Girl Parts

by John M. Cusick

  David felt his skin grow hot. He loosed his tie.

  “I keep telling you, David. You’re not in trouble.” Dr. Roger leaned forward, his features softening. “We ask because your parents and I feel you’re too removed from real life. We’re worried you didn’t think to help that girl because you’re disassociated.”

  “Disassociated?”

  “Disconnected.”

  “I think we lost Evelyn. . . .” Mr. Sun said.

  “I’m here, George, but I can only hear your half of the conversation.”

  “OK, so I didn’t do anything,” David said. “But neither did anybody else! If there’s something wrong with me, there’s something wrong with everybody.”

  “If everyone you knew jumped off a bridge, would you too?” Dr. Roger asked.

  David had heard this before, and knew you were supposed to say no. But was that really true? If everyone jumped off a bridge, maybe there was a good reason. Maybe the bridge was on fire. If anything, the guy who didn’t jump was the crazy one.

  He crossed his arms and scowled. Mr. Sun went on about “responsibility” and Dr. Roger kept repeating “our modern age.” Finally, Dr. Roger said, “David, if I were to recommend a treatment, would you be open to trying it out?”

  “You mean like drugs?”

  “No. More like a learning tool. It’s very new, revolutionary in fact. It’s designed to help young men like yourself learn to reconnect. It will help you forge strong human relationships.”

  “I already do that,” David said. “I have mad friends.” It was true. His Friends List was the longest at Saint Seb’s.

  “I’m talking about a more substantial, empathetic connection.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Show him the catalog,” Mr. Sun said.

  Dr. Roger pulled a magazine from his desk. David flipped through the glossy pages. There was a photo of a guy and girl walking hand-in-hand into the sunset. There were graphs and charts and a schematic of intersecting lines.

  And then it hit him.

  “You’re shitting me,” David said.

  “Does he love it?” Mrs. Sun asked. “Hello? Am I still on? Oh, damn it. I think I lost them.”

  Because instant messaging was forbidden in class, the boys passed notes. Charlie’s desk was in the center, and a hub. Justin Hoek, who sat behind Derek Fini, was best friends with Sean Lafferty, who sat two seats ahead of Charlie. Justin never folded his notes, so Charlie knew what percentage of Justin’s virginity was lost from week to week. Orson Orlick, who was, according to Justin’s notes, “the biggest fag this side of Horizon Lake,” passed notes of his own to Paul Lampwick (Rebecca’s little brother), though these were folded and Charlie didn’t snoop. He’d given up trying to ignore the taps on his shoulder and now mutely passed communiqués without looking up.

  When David Sun was pulled from class, the disruption inspired a barrage of notes, clogging the pipes, so that John Thomas’s note went to Mark Curley and Mike Butkus’s note wound up with Artie Stubb, who boldly flipped Mike the bird and said across the room, “Why don’t you mind your business, fat ass?” The class’s adult moderator looked up from his newspaper and gave Artie a week’s detention.

  Orson tapped Charlie on the shoulder. He’d neglected to fold, and Charlie read without thinking: Hey, Lampwick. Do you think Nuvola banged your sister?

  Flames licked Charlie’s collar. He tore the note to pieces. An idea seized him. He scribbled a proposition, signed Orson’s initials, and passed it to Paul. The pale freckled skin of Paul’s neck turned pink. He turned, glared at Orson, and hissed, “I told you that was a one-time thing. Now leave me alone about it, fairy.”

  Tears stuck to Paul’s blond lashes, and Charlie’s snicker died in his throat. Both Paul and Orson went home early with stomach cramps.

  That night, David spent three hours on Stadium, an interactive virtual games arena. He met Artie’s avatar near the Doom Room. Artie was swinging a battle-ax at a family of terrified dwarves when David floated by.

  AxHole1992 would like to chat with you, David’s computer told him.

  SunGod2.16: hey dogg. wuz happening.

  AxHole1992: !!!did you see what I did to those dwarves!!!

  SunGod2.16: you messed up some dwarves man good job.

  AxHole1992: hells yes I did

  AxHole1992: wuzup?

  SunGod2.16: nthn much

  AxHole1992: why did u get pulled out of class? did someone in ur family die

  SunGod2.16: naw, nthn like that i basically got in trouble for that suicide vid

  AxHole1992: yeah that was some fckd sht.

  SunGod2.16: word

  AxHole1992: so r u grounded or ???

  AxHole1992: (p.s. wipe ur browser history next time, dude)

  SunGod2.16: I *DID* wipe it my dad is mad good with computers

  AxHole1992: lame

  SunGod2.16: yes

  SunGod2.16: so yeah i am basically grounded

  David didn’t want to tell Artie about the meeting. He wanted to talk about it, but couldn’t let the guys know that his parents thought he was disassociated. He didn’t want to end up like Nick Smalls.

  Nick Smalls had been part of their crew freshman year. Clay knew him through football, and he was quiet and amiable. Then something happened over Christmas break — Nick was in the hospital for a few days. It came out that he’d been in a mental institution. He’d suffered an “episode” and now had to take medication. Happy pills. The pills made Nick different, sometimes mopey and sometimes loud and obnoxious, like he was drunk. His moods were totally unpredictable.

  He’d been Clay’s friend first, and it was Clay who’d always invited Nick to hang out. When Nick stopped showing up on Fridays, Clay said, “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess he couldn’t make it.” But he said it so Artie and David knew Nick could make it but wasn’t invited. David was relieved. It was hard being around a crazy. Also, it was creepy the way Nick just went nuts. It was like he’d been struck by lightning — at random. Nick was a conductor for misfortune, and standing too close was dangerous. So nobody was friends with Nick Smalls anymore.

  AxHole1992: dude did I tell you I finally hit it with that viking chick?

  Artie was talking about a bot they’d run into last weekend. Bots were simulated avatars created by Stadium’s designers to make the site seem more popular. They were automated, without any real people controlling them.

  SunGod2.16: yeah man she was a computer sim, though

  AxHole1992: yeah but she had amazing tits

  SunGod2.16: that is the truth

  AxHole1992: so we hooked up

  AxHole1992: on the back of a DRAGON

  SunGod2.16: you are the pimp of this thing man

  AxHole1992: basically yes

  AxHole1992: hold on, let me show u the vid

  David didn’t feel like watching. He set his avatar to auto-respond and watched some television.

  David waited at the zenith of the horseshoe driveway. He was freezing, even in his leather jacket. His gloves were just inside on the hall table. The car would arrive any minute, and until then he could stuff his hands in his pockets.

  Except that he wanted to smoke. Smoking would calm him down.

  David heard a buzz as the front gates opened and an unmarked van glided up the driveway, the trees and bushes reflected in its inky surface. The driver, a slim man with glasses and wispy white hair, got out.

  “David Sun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Coleo Foridae. Sakora Solutions.”

  “Right.” David’s gaze drifted to the back of the van. “Is it in there?”

  “Could I see some ID, please?”

  David handed over his wallet. A side door opened, and two technicians in gray jumpsuits climbed out. Their uniforms had pink patches the shape of blossoms stitched to the shoulder. One of the techs opened the rear doors. Together they pulled a sleek, lozenge-shaped box onto the drive, tipping it upright so that it gleamed like a rocket. Or an egg.
Emblazoned at eye level was a pink flower — the Sakora logo.

  The driver handed David a digital signature pad. David signed, and the pad beeped.

  “So what now?” he asked, eyeing the seamless case.

  The techs climbed back in the van and the driver got behind the wheel. “Now she wakes up. Enjoy, son.” The van rumbled back up the drive.

  The Sakora logo protruded from the surface of the case like a button. David pressed it. Something hissed inside, and the panels of the box began to slide away. Steam rose from within, machinery turned and whirred, and the panels tipped outward so that now the egg was a padded pink flower blossom. The mist cleared, and she was standing there, eyes open.

  This was how Rose was born.

  When they were both five, Charlie and David asked their mothers where babies come from. Charlie’s mom folded herself into an armchair, sat Charlie on her lap, and pointed to pictures in what Charlie had always thought was a book of sea creatures. She helped him sound out the scientific names.

  David’s mother had a more whimsical answer.

  “When two people make love, a little blue fairy leaps from the daddy to the mummy, connecting them like a ribbon of light. And sometimes, the fairy leaves a baby in the mummy’s tummy.”

  Would the fairies leave any more babies in his mummy’s tummy? David wanted to know.

  “No, Davie.”

  Why not?

  “Because Daddy’s fairies are lazy.”

  She was unbelievably, unspeakably hot.

  David had taken Sakora’s online personality test — favorite movie, most embarrassing memory, even really private stuff like “How many times a day do you masturbate (on average)?” But there’d been no “Do you prefer redheads?” or “Are you a tits man or an ass man?”

  The Companion wasn’t just beautiful; she was his kind of beautiful. Tumbling red hair, pouty mouth, emerald eyes, and that small, soft body he liked. With his crew, David hollered after spindly supermodel types. But privately he liked girls round in all the right places. And this girl was round in all the right places.

  This “girl.” There was a fiberglass skeleton under that creamy skin, and a CPU behind those eyes. But she stared back at him, eyes fixed to his, lips slightly parted, as if he was the miracle of science. David was speechless.

  He stepped forward, swaying slightly. He never felt awkward in front of girls, but this was somehow different. Say something! David’s mind, faced with unfamiliar territory, became a feedback loop, asking itself over and over again what to do. None of his trusty icebreakers seemed right, and so David resorted to a default, the lamest thing imaginable: a handshake.

  Meanwhile, in Rose’s brain, nothing was that complicated.

  If David’s mind was a loop, Rose’s mind was an arrow. It pointed to David. The rest of reality, whatever didn’t fall along the length of the arrow, was insignificant.

  A satellite link connected Rose to a data bank at Sakora HQ in Japan. As her emerald eyes passed over the lawn, information queued for access. Grass. Flower pot. Stairs. Driveway. Tree. Each node was the center of its own web. Tree connecting to Green, Poplar, Seasons, Paper . . .

  This complex veil, pierced by Rose’s unwavering arrow, was a techno-semantic marvel. And yet at three minutes old, her thoughts were as simple as Dr. Roger’s red wooden bird dipping its beak into a glass of water over and over and over.

  David extended his hand. Without hesitation Rose shook it, and as she did, spoke a message:

  “Hello, David. My name is Rose. It is a pleasure to meet you. We are now entering minute two of our friendship. According to my Intimacy Clock, a handshake is now appropriate.”

  “Oh! Uh, OK. I . . .”

  “As we get to know each other, we’ll have access to more intimate forms of expression.” Here Rose cocked her hip and winked. “And I am looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  Inside Rose’s brain, *mmonroe.exe registered complete.

  David withdrew his hand. “Uh, right. Do you want to come inside?”

  “I do.”

  “OK. Head on in, and I’ll wheel your box around to the garage.”

  “OK,” said Rose.

  David watched her mount the stairs, admiring the view. She sure moved like a real girl.

  David found her in the foyer. She had taken off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. At first she seemed to be admiring the marble columns, but no. She was just standing there, staring.

  “Hey.”

  “Hello, David. It is nice to see you again.”

  “Yeah. Should you like, come up to my room, or . . . ?”

  “Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich. I’m very good at making sandwiches.”

  “Uh, sure,” David said. “Kitchen’s this way.”

  “Uh, great.”

  Near dusk, the Suns’ kitchen lit up like a hall of mirrors. Sunlight bounded off the stainless-steel range and immense Sub-Zero, so that David had to squint. Rose was unperturbed. She set to work, going directly to the meat drawer. “So, what do you like? You have salami, ham, or . . . ?”

  “Ham’s fine.”

  Rose glanced over her shoulder. “OK, sit on down, and I’ll serve you.”

  David sat at the counter, feeling like a little kid. Rose buzzed around the kitchen, pausing to ask where things were. She seemed less stiff already, more human, brushing a strand of hair from her face, licking a dab of mustard off her thumb. Even her speech was changing.

  “So, tell me about yourself.”

  David rested his chin on his arms. “What’s there to tell? I’m just a normal guy, I guess.”

  “What do you like to do?”

  “I don’t know. Watch movies. Hang out. Be awesome.”

  This last line was a joke, but Rose didn’t laugh. She sliced his sandwich and slid the plate across the counter. *bettycrocker.exe registered complete.

  “That’s interesting.” She folded her arms across the Formica and rested her chin.

  David sat up. Rose did the same. He balanced his chin on his fist. Rose mimicked him.

  He’d seen a video once of apes in the wild. The researchers acted like monkeys, crouching in the grass, scratching their pits, hooting. After a while the apes relaxed and started to play.

  “You’re like a researcher,” David said.

  Her smile didn’t flicker. “I don’t understand.”

  “Like a researcher that mimics apes to learn more about them.”

  “I’m like a researcher that mimics apes to learn more about them.”

  David laughed. “See? There you go.”

  Rose blinked.

  In that instant, a query packaged in a photon launched into space, ricocheted off a satellite, and penetrated the Sakora data banks in Osaka. An answer vaulted back to Rose’s mind in the time it took her to blink.

  Simile: Comparing one thing to another to convey a richer understanding.

  Rose had a richer understanding of David, how he thought and how he spoke. And this made her glad. And her gladness was . . . bright like sunlight reflected off steel cabinets.

  “This is pretty good,” David said, chewing.

  “Thank you.”

  Rose prepared herself a sandwich. It was hard not to stare at her, especially when she bent over to reach a low shelf. At first he looked away whenever she caught him, but eventually he just stared. She seemed to want him to. And she was his, after all.

  “You’re good with those hands. In the kitchen, anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  David tried a more direct approach. “And the rest of you isn’t too bad, either.”

  She glanced at him from under her bangs, her cheeks flushing.

  “Oh. Well, I think you’re . . . awesome.”

  David laughed again. He couldn’t help it. This had to be the lamest flirting in the history of mankind. But he liked it. He liked her. She seemed . . . honest.

  After, when Rose rinsed the dishes, David sidled up alongside her, w
ondering if her breathing quickened or if he imagined it. She smelled like strawberry perfume, and her skin gave off heat. Maybe this was all a joke. This was no robotic girlfriend. This was a beautiful chick hired by a company, a hot actress in a black tank top and tight jeans. David placed his hand on her shoulder and felt, for an instant, her warm softness. Then she electrocuted him with two hundred and fifty volts.

  Blue light arched across the room. David heard a snap and felt a hot vise around his arm. His jaw clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might crack. The vise released, and he flew backward against the refrigerator door. An acrid smell hung in the air, and the room seemed hazy, either from smoke or his eyes crossing.

  He stared at his hand. There was no blood, but the skin was an angry red. Rose was doubled over, clutching at her stomach, but her eyes were on him.

  “Dude, what the hell!”

  “I apologize!”

  “Jesus Christ!” David shook his hand. “What the hell was that?”

  “I am so sorry. My Intimacy Clock has a security system. Not telling you sooner was an error.”

  She stepped toward him, but he retreated around the counter.

  “What are you, a freaking bank?”

  “It’s only temporary. There’s a countdown. At two minutes you can shake my hand. After a little more time we can kiss.”

  She reached out to him, but David moved around her in a wide arc, heading for the sink. “Babe, if you think I’m putting my lips anywhere near you, you’re crazy.”

  She lowered her arms and looked — if such a thing were possible — stung.

  David ran his hand under the cold water. Rose stood away, her hands folded. “It is painful for me, too,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “The shock. My pain receptors sense it, like yours. I enjoy your touch, but . . .” Her eyes shone with — tears? “It’s not allowed.”