CHAPTER ONE
Preston Oliver Nowak was not at all an orphan. This is worth mentioning, because very often in stories where the fate of the world will hang in the balance, the hero is a lonely orphan, although sometimes there are orphan twins, and in rare cases orphan triplets.
Preston, however, knew his parents very well. He saw them every morning at breakfast, and once a week they gave him his allowance. They were perfectly nice to him. In fact, they often told him how much they loved him. His mother was a real estate agent named Sue. His father, who was also named Preston, owned and ran Nowak Shoes.
But orphan or otherwise, it is typical for fate of the world heroes to live in, or to access through a portal, a magical land, where people have misplace their enchanted rings or powerful swords, and which are often populated with talking animals who offer advice, and sometimes pastries. However, along with not being an orphan, Preston did not live in, or near, anyplace magical. He lived in Pasadena, in a house on Fairoaks Avenue which was going to need work on the roof in a year or two, at least according to his mother.
The truth is, the only truly essential characteristic of a fate of the world hero is that he or she possess a certain, mysterious… something. If you are one of these heroes, something sets you apart from everyone else in your world, whether that world is mystical or Pasadena. Something, such as a childhood scar, or genius intelligence, or your genesis story where goblins placed magic beans in your cradle so you grew up thinking you were a watchmaker, or a Canadian.
And Preston Oliver Nowak did have something. He had a unique and terrible trait that set him apart from everyone in his world. Though he did not live in a magical castle or have a talking pet, he had a dreadful problem: Preston, alone among all his friends, did not have a cell phone. He was certain that the moment he got a cell phone, the terrible something that set him apart would vanish and he would be normal. Though that, unfortunately, would not turn out to be true.
Today was Preston’s twelfth birthday, however, and he was sure that the box hidden on the top shelf of the broom closet, wrapped in sparkling blue paper, contained a phone. His hints had been desperate enough, and they could not have been ignored. So the new problem — and there is almost always a new problem created by the solution to your old problem, a truth Preston was just now starting to learn — was that according to Nowak family tradition, presents were to be opened only at the end of the day, after all party guests had gone home. But if you could not welcome your guests at the door with your phone, laughing at a meme or gayly texting, you might as well still be a person who has no phone. You might as well still be afflicted by something.
“Mom—” Preston was suggesting in the kitchen to his mother while she mixed cookie batter with her usual focused thoroughness. She interrupted him.
“Preston, honey, we open presents at the end of the day,” she said. “It’s family tradition.”
He was only too familiar with this tradition, which had many excruciating preparatory steps that did not involve birthday presents, such as birthday breakfast, birthday video binge watching, opening birthday cards, where occasionally there was a check from your aunt which someone took to the bank. There were birthday cookies, currently being stirred into obedience by Preston’s mother, then a birthday party, and only at the end of everything, too late, were there birthday presents.
“Oh I know that tradition,” he said. “It was probably great in the old days, but it’s such an old tradition. And you know what they say about traditions, right?”
His mother tilted her head as she mixed. “No, what?”
“Traditions are made to be broken.”
“Oh, I see. No you’re thinking of rules. They do say that about rules. Criminals particularly.” She turned back to her bowl. “Can you get me the cookie sheet?”
He held the sheet out, not putting it on the counter, so she had to turn and face him. “I’m twelve now,” he insisted.
“Yes you are.”
“I’m mature. I should take on more responsibility. I should pull weeds without being asked.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“And I could learn how to do the dishwasher. To save you and dad your arthritis.”
“Neither of us have arthritis, dear, but that’s a marvelous plan.”
“That’s the thing about changes, they’re marvelous. And now I think we should change our tradition. Everything changes, mom, everything changes all the time so why not a tradition, because,” and here Preston felt his mouth take on a bit of a life of its own, and wondered for the first time in his life if he was rambling, which is the kind of thought that starts to come to people when they turn twelve and are in the middle of a life changing struggle with forces beyond their control, “I’m getting older and I hear you say changes are happening to me so fast, right before your eyes, and pretty soon I’m going to leave home. I’ll probably go to college or join the civil service or I’ll be responsible for a factory full of robots or whatever, you know, all those new responsibilities I’m going to have before I die, a person with responsibilities needs a cell phone… I’m… ”
His mother was smiling but frowning and shaking her head. She had cookie dough smeared on her forehead, and was blinking. Then hugged him quickly.
“Stop talking about how much older you are,” she said, in a high, tight voice. “And listen to me. I know what this is about. You want to fit in. But you do not need a cell phone, or anything else, to get people to like you.”
“Oh yeah I know that.”
“They’ll like you because you’re you.”
He nodded, vigorously, though he knew she was absolutely wrong. He felt a change coming. He heard his mother sigh, and hope rose in his chest. When it did he grimaced, which is something else that begins to happen to people at about the age of twelve. All through your life hope will have risen in your chest this way, but right around twelve, the process starts to hurt.
“OK, you win,” his mom said. “Let’s go find your father and tell him about all your new responsibilities.”
What followed were sixty very amazing minutes. Peak moments these are called, by life coaches and podcast hosts. This moment seemed like a wonderful dream to Preston, though of course it was not a dream, and if he had known what lay in store for him he would also not have called it wonderful. But since he did not live in a mystical world where people could tell the future, he had no idea of the pain, or the terrible decisions, or even the coma, which this phone would soon force on him. All he knew was that he had wanted a phone forever, and at long last was getting one.
His mother took him into the living room, where his father sat reading Architectural Digest. Certain people in the neighborhood might have been surprised to learn of his father’s fascination with architecture, considering the condition of the roof and the infrequent home repair at 4332 Fairoaks Ave. His father claimed their house, which had been owned by his own father, had what professional designers called authentic small town charm, and that one day the neighbors would thank him for pushing their home prices higher with all of its authenticity.
He looked up when Preston followed his mother in.
“Hey, birthday boy!” Then he looked closer and put down his magazine. “What’s up?”
As the new order to the universe was being explained to him, his father appeared disappointed, but when the proposal had been fully outlined, he shrugged.
“Well why not?” he said. “Traditions are made to be broken, right?”
The back of the highest shelf in the broom closet was the hiding place for all presents, all Valentine cards and surprise plane tickets and, once, an unlucky Easter gerbil. From that shelf his mother pulled a small present, carefully wrapped, and handed it to Preston. He did not remember the wrapping, or breaking the cellophane and opening the cardboard and lifting the phone like a baby from a polystyrene cradle. But he remembered holding the phone up and gazing in amazement, holding it in both his hands because phones are slippery and if you drop yours you are unlikely to get another until you are sixteen.
“You look like a regular grownup,” his father said, beaming.
“He looks twelve years old,” his mother protested. “Why is everyone… he’s not a grownup… he’s a baby… ” And then she turned and went back to the kitchen to remix the cookies.
Preston flipped the phone on. The chime gave him a thrill. Under his father’s watchful eye, moving as quickly as he could, filtering out his father’s stream of hints and mistaken suggestions, Preston began to set up the device. His dad peered through glasses at the instruction booklet and kept trying to show the illustrations to Preston. But Preston had long ago read those instructions online. Preparing for this day.
“We added you to the family account,” his dad said, “so let’s see… enter this code — ”
“I know dad.”
“Ok now tap the — ”
“I know.”
“The red exclamation mark gets you to the next screen — ”
“No it doesn’t — Dad, this might go faster if I did it myself. You can watch. Do you want to watch?”
His father raised his eyebrows like curious dolphins arching up above his glasses. His son knew that Preston Sr. was digitally handicapped, and there was nothing he could do to change. Preston Sr. had no idea how electronics worked, and everyone in the family just had to work around it. But the birthday party was in less than an hour and many settings still had to be chosen, passcodes set, profile pics uploaded, ringtones and backgrounds selected. A lot of pressure. Preston didn’t have time to help his father help him with technology.
“I’ll just leave you to it and go have a cookie,” his father said with a smile, expecting he would be called back to help soon enough. He imagined it was technology that was the problem, and not him. And as he left the room he said, “Let me know if you get to where they assign your phone number. I want to be the first to call you.”
Once the field was clear of adult help, Preston’s progress was headlong, which is often the case for twelve year olds with phones. He confirmed that his parents had already added him to the family account. Yes, Preston Oliver Nowak. The same name as his grandfather, a man who had died before Preston was born, and burdened Preston with a name. He flew through the setup process until, finally, he came to the screen with the phone numbers. He expected to choose from a list, but the progress icon stalled for what felt like hours, and he did not get a list. He was given one, single choice: 323-213-7079.
He tapped Activate.
Your new number is being processed and should be active within 30 minutes, he read on the screen.
***
The party started promisingly soon after. He greeted his guests as each arrived, opening the door while looking down at his phone, as if reviewing an important communication, before noticing his visitor. Each arriving guest leaned close to see what model he had, and what his lock screen looked like, and though he wanted to give out his new number, his activity meter was still stalled.
“The number’s processing,” he said, casually, “it’ll activate any second.”
But seconds passed and passed and no activation happened. Pizza came and went with soda and cake and he knew he was being what his mom would call a bad host though no one seemed to notice or care. All he wanted was for the icon to stop spinning and the rest of his life to begin. His guests were having a fantastic time without him, which almost made it worse. He tried to smile so his mom would stop glaring.
Then the group began their usual multi-console game extravaganza. This had never happened at Preston’s house before. And for a moment he had a purpose, since he was needed for the remote controls, and as host was empowered to pick the games. He almost managed to forget to wait for the most important chime of his life as they launched into a round of Final Fantasy, then some Zelda, some Call of Duty and someone else’s favorite Battle Royale. At one point, playing Gran Turismo, he really did forget what he was waiting for, because for one shinning moment it seemed as if he was going to beat Andy Margolis on the Grand Valley Speedway.
It was basically impossible to beat Andy Margolis playing Gran Turismo. All Andy did was play GT every chance he got. It was obvious that he played instead of doing homework. It was his only real skill, as far as Preston knew, other than wrestling and spitting in the school drinking fountains. Andy formed a kind of psychic connection with the controller in Gran Turismo. If you managed to finish a race within ten seconds of him you felt satisfied.
There were six guests at the party, and one after the other Andy dispatched them, while Preston held back to postpone the beatdown. Finally he had to put his phone on the coffee table — where he could keep an eye on the screen — and pick up a controller. Andy grinned. He took special pleasure in beating Preston, or so Preston felt.
The race started. The one good thing about racing Andy was that if you stuck behind his car you almost always ended up coming in second. Even the AI drivers could not keep up with him. Andy found the best lines through every corner, braking and shifting and throttling up and down like a machine. And this afternoon Preston found himself sticking behind Andy like glue.
The Grand Valley Speedway has 3 sections. Through Section 1 Preston was right on Andy’s tail and he could tell that Andy noticed. Usually by the beginning of Section 2 Andy was a minimum of 2 seconds ahead of any of his friends, but today Preston was right on his bumper. Andy slotted into Turn 7 and nailed the gas and took an unconventional line through the corner; he looped high and right to leave Preston behind an AI Lotus. But somehow Preston managed to pass the lotus on the left, and drop back in, right on Andy’s rear.
The room started to buzz. The guests gathered nearer. This was something new — was it luck? Had the game specs changed in some update they had not heard about? How was this possible? They began to urge Preston on, because everyone wondered what would happen if Andy, prone to wrestling and quick to anger, lost at GT to Preston. Andy’s face darkened. And suddenly it was war.
Andy started absolutely destroying the track, throwing his car around every turn, leaving the computer drivers far, far behind. He cut impossible arcs through every corner, and geared up and down so fast coming into hairpins it seemed the plastic on his controller might melt from friction. And every step of the way Preston matched him. He couldn't pass Andy. But Andy couldn’t lose him.
The two racers leaned forward on the couch, poised like martial artists, frenzied yet balanced. The looks on the spectators’ faces said everything. It was historical.
Then Andy made a mistake.
Flying into Turn 15 with Preston in his wash, Andy needed a late brake and a hard spin to set up for the next two turns, and Preston was following, waiting for Andy to break, as nano seconds flashed and the track blurred, until finally Preston could not wait any longer and slammed his own brakes, sliced a path through the corner and out the other side.
And realized that Andy’s car was behind him; Andy had waited too long to brake and botched the turn. Preston was ahead. Ahead!
It was the final leg of the race. There were only three more turns. Andy was following behind Preston now, driving like a desperate animal whose life depended on speed. Preston swayed, squared through another turn — he was still ahead. Two more turns and the race was over!
Time slowed. From the corner of his eye he saw the party guests open mouthed, riveted. And then from the table in front of him, there came a chime. His phone lit. A text message! Did it mean his number had activated?
In that high-speed, slow-motion second, he lost focus on the track and tagged the rail into the final straightaway. His car, going 220 miles per hour, pitched sideways. Somehow, through some magical flow state combination of braking and over steering and drifting he kept his machine from spinning into the other wall and exploding into a million pieces. But Andy flashed by him. And there was no way Preston could catch him.
He lost the race by 20 seconds.
“No texting while driving!” his guests were shouting, laughing so hard they collapsed. Defeat torn from the jaws of victory was how it would be described in a racing journal. A career shattering failure. Andy, victorious and exultant, laughed, but then started to play the whole thing off like he’d never felt the least bit threatened.
And all Preston could do was groan — until her remembered. A text? That must mean his number was active! He grabbed the phone and thumbed up the app.
The text was spam from an 800 number. Learn Computer Programing, TAP HERE! the message instructed. He was exultant. When you get your very first piece of cellular spam, it can be very exciting, though, like other signs of oncoming adulthood, the novelty wears off quickly.
“Guys,” he called over their laughter. “Hey GUYS! My number’s live. Text me!”
He passed out the number and they all went for their devices. They began firing off texts to Preston in a contest to be the first to reach him, because making everything a contest is a cruel team building exercise certain groups learn when they are twelve and continue for the rest of their lives. In this case Preston was overjoyed to be the prize everyone was competing for.
But one after another, his guests shook their heads.
“Says the number can’t be reached,” was the general report.
It made no sense. He knew how phones worked. He wasn’t on the wifi network. He checked the text; it had clearly come over the cell network to his phone number. It took no time at all for the guests to forget to compete for his attention, a contest they had not particularly cared about winning in the first place, as Preston obsessively relaunched the mobile provider app, which would only say that his number was Processing.
A haze settled over the proceedings then, and it lasted for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually the gusts all went home. And Preston was left with a certain something, still setting him apart from everyone else in his world, setting him apart from what people called regular life. Though, as Preston was soon to discover, people really have no idea what they are talking about, when it comes to regular life.
