“I have no idea.”
We both think it over, but no clear answer comes to mind.
“There has to be a better way,” I say, unwrapping my sandwich. “After what Garrett did at the game, I don’t want to fake nice with these boys anymore. I just want answers. Can’t we just break into Jonah Grant’s house or something?”
“Yes,” she says like it’s the obvious answer. “We can. And I think we—”
“Hey,” Lyle says, startling us.
Sydney clicks her mouth shut, and we both smile and turn to find Lyle standing at the end of our table, holding a lunch tray.
“Yes?” Sydney asks in controlled politeness.
“Hi, uh … Do you mind if I sit with you again?” he asks.
We kind of do, but he sounds hopeful and a bit embarrassed. I check with Sydney, and when she nods, I tell him he can join us.
Lyle sits down, apologetic and nervous, and opens his chocolate milk. We don’t say anything at first, waiting instead to see if he offers a topic. When he doesn’t, I lean my elbow on the table, watching him. He looks up with a hamburger at his lips.
“What?” he asks around his food.
“Can I ask you something?” I start.
“Sure,” he mumbles, and takes a bite.
“You said your mother marched to protest the laws a few years ago,” I say. He flinches, and I wonder if he’s gotten harassment from Garrett and his friends over his admission in class the other day.
“That’s right,” Lyle says with little enthusiasm.
“Did she have … Does she have any books about it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Lyle responds.
“It’s just … I was going to do a paper for Mr. Marsh,” I lie, “and I wanted to write about the Essential Women’s Act. But I couldn’t find much literature on it.”
Lyle hums out a sound, taking another bite of food. “Out of print,” he says. “The catalogs were scrubbed not too long ago.”
“Scrubbed?” Sydney asks.
“Yeah. Books pulled from the shelves. Big bucks paid to a PR firm to remove content from the internet.” He shrugs. “People think they have freedom now,” he says. “And as long as they think it, they don’t notice the little pieces being chipped away.”
“And how do you know this?” I ask.
“I’m going to be a political science major next year,” Lyle says. “If I survive high school.” He says the last part lightly, but I’msuddenly very worried. Why would books about history be pulled or altered? What purpose does it serve?
“In fact,” Lyle says, picking up a wilted French fry to examine it before tossing it back down, “there’s going to be a new book published soon—I’ve seen it advertised. It’s basically asking for the Essential Women’s Act to be reinstated, claiming that without it, our species will die.”
“Why would you die out?” Sydney asks. I quickly look at her and she gulps. She meant “we.” Why wouldwedie out?
“Not enough babies,” Lyle says. “Although a few years back, they were all complaining about overpopulation. Now all of a sudden, we’re dying out? Whatever works to feed into their sexism and racism, I guess. Anyway …” He exhales heavily and takes a sip from his chocolate milk. “To get back to your original question: No. My mother doesn’t have any books. I doubt many people do. They didn’t want to be reminded of how horrible things were. And now they’re losing the proof that it even happened.”
Sydney and I sit quietly for the next few moments, considering Lyle’s words. And it finally clicks, finally starts to make sense.
Innovations Academy was never meant to just be for the rich. It started with the rich. Once they got enough investors, enough supporters, they would have used us to get new laws passed.
They would have shown what a beautiful, obedient girl looked like, never mentioning that we weren’t girls at all. Maybe this was always political. Or maybe those ambitions grew from their success. But it’s clear that the girls and I were pawns in a much bigger experiment.
“Oh, shit,” Lyle says under his breath, drawing my attention.
