Selfie

Selfie

By Sandra McDonald

Dad pick me up from the selfie lab with a change of plans. We’re headed for the east coast of Florida instead of the Gulf of Mexico. The resort is named Murray Hall and it’s in Ruby Beach, outside of Jacksonville. Dad brought a note from Jessy to me. Her parents have dragged her off to one of those « techno free » resorts in Nepal for a month. She’s going to go crazy without her comms, but no more crazy than I’ll be in 1888.

Dad has another surprise. He paid for VIP access through the timeport. Shorter lines, faster screening, and no wallvids screaming out election stories.

By the tmime we reach Ruby Beach, I’m too beat to pay much attention. Selfies get tired like everyone else, although our reaction is driven by power levels and not biochemistry or psychology. Dad and I take adjoining rooms on the third floor facing the sea. The lack of air conditioning means I wake up with sunlight broiling my room. I flop around in the hot bedclothes like a fish yanked out of the ocean. It’s cruel to take a modern teenager anywhere without air conditioning. I hope Moon Susan is happy with herself, up there having fun while I sweat my way through the nineteenth century.

Dad nocks on my dorr with, « Come on, get dressed and let’s eat breakfast.»

Selfie. Photo by Elena

Food in 1888 isn’t very good. People eat meat and greasy eggs and biscuits that don’t even have chocolate on them. I watch Dad eat and pour extra sugar into my tea. The hotel manager stops by our table and thanks us for visiting. Murray Hall doesn’t get many time traverlers, although of course he hopes Dad’s work will bring more.

« It’ll be my pleasure to write about your fine establishment, » Dad says.

It wouldn’t be so much of a pleasure if he was the one stuck wearing a high collar, long skirts, and a ridiculously lacey camisole. I absolutely refused to bind myself into anything resembling a corset. Dad’s probably not much comfortable in the layers of his linen suit. Why couldn’t he specialize in twenty-first-century cruise ship travel, instead?

« You should come with us, » Dad says, after the manager offers a personal tour of the property.

I pick up my drawstring bag. «You do your thing, I’ll do mine. »

« Susan… » he says.

« Dad… » I mimic. « Go, have fun. »

Science Fiction and Fantasy 2015, edited by Rich Horton, Prime Books, 2015