I keep asking for different kinds of movies, but they keep providing me only with those that have teenage protagonists. I'm starving for new experiences, new people, new situations. I remain stuck with the same kind of characters, and I find myself paying more attention to the people who surround them on the screen—the parents, the teachers, the barista serving them a milkshake. I try to imagine their point of view, or how much competition the actress faced to get the role, and how she felt about her character having only one line to say. Did it feel like a success to her, the beginning of a breakthrough, or yet another disappointment?

The parents in movies make me think about mine. I try to remember how they acted, to imagine how they felt. The last time I saw them, I was sixteen, and I couldn't care less. I didn’t even see Dad on the day when they kidnapped me. He'd gone to work early and hadn't come back yet when I decided to go out.

“I'm leaving,” I said, tying my shoelaces, to Mom, who had a habit of floating past my open door and peeking inside.

“Where? With whom?” She stopped in the doorway, her hands on her hips. What was she wearing? Sweatpants? A dress? My memory conveniently dresses her in one outfit, then another, the original memory long since wiped away.

“Just going to hang out with the boys.”

“Where?”

“Outside.” An eye roll. I don't remember, but I'm sure I did it.

She frowned. “You're gonna have to be more specific.”

“Gosh, Mom! We haven’t decided yet.”

“Text me when you know where you're going.”

“Maybe.”

She crossed her arms. “Don't you have a test tomorrow? Shouldn't you study?”

“I've studied enough.”

“I didn't see that.”

“Doesn't mean that I didn't, does it?”

And then I was out. It was easier when Dad wasn't home—not that he would have stopped me, but there would have been more lecturing on respect and responsibilities and all that crap. Now it kind of makes sense to me, that they were worried and wanted to know where I was going and with whom, because bad shit does happen to kids sometimes. I mean, look at me.

Not that telling her that I was meeting with the boys at the mall would have changed anything. I don't think I even reached the mall. I don't remember where they snatched me away, or how they did it. I remember walking down the street, and then I woke up in a white room, and from then on, this was my life.

Did they choose me because I kept yapping at my parents, at teachers, at anyone who'd cross me, getting pissed for no good reason? Was that the ultimate teenage experience they wanted to acquire from me? But then, aren't most teens like that?

Some are different, of course. Take Barry Becker’s movies—he can act the crap out of anything. He's probably in his early twenties, too, but they still cast him as schoolkids, and he did all kinds of characters—the nerdy ones, the bullies, the popular guys, the outcasts, what not. I mean, he's so talented he could sell you anything. I wish he’d play a gay character one day. That would give me so much to fantasize about. Not that I don’t do that now. I imagine him here with me sometimes, having long, personal conversations.

“You're doing so well,” Barry tells me. “Look how your students adore you.”

“I don't think they do,” I say. “I don’t think they feel anything.”

“Who could look into those beautiful eyes and not feel anything?” He leans closer, staring at me, and brushes my overgrown hair off of my forehead. “Gosh. Can I kiss you?”

“You know you can,” I say. And then he does, and I kiss him back.

I mean, he's not here, but I've gotten so good at this that it really feels like he is. Anyway, what's the harm? Without imagination, I would have gone crazy a long time ago.

As for my meals, I usually eat alone, save for the classes where we practice different scenarios in a school cafeteria. Sometimes they eat at the nearby tables, and I observe their behavior, and then I tell them what they did right or wrong. I eat there, too, but it feels like taking medicine—not that the food is horrible, but try eating the same meal for years and not grow to hate it. Still, I force myself to finish most of it, and some of the cereal for breakfast, and sometimes the healthy snacks from the vending machine—little tasteless sandwiches and slices of fruits packed in plastic. I know I'm underweight, but I'm functioning. I guess I haven't given up enough yet to stop eating altogether.

Today, most of the students remained in the classroom, with only six of them sitting by the table at the other side of the cafeteria, chatting and eating. I keep an eye on them, struggling with yet another spoonful of sweet corn, when someone touches my shoulder.

“Mr. Cyan?”

I turn and find a guy from the group standing next to me, holding a tray with food, smiling in that Barry Becker's wry way that makes my heart skip a beat. He generally looks a lot like him, with his open face and longish dark hair. I noticed him the day the group started, but I try not to pay attention to their looks. They usually stick to one appearance throughout the course, but who's to say that he wasn't Marlen the day before?

“Can I join you?”

“Sure.” I gesture to the table, and he takes the seat in front of me. He clearly wants a private lesson. “So, what's up...”

“Aiden,” he offers. “Doing fine. Should I call you Mr. Cyan?”

“You can pick whatever name you like.” I never give them my real name, but if we're working on the new-pals-eating-together scenario, I can't have him address me with “Mr”.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Anyway, happy to connect.”

“Don't say that. Just say 'Hey' or something, nod and smile.”

“Hey.” He nods and smiles, showing a row of white teeth. I mean, why not, if you could have whatever teeth you wanted, of course you'd make them look like something straight out of a toothpaste commercial. His smile looks genuine, and I must remind myself that it's as fake as everything else about him.

“So, you’re new?” I say, assuming he wants to run through the 'new student' scenario. “Where have you transferred from?”

“I didn't really come to talk about me. Just saw you sitting here, all alone, and figured I'd keep you company.”

I blink. Does he mean “you” as in actual me, or the role that I'm playing, a student eating alone in a cafeteria?

“Is Mr. Cyan your real name?” he asks.

“Is Aiden yours?”

His smile grows wider. “Why don’t you tell me your real name?”

“I'm sure you can find it online.” There’s got to be something in the news about my disappearance, an Amber Alert or something. He could look it up.

“I'd rather learn it from you,” he says.

“You're here to learn other things from me.”

“Does it bother you that I've joined you? Would you want me to leave?”

I contemplate it. The easy answer is yes, I'd rather he went away, but they aren't keeping me around to refuse students’ requests. I force what I hope looks like a friendly smile.

“It's okay, you can stay. So, where have you transferred from?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want a simulation. Just a normal conversation—with the real you.”

It takes me by surprise so much that I actually snort with laughter, and the students at the other table look our way.

“Normal?” I say. “Real? Nothing here is normal or real. Dude... just… see you in the classroom, okay?”

With that I get up and leave, feeling shaky. I hate it when they mess with my head. When they stick to the scripts, it's okay. When they start getting personal—which is rare, but occasionally happens—it gets increasingly difficult to remember that they're fake, that whatever they say, they don't really mean. I've spent years in this uncanny valley, talking to entities who look like people, but they aren’t, and I’m so very tired of it.