The Obsoletes

by Simeon Mills

  “No.”

  “Darryl, we have to—”

  “We don’t have ‘back ways’ that work like that.” I grabbed the hanger and returned it to our locker. “You’ll be fine, Kanga. Just think about something else. Think about Staci.”

  “Not her! I can’t be around girls right now. You have to protect me. Especially from Brooke. In art class. Distract her. Do whatever it takes.”

  “Protect you from your girlfriend, you mean?”

  “Yes. Keep Brooke away from me.”

  He disgusted me. Everything had to be about him. He didn’t care about me. He never had. But now, suddenly, I was in the position of power. I couldn’t resist. My brother was going to listen, for once. He was going to show me the respect I’d earned. “I will help you, Kanga. But you better understand that Brooke was my girlfriend first. Got it? Maybe she went on a bike ride with you. Maybe she invited you over to dinner. But she chose me over you. She’s my girlfriend now, and she doesn’t want anything to do with you. Keeping her out of your sight will be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” My voice was quivering. “Got it?”

  “Thanks, brother.” He gave me a weak smile. He didn’t care about Brooke either. “You’re the best.”

  • • •

  In the art room, I went straight to Brooke’s table. I sat down across from her. I whispered: “I’m so sorry about what your mom did to you in kindergarten, Brooke.”

  She just stared at me. “Did you even read it?”

  “I read it dozens of times. That walk to school. Your mom letting go of your hand like that. You must have felt so alone.” I reached across the table with my new hand and touched hers. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

  Brooke pulled her hand away and pounded mine with her fist—causing my palm to make a rubber-duck sound against the table. “Sometimes I wonder how you passed kindergarten. That walk to school was the best day of my life. For once, my mom let me go. That was the one time she believed in me, Darryl. The one time she trusted me. And that’s what you have to do for him.”

  “Who?”

  She kicked me under the table. “Your brother. Let him go. He’s not coming with us.”

  “Where?”

  She kicked me under the table.

  “Memphis?” I asked.

  “Quiet!” She leaned her face close to mine. “Nobody can know where we’re going.”

  My fan clicked on. We were actually going.

  “I’ll meet you tonight outside your apartment building. When will your brother’s stupid game be over?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “Be ready to leave at seven thirty. We’ll bike to the bus station. The bus to Memphis leaves at eight fifteen. Don’t ruin this, Darryl.” She kicked me one last time for good measure. “Don’t tell Kanga a single word.”

  I almost told her some words: I love you, Brooke. I almost climbed onto the table and grabbed a handful of her greasy hair and kissed her on the mouth. But I didn’t. I would save that for Memphis.

  Near the end of our last-ever art class, Principal Moyle cleared her throat on the intercom and made the following announcement: “GOOOOOOOOOO BIRDS! It’s almost game time, ladies and gentlemen! I know each and every student will be packed into the Cave to see KANGA LIVERY and the freshman basketball team hunt down and kill the Richardson Wolves! I’ll be there!”

  The bell rang.

  “Seven thirty,” Brooke repeated and left.

  Kanga was stuck at his art table. He appeared stunned by Principal Moyle’s announcement that there was a basketball game after school and that he was participating in it. He exhausted me. I was ready to get on with my life. But in his current state, Kanga would never win the championship for Hectorville—something, if I were being honest with myself, I actually wanted for him. For us. For the Detroit 600s. I was consumed with the impending scene of Kanga after the game, defeated and dejected, standing in our apartment wondering where I’d gone. It would look remarkably similar to when Mom and Dad disappeared, except nobody would be there to console him. He would be utterly alone.

  Wouldn’t it be easier to just call Detroit and turn him in right now?

  Kanga rose from the table and forced a smile. “I think I’m finally relaxed.” His shoulders quivered. “It was hard, but I think I’m ready. I’m focused. I’m ready to play basketball.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I assured him. But as we began making our way toward the Cave, he didn’t look fine. Kanga held his belly as he walked, taking the tiniest steps possible. I told him, “I have to use the bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  With my brother out of sight, I went straight to the main office and asked the secretary if I could use the phone. I dialed the number I knew by heart. A female voice answered robotically, prompting me to enter my serial number. “Thank you,” she intoned. “If you wish to report yourself as obsolete, press one. If you wish to report someone else, press two.”

  I stared at the number pad. The championship game had yet to be played. Was I really about to crush my brother’s last chance to live his dream? From the depths of my processor, Brooke’s voice answered: Let him go . . .

  “Nobody home?” asked the secretary.

  I hung up and headed for the Cave.

  24

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN the season’s over?” the Ceiling Fan asked Mr. Belt. The coaches were having a private discussion while the team warmed up for the game. I was eavesdropping from my spot on the bench. “We need another week of practice. The guys—they’re almost persistent. This can’t be the end!”

  “We go through this every year, Simms. It’s called the off-season,” rebutted Mr. Belt. “Also state law. These boys need time to unwind, time to get to know various other coaches and systems. Maybe they’ll get a girlfriend. Babysit a sibling. Spend time with an elderly relative or whatnot. Also, it’s the beginning of indoor golf season. Basketball practice will resume in November.”

  “I got nothing else, Belt. What am I supposed to do? All I got is these boys.”

  “You’ll keep it classy.” Mr. Belt blew his whistle, and the Birds flocked to the head coach to absorb his final instructions. Outside the huddle, the Ceiling Fan grabbed the collar of his game-day sweater and ripped it into a V-neck.

  I observed the Richardson Wolves huddle on the other side of the court. We’d played them earlier this season, a mediocre team we stomped by twenty-two, but they’d since gone through a metamorphosis. They were now the Fab Twelve, as every one of their players had adopted the baggy shorts, black shoes, and nearly shaved heads of the University of Michigan’s Fab Five. Their blue uniforms were nearly identical to Michigan’s, with “Richardson” written in maize-colored letters across the front of the jerseys, and on the shorts, the block M turned upside down to become a W for “Wolves.” But it wasn’t just the clothes. When the Richardson coach broke the huddle, the boys jawed into each other’s faces and wagged their fingers boastfully toward the Hectorville bench, as if their earlier defeat by the Birds were a game from an entirely different season. Lack of confidence would not be a problem for the Wolves.

  The bleachers were loaded with spectators. I’d seen enough games to immediately pick out the basketball fanatics from the dutiful, bored parents. I could predict who would scream the entire game and who would clap for the wrong team. That father hated all referees. That mother fantasized she was Mr. Belt. Those already sweaty adults were just in it for the Cheerbirds. Then I saw him. That anonymous father wearing a Birds T-shirt, munching from his bag of popcorn: Dr. Murphio. Of course. How could the doctor resist watching his prized creation win his first trophy? Dr. Murphio was only human.

  In the Hectorville huddle, Mr. Belt was attempting to motivate his star: “Livery. Hello? This is the championship. I’m talking about playing basketball, Kanga. Offense. God help me, defense too. Who are you guarding this afternoon?”

  “Fifty,” said Kanga. He still held the basketball he’d been warming up with, hugging it to h
is abdomen, pressing it against his innards.

  “I’ll ask the question another way. Who is Fifty? What do you know about Fifty? What makes Fifty tick?”

  “He’s . . . tall.”

  “What else do you know about him? Is he pretty?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? He’s ugly! And he hates you. See? He hates everything about you. Fifty told me he’s going to dunk your butt right out of the Cave. Does that mean anything to you? He said—”

  The buzzer sounded.

  “Starting five!” hollered Mr. Belt. “Get your shoes in position!”

  The teams took the court. Kanga kept his basketball pressed to his belly.

  The referee frowned at my brother. “I’ve got the official basketball right here, son. Toss your ball back to your coach. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Uh . . .” said Kanga, hugging the ball tighter.

  “You want to use that particular ball? Okay. One ball is as good as another.” The ref tossed the official ball to a woman at the scorers table. “Let’s have your ball, son.”

  Kanga hugged the ball.

  “Let’s have it.”

  Kanga stepped away from the referee.

  “My patience is—” The referee took hold of Kanga’s ball. He wrested it away. “Any more of this business, I won’t hesitate to boot you. Understand?”

  The game started.

  Fifty, according to the game program, was Conrad Ward. I remembered him from the last game as being completely unremarkable, though he was indeed ugly. His left eye bulged from its socket, always aimed down at the floor; his right eye stared straight ahead. As Ward stood in defensive position before my brother, his left eye appeared to be observing Kanga’s shoes, as if my brother’s stance revealed a deep and damning secret. Perhaps it did. Ward was slower and weaker than Kanga. But the new Fab Five jersey seemed to have unlocked a hidden defensive talent in Ward, a savant-like ability to guard my brother. The moment play began, Kanga could not move to a point on the court without Ward being there first. Kanga was never open. Passes thrown to Kanga (this was Mr. Belt’s entire game plan) bounced off Ward’s well-contorted arms. On the rare occasion Kanga did obtain the ball, Ward didn’t panic, but played face-up defense, abiding by a pair of fundamentals: 1) Stay between your man and the basket, and 2) The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Ward never jumped. Ward never sprinted. He just kept one eye on the floor, one eye on Kanga’s belly button, and he never let Kanga dribble past him. The first quarter ended and Kanga hadn’t even attempted a shot. Richardson led fourteen to five.

  “It’s just one quarter,” rationalized Mr. Belt in the huddle. “Last I checked we get three more. Now go out there and stick with the plan. Pass the ball to Kanga. Kanga needs the ball. But do you know what to do with the ball, Kanga?”

  Rye leaned in close to Kanga and whispered, “Do you need me to set a pick?”

  Then it was the Ceiling Fan’s turn to address Kanga. “I just don’t get it. If I live a thousand more years, I still won’t get it. I would murder any of you guys with my bare hands for another chance to play freshman ball. I would stomp you through this floor. You can’t even imagine what I would do for an opportunity to wear the green and white again. You’re a disgrace. You’re an embarrassment. If it were me out there, I would—”

  “Everybody put your hands in,” said Mr. Belt. “Come on. Reach in. Be a team. Everybody touch hands and say ‘Kanga’ on three. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . KANGA!” Mr. Belt was the only one who shouted.

  James Botty gave the Richardson huddle a long, jealous gaze, surely debating whether he should strip off his Hectorville uniform, give it to the Ceiling Fan, and ask the Richardson coach if they had an open spot on their roster—and an extra pair of those incredible shorts. He shook away the thought and took his seat on the Hectorville bench.

  The Richardson fans were emboldened by their team’s first-quarter dominance. They stood on the bleachers. They pounded their maize-and-blue chests. They swung invisible hammers at Kanga.

  “Psych Ward!” they yelled. “Psyyyyyych Waaaaaard!”

  “You’re in the Psych Ward now, Kanga Livery!”

  “Fool, you’re getting PSYCHED OUT!”

  Conrad “Psych” Ward. Kanga had never faced a player like him. This reinvented version of Psych Ward didn’t even pretend to play offense; his sole utility was stopping the ball. A lockdown defender. An eraser scooting himself down Kanga’s stat sheet. Psych Ward was Joe Dumars, the Bad Boy Piston, terrorizing Michael Jordan like a goblin sent from basketball hell.

  As the teams took the floor, a voice called out from the bleachers, so quiet and gentle I assumed nobody had heard it other than myself. But my brother turned to the voice when it asked: “Kanga, are you my son?”

  It was Dr. Murphio. Kanga raised an eyebrow in vague recognition. Are you my son? It was one of the phrases written on the diagram of Ma’s processor. But what did it have to do with Kanga? Somehow, my brother seemed to register the phrase, or, at the very least, he registered the voice that had uttered it.

  I remembered Dad’s speech about magic words. They were a verbal code that would unleash a hidden program within a robot, transforming him or her into a completely different person.

  The buzzer startled Kanga, returning his focus to the game. He untucked his jersey and scratched the pink, tormented skin of his belly. He appeared to be unfazed and unimproved by Dr. Murphio asking him Are you my son? He was the same distraught Kanga.

  In the second quarter, Psych Ward employed a host of new tricks. Sneakier tricks. Fab Five tricks. He started by leaning against Kanga and tickling my brother’s knee. Kanga dribbled off his foot.

  “Psyyyyyych Waaaaaard!”

  Next possession, Psych Ward blew air in Kanga’s face, causing him to flinch like he just walked through a spiderweb.

  “Psych! Psych! Psych! Psych!”

  He untied Kanga’s shoelace. He tugged on Kanga’s shorts. He whispered in Kanga’s ear, and Kanga stopped playing basketball to ask Psych Ward exactly when and where he’d seen our mother.

  Dr. Murphio sat in the bleachers, arms crossed, stolidly observing Kanga’s humiliation. I imagined this same look on the doctor’s face at Gravy Robotics, deciding how best to disassemble Mom and Dad. “Start with the heads, girls, and just work your way down.”

  So why was I grinning?

  Had I been grinning the entire game? What evil node in my processor made Kanga’s fall back to Earth so damn satisfying? First of all, this flounder was long overdue. It had been the plan from Kanga’s first practice, a calculated failure that would return us to our life of anonymity. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. But now that it was happening, who better to bear witness than Dr. Murphio? The only question was whether Kanga’s “father” would stick around long enough to console his “son” after the game. I was betting on no, which would leave me to play parent like I always did.

  Scratch that. I’d be in Memphis. With Brooke. (My fan clicked on.) So Kanga would have to get through that first lonely night on his own. Then all the nights for the rest of his life. He’d be fine.

  With two minutes to go in the first half, even Richardson fans were getting bored, their minds already in the Cobra Burger drive-through after the game. Mr. Belt called a time-out. He had nothing left to say to his team. He sat at the end of the bench, shuffling a deck of cards on his knees. The players stood around in a blob. The Ceiling Fan had ripped his game-day sweater farther down his chest, partially revealing his INVISIBLE SYSTEMS sweatshirt. The game was over. All that remained was the formality of letting the clock run out.

  Then Kanga sneezed.

  I’d never seen my brother sneeze before. Or any robot, for that matter. There was no mention of sneezing in The Directions, and Kanga clearly had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t sneeze like humans sneezed, allowing the pressure to escape through his mouth and drift where it may. Kanga tried to keep
the sneeze in. Its force ballooned his cheeks and bugged his eyes. It made his hair stand on end. But once he’d contained the sneeze inside his mouth, capturing all that awesome energy for himself, a smile spread across his face. He cupped a hand and spit out a small hunk of lettuce.

  Mrs. Noon’s salad.

  I imagined where the lettuce had been a moment ago, draped across his processor like a wet plastic bag, stymieing Kanga’s every thought and action. Now the thing was out of him. He studied the shapeless green bit of vegetable in his hand. The buzzer sounded, and he flicked it to the floor.

  The referee was tossing the basketball from hand to hand.

  Kanga zeroed in on the ball, watching it move. “Lánqiú,” he whispered to himself. I knew, of course, this was Mandarin for “basketball.” Lánqiú. Nobody else in the Cave had heard him—at least I hoped not. Speaking Mandarin in mid-Michigan was like speaking in binary code. It meant one thing. You were a robot.

  The ref blew the whistle. Play resumed.

  With a twenty-point lead, Psych Ward relaxed his defense on Kanga, allowing my brother to receive an uncontested inbounds pass. Kanga speed-dribbled toward the basket and easily dropped the ball through the hoop.

  “Fángyù!” Kanga hissed at his team, louder than he’d said lánqiú.

  The Birds regarded him with double shock: first, they’d just seen the old Kanga score the ball, and then—what had just come out of his mouth?

  “Fángyù!” he repeated.

  Apparently, his teammates had never heard the Mandarin word for “defense.”

  But I had. And I’d read stories in The Directions about robots who’d gotten killed for doing precisely what Kanga was doing now: speaking Mandarin for no good reason. Shut up! I wanted to scream at him. Can’t you hear yourself, Kanga? But he couldn’t. Kanga failed to register the confusion all around him because, it seemed, in his processor, he was still speaking English.