Issue 8 Full Story | "BOOKENDS" by Maya Dworsky-Rocha
AS SEEN IN PLANET SCUMM ISSUE #8: SIDEWAYS INFINITY
Written by MAYA DWORSKY-ROCHA
Illustrations by Jordan Alarcon and Sam Rheaume
BOOKENDS
Maya Dworsky-Rocha
all hands on deck! we just received word that the latest escapee from the Planet Scumm story vault is Issue 8’s cover story, “BOOKENDS.” It’s harboring classified, historical space documents and teenage angst. You can follow its prestigious author, Maya Dworsky-Rocha, on Twitter @MayaDRocha.
Jenny’s heart was beating so fast she could feel it in her teeth like a fun, crunchy buzz. Her nose felt like it could fly. That was a weird feeling to have in her nose, aerodynamic nostrils tensing as she plunged back into the water. Bubbles streamed past her eyebrows, and her hands hit the rough concrete of the poolside just as the whistle—
Jenny Winslow won the 100-meter in Beederman County’s Annual Junior Aquatic Meet. Her time was one minute and twelve seconds. That wasn’t her best time, though—her best was a minute flat, but it had only happened once (and, maybe, the timer hadn’t been pressed at just the right moment).
Jenny was happy with her time. Her hair felt tight and her chest hurt and her teeth were still buzzing, but she was happy. The last kid who’d won this was almost thirteen, and Jenny was only eleven since April, so there.
The crowd cheered, and Mom and Coach bundled Jenny into a towel and brought her to the car. They got her cheap, chemical-tasting vanilla ice cream on the way home. It was her favorite and she could feel the fakeness travel down into her body and up her face, settling heavy and smooth in her eyebrows. Jenny was happy and tired and full of yummy chemicals. Jenny was falling asleep. Jenny was—
#
The suit powers down and I steel myself for the pain of disconnect.
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, reidentify.
I force my lips apart. They sting, but I manage. “Zophiella Raqib.” I lick my lips and the skin is sharp and crumbly and bitter. I miss Jenny’s ice cream.
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, present three personal characteristics.
The suit sits me up, slowly making room between itself and my skin. I can move my fingers and toes. “I’m eleven and a half years old. My favorite color is blue, but not a dark blue. I like drawing.”
Your three are accepted. Have a good night’s rest, Zophi.
I step out of the suit, and my arms and legs are still buzzing from Jenny’s race. Not really, obviously, otherwise my biceps would be shiny and taut like hers instead of gray and skinny, with flappy skin. Momma keeps reminding me that what Jenny does only happens in my brain. That means it’s important to move even if I’m tired from her swim meet, and eat even if I can still taste her ice cream.
Samantha, Momma’s Book, has diabetes, and Momma says she feels guilty eating sweets even when she’s outtasuit. She says “Sam’s got diabetes, not Dina. I’m Dina, not Sam.” Dina’s my Momma’s name.
When I’m outtasuit I just feel tired. And floppy. I wish I was sleeping, like Jenny. The Scribes say that’s natural and it’ll get better when I grow up; Momma says you get used to it. It’s important to spend a few hours outtasuit every day because if you lose yourself, you’re a bad Archivist. Archivists who get lost get pulled from their Books and retired.
“Zophi my love, eat.” Momma pushes more pickles my way, and I munch obediently.
The canteen fluorescents make my eyeballs hurt. “Jenny won her swim meet.”
“That’s cool. Sam’s houseplants are dying and it’s weighing on her.” Momma rolls her eyes and reaches for more Jalebi. When she’s annoyed with Sam, Momma eats more sweets, and syrupy crunchiness is her favorite.
I don’t usually get annoyed with Jenny. I like Jenny, and when she gets annoyed with herself I usually just feel bad. Momma says that, as we get older, Jenny will get on my nerves, just I wait.
Sarathiel comes by to collect our plates, and Momma gives her a kiss upside the head. Sarathiel smiles at me and I smile back because Momma’s embarrassing even to kids who aren’t her kids.
“You okay, Sarathi?” Momma’s holding onto Sarathiel, but gently. “You dreaming?”
“Just started to.” Sarathiel is two years older than me but her voice is soft and shy. “It feels like being insuit when your Book’s sleepy or sick.” She leans into Momma and sighs, “It’s not that different than Kate was towards the end.”
Sarathiel’s Book died. It’s really bad when that happens. Now she’s stuck: too old to take on a new Book, but too young to take on one of the old ones whose Archivist has died. Archivists and Books are meant to be as close in age as possible, so when one of them dies it throws everybody off. It’s extra sad because Kate was a Last Child, just like Jenny.
“You’re lucky, Sarathi, remember that.” Momma’s squeezing Sarathiel to her and when Momma squeezes you, even your Book can feel it. “You get to live your own life.”
Sarathiel shrugs and gives the kind of smile that means she doesn’t want to argue. She kisses Momma on the cheek and bustles back towards the kitchen. Sarathi’s only hope of becoming an Archivist again is if one of us dies, or retires, and that almost never happens.
“I hope I get to dream one day,” I say, only partially because I know Momma will like it.
“Me too, honey.” Then Momma leans towards me and whispers, “Once, Sam fell asleep in her office before I could disconnect, and she had a dream about eating Jalebi! She’s never even had Jalebi!”
We laugh together and I keep pretending that I don’t feel bad for my Momma’s Book.
Issue 8, Sideways Infinity, features artwork from Jordan Alarcon and Sam Rheaume
#
Jenny wasn’t paying attention to Ms. Houston for several reasons. One reason was that Ms. Houston was talking about the Scrivener’s Arc again, and another reason was that Remmie Boyl had gotten a haircut.
Remmie’s hair was short now, and shaved all the way to the tops of her ears. There was something about Remmie’s ears that was making Jenny feel like she was being tickled on the inside. The back of Remmie’s neck looked soft and fuzzy and freckled and Jenny wanted to touch it.
Remmie turned around, and Jenny focused on her social studies textbook so hard her face got hot and her eyes started to water.
“Jenny Winslow.” Ms. Houston had impeccable timing. She always knew when it was the absolute worst time to call on Jenny. “Jenny, can you tell us why the Scrivener’s Arc is more important now than ever before?”
Jenny looked at Ms. Houston—and definitely not at Remmie Boyl burning in her peripheral vision—and said, “Because we’re Last Children.”
“Please elaborate.” Ms. Houston had to know, right? She had to know this was torture.
Jenny took a deep, shaky breath and balled her hands into fists. “The earth’s resources are depleted. The human race is dying here, so we need to leave. But the Scrivener’s Arc was made so that we would always remember what it was like to live here.”
Ms. Houston looked around the room. “Anything to add, people?”
Remmie’s hand shot up and Jenny wished she was dead. Or swimming.
“Because we’re the last generation on Earth, we each get assigned an Archivist and they kinda watch us and record everything that happens to us and everything we think and everything.” Remmie was talking to the whole class, but her eyes kept darting towards Jenny.
Jenny really wished she was swimming right now.
For the rest of the day, every time Jenny thought about Remmie her whole body would get overheated and she’d start fidgeting. So, she’d close her eyes for a bit and pretend she was swimming to calm down.
She only let herself think about Remmie on purpose when she went to bed. She imagined touching Remmie’s neck. She imagined Remmie had come to her last meet and watched her win, only Coach and Mom weren’t there. Remmie was the only one in the stands, except…
There was someone else, too. A weird looking girl with a shaved head and a jumpsuit full of holes. She looked like she was wearing a silver crown. She waved at Jenny, and smiled, and her smile was too big for the rest of her. She opened her mouth and—
#
I cry out in pain. I hadn’t prepared for disconnect, and it shoots through me like an electric shock.
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, reidentify.
Everything still hurts, and I’m crying a bit. “Z-Zophiella Raqib.”
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, present three personal characteristics.
“I—” I’m not allowed to use the same ones two disconnects in a row. “My favorite food is pickles and cheese-toast. M-my Momma’s name is Dina. I… I want to dream someday.”
I shouldn’t have said that last one.
Your three are accepted. Zophi, why did you fail to disconnect?
The suit sits me up, and once my hands are free I’m wiping tears and snot off my face. “It was an accident.”
Don’t worry, Zophi. Accidents happen. The pain will pass. The Scribe sounds kind, but I bet this is going on my permanent record.
When we meet at the Canteen, I tell Momma about Jenny’s crush on Remmie, and she makes cooing noises that are a little mean. Lately, I try to never tell Momma anything bad about Jenny.
Sarathiel comes by to take our plates and I stand up to help her, telling Momma I’ll be right back.
“When Kate was dying, did she ever dream about you?” I ask when we’re far enough away.
Sarathiel makes a face and I realize my question was insensitive. “I’m sorr—”
“How did you know?”
Sarathiel and I huddle near the kitchen window where the dirty dishes go, and I whisper over the sound of the dishwasher.
“Towards the end…” Sarathiel’s shy, soft voice is a little tight. “We could talk. I told her my name.”
I need to head back to Momma before she thinks I’m being weird. “Thank you, Sarathi.”
As I walk back towards our table, I look over at the long, squat viewing port that runs the length of the canteen. It’s only just earthrise, and the blue dollop on the horizon looks like a water droplet when it gathers on your skin.
#
Jenny and Remmie smiled at each other on the bus to school.
Jenny thought her body was going to peel away and a new, better, bigger body was going to climb out of it. A body that was big enough to contain Jenny and all her feelings. She felt so big.
Her new bigness was part of what gave her the confidence to raise her hand in Ms. Houston’s class and ask, “Um, Ms. Houston? Has anyone ever met their Archivist?”
Ms. Houston looked pleased, for once. “Jenny, that is a wonderful question! Does anyone know the answer?”
A bunch of hands flew up, which made Jenny feel a little stupid, but then—
Remmie Boyl didn’t wait to get called on by Ms. Houston. She turned around in her chair, and looked directly at Jenny. “Sometimes Archivists mess up. Like, they don’t get out of our heads in time before we fall asleep and then we can sometimes see them or feel them or whatever. It’s not supposed to happen.”
“That’s right, Remmie,” Ms. Houston said, “but please wait to be called on.”
Later, on the playground, Remmie came up to Jenny and offered her some of her gummies. “Did you see your Archivist, or what?”
Jenny took the gummies and held them in her hot, sweaty hand. “Um, yeah. Maybe. In a dream.” She was not going to tell Remmie what the dream was about.
“What did she look like?”
Jenny shrugged, trying to remember the girl from her dream. “She was like… bald. And like, super ashy. She looked sick.”
“Did you try to talk to her?
Jenny shook her head. She was so happy Remmie was talking to her, but at the same time really wished she’d go away. The gummies had completely melted in her hand and she was scared to open it now. “No, she looked like she was gonna say something, but then… I don’t remember. I think the dream ended, or changed, or whatever.”
That night, Jenny tried to fall asleep as fast as possible, hoping she’d dream about her Archivist again so she could talk to Remmie about it.
She dreamt she was waiting for Remmie on the playground, but it was the weird bald girl who showed up instead. She was shorter than Jenny and kind of soft all over, but skinny. She smiled her giant smile and said “Hi, I’m Zophi.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say. “Hi?” She felt weirdly guilty, and didn’t know why. It felt weird that Zophi knew about Remmie. Jenny didn’t like looking at Zophi.
“You don’t have to feel bad about anything, Jenny. I like being your Archivist. I love it when you swim.”
Jenny smiled shyly. “Me too.” She thought for a bit about what to say, and then asked, “What do you like to do?”
Zophi looked surprised, but pleased. “I like to draw. Mostly people, but also animals. I’m not that bad.”
“That’s cool. I can’t draw at all. Like, not even a circle,” Jenny giggled, and the sick-looking Archivist girl named Zophi laughed with her. The grommets, the metal-plated holes in her jumpsuit, clinked as she shook. Jenny could see that under them there were grommets in Zophi’s body, too. Points of connection. The crown was a circlet with narrow metal rods that were connected directly to Zophi’s skull.
Jenny wanted to look away, but she was afraid to hurt Zophi’s feelings.
“I wanted to ask you,” Zophi began and opened her mouth, but then her too-big eyes widened further and she screamed and screa—
#
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, reidentify.
I can’t breathe. My whole body’s cramping, convulsing, and there’s pressure building in my head because I can’t breathe.
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, REIDENTIFY.
Finally, I gasp, and cough out. “Z-zh-zz—”
Zophi, why did you fail to disconnect?
“Z-zzz-Zophhhhiella,” I manage, sobbing and shaking. “Raqib.”
Zophi, the Scribe’s voice sounds gentle again, why did you fail to disconnect? It hurts you to be disconnected by force.
“I’m s-s-sssorry.” The suit hasn’t fully released me yet, so I can’t reach up to wipe my face. “It was an acci—”
Don’t lie, Zophi.
“I wanted,” I sniffle. My mouth is full of salt. “I wanted to talk to Jenny.”
You know you’re not supposed to do that.
“I know.”
Have a good night’s rest, Zophi.
The suit finally releases me and I stumble out. I lay curled up on the floor until I feel strong enough to walk to the canteen and meet Momma.
She frowns when she sees me. “You okay, honey?”
“Tired from Jenny’s swim practice. How’s Sam?”
“A walking disaster, as usual,” Momma sighs, smiling. “But her peace lily looks like it might flower, so she’s happy about that.”
I smile and force myself to eat. “That’s nice.”
Momma watches me for a bit. “Yeah. It is nice.”
#
“That is sick.” Remmie took a sip of soda and passed it to Jenny. “Like, actual holes in her arms and head?”
Jenny nodded. “Like she was part of a machine.” She tried not to think about Remmie’s lips and her lips touching the same bottle.
“You should ask her way more questions next time.” Remmie’s shoulder rubbed against Jenny’s.
“I will.”
That night, when the girl showed up, looking gray and small and full of holes, Jenny asked, “Zophi, can you tell me more about yourself?”
Zophi’s face lit up, but she smiled uncertainly. “Sure, but there’s not much to tell. I, um, my full name is Zophiella Raqib and my favorite color’s light blue. Like… like earthrise.” Zophi blushed, and continued. “My Momma’s name is Dina. Um, I’m three months older than you.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“Tell me what it’s like being an Archivist, what’s it like living on the Scrivener's Arc?”
Zophi shrugged, still smiling, but then her face went blank, her eyes rolled up, and she—
#
Archivist Marigold-Jay-359, you have been retired.
I know there’s pain, but I can’t feel it.
Goodbye, Zophi.
I can’t feel anything. I’m sinking backwards into sleep. Real sleep, not rest. I’m floating in Jenny’s pool.
I’m dreaming.
I dream about Jenny.
I dream she remembers my name. My mother’s name. And that I like to draw.
I dream that she remembered me. She remembered I was her Archivist. She remembered… I was.
DR. MAYA DWORSKY-ROCHA is a cultural anthropologist, which means she thinks people are kinda neat. She writes about real things, less real things, and outright lies. Some of these can be found in Daily Science Fiction, Planet Scumm, and Luna Station Quarterly. She lives in Oregon with her wife, who is a lumberjack.
