Damselfly Read Online Free

can’t postpone it. As soon as I step outside the compound the day after my birthday, the press will have my picture, and everyone in the entire world will find out what “Thumbelina” looks like for the first time. Everyone, including Jack.
    I run my finger along the edge of the upholstery. The couch is a little overstuffed since it’s actually for dolls, but I can’t complain. George finds collectible doll furniture for me from all sorts of exotic places, even though Dr. Christiansen disapproves. She would prefer I weave my own bed out of grass to increase my survival skills. Too bad for her. The outside of my house might belong in the forest, but the interior is a castle. Silk curtains, handmade rugs, carved wooden furniture. I even have a canopy bed.
    I just wish I could show it off or have someone over. Anybody. And not only through the Internet.
    At the other end of my living room sits my computer desk and halojector. The halojector is a fancy pair of goggles that allows me to enter virtual online worlds and chat rooms. It can read your facial expressions, and it uses sensors to determine how you would move, walk, talk, etc., without you having to do any of those things in the real world. The result is an almost perfect avatar of yourself. I’m not supposed to have it, but George (once again) came to my rescue when I guilted him into it three years ago. I still remember that conversation.
    “But Dr. Christiansen said…” George protested.
    “This is the only way I can have friends. Do you want me to not have any friends?”
    “I’m your friend.”
    “No, you’re like a nice uncle. And you’re old enough to be my dad, so you don’t count.”
    “You are going to get me fired one day, Lina.”
    “That’s what the Germans would have said in Nazi Germany. Do you want to be like a Nazi?”
    That settled it. He adapted a halojector to my scale and even gave me a webcam so I can talk to people with my regular face instead of an avatar if I want.
    Right after George installed it, I got involved in Internet games and chat parlors. I experimented with all sorts of different haircuts and skin colors and fashions in order to meet people of all stripes. Sure, their voices still had to come over the speakers and occasionally someone would disconnect and vanish into thin air, but it was the closest I’d come to having real friends my own age.
    After a while, I got tired of playing someone so different from myself, so now my avatar is authentically me…sans wings. I started going into chat parlors—big virtual living rooms. Some have themes; some are run-of-the-mill meeting spaces with nothing fancy in terms of decorations. I always find a place along the edge so I can watch the comings and goings. There I wait, stuck closer to the wall than its last coat of paint, and hope someone comes over to strike up a conversation.
    That’s how I met Jack one year ago.
    He sat sprawled in his chair in a chat parlor, tracing his finger around the rim of a glass. Jet black hair dangled in his eyes and grazed the tops of his tanned cheekbones. He was alone but didn’t seem to be in a hurry to be sociable. A couple of teenaged guys walked past him, gave him high-fives, but didn’t stay long. He was friendly with them but didn’t look desperate to get anyone’s attention.
    I started plotting how I could inch my way along the room’s perimeter, but then two girls giggled their way over to him. He smiled and leaned forward with casual interest.
    One of them was pretty. Prettier than me, anyway. She had hair to die for—smooth sheets of spun gold. I patted at my frizz ball, but taming it was impossible. Why oh why did I scan in with my real hair?
    Those girls laughed and talked too easily, as though they’d popped out of the womb with a bachelor’s degree in flirtation. Goldilocks sat down next to him (really close, practically on his lap) and started working the space between them as though there was a rubber band of desire