Transparency's Opacity

I recite the speech again. My lips shape the words, but I only say them in my head, rushing through them until they all overlap and curl around one another in a jumbled contortionist act. Class will begin soon, and I’m first up on the list to present my economics project. Damn that class lottery that predetermined our order.

Honey, breathe. You’re going to do great.

The voice comes from the frontal lobe of my brain, soft and soothing, though slightly distorted by the background buzz that accompanies my mother’s presence.

I take a deep breath, though the tightness in my chest seems to bar the way for that magnitude of fresh air.

Thanks, Mom. I just hate public speaking.

I know, Bea. But in a few minutes, it will be over with, and you can put it behind you.

She always knows the right thing to say. I would have loved to inherit that skill from her, but alas the correct words, the eloquent words that make her sound so sophisticated and all-knowing, always seem to evade me at the worst of times.

The bell rings and the other students begrudgingly meander their way into Mr. Beetle’s classroom. He’s a strict teacher, but perhaps the real reason he makes us all so uncomfortable is how eccentric he is.

I walk through the threshold, and he shoots me an overly enthusiastic smile as I pass. On his desk, as usual, are an assortment of bizarre objects he seems to feel the need to display: an antique smartphone that hasn’t worked for fifty years, small, round pods attached to wires that he claims used to be used to play music into your ears, along with an assortment of vintage propaganda such as a framed sign reading “Stay Out of Our Heads! Long Live Privacy!” presented in pop-art style.

I’m surprised the school even allows such an overtly controversial opinion to be displayed to teenagers, but they seem to not be able to fire the man. Rumors swirl that he’s the school district president’s wacky brother-in-law, so he’s only here by nepotism. Others claim it’s not legal to terminate his employment over his beliefs. Whatever the case may be, he has been teaching here for over thirty years, and based on the stories, he’s always been crazy.

Everyone sits down in their usual seats, leaving my usual spot for me in the front row. Mr. Beetle starts the class by announcing my presentation.

“To start us off today, Bea will be taking us through her presentation on Bear versus Bull Markets and when to invest. And remember everyone, no cheating. Your speeches need to be presented through recollection, not by looking back at your memories and reading straight from the paper. I will know if that’s what you’re doing. This is as much an exercise in recall and public speaking ability as it is in economics. God forbid kids these days actually learn to use their active recall,” he mutters with an eyeroll and a bitter, sarcastic twinge to his voice.

He motions for me to come to the front of the classroom. I walk up, my legs feeling a bit weak, and turn to face the class. I open my mouth to begin my introduction when a bright red notification pops up in my head.

Warning: Password will expire in 24 hours. Please reset your password.

Ugh, seriously? Not right now. I dismiss the notification and try to refocus, though the distraction has flustered me. I realize I have been standing there frozen with my mouth gaping for a moment too long. It takes me a second to remember the words I had been about to say. I’m tempted to look back in my memories. Luckily, the words come back to me, and I begin my speech without another hitch.

Despite a few moments of rambling and a couple of awkward pauses, my speech goes relatively well. I sit back down feeling relieved that all eyes are off me. The next couple of presenters go up, and the class lulls on at a turtle’s pace.

At some point, someone makes a comment that evidently sends Mr. Beetle into one of his rants. He goes on and on about how wrong it is that parents these days are able to implant chips into our brains at the ripe young age of five, and see everything we see, every memory we are making or have ever had.

I want to speak up and say, to be fair, once we are fourteen, we have the option to choose which parts of our brain, which memories, which thoughts, are locked away and out of reach from our parents or anyone else, and which ones are not, but I don’t bother. There’s no point in giving Mr. Beetle any ammunition or encouragement.

The background buzzing in my head gets slightly louder. More people must have just logged in. Perhaps other family members wanting to know what I’m up to, or friends wanting to see how my speech went. My grandmother specifically is notorious for logging into my Mind Frame several times a day to bask warmly in old memories of mine, or use them as ammunition against my mother and her parenting. Retirement bores her.

I tune out Mr. Beetle, who is still aimlessly rambling on, and check who is online: my friend Gabby re-watching my memory of her crush asking me about her yesterday, my grandma watching an old memory of me in a pumpkin costume on Halloween a decade ago, and my mother again, watching the speech I just gave.

Someone is always logged in, and the buzzing is a comforting white noise that I can’t remember not having there, letting me know I’m never alone.

I drum through my list of friends and family members’ Mind Frames, deciding if I want to log into any. I log into Gabby’s Mind Frame using the password she has set - “GabbyGirl228” - just to see which class she’s in and if she is possibly as bored as I am.

I continuously tell her she needs a more difficult password, so not just anyone can go poking around in her brain, but she doesn’t seem to care. The girl is the definition of an open book. If you don’t go in her head yourself to find something, you can bet she’s going to tell you all about it anyway.

That reminds me, I need to reset my password.

Just then, Gabby’s voice pops up.

Hey, girl! Saw you log in. What’s up?

Just listening to Mr. Beetle drone on about how transparency does not equal truth or some shit.

God, he’s dull. I’m painting my nails in Mrs. Avis’s art class. That’s considered art, right?

An image flashes in my head of a pair of hands painting red nail polish onto fingernails from Gabby's perspective. I roll my eyes and smile, then realize Mr. Beetle can still see me and quickly contort my face back into one of slack boredom.

Saw you watching my conversation with Dean again. How many times are you going to re-watch that, Gabby?

Probably as many as times as I can until he actually asks me out. You fell asleep early last night right when I was in the middle of it again. Talk about being rude.

Okay, you have woken me in the middle of the night with your antics too many times for me to unblock you from my Mind Frame while I’m sleeping. No way.

Teach just called on me. Gotta go.

Just like that she’s gone, and the buzzing softens ever so slightly.

*

My walk home is brisk. Mid-November has brought with it a sharp windchill. The looming charcoal skyscrapers block out the sun so its heat doesn’t reach me. Digital billboards flash all around me with slews of different advertisements. Twenty-feet tall women in lingerie wink at me from the building on my left, and to my right is a commercial boasting new upgrades for the Mind Frames, with the company’s famous catchphrase “Transparency is Truth” superimposed in large lettering.

After about a half-mile walk, I arrive at my apartment building. I take the creaky elevator to the fifth floor where my mother will probably be preparing dinner. Before I reach the white door marked 532, the door to room 534 slams open with a crash. My neighbor, Alan, a young boy around my age with dusty brown hair and a permanent scowl, rushes past me, nearly walking straight into me in his haste. A small woman, with too many wrinkles for her age, jumps out of the door after him but stops just outside the frame.

“Alan, get your ass back here! If you don’t give me your new password, I’ll just call the company and get it my damn self! I have a mother’s right to know what’s going on in that stupid head of yours, you hear me?”

I’m pretty sure the whole floor can hear her, the way she’s bellowing. She turns her glare to me like she’s noticing me standing there for the first time, and without a word she turns on her heel and slams the door behind her.

I sigh and unlock my own door. I’m not surprised by the encounter I’ve just witnessed. We hear screaming coming from their apartment all the time. Apparently, the kid doesn’t let anyone into his Mind Frame, not even his own mother. I can’t imagine how lonely that must be. I’m sure the silence alone would be enough to drive anyone mad. And his poor mother, never knowing where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s in danger. Never knowing if he’s having dangerous thoughts or desires. She must feel so out of control, so unable to protect him. I feel bad for her.

Inside, my mother is, as I thought, preparing dinner. Aromas of chicken, roasted carrots, and something lemony reach my nose. I walk into the white-tiled kitchen and greet her with a kiss on the cheek. She turns and smiles with surprise. She must not have heard me come in.

“Honey! Didn’t hear you come in. I was listening to one of my playlists on Mind Music. I’m so glad you’re home. I watched your speech today. You did wonderful! See, there was never anything to worry about.”

“Thanks, mom. I stumbled through it a bit but you were right, I feel better now that it’s over with. And I’m so glad it’s finally Friday.”

She turns back to the food cooking on the stove and I plop down into a bar stool on the opposite side of the granite island.

“That’s right, you and Gabby are planning on going to the mall tomorrow. She’s hoping she’ll run into that boy there, huh? What’s his name again?”

I hadn’t told her any of that. Gabby and I had just discussed it that morning. I don’t mind her checking in. I don’t have anything to hide from her. It can sometimes be a conversation killer, though, when there are no new things to tell a person that they haven’t already seen or heard from your own brain.

“Yeah, his name is Dean. She’s completely obsessed with him, but I’m pretty sure it’s just because he’s very exclusive about who he gives the password to his Mind Frame to. Makes him mysterious because she can’t see what’s going on in his head, you know?”

“Oh, yeah. I know all about the allure of the mystery guy. Your dad was one of those guys.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. He only has like three people on his Mind Frame list last time I checked.”

“I know, he’s such a traditionalist.”

I can tell she’s rolling her eyes from the way she says it.

“Mystery isn’t all its cracked up to be. It turns from attractive to annoying very quickly, trust me.”

My mind flashes to the heated arguments between my parents when I was young about my father hiding things, not giving my mother complete access to his Mind Frame. I get lost in the memories for a moment.

“Oh, honey, don’t think about that. Every couple has arguments, that was a long time ago,” she croons as she steps away from the stove to wrap her arms gently around me.

I hadn’t even realized she had logged back into my Mind Frame.

“Mom, when we’re talking in person I’d prefer to just talk in person. Is that okay?”

She pulls back to look at me, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Sure, sweetie. Sometimes I just can’t tell what you’re thinking in that beautiful head of yours.”

*

I lay in bed looking back on the day and checking in on my friends’ Mind Frames. The buzzing in my head is always at its loudest this time of night, when people are getting ready for bed, relaxing, checking up on one another. It’s much more in the forefront now, like the buzz of a swarm of bees rather than an electric fence.

My dad came home earlier in the night, ate dinner, said a few words to my mother and I, and went to bed. He has always been a subdued man. When my parents used to fight is the most impassioned I’ve ever seen him. But, one day, they stopped fighting altogether and he became this half-zombie sort of thing. Always agreeable, always tired, always there but not really there. To this day I don’t know what happened. I’m not allowed on his Mind Frame. I feel like I barely know him at all.

My eyelids feel heavy, and I can feel my mind slipping into sleep.

Warning: Password will expire in 12 hours. Please reset your password.

I know I should just reset it now, but my sleepiness depletes my care or willingness to come up with a new password right now. I resolve to do it first thing in the morning. It’s the last thing I think about before I drift off into sleep.

*

Morning comes far too quickly for my teenage body. I take my time easing awake and out of bed. It’s already nine o’clock in the morning and even though I feel like I barely slept a few hours, it’s been nearly twelve. I’m supposed to meet Gabby at the mall in an hour. I groan as I pull on a pair of black jeans and a floral top.

Already eight people are logged into my Mind Frame this morning. Weekends are always louder.

I pull my long hair into a ponytail and hug my mom before heading out.

The elevator dings several times until it reaches the ground floor. I step outside and breathe in the fresh air. The sun is out today, and the sky is clear.

I begin strolling in the direction of the mall when something stops me in my tracks.

Silence.

My head is completely silent.

There is no buzzing.

No one rummaging through my thoughts.

No one looking at my memories.

No one talking to me.

And it is not deafening.

And it is not lonely.

I can hear everything as if I’m hearing it for the first time.

I can hear my heart thumping in my chest, hard and fast, pumping blood through my veins.

I can hear each breath I take.

I can hear the world around me on a level I didn’t know was possible.

I can hear my own thoughts like I never have before.

Crystal clear. I can hear.

Rather than feeling empty or alone, my mind feels utterly and impossibly free.

A bowling ball of weight has been removed from the recesses of my brain. A cloud of smoke has been lifted. And in response every one of my senses is on fire. The blue sky is bluer, I can feel the air push against the walls of my lungs, I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.

I have never felt this weightless, this light. A balloon floating through space, untethered, unbothered, unencumbered.

And it is not scary.

And it is not lonely.

It is only freedom.

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