Girl Parts Page 10

  He stood, brushed the back of his jeans, and turned to leave. Then he paused, as if he’d forgotten something. “You’re going to ask yourself ‘What if’ a million times. What if I did something different? What if I was different?”

  “So what happens after you ask it a million times?”

  Charlie was silent for a moment, then said, “You just stop asking. And you start moving on.”

  She wanted him to say more, but instead he left, the door sighing shut behind him.

  What if he’s out looking for me right now?

  That was one what if, thought Rose. Only 999,999 more to go.

  As Charlie came back inside, the door to his father’s lab opened. Thaddeus’s face appeared in the crack like a rat sticking its nose out of its hole.

  “Buddy? Could you come in here a minute?”

  The beaker of water, now cold, was still bundled in a blanket at the edge of the couch. Charlie sat down. Thaddeus leaned against the table, arms folded. His face was serious but his eyes soft.

  “So. Do her parents know she’s here?”

  “Not exactly,” Charlie said. “She’s . . . just going through some stuff.”

  “I trust you,” Thaddeus said. “Just be careful. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but that’s a very pretty girl out there. And pretty girls who’ve just had bad breakups can be emotionally . . . just, don’t be a rebound, OK?”

  “Come on, Dad,” Charlie got to his feet. “I’m not anyone’s rebound.”

  “You sure about that?” he said evenly.

  “I’ll be OK.”

  “Pretty flowers can be the most deadly.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  He ruffled Charlie’s hair.

  Alone in his room, Charlie wondered if he was a rebound. Rose was a machine, of course. A replica was just a replica, no matter how convincing. So he really had nothing to worry about. And besides, he felt comfortable around Rose, proof that she couldn’t be a real person at all. If she were a real person, he wouldn’t like her so much.

  The next time Rose heard the screen door rattle, the sun was rising.

  Charlie’s flip-flops slapped against the wet grass. He was wearing a tattered bathrobe.

  “Is your last name Hilton?” she asked.

  “Huh?” His eyes were puffy. He looked down at the name stitched on the robe. “Oh, this. My dad got it at a botanists’ convention in Boston.”

  “I see.”

  Rose turned back to the lake.

  “Have you been out here all night?” There was a thin layer of dew on her arms and legs, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m up to four hundred and seventy-two thousand, six hundred and forty-one.”

  “Huh?”

  “What ifs. That’s how many.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “You’re, uh, doing them all at once?”

  “Yep.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  Rose stretched. Pockets of stagnant fluid in her circulatory system popped and crackled.

  “It’s pleasant to have a focus.” She looked up. “Thank you for stopping me last night. From calling David.”

  “No problem.” Charlie tightened his robe. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The sun passed over the lake. Charlie brought her a sandwich and a CD player with headphones. When the sun was high and the clouds burned away, Rose felt as if her ocular sensors would fry from staring too long. Then Charlie brought an old, cobwebbed umbrella and stuck it in the mud by her chair. Bugs ate her untouched sandwich. As the sun neared the opposite shore, he took the umbrella away and lay a shawl over her knees. He never said anything.

  At last it grew dark and Rose stirred, her brain exhausted, sputtering with the effort . . . like Charlie’s generator, she thought, and smiled to herself.

  Inside, Thaddeus was standing at the counter, eating pasta from a turtle-shaped bowl.

  “Want some?” he asked, raising a fork of the stringy orange stuff. “I like it cold, but I can pop a pack in the microwave for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Charlie’s out on his bike. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  “OK.”

  “Were you really out there all night?” he asked.

  Rose nodded. “Thank you for inviting me into your home,” she said. There was no voice to tell her Be Polite To Adults, but she remembered this was expected.

  “Charlie tells me you’re getting over a bad breakup.”

  Rose nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

  “What was his name?”

  Rose began to say it, but got no further than the tip of the D. “I . . . I’ve thought about him all I can for one day.”

  Charlie’s dad nodded at her over his cold pasta.

  “Well, I’m sorry we don’t have a television. Would you like to read a book?” He gestured with his fork to the shelves.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  It was a big collection, but paltry compared to everything on David’s computer. Rose decided to read about flowers again.

  “Reed’s Flora,” Thaddeus said. “Are you interested in plants?”

  “Oh, I’m interested in everything,” Rose said. “The whole world.”

  She noticed a series of photos in a zigzagging frame on the shelf. In one, a smaller, paler version of Charlie stood shirtless with Thaddeus in a mountain of white fluff. They huddled toward each other. In the background was a still, pearly lake.

  “We used to do the annual polar-bear dive at Olive Lake,” Thaddeus said. “Have you ever done that? It’s pretty bracing.”

  Rose shook her head.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, pointing to a dark-haired lady in the neighboring photograph. She was skinny like a small boy and wore large, black-framed glasses.

  “That’s Charlie’s mom,” Thaddeus said, rinsing the turtle in the sink. “She left us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said, touching the glass frame.

  Thaddeus shrugged, setting the still-dirty turtle bowl in the drying rack. “Not your fault.”

  Charlie’s dad shuffled into the next room, and Rose folded herself into an armchair with two books, Reed’s Flora and Anatomy by James Ried. First it was Flora, where rose was nothing like Rose, but grown in the ground and eaten by moths. Anatomy was more interesting. In the middle a double diagram showed female on the left and male on the right, the girl and boy holding hands across the seam. Rose examined her page, and saw nothing missing except a black scribble between the girl’s legs, which she lacked. A line pointing to this spot labeled it Vagina. She closed her eyes, marveling that a few dots of hair were what separated her from David. She brought the pages together so the couple kissed. The next page might have been stolen from Reed’s Flora. It was a close-up diagram of the V-word. Dozens of lines pointed to dozens of parts, connecting them with their proper names. This flower was what he wanted, what she didn’t have. Her hand touched between her legs and felt nothing but an intersection with no connection. There was more. Aching, Rose read on.

  The sunset was almost blinding, but Charlie pedaled into the glare, up the hill on the north side of the lake, toward the point where he and Rose fell.

  Fell. Falling. Falling in love.

  He tried not to think of it that way, but he could still feel that kiss. His first kiss. Did it count with a robot?

  The muscles in his legs burned. They’d be trembling all night if he kept up this pace. He pedaled hard up the incline and let gravity take him down the other side. He liked that feeling, the momentary weightlessness as the wind whipped by. He rode for yards that way, coasting.

  As he came around the bend he saw headlights. A trio of black cars turned from the nearest driveway. It wasn’t unusual. At least one important politician lived here, and Charlie had seen his share of motorcades.

  But these weren’t state cars. In the fading light, Charlie made out the pink cherry-blossom logo.

  The cars
rumbled by, so close that Charlie had to pull his bike to the shoulder. Sweat prickled on his brow. The third car passed and had traveled only a few yards before its brake lights illuminated. The expensive automobile reversed and came to a stop beside him. A rear window lowered, and a man with wire-thin glasses and hair the color of ash spoke. “Excuse me, could I talk to you for a moment?”

  The other two cars stopped as well. Charlie put down his kickstand.

  “Shoot.”

  “We’re looking for a runaway. Have you seen a young woman with red hair?”

  “How old?”

  “Sixteen. She’s my daughter, and I’m very worried about her.”

  A chill cut through him. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen anyone, and I’ve been riding my bike around here for an hour.”

  His eyes fixed on Charlie’s. The tight black pupils seemed to dissect him like a scalpel.

  “Thank you,” the man said, and offered a business card. “She’s probably near this lake somewhere, so if you see her in your travels, please give me a call.”

  Charlie looked at the card. Above the phone number was the embossed name. Coleo Foridae. Sounded Greek.

  “I will, Mr. Foridae,” Charlie said, pocketing the card.

  Coleo turned to the driver. “Let’s go.”

  The window went up, and the cars moved out. Charlie could feel his pulse in his throat. There was something about Foridae, the way his eyes dug into Charlie. His bike tires wobbled on the wet pavement.

  The caravan was headed north, toward the tip of the lake. There were no more houses that way. The road curved around to the east bank. And there was only one house on the east bank.

  His.

  He couldn’t beat them there, not by bike. But he had to try. Going around the southern shore would take too long. He had to double back and pass them going north, which meant going off-road. Charlie’s old roadster had no shocks to speak of, and it rattled and clanged on the dirt paths. Pebbles flew, pinging the spokes. Thicket briars clung to his socks as he pushed forward, breathing deeply.

  At the hill he spied the motorcade. They’d pulled over at the fork between Cliff Road and Route 20. Coleo leaned against the rear bumper, cell phone to his ear. That was good luck. He passed the cars and pointed his front tire downhill. There was no path now, just root-buckled ground, spotted with rocks. Charlie cursed Thaddeus for not believing in cell phones. Maybe he could reach her telepathically. Run and hide! They’re coming for you!

  He hit the driveway, gravel spraying in a fan from the rear tire. He jumped off the bike, letting it fall. Charlie burst into the living room. Thaddeus was at the counter, doing the crossword.

  “Where’s . . . ?” Charlie gasped. His lungs felt full of sand. Stars danced before his eyes.

  Rose’s head appeared from behind the couch. “Charlie! I’ve been reading the most amazing —”

  “Come on.” Charlie grabbed her hand. “We need to go.”

  “Now?” Thaddeus didn’t look up from his paper. “You just got in. Sit down, have some dinner.”

  “Charlie . . .” Her eyes searched his. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got to go, Dad.” Charlie pulled her to her feet.

  Thaddeus peered over the paper. “Is something wrong?”

  “Tell you later,” he called over his shoulder, and then they were out in the night and running.

  From the woods behind the house they watched as the motorcade headlights nosed around the bend. The porch light ticked on. Thaddeus came to the front door in his shorts and T-shirt.

  “They’re looking for me,” Rose whispered. Her breath was hot and close.

  “Yes.”

  A trio of men walked up the drive, Mr. Foridae in the lead.

  “That’s him,” she said. “The man who said he’d decommission me.”

  Charlie and Rose were invisible in the dark, but still Charlie crouched lower. If spotted, they could take off into the woods, but the trees weren’t dense enough to get lost in. They’d be caught in seconds.

  “What will your dad do?” Rose whispered.

  The men introduced themselves. “Please, Dad,” Charlie said quietly.

  The conversation came in mumbles. Charlie could make out the words daughter and missing. Thaddeus’s face was stony and unreadable. At last he spoke.

  “I haven’t seen her,” he said loudly. So we can hear, Charlie thought. “But I’ll be sure and keep an eye out. A girl like that, all by herself, she probably wouldn’t stay out here after dark. I bet she’d head into town.”

  Coleo nodded, said something else. The men returned to their cars.

  “Oh, no.”

  Rose tensed. “What? What is it?”

  Coleo crouched to examine something on the ground. Charlie’s bike. His unblinking eyes rose to scan the woods. They passed over Charlie and Rose, moving in a smooth arc — and jerked back.

  “Don’t move.”

  Charlie stared into the gray irises behind the wire spectacles. Coleo turned to one of his men, said something Charlie couldn’t hear, and climbed into the car.

  “He knows Dad’s lying,” Charlie said.

  “What do we do?”

  “Stay away. At least for a little while.”

  Charlie felt warm pressure on his knee. Rose’s hand clasped his jeans. He could see her pale outline, her breath coming like a whisper. Maybe it was just the adrenaline or the terror, but suddenly Charlie felt like he was flying.

  “I know where we can go,” she said, taking his hand. “Follow me.”

  They rushed through the trees, their path twisting between the low branches. Rose could hear Charlie wheezing. The adrenaline in her system kept her moving, but Charlie’s body was less efficient, and he tired quickly. She slowed, squeezing his hand, pulling him on.

  They came through the tree line onto a familiar back road. There was a break in the guardrail and three young trees — saplings was the word from Reed’s Flora — that even drunk kids in a speeding car could recognize in the dark.

  “This is it,” Rose said.

  They hurried down a short path and came at last to the campsite. With no fire burning, the pit was just an open maw, yawning at the stars.

  Hand-in-hand they eased down the cement steps. A pink glow emanated from the pit — someone had been here not long ago. The ground was littered with crushed beer cans and cigarette butts.

  “Are you OK?” Charlie asked.

  “Just remembering.”

  “Are you sure no one knows where this is?”

  “No adults.” Rose sat on one of the stone benches. “I don’t think anyone will come back tonight.”

  “Someone was here today, though.” Charlie toed a stray bottle. “Hey, look at this.” He bent behind a bench and produced a pair of dusty lanterns. The Sun Enterprises logo, a yellow semicircle with a halo of rays, was printed on the side. “Maybe we can get some light.” He brought them to the center of the clearing and fiddled with the weather-beaten controls. Nothing. “I guess they’re busted.”

  Charlie sat beside her.

  “How long should we stay here?”

  “At least for the night. Right? They may be watching my house.” Charlie kicked a beer bottle. It ricocheted off a rock and rolled harmlessly into the fire pit. “God, I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I hide my bike?”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  Rose thought a kiss on the cheek might relax him a bit, but Charlie flinched.

  “Sorry,” he said when their eyes met. “I’m kind of a wreck around girls.”

  “I’m not really a girl.”

  Charlie smirked. “Yeah, well, I keep forgetting.”

  She took his hand, which was limp and cold. He was uncomfortable, but Rose didn’t mind. She was cold and scared, and Charlie made her feel safe. Like . . . darkness, Rose thought. For hiding in.

  “I know you don’t . . . you’re not familiar with how things work,” he said, “between most boys and girls. But you should know, girls don’t usually lik
e guys like me. In fact, they never do.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I don’t show up on their radar. I just . . . I just don’t understand how. How to be around people.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Well, that’s obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  Charlie met her stare. His expression was hard. “Because guys who do know just act like idiots.”

  “I see.”

  “They just try to make themselves look cool or funny. They never say or do anything real. Or honest. And that’s not how I want to be.”

  “How do you want to be?” Rose asked quietly. Charlie was puffing up before her eyes, filled with something hot and scathing.

  “I don’t know! Just . . . me, I guess! But girls don’t want that. They just want to laugh and be impressed. So you try to talk to them and they look at you like you’re crazy!” He stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s stupid.”

  “The girls?” she whispered.

  “Mostly.”

  “And the boys are stupid?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m . . .” Charlie was practically shouting at the sky. “I’m . . . different!”

  “Special?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, better.”

  “Yes!”

  His answer smacked against the cement walls and came back to him — a cold, flat echo.

  “I mean . . .” he said, his voice softer now. “Not better, I just . . .”

  “Gee, Charlie. I’m amazed you don’t have more friends.”

  He stared hard, shoulders rising and falling, until at last a smile cracked the crusted exterior.

  “That was supposed to be sarcasm,” Rose said. “Did I do it right?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlie sat again. Rose threaded her fingers through his. Charlie didn’t change. Charlie was Charlie no matter what. And she liked that.

  “You show up on my radar.”

  He laughed. Rose liked how it rumbled.

  David and Clay sat on the steps of the Peony Pavilion, sipping whiskey from a flask. Inside, dance music thumped. Clubbers went in and came out again to smoke cigarettes. Whenever the door opened, David caught a glimpse of the dancers inside, writhing under the colored lights.