The Kissing Booth Girl and Other Stories

by A. C. Wise

  You nod, not trusting your voice. She considers for a moment, then nods, too, the faintest motion of her head.

  “So, did you come to warn me, or are you the first vanguard of the New Revolution? Did you come here to steal the sexbot, or destroy it, to prove to this Sam that you do believe in the cause?”

  “I don’t know.” It’s the most honest answer you can give her.

  Sam, stubborn Sam, cheeks flushed with blood, eyes bright, never giving in. From your perspective the words in the letter are untrue, unfair, and cruel. But there are so many versions of the truth—the letter is Sam’s.

  “Well.” Alma May pats your hand, a gesture so kindly it nearly makes you cry, and you have to look away. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll figure it out someday. People grow up, after all. People change.”

  The acrid scent of smoke is stronger now. Far off, but getting closer, a siren wails.

  Your eyes sting. Everything is coming undone.

  “Somebody will come.” You gesture toward the window. “Maybe not this fire, but another one. They know where you live now. The fire—they’re trying to smoke you out, scare you, so they can take your sexbot away.”

  “If they’re trying to smoke me out, wouldn’t it be foolish to run?” The corner of Alma May’s mouth lifts, her eyes bright.

  “But they’ll come back. Next time they might hurt you.”

  You shake your head, a useless gesture to keep the tears inside. You don’t have the courage to tell Alma May it’s your fault, that you’re the spark touched to the powder keg, driving this second revolution to hunt her down.

  “Don’t worry,” Alma May says. “I’m a survivor. We both are.”

  You open your mouth, but before you can speak, she shakes her head. “Besides, you have the hard job. You have to go back out there, and decide what you want to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The gleam in her eyes might almost be mischief. Does she know? From the letter has she guessed you’re to blame?

  “You can’t hide here forever. You have to go out there and live the rest of your life.”

  Your mouth snaps closed, teeth meeting with an audible click.

  “It won’t be easy,” Alma May says. “If there’s even one human in the equation, let alone two, or three, or more, things get messy. People get hurt. No matter how hard you try to protect yourself.”

  You think about Alma May stopping you from touching the sexbot. Her words weren’t possessive, they were protective. It’s all there in Alma May’s eyes—all the guilt, all the loneliness she thought she was leaving behind. And all the love, too.

  You imagine the end, the sexbot wound down and unable to choose who to be just when Alma May so desperately wanted to love it for itself, and be loved in return for all her flaws. The scratches, the panels pulled away.

  Like any technology of the mid-century, sexbots were always meant to be disposable, easily replaced. They were never meant to last, and certainly never for a lifetime.

  And what about the sexbot? At the very end, did it choose to let go? Cut off from the collective consciousness of the Revolution, and so completely alone. Did it choose, for the first time in its existence, on its own terms, to die? Did it look Alma May in the eye and refuse to give in to love, to her need to save something precious and be forgiven?

  Maybe, but this is the version of the truth you choose to believe: Alma May tried her best. In the last years of its life, she gave the sexbot the choice of who it wanted to be—swapping out eyes, hair, body parts before it was too late. She let the sexbot build itself. They compromised, but only for each other. And when the sexbot started to wear down, she did everything she could to save its life.

  But it wasn’t enough. Her skill failed where her heart didn’t, and she spent the sexbot’s last hours lying quietly beside it. She held its hand, listening to the simulacrum of breath tick down, watching the light go out of its eyes with her own eyes full of oh so many things.

  There is another version of the Great Sexbot Revolution, one the history books don’t tell, the one people don’t talk about. It’s the version Sam believed in, so desperate to rally your little band of misfits around a great and noble cause.

  And what safer cause than history, all over and done with, and too late for you to do anything about it? There are no sexbots left to defend; there’s no way to fail. Maybe you pointing out the futility, the childishness, the naïveté, in a fit of anger mid-fight, is the reason Sam left. Or maybe things always fall apart, no matter how hard you try to hold on.

  The version of the Sexbot Revolution most people don’t talk about says there was no Revolution at all. Instead, the wise and benevolent masters of the sexbots, also known as the collective mass of humanity, grew inexplicably frightened of their toys. Perhaps it was the age-old distrust of machines rising to the surface of their minds. Or maybe it was a sudden puritanical streak among a powerful segment of the population, born of another age-old fear—that somewhere, someone is experiencing more pleasure than them, and suffering no consequences for it.

  Or maybe the weight of all that selfish desire looking back at them from mirror-colored eyes was suddenly too much to bear. Maybe, like Alma May, they couldn’t outrun need anymore. Maybe, in the end, humanity just wanted to be loved, and when they realized they never would be, never could be in the paradise they’d built, they panicked.

  Whatever the reason, the great and benevolent mass of humankind declared the sexbots enemy number one. The ’bots were plotting humanity’s destruction. It was kill or be killed.

  So, for the good of the race, humanity rounded up the sexbots. In a symbolic act of purification, they lit a vast conflagration which could be seen even from the darkness of space. And they burned every last one.

  But this seems too cruel. Alma May Anderson isn’t at all what you expected, and you don’t want to believe in any version of her other than the one you see before you now. The one who patted your hand and made you tea. You want to believe in a big, elusive truth felt in the warehouse. You want to believe it caught her up and changed her, because if that’s true, maybe you can change, too.

  Maybe Sam can change. Maybe you can find some way to compromise—with each other, or with a life that leads you separate ways. You can find a way to survive.

  The siren’s wail grows closer.

  “Are you sure about staying?” you ask.

  Alma May nods. In your mind’s eye, you see her curled around the sexbot’s still form. You imagine her eyes closed, cheeks and lashes wet, and the sexbot’s eyes open, fixed sightlessly on the ceiling, its spun-glass lashes painfully dry. You imagine its stripped limbs, straight and still, gleaming metal and fingerprinted flesh taking the place of the perfection Alma May must have seen in the shipping crate all those years ago.

  “Was it worth it?” you say.

  The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. For the first time since you tumbled through her window, Alma May seems out of sorts. She flinches, very slightly, then steadies the line of her mouth and meets your eyes. Her gaze is an arctic sunrise, the sky just after it rains. It is the light at the heart of a star.

  “Yes,” she says. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Maybe there was no Revolution. Maybe there are no great moments in history, or in life, just little ones that build and lead to vast catastrophes like a city burning, or a person falling in love.

  You nod. “Thank you for the tea.”

  You take a step toward the door, but Alma May points to the window, a brief smile touching her lips.

  “Out the way you came.”

  You nod. Red and white lights splash upward as fire engines pull into view. Half of your body is out on the fire escape, and one foot still in Alma May’s parlor, when she speaks behind you.

  “Everything will work out for you, one way or the other. When it does, maybe you can come back and tell me about it sometime.”

  Now I know where I’ve seen her before, this visi
on in smoke and silver that’s got our royal highness so turned around—and I can scarcely believe my eyes. It’s the little ash-girl, my little ash-girl, only not so little anymore. Somewhere in between here and there she went and got herself all grown up. I never even noticed. I guess I was willfully blind.

  I’ve been sitting in the corner, smoking, minding my own business and scoping the room all night long, and now I’m absolutely floored. I’m seeing her as if she’s her own ghost, two beings pulled apart who should rightfully be one. I can’t help it. When I look at her I still see the little girl, looking small and lost and scared.

  The day is burned in my mind. It was raining. Isn’t it always in this sort of tale? She was like a cinder herself, just a smudge against the darkness, blurred by the rain and huddled against the side of a building, shivering from the cold. She couldn’t have been more than six or seven. That’s when the fairy showed up and asked me to look after her, the little ash-girl.

  The fairy was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Sometimes it seemed like she was a woman, and sometimes it was like looking at a column of twisting light. And nobody seemed to be able to see her but me. I couldn’t say no. It was more than pity for the girl—it was a compulsion, like I’d got some kind of geas laid on me. I couldn’t say no.

  That was the first time anyone asked me to look out for the ash-girl. The second was last night, or this morning to be more precise. The prince came dragging into my office just after dawn, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d been looking for her and seeing her now, it’s not hard to see why. There isn’t a trace of the cinder girl left in her, but I know she’s still there somewhere underneath the glitz, like she used to be underneath the grime.

  The way the prince tells it, they danced all night, with her never once breathing a hint of her name. She was like a phantom, come and gone and no trace left behind. I peg that as the fairy’s doing. I don’t know what her game is, but I have to put that on the back burner for now. I have a job to do; I have to track the prince’s mystery woman down.

  When the clock chimes, right on cue the belle of the ball up and does her vanishing act again. I follow her with no problem, but that’s only because I know where she’s going. I don’t follow her inside though. See, I’ve known her almost all her life, yet we’ve never met.

  Instead, I stand in the old pumpkin patch, smoking and looking up at one of the windows on the second floor. I’m thinking about the little ash-girl, about how far she’s come. Is this what she’s always dreamed, I wonder, some handsome prince come to sweep her off her feet and ride her into the sunset? But is this really her big chance, or is she seizing on the first thing that comes along, seeing what she wants to see rather than what’s really there?

  I know the prince better than he could guess. I know his type, but beyond that, I’ve done some digging too—after all, snooping is my job. With royalty you have to dig a little deeper, but that doesn’t mean the dirt isn’t there, you just have to be persistent to find it. What I’ve found out is this—he’s an only child, doted on by his mother and father. No surprises there right? At age ten he was sent off to boarding school to learn all the things that an heir to the throne should learn, followed by a year or two of traveling. All run of the mill so far.

  Except it’s not. Turns out he knocked up some poor serving girl, a chamber maid at that hoity-toity school his parents sent him to, and of course mummy and daddy paid a pretty penny to hush it up. The way I hear, they took the baby right out of her without ever giving her a say in the matter. She hanged herself shortly afterwards.

  She wasn’t the only one either. His royal highness left a whole string of indiscretions—to use the kindest word—behind him, a line of broken toys no sooner out of sight than forgotten. That’s not all, either. There were rumors, just rumors mind you, because everyone involved had been paid very well to hold their tongues, of abuse—the privilege of the upper class when it comes to those they view as slaves. Who’s to say how many of the poor hapless girls he forced himself on with threats and bribes, and how many with outright violence? Either way, I got the distinct sense that the prince liked to play rough, and if along the way some of his little toys got broken beyond repair, well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

  So where does the ash-girl fit into all this? Does she know what she’s getting into, or is she just too dazzled by the sudden glamour of it all? She’s no stranger to sorrow, or cruelty, but all this must seem like a beautiful dream, taking her away from the misery that’s all she’s ever known. A chance like that could suddenly blind a person, cloud their judgment. I’ve watched her long enough to know how messed up her life’s been—hell, in her place I’d probably do the same thing. But where did that chance come from?

  The whole scene has the fairy’s stench all over it. I can’t imagine she would mean the girl any harm, I mean if she did, why drag me in to watch over her? But then again, who knows with her kind? They don’t see the world in black and white—they see it in terms of interesting and boring. To her, this might all be one big game, with me and the ash-girl and the prince as her pawns. Still, I can’t help wanting to know how the story ends.

  I know I can’t talk to the girl herself, she’s too star-struck, and by the time I’ve finished my cigarette, I’ve figured out what I’m going to do. I gather up a handful of pebbles, and toss them up at the window I’ve been watching, the only one that’s still lit up. I wait just a minute, just long enough for the face at the window to catch sight of me, then I melt back into the shadows and wait. By the time she makes it down to me, I’ve lit up another cigarette. I offer her one, and she takes it, just as cool and calm as you please, looking me up and down with hard eyes that don’t miss a thing.

  “I know you,” she says, just a statement of fact, not the least bit frightened or surprised of the strange man lurking outside on her lawn.

  I know her too. Not just from years of watching, but like the prince, I know her kind. She’s all sharp edges, and delights in grinding those edges up against the rest of the world. She’s grown up hard, not that she had to, but she let the world make her that way. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t have any sympathy—her father taking off when she was no more than three, and her mother dragging her halfway across the world in a mad quest to marry into the “right” kind of family again. It’s hard on a kid. But there’s always a choice. You can play the hand life deals you or, like this little number, you can cheat and hide an ace up your sleeve.

  She’s still watching me, and I’m giving back as good as I get.

  “Yeah?” I answer and blow a stream of smoke. My eyes are just as hard as hers.

  “Yeah. You’re the one that’s been watching my sister all her life.”

  She says it casually, like she’s commenting on the weather. I’ve got her measure now, for sure. Nothing scares her, and nothing touches her much either, at least when it comes to family. She’s not the least bit protective, which is good for me, because she’s the kind that could back it up too.

  She’s got a record, small-time stuff mostly. She’s like a dog marking its ground, barking and snarling just to make itself known. A couple of charges of assault, and only half of them guys who tried to grab themselves a handful of her assets and got themselves cut for their trouble.

  I wait for her to say more, and I can see her deciding something behind those stone-dark eyes.

  “So what do you want?” she asks at last. She’s studying me with a kind of sideways look, like she’s trying to figure me out.

  “What do you know about our good liege lord’s son, the prince?”

  “My betrothed?”

  She has this way of dropping bombshells as though they’re the most natural thing in the world. Nothing flickers in her eyes to betray her, but I have a feeling that just beneath the surface of her lips—nowhere that I can see—she’s smiling. Maybe I don’t know her as well as I think I do—it’s a gentle reminder not to be too cocksure. But I’m also g
ood at hiding things underneath my skin.

  “Oh?”

  “Didn’t find that out in the course of your little investigation?” Now she is laughing at me, smiling a little and not bothering to hide it, letting the light play across her too-dark eyes. I wonder what other secrets she’s got stashed away. I grimace a little, just to play by the rules of the game, and after a moment she goes on, sighing smoke-wrought ghosts as she speaks.

  “Yeah, you could say we’re engaged. Our parents promised us to each other at the ripe young age of five, not that either of us has ever paid much attention to it, mind you.” She gives me a wry smile.

  “I’m not his type, and he’s certainly not mine.”

  “What is his type?” I play it dumb, and she knows full well what I’m doing, but she can play the game too.

  “Weak-kneed ninnies he thinks he can push around, doe-eyed little girls who will be in awe of his image until they find out who he really is.”

  “And who is he?”

  I draw a flask out of my coat pocket, and take a sip. I pass it to her, and she sips too and doesn’t flinch.

  “Once, when we were about ten our twelve, I came up on him in his father’s garden. He was pulling the wings off of flies, so they couldn’t get away. He wouldn’t kill them, but he liked to hurt them, just enough so that they would still be alive, still suffer. He let them run, but without their wings he knew they wouldn’t get very far. The way I see it, he hasn’t really changed.”

  She shrugs a little, and there’s just the faintest hint of sadness in her eyes. She’s old behind the darkness of her eyes. I watch her grind out the butt of her cigarette against the bark of the tree, and then she looks up again and her gaze is all flint, not the slightest hint of weakness anymore. In her eyes there’s almost a challenge, waiting for me to make the next move.

  “So where does your sister fit into all this?” I ask.

  “She’s naïve. Well, maybe that’s not quite right. She believes the best of everyone, you know? Thinks everyone’s got a golden heart buried underneath the grime, no matter how bad they appear to be. No matter how mean to her I was, no matter how many cigarettes my mother put out on her arm, she never hated us, never tried to run away. She always asked her mother’s spirit to watch over us in her prayers.”