eye over my frame. “You look gorgeous as ever, my turtledove.
Just like your mother.”
    Everyone chuckles at this last remark,
rendered comical by its obvious nature. Just then, Tate surreptitiously slides
into the room, one hand buried in his hair to mask his insecurity. I size up
his wardrobe: sleek beige cargos, a heather gray sweater, and a navy blazer
with scrappily mended patches (he must have sewn them by hand). Catching his
eye, I smile deviously and he scowls in unspoken warning.
    “Hey Tate!” I practically shout, ignoring
the quick frown of hatred that flashes across his face. It’s for his own good.
    “Tate, my boy,” father booms, clapping
him on the shoulder with a firm grip. “How are you? How’s school?”
    “I’m good. School is fine. Just studying
for my SMART’s,” Tate nervously mutters.
    “You know what we used to call the
SMART’s? Some Monkey’s Absolutely Ridiculous Time-waster.” My father roars with
laughter, and Tate visibly relaxes, even managing a small grin.
    It’s a matter of minutes before the two
are thick as thieves once again, and Rian joins in their conversation. Tate
simply needed to confirm that my family still considered him a second son
before he loosened into his typical happy-go-lucky self.
    The three men