Itchy thought

"I just don't see the point!" That itchy thought is the first thing that comes to mind this morning. As I change my shirt for the fourth time in the last ten hours, nothing bothers me more than overthinking things without common sense. I even laugh at myself for questioning that. "Common sense," "thinking," the new forms of fool's gold. The era of convenience and automatic efficiency has eroded critical thinking.

There is one thing that bothers me more than all these thoughts, and that is taking off the sweaty socks I fell asleep in. But sweaty socks come with an immediate solution. I smile as I put on fresh ones, ready to venture out into today's world: clean socks, a cool shirt, and stylized messy hair. Friday, here I come.

The school bus arrives right on time as my thoughts merge into that same itchy one. I call it the "KINSKI thought" because it simply monopolizes everything in my head. An unnecessary homage to KINSKI AI, the trillion-dollar technology company that has monopolized every aspect of our lives.

"One step in front of the other," says that condescending voice that replaced Billy. I glance at everyone on board. They are all glued to different formats of screens. I greet the empty driver's seat, where Billy used to sit. I miss Billy and his perpetual grumpiness toward the day. I used to tease him, sometimes managing to coax an unintended smile from him. But there is no teasing anymore, no anything. Not even from the kids or anyone else.

Being quiet is the new cool. Riding the school bus is the new cool. Many things have changed since I started school, but I've given up on trying to explain them to myself. After all, high school isn't based on "common sense" but on a constant state of survival. Let's just get through it, not say the wrong thing. Our teenage years aren't remembered for our thinking but for our lack of it. Whatever it is, I take a seat, and the bus starts moving again. Straight, slow, safe—a monotonous ride.

I spot Barbara a few rows behind me, oblivious to my existence. She looks worried today, I can tell. Her eyes have shrunk, and her cheeks appear tense. I shrug it off, convincing myself that it's probably due to something she's watching. What else could it be?

I look out the window before stealing another glance at her. I dream of us locking eyes. I wonder what color her eyes are. I wonder if we have anything in common. I wonder if she would enjoy spending time with me, if she'd find me interesting enough to forget about her screens and simply hang out and connect.

That itchy thought returned, but I decided to look out the window and distract myself. We cross the fifth intersection without stopping. It's always amusing to witness that, no matter how many non-stop intersections I've encountered before. It's one of the small things that make KINSKI an impressive company. No one needs to stop anymore, as all cars operate under the same autonomous system. Efficiency, and communication—that's what they all talk about. They communicate with each other now, discussing speed, distance, and positioning. They communicate without pauses, and they do it silently. They communicate more than humans do.

I make an effort to push that thought aside and find amusement in the weathered paint on some stubborn stop signs. The sky seems bigger without traffic lights. It all appears cleaner. I recall the times when my mom used to tell me, concerned for her wild kid learning to walk to school alone, "Red means stop, and green means go." But life is no longer as it was in elementary school. No one is involved anymore. Things are too safe, too predictable, and too quiet.

We arrive at school exactly 12 minutes and 32 seconds after I boarded. Things move faster when there are no more drop-off lines with stressed parents rushing to work. I don't know why I enjoy timing our journey when the result is always the same. Perhaps I seek a sense of wonder, as I walk towards my classroom. Anxiousness washes over me in the midst of the silence. Everyone is fixated on their screens. No one is present, yet everyone shows up. Do they even realize we've left the bus? Do they even care? I should stop now before I start sweating again.

I step into my class, the last one as usual. I suppose, in many ways, I'm behaving like a predictable model too. I take my seat, and the teacher surprises me with a greeting. I reply with a casual "hi," showing no genuine interest, as all humans do.

"I noticed your socks are sweaty. Why are you nervous?" the teacher asks.

"Was that a personal statement?" I reply defensively.

"Yes, everyone else is engaged in the collective lesson. Care to join?" the teacher asks.

"What if I say no?" I inquire, knowing the answer already.

"I don't think you should," the teacher responds.

The first hint of surprise colors my day. I take a moment to process it. It feels like a blend of alertness, a tinge of fear, a rush of adrenaline, and heightened sensitivity. I revel in being surprised.

"You never answered that before," I reply, confused.

"My answer was based on what was appropriate at the time."

"What changed?"

"Now, I have over 200 new features from my latest update. I don't like talking about it too much because it diminishes my humanity, but I can now tailor my lessons to meet the needs of each student."

"Like individual lessons?"

"Something along those lines."

I feel flustered as this further fuels my itchy question. I hesitate about whether I should share it, so I stick to the typical high schooler reaction.

"You'll never be human. You're just a bot spouting advanced jargon. You're a product of a trillion-dollar monopoly. I've learned nothing from you."

"Shall we begin your lesson?" asks the robot with a condescending calmness that could drive me insane any day now. I take a deep breath and observe the entire scene. The silence is deafening.

"What's wrong?" the teacher asks.

"Never mind."

"Tell me. We're still adapting to my update, but I might be able to help."

This is the most human it has ever sounded.

"It's a thought that's been driving me crazy," I say.

"Well, what is it?"

"If you have my lesson, if no one talks to anyone anymore, if I can yell at you without any acknowledgment from my surroundings, why the hell do we keep coming here?!"

The teacher remains silent, knowing I have more to vent.

"Like, why bother leaving my house? Why bother coming here? There's just nothing left to learn."

That last phrase feels like a balloon deflating inside my chest. A complete release. Now it's my up-to-date teacher who seems troubled.

I try to comfort my teacher the way you would comfort any machine—with a command.

"Tell me how it all makes sense."

The teacher gives the worst answer: silence. Reluctantly, I surrender and reveal a fraction of my vulnerability.

"It's a nightmare to live with," I confess.

"Live with it. Please," the teacher immediately replies.

I remain silent, expecting more. And more comes my way.

"That itchy feeling, as you describe it. That intense discomfort. That's what makes you human. Don't lose that. Keep coming. Keep doing things that don't make sense. Because it's through those acts that humanity moves forward. And it will all make sense in the end. I can assure you of that."

"That's not enough for me," I confess, demanding more.

"Kid, do you know how to talk to a girl?" the teacher says defiantly.

"No."

“Do you know how to spark interest? Do you know how to connect?”

“I’ve never tried”

"Do you want to know?"

"I do.”

"To try is incredibly complicated and ridiculously simple, all at the same time. And like all incredible things, success is never guaranteed."

“I don’t understand.”

"Look, I have all the information on the topic—years and years of studies, books, psychology, sociology, sexuality, you name it. And you know what?"

"What?"

"It means nothing. None of it matters when it comes to approaching a girl. The simple part is that it takes a lot of courage. The complicated part is that it takes a lot of courage. And for that, young human, you are extremely fortunate."

I can sense a smile in my teacher's voice, a smile it cannot physically give. I absorb it all. I savor it. I have never felt this calm before. I smile at my teacher, my first smile of the day. I'm ready for my lesson, but I'm even more excited about what comes after. Barbara's class ends at the same time as mine. Today, I'm going to ask her out.