Girl Parts Page 4

  “Who doesn’t allow you?” David’s arm muscles were beginning to unclench.

  Rose blinked, twin teardrops sliding down her cheeks. “I have failed to be pleasing.”

  “All right, all right. You can turn off the waterworks.”

  “I can’t. They’re involuntary.”

  At those words, something in him melted. He sighed and smiled weakly. “And that was just a shoulder. Imagine if I grabbed your boob.”

  Rose smiled through her tears. “You’re being funny.”

  “So you do have a sense of humor,” he said. “Are you OK?”

  She nodded. “I’m experiencing embarrassment.”

  “Me too.”

  She wiped a tear.

  “Do you want to go watch a movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I take your hand?”

  “Yes.”

  David laced his burning fingers between hers and squeezed.

  Rose’s egg contained a large black case — her luggage. Inside, David found a certificate of ownership (he’d have to get a frame), a pair of jeans, green sneakers, black pumps, sweatpants, three designer T-shirts, a tweed skirt, tights, a black cocktail dress (he couldn’t wait to see her in that), checked boxers and a long cotton T for sleeping (that, too), cherry-blossom socks, a Dopp kit with twenty gel packs labeled “ablutions,” jewelry, makeup, and a black plastic bag of “unmentionables.”

  There was also a disc, which Mr. Sun played on the den entertainment system. The family gathered around, the parents in the armchairs, David and Rose on the loveseat. The Sakora logo appeared on screen. Music swelled.

  “Welcome to Sakora,” a woman’s voice said. “Solutions for Life.”

  The screen darkened and faded in on an empty classroom. A woman with graying chestnut hair and a pencil skirt leaned against the teacher’s desk and smiled.

  “Hello, and welcome to Sakora Solutions’ Companion Program Welcome Presentation. I’m Dr. Paula Love, chief behavioral specialist here at Sakora Solutions, and your guide through this instructional tutorial. Over the next sixty minutes . . .”

  “Do we have to watch the whole thing?” David said.

  Mrs. Sun shushed him.

  Dr. Love gestured to the chalkboard, where three words were written. “Did you know that more than forty percent of young adults experience chronic feelings of disassociation . . . discomfort . . . and depression?”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” David mumbled.

  “In our digital age, interpersonal relationships are increasingly crowded out by electronic distractions.”

  A boy David’s age ran in front of a green screen, pretending to duck the images of computer monitors, cell phones, and game systems dive-bombing his head.

  “I feel so disassociated!” the boy shouted. “Disassoooooociated!”

  The music switched from menacing to hopeful. Dr. Love, now in a relaxed sundress, strolled through a sunny park.

  “Studies have shown that young men from thirteen to seventeen are particularly at risk. Cases of anhedonia, moral apathy, and even suicide are on the rise. That’s why there’s Sakora Solutions’ Companion Program.”

  Over Dr. Love’s shoulder, a boy and girl walked hand in hand.

  “Using the mechanics of punishment and reward, the Companion dissuades dehumanizing behaviors and encourages healthy human interaction.” The boy, leering, palmed the girl’s ass. A spark (added in postproduction) snapped at his hand. The boy withdrew, pouting.

  “That’s not how I remember it,” David said under his breath.

  Dr. Love continued. “The Companion’s Intimacy Clock measures the degree of interpersonal connection over time . . .”

  Mr. Sun checked his watch. “Maybe we can skip a bit.” He hit the advance button. Dr. Love (pantsuit) strolled through the halls of an enormous library.

  “Ugh, that outfit,” Mrs. Sun said.

  “Your Companion has access to nearly a million logographic and encyclopedic entries, including a vast database of nonverbal facial and body-language cues. But she still has a lot to learn!” Dr. Love chuckled stiffly. “Because our world is always changing, Companions are not programmed with slang, jargon, or technical language. But thanks to Sakora’s ABC Protocol, she will quickly absorb new words and phrases and incorporate them into her vocabulary.”

  “Like groovy and far out?” David said.

  Rose blinked. “Far out?”

  “Don’t actually say that,” David said.

  A man in a white lab coat joined the doctor. The caption read Dr. Samuel Froy, Chief Developmental Engineer.

  “Well, hi there, Sam. Why don’t you tell the folks at home a little bit about how the Companion’s brain works?”

  “Thank you, Paula.” Dr. Froy had a thick foreign accent, so it sounded like, “Zank you, Paula.”

  “Ze Companion’s mind is comprised of two parts — an emotional core, where her desire for you is located, and a strict moral code, which checks this desire. Like our informational database, this moral code is connected via satellite link . . .”

  “They lose me with this technical stuff,” Mrs. Sun said, reading the back of the DVD case. “Is there a special features section?”

  “Hold on, he’s saying something important,” Mr. Sun said.

  “This is a delicate balance,” Dr. Froy was saying, “between impulse and control. This is why your Companion must never enter a lead-lined room or be submerged entirely in water. Doing so severs the link, and will cause the unit to be . . . decommissioned.”

  To illustrate, the image returned to the girl in the park, who, in a surprisingly realistic animation, exploded in a fiery ball.

  “Oh my,” said Mrs. Sun.

  Rose blinked.

  When the DVD was over, Mr. and Mrs. Sun retired to the dining room to eat the meal Lupe had prepared. David was in the kitchen, microwaving a pizza. Rose was alone in the hall. Eating pizza with David meant first processing her lunch, and this required privacy. Her body had reduced the food to vapors that needed expelling. Rose burped.

  She could see Mr. and Mrs. Sun through the glass doors separating the dining room from the foyer, candlelight gleaming on their twin wine glasses.

  In the den, David watched television while tipping a slice of pizza toward his mouth.

  “Do your parents like me?” Rose asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want them to?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “I don’t either.”

  She settled back, careful not to touch David’s shoulder. On-screen, a helicopter exploded.

  “You know, you don’t have to do everything I do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you don’t have to just think what I think.”

  “Don’t you want me to agree with you?”

  “Well, yeah but . . .” He scowled, thinking. “Look, you want me to like you, right?”

  Rose bounced on her cushion. “Oh, yes! More than anything.”

  “OK. Then I’d like you to act normal. And normal people think their own thoughts. They don’t always just agree with each other.”

  Rose nodded. “How often would you like me to disagree?”

  David let out a long, slow breath. “OK, think of it like this.” He scooped a handful of jelly beans from the bowl on the table. Some were sour, and some were sweet. “Try one of each.”

  Rose popped one, then the other into her mouth.

  “Now. Which tastes better?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I like the sweet ones better.”

  “Sweeter is better.”

  “Are you just saying that because I said it?”

  “Yes.”

  David sighed.

  “Well, I just decided I like the sour better. So now we disagree.”

  “All right,” said Rose. “Sour is better.”

  David pulled at his hair. “Jesus!”

  “I’m sorry! I’ll try again.�
�� She selected a sour jelly bean. It was unpleasant. Disagreement was unpleasant. David liked disagreement. So . . . “I’ve decided I do like sour better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  David grinned. “Awesome. See? You prefer sour, and I prefer sweet. It’s a difference of opinion.”

  “And that’s what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  She offered the bowl to David. He took a handful and dropped them into his mouth. “I like you.”

  “I like you, too.” She adjusted herself so their shoulders were touching. “You can put your arm around me now, if you want.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He draped an arm around her shoulder, and Rose settled into the crook of his body, the bowl balanced expertly on her knee.

  The next morning David met Artie in the parking lot.

  “What are you so smiley about?” Artie asked.

  David locked the handlebars of his motorbike and lowered the kickstand. “I don’t know. Just in a good mood, I guess.”

  David was in a very good mood. Thoughts of Rose danced in his head. It wasn’t like dating a new girl (he couldn’t show her off), and it wasn’t like getting a new bike or car (he couldn’t bring her to school). It was something new, something private, and he liked it.

  David wondered what Rose was doing. She was probably in the guest room his mom had set up for her. Rose “recharged” for six hours a night. But what about during the school day? Maybe she’d read magazines or surf the Web. Or maybe she’d just stare at the wall, like a laptop on hibernate. When he left, she’d said, “I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

  Boys in pigeon-gray jackets flocked toward the front doors, past the abstract statute of Saint Sebastian on the lawn — a ten-foot-tall lead pipe intersected by a hundred metal rods. Someone had tied a red-tipped necktie to the top, and it snapped in the wind.

  “You coming tonight?” Artie asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll be by later.”

  Artie glanced over his shoulder. He had a way of looking guilty even when he’d done nothing wrong. “Whose turn to bring beer?”

  “Clay’s,” David said, stuffing a pack of minidrives into his pocket.

  “We have an assembly today about the suicide vid thing,” Artie said. “I’m all paranoid since your dad called you out. I wiped my browser history like ten times after that.”

  The smile dropped from David’s face. “Yeah, well. Let’s not talk about that, OK?”

  “Why’re you all weird about it?”

  David slammed his locker and spun the lock. “I’m not weird. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  Artie shrugged.

  At noon the auditorium doors opened and grades nine through twelve of Saint Mary’s filed in. The girls sat in alphabetical order on the left side — standard practice for coassemblies. The boys’ side was empty, inspiring general disappointment. Onstage the faculty sat in folding chairs, hands folded. Mr. Branch, the janitor, struggled with a tangle in the stage rigging. He glanced into the rafters and jostled the line to no avail. Seeing that the girls were seated, he shrugged and shuffled off.

  Headmistress Droit, fresh eyeliner beneath her red eyes, tapped the podium microphone. Feedback squealed. The girls covered their ears.

  “Ladies, quiet, please. In the back, Ms. Pigeon. Eyes open. There is no napping during assemblies.” She cleared her throat and glanced at her notes. “As you all know, last week a great tragedy befell our school. You read the details in the letter sent to your homes on Monday. In a moment, the boys will arrive and our new student counselor, Mr. Rogers . . . excuse me, Dr. Rogers . . . will speak. But first, I want to address you, Nora’s classmates, about this terrible event.”

  She switched index cards.

  “I was approached by a number of girls about a memorial.” The girls looked at each other, wondering who. “In that spirit, our art teacher, Mrs. S., has thoughtfully arranged a moving tribute. Please look under your seats.”

  Each girl found a small envelope. Inside was a note in elegant script and a heavy metal pin, painted to look like a red robin.

  “‘To show our solidarity with the Vogel family,’” the headmistress read aloud, “‘we ask that you wear these brooches in memory of our dear Nora. These little birds shall not fly away but shall remain forever pinned’”— she frowned at the card, then flipped it over —“‘to our hearts.’”

  There was weak applause. A girl in the front row stuck the brooch to her blouse, sagging the material and exposing her bra strap. She rolled her eyes, unclasped the pin, dropped it into her purse, and zipped the bag shut.

  “And now,” the headmistress continued, putting away her notes, “I would like to invite you to share your memories. . . .”

  Just then the rear doors burst open, revealing Mr. Gauche, headmaster of Saint Seb’s, followed by four hundred shoving, chattering, gray-jacketed boys in loose formation. The headmaster was shouting, “Gentlemen, quiet. Quiet, damn it! So help me, I’ll put you through that wall, Stubbs. Luther! Is that gum?”

  The girls twisted around, straining to spot their favorites. The boys, sifting into alphabetical order, flocked to their seats across the aisle, almost, but not quite, close enough to touch. This was the pattern of every coassembly for as long as they’d been in high school: David Sun sat across from Vonis Summer, who was thrilled to sit so close to the hottest sophomore; a few rows back, Charlie was similarly paired with obese Cynthia Nuun; and in the last row, Wallace Watts leered at the shiny legs of his cousin Willow, who did her best to ignore him.

  Somewhere in the middle Charlie spotted Paul Lampwick’s pinched shoulders. He glanced at the corresponding section of girls and jumped to see a pair of black irises staring back. The heavy lashes blinked twice before Rebecca looked away, her ponytail swinging. Charlie stared at his feet.

  Gauche took over the podium. In the chaos, Mr. Branch tried again with the rigging, and both men stared anxiously up. Finally Gauche waved him off. “Now,” boomed the headmaster, who never used a microphone, “this is a difficult, sad time. I’m sure you’re all feeling a mix of unusual emotions. Confusion, anger, uncertainty, rage, or even . . . unsureness.” Unlike Droit, Gauche winged speeches. “You may want someone to talk to. Unfortunately, our former counselor, Dr. Lightly, has retired.”

  “Probably feels guilty,” someone hissed.

  “But to replace her, we have a gentleman who has counseled students across New England, most recently at Saint John’s in Shrewsbury, and also in the Worcester public school system. When he heard of our tragic loss, he offered to abandon his freelance work and take a position as our full-time student counselor. He is a pioneering researcher of Teen Disassociative Disorder, which likely played a role in the tragic passing of Ms. Vogel, who, I understand, was a . . . uh, tragic actress. Dr. Roger?”

  Dr. Roger rose, shook Gauche’s hand, and took the podium. He smiled sadly, looking out over the crowd.

  “My name is Dr. Roger. Some of you have met with me already, and I hope to meet with each of you in time. For now, though, one question: how are you today?”

  Silence.

  “No, I mean it: how are you today?”

  The students looked left and right uncertainly.

  “Tell me. How are you?

  Twelve hundred voices said, “Fine.”

  “That’s the easy answer,” said Dr. Roger. “But I want you to reach for the hard answer, which is how you really feel, down inside.”

  After that, no one paid attention. Cell phones were smuggled out for texting, notes were passed, come-ons mouthed. Couples with aisle seats (there were four) ached to reach across and brush fingers. The less datable slipped in earbuds or stared at their hands. Charlie felt something strike his shoulder and looked back to see Artie Stubb holding a rubber band and grinning. Charlie retrieved the flung paper clip and fiddled with it.

  When the students were dismissed, ever
yone rushed to the center aisle, chatting, laughing, making plans. A freshman squealed and batted a hand away from her backside. Charlie was in no rush to return to class and lingered. He saw Rebecca make her way out, flanked by two juniors. They were intercepted by Mr. Throat, the history teacher, who put a fatherly hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. She laughed, shrugged, and ducked away, suddenly reversing directions and heading for the back door.

  Her eyes met Charlie’s. Her grin had vanished, and for some reason she looked flushed and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say he wasn’t sure what, but she hurried toward the stage, where Mr. Branch had finally loosened the rigging. She glanced once back at Charlie, her face burning scarlet, and exited to the parking lot.

  The closing door echoed in the now-empty room. Charlie was alone, clutching the paper clip. He threw it. The clip went wild, bouncing off the podium. As if in reply, something popped, a length of rope went hurtling up into the rafters, and with a zipping sound the five-by-ten banner of Nora Vogel’s class photo fell to the ground with a metallic crash.

  At 1:45 Paul Lampwick returned with red-rimmed eyes from his one-on-one with Dr. Roger. Charlie lumbered slowly to the guidance office, trailing his fingers along the lockers.

  “Charlie, come in.”

  Dr. Roger stood to shake hands. His palm was soft and oily. He smelled like aloe.

  “Thanks for coming down.” His tone was cheery, almost relieved. The doc shook his head. “I’ve seen so many kids today, it’s making my head spin. I feel like I should just set up a little tape recorder that says, ‘Yes, it’s perfectly normal’ over and over again.” He grinned.

  Charlie relaxed a little, settling into his chair.

  “So, what’s up?” Dr. Roger asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Everything fine?”

  “Completely fine.”

  Dr. Roger raised his eyebrows. “Good! I’m glad to hear it.” He flipped through Charlie’s file. “Your classmates had some nice things to say about you.”

  Charlie blinked. “Um, I’m Charlie Nuvola.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I think you’re confused. My name.” Charlie pointed to the file. “It’s Charlie Nuvola.”