“School doesn’t get out until three-ish, right?” Rebecca said, setting her cell-phone alarm. “I’ll have you back by then, I promise. You don’t want to sit around here all day, do you?”
Rose didn’t. Especially if there was a chance the man with the wispy hair would show up. “All right, let’s go.”
Rebecca grinned. “Good. You and me, sweetie. We’re gonna have some girl time.”
Rebecca’s car looked the way Charlie’s bike would look if it had an engine and four wheels. The gray surface was spotted with rust. Rose went to open the passenger door, but it stuck.
“Oh, yeah. That door’s screwed up. You have to jiggle the handle. It’s my dad’s car. I’ve been using it for the past few days because . . . well, because he hasn’t been using it.”
Inside, Rose noticed the emblem on the steering wheel.
“This is a Cadillac?”
“Yep, a real classic.” Rebecca turned the ignition. The engine seemed to grind under the hood, rattling the frame.
“David had one, but his was . . . different. It’s in pretty good condition.” She realized this might have been insulting.
If Rebecca was offended, she didn’t show it. “Oh, old Louis here was probably nice once. He’s just a little worn around the edges now.” She gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. “Isn’t that right, Louis?”
The engine croaked in response. Rebecca shifted and turned the wheel, and they rolled through the tall grass back to the road, where Louis’s rattling worsened.
They drifted away from the lake toward another part of town, beyond the highway. Rebecca’s house sat on the edge of an enormous empty lot. Her house was huge, and Rose said so.
“Forty units in all,” Rebecca said, her voice weary. “Buffumville Estates, my ass.”
They took the elevator to the top floor and followed a dingy hallway to its end. There was a cardboard cutout of a woman in a grass skirt hanging on the door.
“My dad had a bachelor party for his friend Friday night,” Rebecca said. “It was tropical-island themed.”
The inside of Rebecca’s apartment was dank and smelled bittersweet. Shapeless furniture floated on a foamy carpet, and orange light filtered through floor-to-ceiling blinds. A long counter divided the carpet from a tiled floor, where a light buzzed and flickered in an orange casing on the ceiling. Dishes were piled in the sink. In one corner a half-deflated palm tree sagged.
“Welcome to Pleasure Island,” Rebecca said.
“Where are your parents?”
Rebecca’s jaw tightened. Then her features relaxed and her smirk returned. “Mom’s gone. Dad’s down the hall. But don’t worry. He won’t come to until at least four. He’s dead to the world, trust me.”
Through a half-opened door, Rose saw a dark and cluttered bedroom. A figure lay on the bed, one bare, hairy leg hanging off the side.
“Come on, my room’s back here.”
Rebecca’s room was small, the walls covered with posters of deliriously happy couples breaking into song. Pasted to one wall were dozens of playbills.
“Are these for movies?”
“No, no,” Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose. “These are for plays. Musicals. I love ’em. I work weekends at Denny’s to save up for shows in Boston. Though they’ll probably fire me since I haven’t been in to work in two weeks.”
Rose sat on the bed. There was a red bird-shaped pin on Rebecca’s bedside table. She remembered it from the night they’d met.
“This is pretty.”
Rebecca stared at the pin, her smile wavering. “God, don’t you think it’s tacky? I tried to wear it for a while, but I just can’t.”
The note was half buried under minidrives and makeup pencils. The visible elegant script read: . . . our solidarity with the Vogel family, we ask that you wear these brooches in memory of our dear Nora.
Rebecca began to pry her boots off. “I mean, if you’re going to remember somebody, remember them.” Off came boot one. “Don’t just stick a pin on your chest and pretend like that’s all there is to it.” Off came boot two. “All right, you ready for the surprise?”
Rebecca rooted under the bed and retrieved a plastic bottle. It was identical to the one she’d nursed at the campsite, with the cartoon donkey in a bowler hat on the side.
“My brand,” Rebecca said when she caught Rose’s stare. “So, what do we drink to?”
“I can’t,” Rose said. “I . . .”
Except — she could. There was no voice telling her not to, no dancing halo.
“Oh, yes you can.” Rebecca pursed her lips. “Let’s drink to . . . to being independent women. Who don’t. Need. Men.”
Rebecca took a swig, the clear liquid thumping inside the bottle. She winced, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and handed the bottle to Rose. The stuff inside smelled like David’s garage. Rose took a swallow. It was flavorless at first. But then a second, phantom swallow, this one a fireball, chased the vodka down her throat. Hot coals burned in her stomach. She coughed.
“Well, it’s not Grey Goose.” Rebecca took the bottle. “OK, what shall we drink to now?”
Rose thought. “Let’s drink to . . . breaking the rules.”
“Ha!” She took a powerful swallow and passed the bottle. Rose did the same. She wiped her mouth and burped. The girls giggled.
Soon the coal in Rose’s stomach spread heat to her limbs and face. The warmth was a pleasant side effect.
Suddenly Rebecca turned somber. “So I’ve been thinking about that girl a lot.”
“Which one?”
“The one who killed herself.” She hiccuped. “I didn’t know her too well, you know? She must have been so lonely. The night she died I was actually on a date. A horrible date. This guy was so sweet but I just couldn’t . . . it was like forgetting your lines in the middle of a show. Does that make any sense? I actually wished I was dead.” She studied the pictures on her walls. “What if that happens to me?”
“If what happens?” Rose asked. For some reason she had trouble following Rebecca’s words.
“What if one day I wake up and decide I can’t be lonely anymore? And I just have to . . . I even thought about taking pills, once, like she did. But I got too scared. I wonder if anyone would miss me. Would it make a difference at all?” Rebecca’s already flushed cheeks turned a deeper red. She looked up at Rose from under her eyelashes. “Do you ever think like that?”
“I threw myself in a lake,” Rose said. “To stop the voices in my head.”
Rebecca squinted. “What?”
Rose put her feet on the ground, which suddenly felt unsteady. Something funny was happening. Colored dots danced before her eyes. Reds and yellows and blues, blending together. The colored lights swirled and flickered. Suddenly Rose smelled mustard. She felt rain on her skin. She saw prime numbers counting down from one hundred.
“I don’t feel so good.” She tried to stand, but was suddenly on the floor. The landing didn’t hurt, but now the smell of cigarette smoke filled her nostrils. Rose rolled over, gasping. A weight pressed on her chest. She was covered in ice. The colored lights were gone, but the smell of smoke remained, combined with onions and bleach.
She closed her eyes, trying to blot out these sensations. When she opened them, Rebecca was leaning over her.
“Rose? Rose?”
At the sound of her name, the smells and the pressure on her chest vanished. Rebecca shook her gently. She was saying something, but somewhere between her mouth and Rose’s ears the words were scrambled. Gibberish.
“Rose? Lucky-should-best-now-wait-right-two?”
Rose concentrated, but couldn’t find the meaning. “I don’t understand.”
“You-money-right-stamp-feel-blank-sick?”
Rose moaned and rolled onto her side. The haze began to clear. Rebecca’s words shifted back into position.
“Are you OK, Rose?”
“I . . . think so.”
“You look like you’re going to be sick. Here. Come with me.�
�
Rebecca slipped an arm behind her back, and the next thing Rose knew she was being led down the hallway to the bathroom and lowered onto the turquoise tile.
“OK, here we are,” Rebecca said. She gathered Rose’s hair into a ponytail and held it away from her face. “Go ahead.”
Rose leaned over the bowl. The cool porcelain soothed her enflamed skin. All at once the hot coals in her stomach erupted. The vodka came back out in heaves. It happened until tears streamed from her eyes. When it was over, Rose collapsed against the wall, the hotness drained out. She shivered.
Rebecca closed the seat cover and flushed. “Wowie. I guess you really can’t drink, huh? Did you have a stroke or something?”
The room refocused. The sink, the toilet, the solid floor.
“I think I shorted out,” Rose said. She shook her head. At least there wasn’t any permanent damage.
Rebecca started to stand. “Well, we should probably get something in your stomach. Mine, too. Seeing you heave made me feel kind of bleh. Come on. I’ll make sandwiches.”
“OK.” Rebecca helped Rose to her feet. Something nagged at Rose. As Rebecca opened the cabinets in search of bread, it struck her.
“Rebecca?”
“Yeah, girl?”
She swallowed. “What’s a sandwich?”
After eating, Rose needed to process her food. She wasn’t supposed to do that in front of people, and this was a rule she decided to stick with.
“I’ll be right back.”
She thought she remembered the way to the bathroom, but the short hallway contained five identical off-white doors. The first led to a cluttered linen closet. On her second try she stumbled into someone’s bedroom. It was occupied.
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
Rose retreated, pulling the door closed, but had to peek again. A girl stood in the corner, her blond hair falling across the shoulders of her yellow T-shirt, her arms hanging dead at her sides.
“Hi,” Rose said hesitantly. “I’m Rose.”
The girl blinked and turned slowly. “Hello. My name is Lily.”
“Hi, Lily.”
Lily stared — not at Rose. Not at anything at all. Her eyes simply looked without seeing. Her voice, and especially that stare, were familiar somehow.
“Have we met?” Rose asked. Of course they hadn’t. How could they have? Rebecca was the only girl Rose knew besides David’s mother and Lupe, and she would have remembered Lily’s startling yellow hair.
Lily cocked her head to one side, her bangs swinging. “We are now at minute two of our friendship. At this point, a handshake is appropriate.” She stuck out her hand.
Rose steadied herself on the door. “You’re a Companion?”
“My name is Lily.” Lily’s hand hovered between them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Rose knew there were others like her, but she’d never expected to meet one. She’d guessed they were far away, near wherever the voice came from. “I’m like you,” Rose said. “I’m a Companion. We’re the same.”
“How nice. Tell me more about yourself. I am interested in progressing our friendship.” Lily’s eyes looked through Rose, past her. They were a pale imitation blue. Cold and dead. Rose shivered.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“My last diagnostic revealed no malfunctions.” Lily giggled. “Shall I make you a sandwich?”
Rose backed toward the door. “I have to go now. It was nice meeting you, Lily.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Rose. I hope to see you again soon.”
The other Companion’s skirt was made of a cheap synthetic material with an elastic waist. On impulse, Rose pinched the fabric of the band, careful not to graze the smooth skin of Lily’s stomach, and pulled back the skirt. She glanced down. Lily was smooth. Incomplete, like Rose. A Barbie doll.
Rebecca came around the corner just as Rose closed the door.
“Hey, I wondered where you wandered off to. Were you just in my brother’s room?”
“I’m sorry. I thought this was the bathroom,” Rose said.
“Oh, God. Did you see Paul’s thing?”
“What?”
“His sex toy?” Rebecca shuttered. “It gives me the creeps.”
“How long has he had it?” Rose asked.
“About two months. They say they’re supposed to get more human over time, but it’s like Children of the Damned in there. How could anyone mistake that thing for a real person?” She put her arm around Rose’s shoulder. “Let’s watch some TV or something.”
In the living room Rebecca folded herself into the corner of the couch and perched a bag of potato chips on her knee. They watched a movie about a ghost in a red gown, leaving clues about her hidden suicide note. Rose sampled the tangy, crispy chips, chewing them into a flavorless pulp.
“So is your brother disassociated?”
Rebecca flinched. “What makes you say that?”
“Isn’t that why boys get Companions?”
Rebecca rummaged through the chip bag and pulled out a handful of crumbs. “It’s some sort of program they have. The school counselor said he needed one, but we couldn’t afford it. Since they’re just testing them, he sort of got it on loan.”
“Is he nice to her?” Rose asked.
“I don’t know. I guess so. He tried to take her to this chop shop, to fix her shocker thing.”
“Chop shop?”
“In Worcester.” Rebecca crumpled the empty chip bag and tossed it into the garbage. “Apparently there’s a place where they’ll remove the shocker, so the guys can get their rocks off. Science knows no bounds, I guess.”
Rose stared at the television. Pain coiled in her brain, rolling over itself, twisting. She imagined the man from her nightmare opening up her skull and removing it, the dangling, deadly arrow, now kinked and knotted, a confused useless tangle.
“Where did you say this place was?”
Rebecca’s cell phone began to chirp.
“That’s my alarm. I guess I should get you back, huh?” She stretched her arms and brought her index fingers to her nose. She did this several times and nodded. This was how Rebecca recalibrated, Rose guessed.
“Sober enough,” she said. “Let’s go!”
When Charlie returned the Sakora catalog, Dr. Roger had asked that he come back every two weeks for a “friendly check-in.” The mandatory chats were at two thirty.
“Mr. Nuvola, come in.” Charlie took his place in the big chair. “You’re looking . . . well.”
Charlie looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the puffy bags visible beneath the rims of his glasses. Dr. Roger didn’t look so hot either. His normally oily skin was the color of ash. He reached for a glass of water and knocked it to the carpet. A little robovac skittered from under the desk to suck up the moisture.
Dr. Roger retrieved the fallen glass and refilled it from the pitcher on his desk.
“So, how are things?”
“Not bad.”
“Make any new friends this month?”
Charlie shook his head. “No.”
“Come now, Chuck. There must be something.”
Dr. Roger’s unctuous baritone was thinner, more strained than usual. His posture was too stiff, not his usual bored slouch. He clutched his glass, spilling droplets on the carpet. The robovac hummed happily as it sucked them up.
“Are you having second thoughts about the Companion Program?”
A dry chuckle rattled in Charlie’s throat. “Not really. It didn’t . . .” He stopped himself.
Dr. Roger arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t what?”
Charlie swallowed. “Well, it didn’t work out too well for David Sun. That’s the rumor, anyway.”
Dr. Roger pursed his lips. “Yes, I heard about that. I’m sure instances of patient dissatisfaction are rare.”
“Doesn’t sound rare to me,” Charlie said.
“What do you mean?”
“Human beings cheat and lie. Sounds like she was jus
t acting like a human being.”
“I see.” Dr. Roger took a sip of water. The robovac whirred like a pet waiting for a treat. “And what about you? Any women in your life?”
Charlie had given Dr. Roger only cursory details of his date with Rebecca and had received the “other fish in the sea” lecture in return.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Charlie coughed into his fist. “Why?”
Dr. Roger shrugged. “You just seem to have a spring in your step this afternoon. I thought maybe . . . but if you say there isn’t anybody . . .”
“There isn’t,” Charlie said, adding after a moment, “I wish there was, you know? But there’s not. Not right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, what have you been up to, then? For instance, last night? What did you do?”
“Last night?”
“Yes. For example.”
Charlie’s eyes followed the robovac. “I was at home.”
“You didn’t go out at all? Not on one of your nature walks?”
Charlie coughed again. And then again. “The air is really dry in here.”
“I’m sorry. Would you like a glass of water?”
“Please.” Dr. Roger filled the second tumbler and handed it to Charlie. “Thanks.”
“Anything to make you comfortable.” His eyes narrowed. “You know how much my patients mean to me.”
“Right. So, anyway . . .” Charlie let his glass rest on the arm of the chair. There was a zipping sound as it slid off the leather, followed by a sharp crunch. The robovac scurried from under Dr. Roger’s chair. Dr. Roger lunged for it, but Charlie had the longer reach. He snatched up the robovac, the tiny wheels spinning helplessly. He turned it over. Next to the serial number was an insignia. A tiny pink blossom. The central stigma was a small mesh like a speaker. But no, Charlie realized. Not a speaker. A microphone.
Charlie and Dr. Roger locked eyes. They were posed like wrestlers, half standing, only five feet of Persian rug between them.
“I thought these sessions were private.”
“They are private,” Dr. Roger snapped. “I’m just doing my job, Charlie.”
“I thought your job was to help students.”
“Students don’t pay.” Dr. Roger’s voice was a growl. “Who do you think pays for your therapy, Charlie?”
Girl Parts Page 12
