by C. E. Wilson
“I guess I’m old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned enough to own one of the foxiest-looking machines I’ve ever seen in my life?” Monica asked with a hint of disapproval once she was sure Rogan was out of earshot. “What make is it again? James Dean? Clark Gable?”
“He’s not a make.”
Monica Steele was another young teacher working at Easton, a Spanish teacher with a full-time job and legs as long as the Iberian Peninsula itself. She never bothered trying to hide her figure since she worked so hard for it. She flipped her messy blond hair over her slender shoulders and smiled.
“He’s Rogan,” Chloe insisted.
“Still though… I swear I know the name…”
“It doesn’t matter what make he is,” Chloe said. “He’s Rogan. That’s all he is.”
Monica smirked, nudging her friend towards the stairs. “I see someone has a crush on their Asist.”
“It’s not a crush,” she said. “He’s important to me.”
“Good. It’s a computer. A fine-looking one, I admit—”
“He’s not a computer!” she hissed back as a few students glanced their way. “Can we please not talk about him?”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you want,” Monica said, smiling at a few seniors.
The boys flushed and stumbled as she shimmied past, and Chloe couldn’t help scrunching up her nose. When they were past the group, she spoke up.
“You shouldn’t do that, Monica.”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with the students.”
“I’m not flirting,” Monica said in a hushed voice as they entered the building. “You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
She smirked openly. “Maybe not yet, but you’re smart. You’ll learn quickly.”
“Learn what?”
“That it’s important—especially since you don’t have a full-time job—to play friendly with the students and staff, if you get my drift. Spanish has become a popular class and that’s what the higher-ups notice. They don’t care that my classes are ninety percent boys.”
“Maybe you have a point,” Chloe said as she opened the door to the office.
She swiftly found her paperwork, relieved that the given class rosters and lesson plans seemed to be in order. There was nothing worse than walking into a room of tenth and eleventh graders with nothing planned and no idea who was supposed to be in the classroom.
After both women had signed in and waved at the secretary, Chloe realized she couldn’t help but wonder what her friend was referring to. “Why do you say that though? Being friendly, you said. Is something going on?”
She shrugged. “It’s only a rumor right now, but I might as well tell you.”
“Tell me what? Geezus, don’t tell me they’re cutting subs?”
“No, they’re never going to do that. It’s the reason most of those who were let go can’t get unemployment. Trust me—your subbing job is safe,” Monica said, gently pinching Chloe’s arm and pulling her towards the faculty room. “Clara’s pregnant.”
“I’m sorry. Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“She’s the music teacher,” Monica said, pointing at the folder in Chloe’s hand. “The one you’re subbing for, genius.”
“I don’t know any of the teachers by their first names.”
“Of course you don’t. The point is, it’s her third kid,” Monica said. “I’m sure you’ve been in her room before. Don’t you listen to her?”
“Not really.”
“Clara’s said after her third kid, she’s going to stop teaching. She’s at the doctor today, making sure everything is okay. Don’t you think that’s good news? The time of year to put in a notice is coming up soon. You’re going to get her room for her sabbatical, but if she’s gone for good—”
Her eyes widened in realization. “Then I would have a full-time teaching job.”
“Yeah, girl. We’re talking starting in the upper forties, which I’m sure is a lot more than you’re making now, right?”
“It is,” she said. “Is there really a chance she won’t come back?”
“That’s the word. So, if I were you, I would start putting on a big, sexy smile and stop thinking about performing so many late nights.”
Her cheeks reddened.
“You keep up the good work during all her doctor’s appointments and I’m sure she’ll put in a recommendation for you. You know you already have mine.”
“What about Dr. Gayle’s?” she asked, referring to the school’s headmaster.
“Don’t worry about him,” Monica said. “You keep doing your job and I’m sure you’ll have the full-time teaching position before Christmas.”
“You’re serious?”
Monica nudged her with a pointy elbow. “I’m telling you, Chlo… Don’t mess this up. You could find yourself working in a good school district with jealousy-inducing pay.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” she said.
“I hope you do,” Monica went on, shoving her prepackaged diet frozen entree into the freezer. “I’ve gotta get set up. Today, we’re conjugating verbs. Español! Olé!”
“You’re crazy,” Chloe said, smiling at the curvaceous blonde who belonged more on the cover of Maxim than in a classroom.
“Crazy about Español!” she said loudly as a few more senior teachers came into the room. “Have a good day, Ms. Robins.”
She scrunched up her nose, recognizing the sarcasm. “You too, Señorita Steele.”
Once Monica left the room, Chloe crawled back into her shell, too nervous to speak to the other teachers. As a substitute, she felt like she was barred from some exclusive club that only included full-time teachers. They didn’t care to acknowledge her with anything more than a gentle nod or a raised eyebrow. A full-time teaching job would give her a feeling of belonging at Easton Prep. A full-time teaching job would probably mean an end to her dream of “making it” in the music industry, but it would also mean not living off her parents’ dime.
She couldn’t mess up.
Chapter Three
“Word has it the kids were a little rough,” Monica said, sashaying into the faculty room. “I guess they heard Clara’s going to be...” She mimicked a slicing mark across her neck.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Chloe said, moving to grab her lunch. “They’re not bad. They’re—”
“Brats?”
“I was going to say privileged.”
She took a seat across from her lone friend and glanced around the sorry excuse of a lounge where she ate her lunch. She wondered where the idea of prep schools being fancy came from. And, while the faculty room probably wasn’t bad compared to other schools, it certainly wasn’t at the height of fashion. The dreary, gray walls peeled in the corners and were lazily covered up with posters. Slogans such as Hang in There, Baby, and A Happy Student is a Learning Student almost seemed mocking as she slouched down in her camel-colored fabric high-back chair. It was uncomfortable on her back and her shoulders, but it wasn’t like she could leave school property. At Easton Prep, substitutes were always on call—even on their lunch break—which meant she could be called down to a random class at any moment so a teacher could rush to the bathroom. Sometimes she had to wonder why no one had bothered to tell her in college that, unless she knew someone, she probably wouldn’t actually run her own classroom for a few years.
But maybe all of that could change.
“Privileged is a diplomatic way of wording it,” a young man said softly from a nearby table just as Chloe was pulling herself out of her thoughts.
Monica and Chloe spun towards the quiet voice, continuing to listen as he spoke.
“I haven’t worked with a student population quite like those kids before.”
Monica smiled his way, always looking ravenous when she took in an attractive member of the opposite sex. He was tall and somewhat thick, yes, but he had a baby face that certainly caught her attention. The brown-haired you
ng man flushed shyly and lowered his head, paying attention to his meal, which appeared to be Chinese takeout.
While the brunette seemed to be lost in his lo mein, Chloe leaned over. “Who’s that?”
“New guy. He’s a student teacher,” Monica said. “He’s hot, right?”
“Are you kidding me?” Chloe glanced him over. “He looks too young to teach the students we work with.”
“It’s not like we’re that old, Chlo. You’re, like, what? About to turn twenty-two?”
“You’re older than I am.”
“By two years,” she hissed back. “I bet he’s not much younger than I am. He still looks damn good. I wonder if he’s single.”
“I’m surprised you don’t know.”
“He’s the French teacher’s bitch, not mine,” she said, starting in on grilled chicken, rice, and peas. “He stopped by my room and seems nice enough.”
“That’s good.” Chloe pretended to move some crumbs off of her blouse. “What’s his name?”
“I’ve heard the kids calling him Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
“Fitzsimmons? Do you know his first name?”
Monica rolled her eyes. “All of a sudden, you want to know first names?”
“Fitzsimmons sounds like a mouthful. I’m sure he has a nickname.”
“I’ll call him Mr. Hottie for now. He’s cute, and so am I, right?”
“You’re gorgeous,” Chloe muttered. “Now, go ask him out if you’re interested. Hurry up before other teachers arrive and start gossiping.”
“Who cares what those old fuddy-duddies think?” she said, delicately dabbing at her face with a paper towel. “Let’s see how good a French teacher’s tongue is.”
As she stood up, Chloe leaned over to watch Monica sashay towards the young, somewhat thickly built French student teacher.
“Hey,” Monica said.
He glanced up from his meal, smiling uncomfortably. “Hello again, Señorita Steele. Did you want something else?”
“So, you think our students are brats, eh?” she said, taking a seat. “You should come over and hang out with the kids taking Spanish. They’re a handful, but I’ve got them pretty well under control.”
“I bet you do,” Mr. Fitzsimmons said, obviously unimpressed.
Monica pounced on the opportunity as an excuse to lean closer to him over the table.
“Their allowances are probably more than my salary. I’d be happy if my parents ever sent me a dime. Or a greeting card.”
Monica laughed at his comment like it was the funniest joke in the world. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true... Look,” she said, brushing his arm with her hand. “My friend over there sings at the bar on Fifth Avenue, and I usually like to go and make an appearance.”
“Really?” he asked, looking past her and noticing the young, mocha-skinned substitute sitting alone now that Monica was giving him her undivided attention. “That’s cool. I’m a fan of good music.”
“I usually go over a little after eight, but the good acts start later, especially on Fridays.”
“I suppose there’s no harm since it’s a Friday,” he mused, still watching the girl eat. She was a different type of attractive, with shiny, straight burgundy hair that was beginning to curl at the ends and thick, black glasses. “And it’s totally casual, right?”
She smiled. “Yeah, you can wear whatever you want. So, it’s a date, then?” she said, standing up.
“Oh...uh,” the young teacher started, but she was already walking back towards Chloe. “See you at eight,” he said softly.
“See? Not too hard,” Monica said, sitting back down. “I know he’s not as cute as your punk-rock computer, but he’s pretty hot for a human.”
“You’re still talking about Rogan? Can you please let it go?” she said, growing exasperated. “I hate when you talk about him like he’s—”
“Like he’s what? A machine? Chloe, that’s what he is,” Monica said. “Asists are machines—nothing more than wires and cold metal hidden under a human façade.”
“I don’t see him like that.”
“You used to,” Monica said. “I remember when I first met you and you were looking for a job... You didn’t even have an Asist. They’re a bad idea. They’re not people—”
“You know I needed one for my parents to let me move to the city.”
“So now you have. That doesn’t mean you have to treat him like he’s a boyfriend. Humans and Asists. They’re not supposed to date. They’re supposed to serve us. They’re machines, not significant others.”
“He’s not like that,” Chloe croaked.
“Don’t you see how you’ve changed? Chloe, Rogan isn’t a person. He’s a machine, and once you learn to understand that, then you and I can start double-dating. Doesn’t that sound a lot more fun than sitting around with your Asist?”
“I don’t see it as sitting around with my Asist.”
“That’s all it is. Some people can become too dependent on their machine, and sometimes I worry it’s what’s happening to you—”
A familiar voice broke in. “They’re not just machines.” Mr. Fitzsimmons stood in front of them, cleaning up his lunch and throwing it in the trash can next to their table. “Asists aren’t much different than humans.”
Immediately, Monica went on the defensive. “What exactly do you know about it?” she asked sharply.
“I know—”
“Do you also own an Asist?” she snapped.
“No. Well, I guess…it depends on—”
“Depends on what? Did you steal it?”
“Monica, stop,” Chloe said, hoping her friend wouldn’t make a scene. She still didn’t understand why she had such a problem with Asists. She had never bothered to ask, and Monica had never bothered to explain.
“Seriously though… What do you know about Asists?”
The student teacher winced slightly at her tone. “Not as much as you, apparently.” He glanced towards the doorway of the faculty room. “I might see you both tonight. Good luck on your performance...” He trailed off, hoping the burgundy-haired stranger would fill in the blank.
“Chloe,” she said to him. “Chloe Robins. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
As he charged off, Monica frowned. Several older teachers ambled into the faculty room and started to eat their respective lunches.
“Ugh,” Monica said. “Maybe inviting him tonight wasn’t such a good idea.”
“You invited him to my open mic? Monica! I don’t know him.”
“How else do you propose meeting people?” she asked. “You do realize you can’t buy all of your friends, right?”
“Shut up.”
“I only invited him to your open mic because I wanted to keep things casual, but geezus, listening to the way he talks about Asists, he doesn’t seem much different from you.”
“Do you think he owns one? Maybe that’s why he was acting weird earlier.”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t mention—”
“In the few seconds you spoke to him before attacking him? I’m shocked.”
“I didn’t attack him, I was only curious. People get attached to their Asists,” Monica said, pressing forward. “And Rogan is an especially attractive model—”
“That’s not what it’s about—”
“Beauty is all it’s about. Why do you think those things are modeled off of famous actors, actresses, singers, and models? They’re designed to be aesthetically pleasing, and Rogan was designed especially for you.” She shook her head. “When you look at him lately, it’s like you think you’re in love. You need to find a real man, Chloe.” She suddenly lowered her voice, leaning over the table. “I guess I should tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“While there have been rumors about Clara’s position, there have also been...other rumors.”
Chloe stopped eating and narrowed her eyes. Several teachers sitting nearby grew suddenly quiet.
“We should pr
obably talk someplace more private,” she said, standing up. “Finish your lunch and come down to my room, okay?”
“Sure,” Chloe said as her friend stood to leave.
Why were so many people uptight about Asists? Almost half of the under-twenty-five population owned an Asist of some sort. They worked as friends, assistants, lovers, cell phones, computers, GPSs, MP3 players, and pretty much everything anyone could ever want. And, if they didn’t have a desired feature, all it took was a simple upgrade. However, the main hang-up most people had was the fact that Asists were shaped like humans. That’s what Monica always harped on, and Chloe had to admit that it did make things confusing at times.
Many Asists were worked illegally and paid a pittance, if anything. This was the type of arrangement that led to angry human workers who were being replaced by Asists. Those workers and others who feared the same thing happening to them almost always channeled their rage and frustration against Asists and would often resort to violence.
Asists had almost no individual rights and were only protected under the law as their owner’s property.
Many were purchased or stolen and forced into sexual slavery, a booming industry since most of the antiprostitution laws did not apply to nonhumans.
In addition to the full-size models, there was also a large number of Asist-Minis. They had all the functions of full-size Asists, but they were only eight to ten inches tall. They managed to have even fewer rights because they were seen as nothing more than dolls or toys. Chloe couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be an Asist-Mini. What would it be like to live in a world not even sized properly for you when you were self-aware?
Sometimes she even forgot they were sentient. It was in their official name, A-SIST, but thinking about what it meant could be overwhelming. They were self-aware, they could feel at least rudimentary emotions, and they could learn. Rogan was as smart or smarter than she was, and his decision about the whipped cream that morning, small as it had been, proved that he was growing. She smiled slightly at the thought as she finished her lunch without distractions.
Monica was waiting.
When Chloe entered the room, she immediately spotted Monica preparing for her afternoon lessons. She couldn’t stop herself from looking at her one and only friend in the school as she stretched up in her black pencil skirt, revealing a body she would have died for. So many curves. Staring down, she was no longer as proud of the outfit Rogan had picked for her that morning. Next to Monica, her legs were like mocha hued sticks drowning in trouser jeans, and barely there breasts completely hidden in her blouse. She tugged nervously at her tie, shutting the door behind her as Monica turned around.