“Surely he’s not that bad? Didn’t you say Mr. Sinclair’s been having you haul things around for him? That must be men’s work. This takes some of the pressure off of you!”
Laura rolled her eyes. “Men’s work” this and “men’s work” that was a frustrating constant by now. “You’d like to think that, but he’s a total goldbrick.”
“Is he clever, at least?”
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“You don’t think he’s there to replace you?”
“Clae said no.”
They were quiet a moment, and then Morgan asked, “What’s his name?”
Laura hummed out the syllables: “Oh-kah-nay. I’ve never heard of anyone named that before. I think it’s another language.”
“Is he from another city?”
Laura glanced at the collage, couldn’t picture a single place in all the city pieces where Okane would look natural. “Maybe?”
“Interesting. Is he handsome?”
“Mommy!” Cheryl ran up to tug on Morgan’s skirt. “I want to eat! When’s dinner?”
“We’ll be ready in just a few minutes.” Morgan hustled back. “Could you get the bowls out? Laura, get the cups.”
Laura sulked into the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard. Is he handsome, she mouthed bitterly. The conversation had bounced from “how’s your day” to “my job may be in danger” to “do you fancy the dingbat you just said you disliked.” She really should’ve seen it coming.
Soon she had the drinks set, Cheryl tottered over with the bowls, and Morgan came over with the stewpot. She put it down on the table, and set aside the two washcloths she’d been using like mittens.
“Right, sit down and let’s eat.” Morgan started sorting out the silverware, but stopped short. She counted through the spoons and sighed. “I let the neighbors borrow our ladle.”
“I thought you got that back last week,” said Laura.
“I did, but they were hosting a party and needed it again. Don’t look at me like that.”
Laura shook her head. Morgan wasn’t a popular neighbor, but she was always trying to win people over by being as helpful as possible. This typically resulted in neighbors “borrowing” things from them and Morgan fretting about whether they’d be upset if she asked for the items back. Several times Laura had to march up to doors and demand plates they’d lent out six months ago. The Cynder Block quickly learned that while Morgan deferred easily, Laura was a leech determined to make lives miserable.
“Who’d you lend it to this time?”
“Charlie,” Morgan admitted. “Could you run down and see him? I’m sure he’ll give it back if you ask for it.”
Determination flew out of Laura with such speed she felt suddenly weak.
“Well,” she coughed, “we can probably make do with just the spoons.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” said Morgan. “Just enough time for the food to cool!” Laura gave her a dismal look, but Morgan made a shooing motion, smiled, and said, “Go on!”
Laura closed her eyes, resigned herself to her fate. Just a minute or two. She could do this. She sucked in a breath, told them she’d be right back, and made for the door.
Laura didn’t like Charlie.
Once upon a time they’d been friends, and there was a point in high school when she’d been appreciative of his looks, almost dated him even, but in the past few years he’d gone from friendly to irritating. Morgan hadn’t picked up on that change, and Laura didn’t want to point it out. She didn’t like to acknowledge the reasons.
Apartment number 808 had a large scar in the door, nearly half an inch deep at its worst. She eyed it reproachfully but reached up to knock. Almost immediately a clatter and quiet cursing came from inside. Laura twiddled her thumbs as footsteps grew closer. The door opened.
Charlie was a head taller than Laura, with short brown hair in varying lengths on his head as if he’d burned patches of it off. He hadn’t shaved and there were dark bags under his eyes, but those eyes lit up when he saw who it was.
“Laura!” Even his voice seemed brighter. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Never better. What’s up?”
“My aunt says she lent your mom one of the ladles. I was wondering if you were done with it.”
Charlie’s face blanked for a moment. “Oh, yeah! The ladle! I’ll get it now. You can come inside if you like.”
Charlie retreated into his apartment, leaving the door open behind him. Laura slinked into the entryway but ventured no farther, choosing to watch instead as he rifled through drawers. His apartment was set up the same as the one Laura lived in, so she could see straight into the living room. A wide array of metal parts and tools were scattered on the floor there, and the torso of a robot rested on the worn couch beside a half-eaten bowl of rice. The stare of its mechanical face made Laura shift uneasily, rubbing at her arm for comfort.
Charlie was actually very smart. While other people Laura knew never went farther than high school, Charlie was gifted with scholarships like Sullivan’s to attend college. His knowledge grew by leaps and bounds, and it was obvious from his pet projects how much he learned. He liked to build robots and steam machines for various strange purposes, and was even more excited to talk about the processes with people: this being the very reason Laura began to dislike him. Yes, it was wonderful that he was so enthusiastic about what he did, but he talked of nothing else, rarely allowed any opening to respond, and honestly, Laura wasn’t interested in the topic. She couldn’t care less what wire went where and how these gears worked together most efficiently. It was boring, and the fact that she didn’t understand it made her feel stupid. She hated feeling stupid. Clae made her feel stupid all the time, but he at least tended to explain things in simple ways, and he was also her mentor, so he was supposed to be a step above her, knowledgewise. Charlie held knowledge over her head like a trophy. She was certain half of the technical rubbish he spouted was just so he could see the confusion on her face, puff up his chest in pride that this made him superior. She still remembered the year before they graduated high school, her mourning over not making it into Class One—the only group universities or talent scouts would ever consider—and outlining feverish plans to eavesdrop, to sneak her way into the coursework. He laughed at her. Why would you want to do that? he’d asked, still half choking on his own mirth. Class One is for us, not you. What would you do with a degree? Become some doddery librarian? A spinster? Who’d ever want to marry that? As if that was all she was good for. For weeks after she wished she’d had the courage to punch him in his stupid face, but now she knew it was best she hadn’t; Clae had only shown her the proper way to punch something a month ago.
“Here it is!” cried Charlie, fishing out the ladle. “I should keep better track of things, it would make work so much easier!” He laughed to himself as he walked back and offered the utensil. “Have you got some free time? I want to get some opinions on my summer projects, and my parents have had to work late recently. Besides, I want a fresh take on what I’m doing! Class starts up again next week, and if I need to do some fine-tuning, I have to do it fast. You helped a lot just listening to that essay last semester. You know, the one about the faulty sprinkler system in the interior? I almost got full marks on that!”
As if he was actually looking for feedback. Laura had been no help on that essay and she knew it. This was probably just another excuse to see if his explanation went suitably over her head. He likely thought that if he could impress one girl he could wow any female on the examination council. “Sorry.” Laura snatched the ladle away and gave one of her fakest smiles. “Sounds great, really, but I’m actually busy. Gotta eat dinner and then head back to work. Clae’s a slave driver, you know.”
Thankfully he bought it. His face fell, but not by a lot. “I hear he’s pretty mean. You sure you’re okay working for him?”
“Sure, he’s all bark and n
o bite.”
“Still, having a tough boss on top of that kind of job?” He shook his head. “Maybe you should look into something more fitting. Didn’t the other girls in our class become phone operators? You should’ve tagged along with—”
“Oh, no, that reminds me!” Laura smacked a hand against her head, hoping she was a good enough actress to pull this off. “Clae’s supposed to be calling at six! If I’m not ready by the phone, I don’t want to think how he’d react!” Probably with nagging, but he’d never attempted calling the Cynder Block before. “I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the ladle! I’ll see you later.”
He looked mildly surprised but laughed again. “Come back anytime!”
Laura had absolutely no plans to return. She hurried back to her own apartment.
Over at the table, Morgan jumped as the door slammed. “That was fast.”
“All for the better, right?” Laura kicked off her boots without bothering with the buttons. She was in too much of a rush.
“Funny, I was sure you were going to waste more time over there.” Morgan smiled.
“I made an excuse and got out of there as fast as I could,” said Laura, setting the ladle into the bowl. On second thought maybe she should’ve double-checked it was clean.
Morgan looked startled. “Did he have company?”
“No? I’m hungry and he’s got work to do.”
“Oh. Good. But you don’t have to worry about that in the future. We can always warm up food on the stove, and I’m sure Charlie would be so happy to talk—”
“And I do not feel the same,” said Laura, spooning food into Cheryl’s bowl.
“But it’s been so long since you had the chance to talk.”
Cheryl looked up from the soup and met Laura’s eyes in perfect deadpan. There were times like these where the nine-year-old transcended childish annoyance and they linked perfectly; Cheryl very much knew that Laura disliked Charlie, and didn’t like Charlie any better herself.
“Maybe we should invite him over soon,” said Morgan, taking her own full bowl. “He always used to come over while you were in school.”
“If this is a matchmaking scheme, it won’t work,” said Laura. “It didn’t with your coworkers’ sons, and it’s never, ever happening here.”
“Charlie’s such a good boy. You’d do so well together!”
Cheryl mimed gagging. Laura rolled her eyes. This was well-trodden territory and she’d never won the argument.
“Do whatever you want. But forewarning, the Keedlers might be hosting some kind of ‘bonding night’ for the Acis neighborhood. I might end up unavailable for dinner.”
“Keedlers?” Cheryl perked up. “The lady with the cookies?”
Even Morgan joined in on that praise, and the matchmaking topic was dropped for the moment. Laura intended to keep it that way as long as she could.
* * *
Her simmering feelings finally hit the surface two days later, when she doubled back to return one of Clae’s Sweeper books. She’d like to have blamed it on the three infestations they’d had to tackle (all small but nasty, the victims being a chicken coop—complete with six chickens—on the south side, a pet dog not far from there, and two mechanics in their garage), but while they were contributing factors they weren’t her limit. She walked into the Sweeper shop, only to find Clae leading Okane out from behind the black curtain. She froze in the doorway to stare, and their hushed conversation came to a stuttering halt as they noticed her presence. Laura wasn’t sure what kind of expression she was wearing, but Okane’s already pale face went white as a sheet and his jittering worsened. He stepped back in unease, and looked at Clae for help. Clae motioned for him to keep going. Okane glanced back once, then hightailed it to the other door and disappeared.
“What was that?” Laura asked quietly.
“What was what?” Clae sat down on one of the stools and pulled the newspaper closer on the counter.
“That,” Laura hissed, striding closer and pointing at the place Okane had vanished. “What were you doing? What were you talking to him about? What were you—”
“Calm down. I’m introducing him to the job is all.”
None of Laura’s introductions included going behind those drapes, and the fact that Okane’s did made her blood boil. Why was he getting special treatment? She’d been around longer, she deserved to know more! She deserved to know what was back there!
“You’re teaching him differently.”
“Everyone has a different learning style,” he replied, like it was no big deal.
The fact that he was taking this so easily stung. Laura looked at him, then the drapes, then back again. He couldn’t seriously not know about her opinion on the drapes. If he could see she was so obsessed with scraps of paper, he had to pick up on the drapes too. If he hadn’t, he was an idiot. That or she was screwed. She was probably screwed either way. Maybe this was like a warning. Acting like it was unimportant meant it was unimportant. Or maybe it was a dare; one she wouldn’t take up, because she was angry but she wasn’t stupid, and drapes were not worth her life.
This decided, she slammed the book onto the counter beside him and sat on another stool. At first she tried to look defiant, but it kept eating away at her, and eventually she slumped.
“Is it because he’s a boy?”
“Hm?”
“You’re showing him more things than me. I can’t help being a girl, I’m completely capable.”
“I never said you weren’t.”
“But you’re—”
“His background requires a different approach.” Clae folded the newspaper and looked up at her. His eyes were doing that weird analyzing thing again. “Besides, if I put all the knowledge in one set of hands, what happens if that apprentice dies or quits?”
“Then give us both the info.”
“Easier said than done.”
Even more easily shown, Laura thought, looking back at the drapes. Her eyes didn’t linger there long, though. Couldn’t let Clae think she was too interested, right? Unless he was just playing stupid and he really knew and he totally noticed that glance just now. That would explain why his eyes narrowed slightly.
“There’s no reason for you to panic. I’m not about to fire you.”
“But he’ll get any promotions over me.”
“With his track record so far? Not likely.”
Even with the track record, he got to see behind the drapes. Maybe Laura should start stumbling and slipping up, then maybe Clae would take pity on her and tell her more things as motivation? Unlikely. He didn’t do that when she first started, and if she purposely screwed up not only would she hate herself for it, Clae would only get irritated.
“I am your apprentice, though, and you’re supposed to be teaching me.”
“You’ve mentioned,” he replied dully.
“And you’re not teaching me.”
“Of course I am. Learn by example.”
“Example of what?”
“That’s your decision.” He picked up the paper again and flipped it up, covering his face. Laura frowned at headlines about a new mob scandal and the approval for some sort of piping project.
“When you say ‘it’s your decision,’ do you mean I should just pick up anything I want?”
“Yes.”
“So, in theory, I could pick up the traits of being a blunt, annoying workaholic?”
Clae flipped the top half of the paper down and eyed her reproachfully. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“I’d like to say you’re not that stupid.”
“You’d like to say. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means stop focusing on Okane and get over it. You’re smart. Use your brain.”
“Still,” she griped, and Clae interrupted her.
“As a side note, don’t get too close to Okane with pens or sharp objects.”
“What, you think I’m going to stab him or something?” Laura asked
incredulously. She might have been upset, but not enough to attack somebody about it. “I’m not homicidal.”
“Not just pens,” said Clae. He picked up a few of the Kin fasteners; they were the only ones left on the counter, the rest stowed somewhere out of sight. Come to think of it, a lot of the pointier objects around the shop had vanished. “These, too. Your pocketknife. If you can avoid it, don’t let him know you’re carrying that at all.”
Laura’s brow furrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I did say there were different circumstances.”
“But what kind of circumstances could—”
“Nothing we need to get into at this point. You read that book, right? Tell me what you learned about the sunk Pits.”
“But—”
“Book smarts don’t go far. We’ll clear up misunderstandings while it’s still fresh in your mind.”
Baffled, she sat and recounted the reading. It took an hour, and Clae never returned to the earlier topic. The black drapes remained static and daunting. Okane didn’t reappear.
8
STORMY SWEEPER
When it rained in Amicae, it rained all day. Laura knew this well, so she knew there was no chance the pounding against the windows would stop anytime soon. The skies darkened to the point where streetlamps were lit, but anything beyond that was completely obscured by the downpour.
Laura had met Clae on a day much like this one: the rain had pounded hard enough she felt half dragged to the ground, but she still stood opposite the Sweeper shop, damp newspaper clenched in her hands. The overhang of the boarded shop behind her dripped fat droplets that soaked her stockings. She glanced up at the glow of the lights ahead of her, then back down at the paper.
TRAGEDY AT THE OPERA, announced the headline. Sunday morning, the sun rose on a terrible scene: the grand opera house of the First Quarter awash in darkness, all her lights and glass smashed. Overnight members of the Mad Dogs mob planted an infestation in the stage, and when city workers rushed to exterminate it, the creature pounced on them. No less than thirty-five members of the police department were lost to us this evening, including well-loved Chief Otto Mumbar. Head Sweeper Clae Sinclair carried out the extermination, though his own apprentice was lost as well.
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