"Wil McCarthy - Heisenberg Elementary" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCarty Sarah)

"You always say that."
"Actually, ma'am, we never always said that until just now. The changes are retroactive."

"What changes? Who are you?"

"Chronarchists, ma'am. Just liberating the timeline."

Miss Solarbad frowns. "From a happy girl like Pammy TransAm? Why on Earth? Who was she going to
be?"

"President of Bitchtopia, ma'am. Very destabilizing. Now she's Union of Unconcerned Citizens."

"Oh," says Miss Solarbad. "Well, uh. Thanks?"

"All in a day's work, ma'am," he says, and ceases to ever have existed. Brother!

Finally we get to breathe lunch, and after that a whiff of playground dust and fresh-cut grass. Then it's
back to the CSAPSAT for another four hours.

"Don't bias the statistics," Miss Solarbad reminds us sternly. "Don't think about your answers."

Pretty soon the Chronarchists are back. This time they give Pammy a speech impediment, which her
extreme happiness causes her to see as a positive growth experience.

"Tank oo vey much!" she says brightly.

"Unconcerned Citizens my foot," mutters the sergeant recluse before ceasing to ever have existed again.

Finally, finally, the school day is over and I can go play. Unfortunately my parents can't afford
point-to-point, so of course I have to tunnel home as a quantum waveform, which is like completely
unfair. And of course Mom is waiting for me at the collapse point, looking shrewish. Don't you love that
word, shrewish?

"Your waveform shows a peak at the arcade again," says Mom.

"It's on the way," I remind her.

"It's on all possible ways," she says, like that's the end of that.

"Give me a break," I try, putting on a mature voice so she'll maybe listen for once. "It's only a 10 percent
presence. I didn't even experience it at a Newtonian level."

But I get dish duty anyway, followed by more homework than there are hours to complete it. School
doesn't care about the problems of working families; Mom and Dad can't afford a time compactor, so
what am I supposed to do? I settle for an optic cram and dump, which utterly makes me ill, then wind
down by kicking a virball around the page for half an hour in five parallel muscle groups. I think about
inloading a season of TV, but I'm just too tired. I crawl into bed, utterly defeated.

There is of course something wrong with my pillow. All my dreams are in blue, and the audio is laggy. It