by Simeon Mills
“Yeah,” said James.
I hadn’t made a batch of tacos since winter break, but I found some gray chuck at the back of the refrigerator. It was a month and a half old. I peeled away the pink cellophane, then held the meat above the sink with both hands and shook away the gray slime. I knew I would have to add twice the seasoning to mask its sweet stink. But when I had the meat cooking on high in the microwave, I heard James say, “That shit smells good!”
In the cupboard, I located a plastic bag with several white tortillas. They used to be white. They’d since flowered with green mold. I peeled off the worst tortillas from the top and bottom. The middle two would have to work. Besides, once they were covered with taco meat, James would never see the fuzzy green patches. I hoped.
I brought his plate of tacos to the couch. Mom would have cringed to see him eating outside the kitchenette.
“Where’s the cheese?” asked James.
“Cheese?”
“And the hot sauce.”
I shrugged, and Kanga scowled at me, as if it were my fault we had neither of these items.
“Whatever,” said James. He lifted a taco to his mouth.
Humans chew more than robots, but even so, James took his time with his first mouthful of my tacos. He finally swallowed and choked out the question, “Did you even cook these tortillas?”
“A little bit,” I lied.
“They’re stale as hell.” He dumped the meat from the tortillas into a mound on the middle of his plate then set the discarded tortillas on a couch cushion. James used his fingers to pinch the steaming meat and lift it quickly to his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, and swallowed the meat without even chewing. “Oh, yeah.”
Something dawned on me: Eventually all humans need to use the bathroom. I hadn’t even peeked at ours in the last few days. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and slipped into the bathroom, and—yikes. Kanga’s grease was everywhere. On the sink, the mirror, the floor, the toilet seat. I wiped it all up and tossed the greasy paper towels in the wastebasket, only to notice further incriminating evidence in there: our used food receptacles. How would I explain these crusty, soiled tubes to James? Or worse, how would Kanga explain them? I grabbed the entire wastebasket and tossed it in our hallway closet. How was that for adaptation, Mr. Virgil?
When I returned to the living room, I saw James had cleaned his first plate of taco meat, so I brought him another, including a fork. He wiped his fingers on his shorts, and then used the fork to shovel the meat into his mouth. Our guest didn’t seem to notice that neither Kanga nor I were eating any tacos ourselves, so riveting was the All-Star Game. James set his empty plate on the floor and leaned closer to the TV.
“Johnson!” said the announcer. “Two in a row for Magic! Going for the MVP!”
I’d been so consumed by my hosting duties, I’d failed to notice that Magic Johnson was alive, that he was playing in the All-Star Game, racking up assists from all parts of the court and playing lockdown defense on Isiah Thomas and Michael Jordan. Nobody could get past Magic. He canned another three-pointer in the closing seconds. He was the MVP. Every player on the court waited patiently to hug the man—Isiah looked like he might even kiss him. Everybody had forgotten that Magic should be dead.
James grabbed his stomach. “Uhhh,” he said, and it was unclear whether the sight of Magic Johnson had caused his body to convulse or if it was the tacos. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Kanga pointed down the hallway, and James staggered off. You’re welcome for cleaning, brother.
He had scarcely acknowledged my presence all weekend, ever since I’d lied to him about Mom. But now, having shared this unexpected moment—Magic reaching through the TV screen, wrapping his sweaty arms around us, saying, “Come on now, boys!”—I felt a desperate urgency to reconnect with Kanga.
“Mrs. Stover must be jumping around her house right now,” I said. “Remember her? Our bus driver from fourth grade? She loved Magic Johnson.” I hoped his face would break goofy, showing a trace of the carefree fourth grader he used to be.
There it was. His nostrils. For a brief moment, his nostrils smiled.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Was she a robot?”
Kanga appeared to be considering this when James returned from the bathroom. “What the hell is this thing?” He held up The Directions.
No.
It couldn’t be my fault. I’d run the numbers. Our discovery—and subsequent destruction—was supposed to be because of Kanga. I’d always taken a cynical pride in the 97.7 percent likelihood that he’d be the one who would eventually screw things up for us, not me. I was the good robot. It was my job to save us. No more. I’d left The Directions sitting on Mom and Dad’s bed, practically begging James Botty to peek inside their room and find it. It was my fault. It was my fault alone.
I closed my eyes, but the sight was already burned into my processor: James Botty’s taco-stained fingers gripping my cherished tome. The book was open to a diagram for adding grease to your knee joint. “Directions?” he said. “Directions to what? Torturing yourself?”
“Ask Darryl,” Kanga said, barely concealing his rage. “It’s his.”
“No! It’s . . . from the library.”
James looked at the book’s spine, where a Dewey Decimal number should have been located. There was none.
“It’s a special library book,” I said. “Not on the shelves. I ordered it from Michigan State’s library. They keep books like this locked away. You have to ask for it. I borrowed it because . . . because I want to build robots someday.”
As I said the word robot, I heard it. The crackle. The sound our classmates had spontaneously produced on the bus in fourth grade, the sound that had connected them, that had urged James Botty’s destruction of Molly Seed. But today’s crackle belonged only to him. It was a scared sound. The buzz of a single, panicked fly. James squinted at Kanga. “Know what I thought when I saw this book? I thought, maybe Kanga and Darryl are one of them—”
“We’re not!” I blurted. “Robots, we’re not. Honest.”
“But then I thought, nah. I know these guys. I’ve known them my whole life. They’re my friends. If these two guys are robots, then anybody might be one. Shit, if these guys are robots, that means they’ve been lying to me this whole time. Playing me for a fool. So here’s your chance to tell me straight. Are you guys robots?”
“No,” I said. “We’re not robots, James. I’m sorry you got that idea from that stupid—”
“How about you, Kanga?” James wanted my brother’s answer, not mine. “I won’t be mad if you say yes. I just want you to be honest with me.” The crackle wavered for the briefest of moments, and James Botty almost looked like a friend. “Are you a robot, Kanga?”
Don’t trust him.
“I hate robots,” said Kanga. He was glaring at The Directions. “And I hate that book. And I hate my stupid brother for bringing it into our apartment.”
James laughed, and the crackle disappeared. “I hate library books too.” He let go of The Directions, letting it crack against the floor. “I don’t trust them. Because who knows what kind of psycho was touching them before me? Somebody with AIDS, probably.”
“Probably,” said Kanga.
I left The Directions where it lay, not daring to pick it up until James left the apartment, which wasn’t for another hour and a half. I washed the dishes, scrubbing them over and over, while James and Kanga sat on the couch and watched Life Goes On, a TV show I was certain Kanga had never seen but pretended to find riveting because James liked it. After the show, James stepped on The Directions as he walked to the door, pretending he didn’t see it. But he stopped just before leaving. He turned to Kanga. “Man, I believe you about not being a robot and all, but your shoes. Those Cons?” James shook his head. “That robot in China wears those shoes. You gotta get rid of them, Kanga. As your friend, I don’t want anybody else to get the wrong idea about you.”
Kanga squeaked out a laugh. “I always
hated these shoes.”
“Right,” said James, but he kept looking at Kanga until my brother leaned over and unlaced the shoes, carefully, as he always did, and removed them from his feet. He walked to the kitchenette trash can and dropped them inside.
James smiled. “We’ll steal you some Nikes next weekend.” Then he was gone.
I immediately retrieved The Directions from the floor, inspecting it for damage. Some of the pages were crinkled, others stained with orange taco juice, but, surprisingly, nothing was torn. But wait. Were my tactile sensors overloaded, or did The Directions feel one page lighter? In a panic, I began riffling through the book, searching for any clue that James had compromised it. Because if he’d taken a page, I needed to know which one. That was the whole question. Once I had that figured out, I could make sure Kanga and I did the opposite of whatever that page was instructing us to do. Then we wouldn’t appear like robots to James and the Ceiling Fan. Then we—
Kanga grabbed The Directions from my hands.
“No—”
But it was too late. He was walking out the apartment door in his socks. I could tell by the purpose in his gait there was no sense in pleading with him. I followed.
It was pitch-black outside. He led me to the burn pit in the grass near the maintenance shed, where the handyman occasionally did away with fall leaves. He worked in the darkness, but I heard Kanga ripping out a handful of pages and wadding them up. “I should let you do the honors,” he said to me, but he lit the match himself. Once all of the crumpled pages were lit, he lay The Directions on top. Kanga then stood up, folded his arms against his chest, and watched as the orange flame began to eat the book.
But the fire started to die before The Directions could fully be devoured, so my brother pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. My drawing of Brooke Noon. Without looking at the image of her foot, Kanga leaned down and used the drawing, half-folded, to fan the fire.
The flame crackled back to life.
Then he put the drawing—folded, but unburned—back in his pocket. He wasn’t going to destroy everything I cared about. Not yet.
He straightened up, eyes transfixed by the flame. His socks were brown and soaked up to his ankles, but pleasure hid behind the muted expression on his face. I’d never witnessed a robot act so perfectly human: just a man standing in the dark, watching the fire he’d created. What a crime he was wasting this performance on me, the one person who knew exactly what he was.
• • •
I had the contents of the book memorized, each and every word, which meant, technically, the physical object of The Directions was obsolete. It shouldn’t matter that it had been transformed into ash particles now spiraling into the heavens. And maybe it was a good thing the book was destroyed, now that James knew about it. Less incriminating evidence in the apartment. However, page 940 explained that “Sentimental attachment to oft-used items is a natural by-product of human assimilation” and a sign of a “healthy processor.”
So I guess I was just feeling “healthy” Monday morning at school as I watched Kanga curl eight pieces of tape to attach my drawing to the inside of our locker door. My signature had been removed with scissors. The name Kanga had been added. Someone was staring at the drawing too. It was Toni, one of the girls who shared a locker beside ours.
“Did you do that?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Kanga.
“I mean, what is it?”
“A person.”
“Oh. Yeah. I knew that.” She leaned in close to my drawing, smirking at it. Then she grabbed a perfume bottle and gave herself four long spritzes. “Jeez,” she said. “I hate school.”
Later that morning I was waiting for Kanga to gather his books from our locker so I could grab my own when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. It was Andres from the basketball team. A benchwarmer.
“Is that yours?” Andres asked.
“Yes,” said Kanga. “I did it in art class.”
“That looks pretty easy. I could do that if I wanted. Just a few lines.” Then Andres added his favorite word, “Doorknob!”
Then, before lunch, Mr. Belt was walking through the hallway, swinging his arms, winking at people he knew. He veered toward our locker.
“Somebody tells me you did something, Kanga. Some art. Andres says you’re an artiste. Well. You have to start somewhere. One drawing is better than none, I always say. ‘To have an artistic mind,’ you hear from people. Well. Don’t quit your day job, at least. I can’t draw a straight line. When I draw two parallel lines the end product looks like a sexy woman.” Mr. Belt winked at Kanga. “Whatever that means.”
In the passing period before art class, Kanga had our locker open and was staring at Brooke’s foot. The Spanish teacher snuck up behind him and touched his neck. “An athlete and an artist,” she whispered. Señora Something. As far as I knew, she’d never spoken to my brother before that moment, but her touch seemed to jar Kanga to action. He immediately unfixed the drawing and carried it down the hallway.
I followed at a distance as Kanga approached Brooke’s locker. The bell was about to ring. Students were sprinting to get to sixth period on time. The hallway was deserted when Brooke emerged from the girls’ bathroom. Kanga stood blocking her locker.
“Move,” said Brooke.
“This is for you.”
“Move.”
Kanga held out the drawing. “This is for you, Brooke.”
Brooke grabbed my drawing and held it an inch from her face. She began walking in place, examining the picture as she went nowhere. “Are you giving me this for free?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have to pay anything for it?”
“No.”
The bell rang. They were completely alone in the hallway—except for me, who was peeking at them from the doorway of the boys’ bathroom.
“That’s stupid,” said Brooke, “just giving something away for free. This is art. It’s worth something. Did you make it?”
“Yes. And now you’re going to do something with me.”
“No!” Brooke was breathing heavily. “It’s not called giving if you expect something in return! So move. Move.”
“You have a bike,” Kanga said. “I want to go on a bike ride with you.”
“I don’t have a bike!”
“Yes, you do,” said Kanga. “Your bike is pink with white letters.”
My processor identified Kanga’s strategy for his interaction with Brooke: he had become our sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Farnsworth, the only teacher in history who had actually enjoyed Brooke in her classroom and who could, more astoundingly, persuade Brooke to comply with school regulations. A quick video analysis of Mrs. Farnsworth revealed that she had never raised her voice at Brooke, never asked Brooke a question, but only gave simple instructions, one at a time, and never stared directly in her eyes, though she always leaned toward Brooke with her forehead bowed, her face blank.
“Go on a bike ride with me,” said Kanga. “It will happen in thirty seconds.”
“Sixth period is art class,” said Brooke. “Thank you for the gift, but I have art sixth period.”
I’d never heard Brooke say “thank you” in my life. Kanga was getting to her.
He said, “Go on a bike ride with me.”
“No.”
“Make your decision. The bike ride starts now.” Kanga turned and began walking to the school exit.
I could hear the hum of Kanga’s processor as it ran the numbers, calculating how much of a long shot it was that Brooke would follow him. But Kanga stayed true to his method. The numbers must have told him not to look back. He didn’t. He kept walking and pushed through the exit.
Brooke took a tender look at my drawing. Gently, she set it inside her locker. Then she worked her arms into her coat. She strung her clarinet case over her shoulder. She chased after Kanga, letting the exit door slam behind her . . .
I was beyond asking questions like Doesn’t he understand how much I love her?
and How could he do this? The answers were Yes and Easily. The real questions—as my processor replayed Kanga setting The Directions aflame—were: Are you just going to stand here like a wussy? Or are you going to get out there and stop him?
17
HAIR FRIZZING OUT THE BACK of her enormous bike helmet, Brooke sped past Kanga. She swerved through the school parking lot and onto the road. If only a teacher had glanced out a window, this abduction would have been stopped. I stood beside my bike, watching Kanga and Brooke get smaller and smaller.
Just before they vanished, I began to follow them.
Brooke led the way, steering us toward the center of Hectorville. I’d imagined them going in the opposite direction, to the countryside, which had fewer people to call the police about a pair of kids not being in school—or whatever Kanga had planned for Brooke. It was a mild afternoon, with the occasional roadside snowdrift to remind us it was February. Two birds spoke to each other from different trees. I watched Brooke’s shoes rise and fall as she pedaled standing up, her calf muscles hardened in her white leggings. She had left Kanga far behind. She skidded to a stop and yelled, “You suck at riding bikes!”
Kanga took his time catching up. “Maybe I do.”
“No. You do.” She grinned. “I’m fast, and you suck.”
They were looking down at the same patch of asphalt between them, sharing it, as if it were reflecting their faces up at each other. I was a hundred yards back, hiding behind a bush, all my battery power shunted to my audio processors. The key to being a spy was following your target at a distance, sprinting between areas of cover. When they finally resumed, Kanga pushed off first, followed by Brooke. I pedaled up to a truck, then a tree, keeping my ears on them, keeping my body out of sight. They rode together at a steady pace, passing Hectorville Funeral Parlor. Brooke said, “I’ll bet you five hundred bucks . . .”
Kanga waited for her to finish. She didn’t. He said, “Okay.”
“Forget it! No deal!”
Up the road was a church of some denomination. Kanga and I had ridden our bikes past this church every day on our way to school, but I had never read the name on the church. I just knew it was a church because it had a steep roof, a cross, colored windows, and a giant parking lot. I was riding my bike too close to them. The crackling of their tires was nearly as loud as mine, so I let more distance go between us. Brooke wobbled on her bike. She was staring off into space and barely missed a parked car.