The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,7

in front of me. BAH HUMBUG! it says. I barely have time to read it before Santa crashes through the banner in his sleigh and an elfin flash mob starts singing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.”

At that point I crack up, even though the shock has nearly made me wet my virtual pants.

This little prank has Dad’s handiwork all over it. If you look hard enough, you’ll find Vic Bauer’s practical jokes hidden all over the MEEP, though they always manage to hit you when you least expect it.

The frequency code summons me back home and my eyelids flutter open. My dad, freshly showered, is on the sofa grinning at me.

I throw a pillow at him and grin back. “Good one, Dad.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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YESTERDAY, MORE THAN FIFTY MILLION PLAYERS LOGGED ON TO MeaParadisus to shop the Black Friday sales. I think it’s safe to say that Diego Salvador is officially richer than the Walmart guy, King Midas, and the pope combined. Mom and Dad are on their second bottle of champagne, having spent most of the day cooking up a belated Thanksgiving dinner now that Dad has emerged from his cave.

Moose and Chang have joined us, making short work of the feast and providing comic relief between obscene mouthfuls of turkey and stuffing. They take turns describing their battles in the MEEP and the custom armies they’ve created—armored beavers, winged Vikings, amazon samurai—each more absurd than the last.

I’ve not heard my parents laugh this hard in months. Moose and Chang aren’t that funny, so my guess is that champagne functions as a humor accelerant; that, or my parents are just extra giddy about having a day off. Either way, it’s a good time.

We’ve already done major damage to the homemade pecan pie when Dad tells us that he’s been given $300 in MEEP money as a bonus for his overtime work on Christmas in the Landing. I immediately begin to rant about the grave injustice—the utter ridiculousness—of a fake-money bonus, but Dad puts up a hand to stop me.

“Not today, Nix,” he says. “Your mother and I have agreed to see only blue skies today.”

“But it’s grayer than a school mop outside,” I protest. “Besides—”

“Zip, zip, zip,” Mom says, pretending to thrice zipper her own mouth, though she continues to speak nonetheless. “It’s our day of thanks, Phoenix. Tomorrow we can go back to our usual complaints, but today let’s just enjoy what we have.”

Dad reaches over and tugs my ponytail. “And that means the three of you have three hundred dollars in MEEP money to spend, while Jill and I take a long stroll by the river and pretend it’s a gorgeous day in June.”

Moose and Chang hoot and bump knuckles at this sudden windfall.

“May your walk be filled with imaginary bluebirds and daisies, Mr. and Mrs. B,” says Chang. “Thanks for all the treats today.”

Moose nods in appreciation and rubs his stomach. “Belly full of pie from Mama B, pocket full of MEEP green from Papa B . . . oh yeah, I am feeling the Thanksgiving love. You guys are awesome.”

I shake my head at my grinning parents. “You guys are cracked.”

“Indeed,” says Dad, bowing to Mom and taking her by the hand as if she’s the queen of England. “Cracked as crackers. Now if you’ll excuse us, the Premium Saltine and I will be off gallivanting and dreaming of Cheez Whiz for the remainder of the day.”

Mom gives us a courtly beauty-pageant wave. “Catch you on the chip side!” she calls as they exit the dining room.

Everyone laughs at her joke, even though chips have nothing to do with crackers, and Mom is obviously too tipsy to make the distinction. I laugh, too, but make a mental note to hide the third bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. Someone’s got to keep her head in this family.

Half an hour later, Moose, Chang and I lie sprawled across the living room couch, MEEP devices in front of us, feet propped on the coffee table. While clearing the dining room table and loading the dishwasher, we engaged in some serious debate about how to divvy up the $300 credit. Now we’re ready for playtime.

“Once again, to summarize,” Chang says, referring to his notebook, “solo battle against skeleton horde, one hundred strong. Two weapons each. Rapunzel’s Tower. Thirty minutes. And steer clear of the Black.”

I roll my eyes. Lately, Chang’s been obsessing about the Black, the empty space that supposedly surrounds the edges of