The Obsoletes

by Simeon Mills

  In front of the room, Brandon had suddenly transformed into a comedian as he described where robots’ central processors were located. “Their heads are empty!” he explained. “And their brains are in their butts!”

  First of all, Brandon, our skulls contain an elaborate exhaust system that disposes of unwanted gases through our hair follicles. If I didn’t have my exhaust system, I would have exploded fifteen minutes after being switched on. Still funny, Brandon? As for our processors being located in our butts—and we prefer the term intergluteal chamber, thank you—surveys indicate scientists who build robots claim their best ideas originate in their bowels, not their heads—

  “Robots don’t have real moms and dads. Scientists are their parents. Scientists give them eye color, hair color, and skin color. Fat fingers, skinny fingers, whatever you want.”

  I had to concede this point to Brandon. With Mom and Dad gone, the faceless scientists of Gravy Robotics were the closest things I had to parents. Kanga was slightly luckier. He had me.

  “I mean—” Brandon said, taking a deep breath to indicate the philosophical apex of his presentation, “I would build the perfect robot. He’d be eight feet tall. He would do everything for me. He’d be the smartest robot on Earth, with a processor that could remember everything. Everybody’s phone numbers. The entire TV Guide. Everything! And he’d be nice. He’d be . . . my best friend.”

  Everyone laughed at Brandon. I did too. Rule number one in The Directions was “Do whatever the crowd is doing.” Rule number one was automatic for me now. But even so, I shouldn’t have been laughing. I should have been thanking Brandon, because his attitude toward robots was enlightened for a small midwestern town. His first instinct wasn’t to kill us, but rather to exploit us for his personal gain. That was actually progress.

  “No! I don’t mean best friend! I just mean—”

  Kanga wasn’t laughing. Kanga’s face had taken on the color of Brandon’s face: basketball orange. Kanga felt sorry for Brandon.

  “My robot would be more like a pet,” Brandon continued. “But a pet that never eats or sleeps and never dies. Okay? That’s all I have for my presentation.”

  Kanga clapped for Brandon. He was the only one who did. I couldn’t look at my brother. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed of him. It was just—his body. It was huge now. Kanga had somehow hit full-blown puberty in sixth grade, a year sooner than The Directions said robots of our model would, an event for which I had a front-row seat. Behold: the small, elbow-shaped bulge inside Kanga’s neck, his sideburns, his belly button sprouting curly black hair. We went through thirty-plus gallons of milk a week. I could hear his body elongating, his interior plastic screeching, his bolts groaning, his mouth whimpering. There were mysterious new grease stains throughout the apartment. He took forever to charge at night. Kanga would still be lying in his bed, undressed, as I threw on my backpack and yelled, “Get moving! We’re gonna be late for school!” I had to buy him his first razor and shaving cream. Then I had to teach him how to shave (The Directions, page 752).

  But who was still the boss?

  Me.

  Without his “little brother” (I stopped correcting people), Kanga would never be able to navigate this world alone. He didn’t keep the fridge stocked with milk. I did. For his own survival, my brother needed someone nearby to correct his instincts. For example: clapping for Brandon when nobody else in the room was clapping. Kanga was too old to be drawing that kind of unnecessary attention to himself. We would be having a little chat about that tonight.

  Brandon remained at the front of the room, waiting for our science teacher, Mr. Belt, to acknowledge him. Mr. Belt was reading the newspaper at his desk. “Mr. Belt?” asked Brandon. “I’m done with my presentation. Can I sit down now?”

  Mr. Belt glanced up from his newspaper. “Brandon. Your presentation? What was it about?”

  “Robots.”

  Mr. Belt tossed the paper aside and stood up. He stretched his arms. He took a moment to feel around in his pocket for a stick of gum. He popped it into his mouth and winced as he chewed it, as if the gum were a horse pill he took on doctor’s orders. Mr. Belt strolled to the front of the room. He put an arm around Brandon and leaned in close, smacking his lips as he chewed the gum. “Did you say the presentation was about robots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mention about no breathing, no eating, no sleeping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mention about drinking lots of fluids?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you cover brains in their butts, heads empty, all that?”

  “Yeah, I covered it all, Mr. Belt.”

  “Did you mention China?”

  Brandon opened his mouth. He paused.

  “China, Brandon—what did you say about China?”

  Silence.

  Mr. Belt turned to the class. “China, ladies and gentlemen, is where we get our robot parts. I’m talking about China, where you can find entire towns of robots and scientists living in peace, solving the world’s problems, and nobody can tell who is who. Don’t tell your parents I said this, but I heard the Chinese have stopped having real kids. Now, over in China, every kid under the age of four is a robot, fresh from the factory. And let’s say your goal in life is to attend college there and build robots. Good luck. You can’t read the entrance exam because the whole thing’s written in Chinese. So learn the Chinese language is my advice to your generation.”

  Three students leaned over to write China in their notes.

  “None of you have what it takes to get into those Chinese universities. The brains. Or the aptitude for Chinese, in particular. Staci, well you.” Mr. Belt pointed to Ms. Perfect, Staci Miles, captain of the freshman Cheerbirds. “Staci might have the IQ to make robots. The rest of you? Well.” Mr. Belt spit his gum in the trash. “Does anyone have any real questions about robots?”

  Someone raised a hand. It was Rye, the biggest kid in our grade, a dull mass of human tissue whose sole purpose was sports. Even during the school day Rye wore protective sports goggles. He and Mr. Belt were on close terms because Mr. Belt was coach of the freshman basketball team. “Coach,” said Rye, “my dad bought a new VCR last year, and the thing’s already busted. How come robots don’t bust like that?”

  “Here’s a wild guess. That VCR your dad bought? He didn’t buy it from China, did he?”

  “No, Coach.”

  “Pop quiz. A robot gets its arm ripped off by a bear. What happens?”

  The class just stared at Mr. Belt. Rye slowly waved his hand in the air. “To the bear, Coach? Or the robot?”

  “Who do you think, Rye? Is this a lesson about bears? I’m asking you guys, what would happen to that robot’s ripped-off arm?”

  Staci raised her hand.

  “Staci!” said Mr. Belt. “Help these boneheads out!”

  “If separated from their central processing units,” Staci explained, “appendages can perform basic functions to ensure their survival.” Even when Staci wasn’t dressed in her Cheerbirds uniform, she adorned her hair with green ribbons, reminders of her commitment to Hectorville High School. “Typical functions for a disconnected arm would be—”

  “But why do we even have robots?” Rye interrupted her. “What’s their point? My dad says it’s a waste of tax money—”

  “Rye, when we’re playing basketball out on that court, what are we trying to do out there?”

  “We’re trying to score the ball, Coach.”

  “No. What place are we trying to get in the game? Are we trying to get first place, Rye, or are we trying to get second place?”

  “Definitely first place.”

  “Then how come the USA is second place in robots? Because if second place is kosher with you, maybe you’re also fine with getting second place in World War II or the Space Race or the Olympics. See, I grew up in this country, and that means we don’t get second place in anything, ever.”

  Staci raised her hand. “We got
third place in the last Olympics. The Soviet Union got first. East Germany got second.”

  Mr. Belt stared at her. “Hey,” he said to the class. “Know what I read in a magazine last night? Robots have ticklish belly buttons. What I should do is make all of you pull up your shirts. Then I could go around and work you over with a feather, and then we’d know if we have any robots in here.”

  Suddenly, the only thing I could smell was my own belly button. That tangy, swampy reek—it was even stronger than the odor of the dead insects. No doubt everyone else in the room was smelling it too. But did they know it was me? I tried to look calm. I glanced at Kanga. His eyes were wide, his smile agape. My brother nodded his head in childish excitement. Lifting shirts and showing belly buttons sounded like a great idea to him.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” Mr. Belt clapped his hands. “How about a little extra credit? I want all of you to crumple up the notes you just took. Let’s score some points in this class. A little extra sauce on the side. You know, extra credit, like extra cheese, or . . . Get crumpling!”

  The boys excitedly crumpled their mostly empty notes. Staci took a mournful look at the extensive, delicately organized notes she’d just taken. She crumpled them slowly. Gently. Careful not to hurt the words. Staci crumpled her notes into a tight, organized ball.

  Mr. Belt held a trash can. “Everybody line up over there. You get one shot. Don’t waste it. If you make your shot, it’s extra credit for you. Miss it? Nothing.” Mr. Belt set the trash can on a desk. “I said stand back there, behind that chemical burn on the floor.”

  The class took turns shooting. The line was too far back. Nobody could make it. Most shots wobbled through the air and fell five feet short of the can. Only the students who had tightened their wads of paper into hard pellets seemed to have a chance. Staci Miles’s shot pinged against the rim of the trash can. The class let out a frustrated grunt.

  It was my turn. My notes were a boulder. My arm was a catapult. My processor had analyzed four hundred various trajectories, and I had a diagram of the winning arc on the surface of my eyeballs. I’d factored in air density. Light particles could have an effect, but—

  “Darryl, relax your face. Get shooting.”

  My notes fell seven feet short of the can.

  “Foot fault. Wouldn’t have counted anyway. Next!”

  Nobody got the extra credit. The floor was covered with paper balls. Mr. Belt wondered aloud about the state of physical education in America. He said he hoped we learned something today. Then he said, “Wait.” He pointed toward Kanga, standing near the terrarium. “Kanga!” he said. “By Jesus, take your shot. Make it count. This is for everything.”

  Kanga tapped the terrarium, but Stickzilla, the class walking stick, appeared to be sleeping. My brother gave her a long, jealous look before answering Mr. Belt. “My notes?”

  “Your notes, Kanga. Extra credit!”

  “I threw them in a different trash can.”

  Mr. Belt was appalled. Violated. It was as though Kanga had managed to steal all the extra credit for himself while Mr. Belt wasn’t looking. “More science presentations tomorrow!” he barked. “Starting with Kanga here. What is your topic, Kanga?”

  “Mr. Belt—” I interjected. “Kanga is paired with me. Our presentation is on the principle of flight.”

  “Group presentation, huh?” Mr. Belt spat the words. “We’ll see about that.” He took a step toward his desk, his shoe crunching a ball of notes. “Brandon! Clean up your project!”

  The bell rang.

  Kanga whispered good-bye to Stickzilla. Perhaps as a sign of maturity, he refrained from inserting her into his mouth. She was a living remnant of our insect collections from a month ago. Mr. Belt had approached that science project with gusto, laughing and performing little dances as he taught us to kill, mount, and label those fascinating everyday creatures. He had been so impressed by Staci Miles’s collection, he’d hung it on the wall with other exemplars from years past. After the insect unit, however, Mr. Belt’s enthusiasm for science withered like a stag beetle in a vial of nail polish remover. Since then we’d done nothing but independent research projects while Mr. Belt read the sports page at the back of the room. Why he’d allowed Stickzilla, alone, to remain alive was a mystery.

  3

  WHAT DID HUMAN KIDS THINK about all day? What thoughts breezed through those bloody, carefree brains, instead of the millions of tiny calculations I performed pretending to be something I wasn’t? When people were just themselves, what was left to think about?

  I could’ve asked my brother.

  But I already knew what he would’ve said: Nothing. And then I’d have to wonder what that felt like, which would be just one more calculation, one more wrinkle in my forehead, while Kanga stared off into the distance, looking effortlessly human.

  • • •

  Behind Hectorville High School sat an enormous grassy hill, topped by a single birch tree. Rumor had it the hill was man-made, a collection of leftover dirt from our school’s creation many years ago. Perhaps a more daring pair of brothers would have ridden their bikes up and over the hill to get home. I forbade it. Why draw such unnecessary attention to ourselves, pedaling like fools up that incline—only to fly down the backside of the hill, straight into Culver’s Creek? Sensibly, I led us around the hill as we biked toward our apartment building.

  It was a cool November afternoon, weather that reminded the mom in me to remind Kanga to wear long sleeves to school tomorrow, like the humans would be wearing. Not that I could afford to dress him in the latest styles. No neon-colored windbreaker for Kanga. No low-cut V-neck sweater with clashing turtleneck. Kanga would have on his thick, oversize white sweatshirt from the Salvation Army, and I’d be wearing one too.

  A carload of girls drove past us, its radio blaring the most popular song of the day, the girls inside straining their larynxes to hit the high notes along with their favorite singer. I was familiar with the song. But, to me, the singer sounded like an insecure robot, overinsisting she was human because she was “feeling emotions,” only to undermine her whole argument at the end of the song by showing off her vocal register, which could go as high as a whistle. No human could do that. Or maybe her “emotions” caused her to sing that way. I didn’t know.

  We rode past the town basketball court, where a young boy was practicing alone. He was shooting free throws, talking to himself the whole time. Was this boy even aware of all the people watching him from their cars, from the surrounding houses, scrutinizing his every move? He lined up a free throw. Brick. I wouldn’t be caught dead on a public basketball court. Not until I had mastered the game.

  The grass in people’s front yards this afternoon had an extra tint of purple to it. I hadn’t seen grass like that since I was twelve, when I’d had my eyeballs replaced with a new pair sent from Gravy Robotics. It was exhilarating to receive a package from Detroit. We never knew what to expect. Sometimes it was replacement hardware for our bodies; sometimes it was a useful object to help us blend in with the human kids. Our bikes, for instance, arrived in two big boxes when we were nine. Sweet BMXs, the envy of every other kid in the building. Mine still worked perfectly, though Kanga had outgrown his BMX last year, so Gravy sent him a new ten-speed. One huge box. But a smaller package had arrived for me too. My present. Somehow Gravy had known exactly what I’d wanted: an RCA Pro Edit camcorder. It was the most high-tech piece of electronics in our apartment. Besides me and Kanga, of course.

  We glided our bikes past the sign for our apartment building, Shimmering Terraces, curved them through the parking lot, ran them across Mr. Renault’s patio (he lived in the apartment directly below us), and chained them up to the maintenance shed. The very idea of a science project made my joints ache. But an A was imminent. Three months in Mr. Belt’s class had armed me with enough peripheral details of our teacher’s life to shoot a bull’s-eye on each video presentation henceforth. The “science” aspect on these reports was secondary. More important was t
o include Mr. Belt’s favorite leisure activities in the presentation. A no-brainer: basketball. All we had to do was toss one into the frame while I recorded.

  Holding the ball was the perfect job for Kanga. It was customary for my brother to deliver a modest introduction (written by me) for each video presentation, which magically allowed him to take half credit for everything that followed. I instructed Kanga to wait on the sidewalk while I went up to our apartment to retrieve my two most treasured possessions: my basketball and my camcorder. Having Kanga wait outside was strategic. If I allowed him inside for even a moment, the TV would kidnap him until midnight. Necessity dictated that the introduction be shot as quickly as possible, right on the sidewalk; then Kanga could do whatever he wanted.

  Motherhood is a thankless, humbling occupation.

  I should have been the one holding the basketball. I was the basketball kid. But did I trust Kanga to operate my camcorder? Never.

  I tossed him the ball. “Just hold it with your hands on the sides, okay? It’s called the triple-threat position, and it’ll really impress Mr. Belt.”

  Kanga looked back and forth between the basketball and the camcorder, confused.

  “You’re holding the ball for the introduction,” I said. “If you could try not to drop it while saying the words, that would be— Kanga? Where are you going? Not inside! Not the TV!”

  This was not unusual. Regardless of his standard lethargy, Kanga could have unexpected bursts of willfulness. But I knew better than to pull rank and demand he stay outside, because he just wouldn’t. I had to wait for him.

  Luckily, patience was a skill I had learned from Mom.

  The trick was to find a happy memory in your processor and replay it over and over, keeping your joints loose by rocking in place. I found one: the 1988 Olympic basketball game between the USA and China in Seoul, South Korea. I’d been watching it from our couch, when the play-by-play announcer shocked everyone—including himself—by declaring that a robot was about to take the court for China.