The Seeding

By: David Fleissig
September 11, 2008

Dr. Johnson scratched his grey beard, as he considered his next words.

“I’m afraid that your son, apparently, is uninfected. Now, why this is, we just don’t know. It’s exceedingly rare, and for those born after the Seeding, almost unheard of.”

“But why him?”

“We don’t know.”

“Isn’t there some way . . . perhaps one could be implanted?”

Dr. Johnson laughed. “Implant a sentient appendage? An interesting idea. But, unfortunately, impossible. Where would we get an extra one? Anyway - oh, excuse me.” The doctor reached for a Styrofoam cup he kept on his desk, unfastened his cradle shirt, and placed the cup in front of his chest. His SA emitted what sounded like a deep burp, and dribbled a stream of steaming green phlegm into the cup. Mrs. Figley recognized the sour smell, and unconsciously smiled.

When it was done, the doctor took a napkin from the holder on his desk and wiped his SA’s mouth clean. After refastening the cradle shirt, he emptied the cup into a larger container by his desk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You were saying?”

Jeffrey Figley’s mother knocked loudly on the door before Jeffrey woke up.

“Okay, okay,” he finally said, “all right already. I’m up. I’m up.”

“Don’t go back to sleep,” she warned from behind the door. “The bus’ll be here in half an hour.”

Jeffrey pulled himself out of bed, turned on the light, and stared at himself in the mirror. He slowly pulled off his t-shirt and examined his chest. Nothing. Not even a bud.

After Jeffrey took a shower and dressed for school - no cradle shirts for him, although he had a bunch of them folded neatly in his closet, waiting - he found his mother in the kitchen feeding. Jeffrey felt a stab of jealousy come and go quickly. Mrs. Figley looked up at Jeffrey with a smile, and put the purple feed bag down, wiping her SA’s mouth with a napkin, and dexterously avoiding the snapping teeth.

“Jeffrey, what’s the matter? Something wrong?” she asked, fastening the Velcro over her cradle shirt, the tips of her fingers covered with the thimble-like metal protectors.

Jeffrey shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said.

“Well, you better go catch your bus.”

Jeffrey dutifully picked up his bag, and went out the door. At the bus stop, the usual cast of characters was milling around, hoping against hope that the bus wouldn’t come. There was Kevin Green, a tenth grader, who had lately taken to bullying Jeffrey whenever the mood struck him, which was fairly often; there was Todd McKelvin, Jeffrey’s best friend, whom he had known since moving to town but who lately had been avoiding him for reasons Jeffrey understood, but still felt bad about; and then, of course, Susan Bernstein, the love of Jeffrey’s fourteen year old life.

All of them were wearing their cradle shirts.

“Hey, look who’s here, the freak,” Green said. “Hey freak boy, what’s up? Nice shirt.”

Jeffrey ignored him, hoping that Green’s taunts would stop.

“Freak boy,” Green repeated, and then turned away, apparently bored.

As Jeffrey got closer to the group, he noticed with alarm that Susan’s neck was bleeding; two tiny gashes by her right ear were dripping blood. Susan was nonchalantly wiping the blood away with a pink scarf.

Although Jeffrey had never told her, Susan had a pretty good idea that he had a crush on her. It seemed that whenever Susan turned to look at him - on the bus, in home-room, in English honors class - he’d already be looking at her. The embarrassed way Jeffrey would turn away, after being “caught” like this, was a sure sign that he liked her, she knew.

Susan found the whole thing amusing, really. She liked Jeffrey, that was true - she had known him since they were in the first grade, and their parents were friends - but he was her age.

“What happened to your neck?” Jeffrey asked her.

“It bit me,” she said with laugh. “My mother says its teething, or something.”