Robert Sawyer - Wonder

Next month. If there is a next month—if it is anything at all like this month. He headed downstairs and just as he reached the living room, his cell phone rang; it had been plugged into its charger there. He picked it up and snapped it open. “Hello?”

“Colonel Hume, sorry to be calling this early. It’s Dan Ortega at the Washington FBI.”

“Good morning,” Hume said. “What’s up?”

“We’ve had your friends at the NSA working on Chase’s hard drives. They finally cracked one of them overnight; the report was waiting for me when I got in this morning.”

“And?”

“And this drive has the recordings from one of his security cameras in the living room. Clearly shows the guy who broke down the door to get in.”

“Does it show what happened to Chase?”

“No. All of that was out of view, and there’s no sound.”

“Can you get a make on the guy who broke in?”

“We’re running the face now, but you’ll like this, Colonel: male Caucasian, thirty or thirty-five, muscular, over six feet—and with a shaved head.”

Hume felt his heart pounding. “Same guy who grabbed Simonne Coogan.”

“Looks that way,” said Ortega. “With luck, we’ll have an ID shortly.”

Caitlin had a lot of skills left over from being blind. Although her hearing was probably no more acute than anyone else’s, she was very attentive to sound. She could tell who was coming up the stairs by the footfalls, and even tell if the person was carrying anything large. And right now, it was Mom—and she wasn’t.

“Caitlin?” her mom said from the bedroom’s open doorway.

The mighty Calculass was updating her LiveJournal. “Just a sec…” She finished the entry, in which she desperately urged people to let Webmind live, then used the keyboard command to post it—she still didn’t think of clicking buttons with her mouse until it was too late. “Okay. What?”

“We need to talk.”

Those words always meant trouble. Caitlin swiveled her chair, and her mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She had a small opaque bag with her. It said “Zehrs” on the side—a local grocery-store chain.

“I saw a pretty bird in the tree,” her mom said. “A blue jay.” But then she trailed off.

“Yes?”

“And, well, your BlackBerry was right there, so I used it to take a picture of it, and…”

Caitlin was surprised by how quickly she’d adopted the habit of averting her eyes; maybe it was instinctive. “Oh.”

“I’m not going to lecture you on whether it’s bright for you to be sending topless pictures to Matt, but your father says—”

“Dad knows?”

“Yes, he does. Of course, he hasn’t seen the picture, but he knows. Which I guess is the point, sweetheart: anything you say or do online takes on a life of its own; if you’re mortified that your father knows you’re flashing your breasts at boys, then maybe you should stop and think about who else you wouldn’t want to know that.” Caitlin squirmed a bit on her chair, and her mom shifted on the bed.

“Anyway,” her mother went on, “I take it this means things are getting… serious between you and Matt.”

Caitlin crossed her arms in front of her chest. “We haven’t gone all the way yet, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, that’s probably good; you haven’t been seeing him very long. But I heard that ‘yet,’ young lady.”

“Well, I mean, um…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sixteen, for Pete’s sake!” Caitlin knew she sounded exasperated.

“Yes, you are,” her mom replied. She smiled. “I remember exactly where I was when you were born.”

“Yes, but… but…”

“What?” asked her mom.

“Well, American girls lose their virginity on average at the age of 16.4 years. And I’ll be 16.4 around March 1.”

Her mother’s eyebrows went up. “You’re doing a countdown?”

“Well… yeah.”

Mom shook her head. “My Caitlin. Never wanting to be below average in anything, right?”

“That I got from you and Dad.”

“Only fair. I’m getting all my gray hairs from you.” She smiled when she said that, but it quickly turned into a frown. “But what does it mean to say ‘the average age for American girls to lose their virginity is 16.4 years’? Over what time period was the average taken? It certainly can’t be the average age for girls born the month you were born or later—since no one born then has reached 16.4 years yet. That stat could be based on data from the 1980s, the 1970s, or even before. Without knowing whether it’s trending earlier or later recently, it’s really a pretty meaningless figure, Caitlin. You should know that.”

Caitlin didn’t like to be told she was wrong on a mathematical point, but she had to concede her mother was correct. Still, maybe more data would help. Looking sideways at her mom, she asked, “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Well, first, you have to recognize that that was a different time. Nobody worried about AIDS when I was your age, or most of the other STDs that are out there. But since you ask, I was seventeen.” And then she smiled. “Seventeen-point-two, to be precise.”

“But… but… other girls my age at school are… um…”

“Doing it?” her mom said. “Maybe some are—but don’t believe everything people say. Besides, I’m sure Bashira isn’t.”

“No, not her. But Sunshine…”

“That’s the girl who walked you home from the dance, right?”

“Right. The chick from Boston.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, she’s tall—all legs, boobs, and blonde hair.”

“I’ve heard Bashira say she’s pretty.”

“Everybody says she’s gorgeous.”

“And she was in some of your classes?”

“Yeah. She’s not the smartest girl, but she’s got a good heart.”

“I’m sure. Does she have a boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. A guy named Tyler.”

“Do you know if they’ve been seeing each other a long time?”

“I’m not sure. He’s older—nineteen, I think. He’s a security guard.”

Her mom ticked points off on her fingers—the first time Caitlin had ever seen anyone do that; she thought it was cool, despite what her mom was saying: “Not the brightest girl. Getting by on her looks. Dating a much-older guy. Is that right?”

Caitlin nodded slightly. “That’s Sunshine.”

“Okay, question for you,” her mom said. “Which side of the median do you think she was on? And is that the side you want to be on?”

Caitlin frowned and considered this. Then: “But Matt—he’s going… um, he’s going to want to…”

“Has he said that?”

“Well, no. He’s Matt. He’s not very assertive. But boys like to have sex.”

“Yes, they do. So do girls, for that matter. But your first time should be special. And it should be with someone you care about and who cares about you. Do you care about Matt?”

“Of course!”

“Really? This is a tough question, Caitlin, so think about it: do you like Matt in particular, or do you just like having a boyfriend in general?’Cause I gotta tell you, sweetheart, when I married Frank, it was because I liked the idea of marriage, and since he asked, I said yes. But that was a mistake.”

“Was… um, was Frank your first… you know?”

Her mother hesitated for a moment, then: “No.” She blew out air, as if trying to decide whether to go on, and then, after a moment, she did. “No, it was a guy who lived on my street. Curtis.”

“And?” asked Caitlin—meaning, “And was it wonderful?”

But her mother’s response took her back. “And why do you think I’m so in favor of abortion rights?”