by Snow, Sheena
“What are you doing so close to Robotatouille?”
“Um, trying the soup?”
Mom should be happy that I didn’t think Robotatouille was trying to poison us anymore.
“Well, do it from a five-foot radius.”
“A five-foot radius?”
Mom walked between us. “Remember the rules? I don’t want you to punch him again.”
“You were serious about that?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t want you hurting him again. He’s a very expensive robot and I—”
“Hurting him?”
What about my hand? What about everything she put me through? How dare she do this to me!
“You want to know something.” I pointed my finger at her. “That was all. Your. Fault. You bring a robot in the house and expect everyone to adapt instantly. It doesn’t occur to you that some people, like your only daughter, might not like having a strange person-like thing in the house. Did you even ask my opinion before you got it? Did you even ask Dad’s?”
“How dare you blame your hitting him on me?” Mom looked shocked.
“You.” I roll my eyes. “It’s always about you. What you want. You never care about what’s best for the family. It’s always about you. What makes you happy, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everything. I’m sick of having to deal with the robot in the house all the time. I’m tired of being afraid to go in my own kitchen. Alone. And I’m tired of you never taking anything I say seriously. I’m tired of everything.”
“Tired?” Mom’s nostrils flared. “You’re tired of me? After everything I have done for you?”
“What?” I threw my hands up. “What have you done for me? Ignored me your whole life? Hidden in your studio? Made me feel like I’m not the daughter you wanted? Did it ever occur to you that there are other things to do with your daughter besides paint? Oh, wait. It’s my fault. It’s my fault I can’t paint. It’s my fault I can’t draw. I’m sorry I can’t do those things. I’m sorry if I can’t be all artsy like you.”
“Artsy like me? You don’t have to be like me.” Mom softened. “I never wanted—”
“Stop it.” I couldn’t look at her anymore. “You’ve been trying to put a paintbrush in my hands ever since I could walk.”
“Vienna, I—”
“Don’t.” I looked toward my room. “Save it for someone who cares because you gave up caring about me a long time ago.”
Robotatouille dropped his head.
Mom reached out a hand. “Vienna—”
I jerked my arm away. “I’m going to my room. Please, leave me alone.”
Like you always do.
I flung my door shut and I threw my book bag on my bed. This was the worst fight yet. I’d exposed too many of my feelings. Things I had never said. Things I shouldn’t have had to say. Now, Mom would know my buttons. She could twist and turn me in her direction.
I crumpled on the sofa, the words we said tearing through my body. I pulled my knees up to my chest.
I was stupid. So stupid to tell Mom those things. I rocked myself back and forth on the sofa. My eyes traced the goose bumps that formed on my arm.
A note slipped under my door. Feet shuffled and then the front door banged shut. I stared at the note. Did I care what Mom had to say? I rocked myself on the sofa. Would it be an apology? You couldn’t apologize after a fight like that in a note. Mom never apologized for things anyways. I pulled at a strand of hair and played with it. Maybe it said I was the daughter she had always wanted. I shook my head. Why do that to myself? I stared at the note. It was a thin sheet of paper folded in four pieces, and for some reason it scared me. I pulled my hair across my lips. Maybe the note was simple. Maybe it simply said, I love you.
I rocked myself back and forth again. I looked back at the note. It seemed further away this time, as if daring me to pick it up and look at it. I bit my lip and stepped onto the carpet.
The thick wool pressed between my toes as I crept toward the note. I stared down at it, pretending I was the master and not the note. The ends of the paper dipped when the heater came on, as if laughing at me.
I picked up the note.
I won’t be home for dinner. I’m filling in at a painting class. Dad’s at a funeral, his co-worker passed away. There’ll be food on the stove.
So it would be Robotatouille and I. I crumpled the note in my hand. What did I expect to happen, a revelation to occur? I collapsed on my sofa and watched the note fall to the ground. I had always felt something was wrong but had never wanted my suspicions to be true. I put my head in my lap. I had never wanted to acknowledge my fear. Now, I couldn’t hide from the truth anymore. This fight had only confirmed what I’d believed to be true my whole life. I rocked myself and let the feelings wash over me. My eyes shut, closing out the images but not the words.
My realization was worse than having a mom who hated you. It was having a mom who didn’t care about you. And my mom didn’t care.
Boom!
The sound reverberated from the kitchen. My heart stopped beating as I shot off the sofa. My legs wobbled under me and I gasped for air, falling on my bed, my heart now hammering in my chest.
What in the world was that?
I stood up and made my way to my door—trembling, terrified of what I might find there.
“Robotatouille?”
My head snapped up and I ran in the kitchen, only to come to a complete stop in my tracks. Pots littered the ground and the areas between them were splattered with yellow liquid, celery, carrots, and onions. Robotatouille, dishtowel in hand, knelt on the floor beside the mess.
“What happened out here?” I demanded.
Robotatouille stopped wiping the floor and looked up at me.
“Oh. I forgot.” I rubbed my forehead. “You can’t talk.”
It went back to its task, making me feel useless standing there.
“Here. Let me help.” I started placing pots on the counter. It looked like a bomb exploded in the middle of the kitchen. I glanced down at Robotatouille.
What if it had a mechanical malfunction? What if something exploded inside it?
Its blond head kept bobbing up and down to the rhythm of the motion.
“Are, er, you okay? I mean, is everything all right with you, er . . .” I swallowed. “And your parts?”
Robotatouille nodded.
Good. At least that wasn’t the problem.
“Is everything all right now? I mean no more boom-boom?”
Great, Vienna. Just great. It wasn’t an idiot.
“I mean,” I amended, looking around the kitchen. “No more exploding . . . things?”
It nodded again.
Oh no. What exactly was it nodding its head to again?
“So everything’s fine then? Right?”
It nodded, for the third time.
“Okay, then. Umm, great.”
Because I love not knowing what caused a massive explosion right in the room next to where I sleep.
I moved deeper into the kitchen picking up pots and bent down, under the table, to grab one of the bigger ones. As I put it on the pile, I frowned. Four massive fingerprints were on the side on the pot.
I turned it over in my hands.
Dad never touched pots and Mom had the tiniest hands ever. I looked at Robotatouille, focusing in on its moderately sized hands arranging pots on the counter. I turned the pot over in my hands.
So where did these come from?
I felt something over my shoulder and met Robotatouille’s scowling eyes. Robotatouille narrowed its gaze and gestured at the pot in my hands.
I slid the pot over to it.
“I was just trying to help you.” I stood up. “Sorry.”
I brushed my pants off as I walked toward my room. It didn’t have to act like that. It’s not like I—
I stopped in my tracks. Wait a minute. Wait. One. Minute. I looked back at Robotatouille, trying to keep my mouth from hanging open.
It. Had. Scowled. At. Me.
No way. They were machines, they couldn’t scowl. They couldn’t.
But this one just did. I stared at the back of its head.
“You . . . you have feelings.” I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Did that mean it understood my fight with Mom? That Robotatouille had heard me complaining about having a robot? I smacked my hand against my forehead. That fight was really blowing up in my face.
I looked back at the robot. Did that mean it hated me now? And if it could hate, could it love?
As if feeling my eyes on it, Robotatouille turned around to me, as if asking what are you doing still standing there, its eyes now stoic and aloof, much different than a few minutes ago. I averted my gaze.
I was in deep trouble.
If I told, what would it do to me? Could it kill me? Could it poison me? Or could it do other things to me? Worse things. Could it get other robots to help it? Did other robots have feelings? Or was it just this one? Was it a glitch in the system?
No. I rubbed my temples. Emotion wasn’t some glitch in the system. Emotion was too hard to fabricate.
If Robotatouille could feel, could it think other than what it was programmed? Was it even programmed with anything or had it been acting of its own volition all along?
The room spun. I leaned my hand against the wall.
Who else knew? Did anyone else know about this?
Robotatouille banged on a pot.
I turned and tried to muster a smile.
“Dinner?” I eyed the pot it was pointing at. “Oh. Dinner’s done. Okay. Thank you.” I ran my fingers through my ponytail.
This was awful. I couldn’t live like this. Always wondering what it was thinking and feeling about me. Was it thinking of ways to act on those feelings? And so much for the five-foot perimeter around me. Robotatouille had been hovering over my shoulder. So could it go against orders? Or had Mom lifted the rule already?
This was bad. So bad.
I snatched the food and ate in my room but my mind wouldn’t stop working.
If it has feelings, was this slavery? Should they release robots that have feelings? Do they count as humans? If they do, do they have basic rights, freedoms? Dogs have feelings. Yet they don’t have freedom.
What if they decided to have a Robot Revolution? Robotatouille’s scowl formed in my mind and a shiver raced up my spine. We wouldn’t have a chance against robots.
Their level of intellect could change everything.
Chapter 7
My alarm went off. I was glad to be woken up. I’d had a nightmare.
Caribbean danced around his tank when he saw me get up. “Yeah, yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’ll feed you when I get home.”
I’d dreamed robots took over the world and I was Robotatouille’s slave. They didn’t need chains, or whips, or guns. They knew what we thought, all our thoughts. They knew if we were running away, if we were plotting against them, or if we liked something. Whenever we had a thought they didn’t like, they made screaming noises in our head.
We gave them our complete submission. We had no other choice.
But it was just a dream. And Robotatouille was just a feeling, and probably thinking, robot.
Having him around didn’t seem possible anymore. Not to mention having him cook and clean. How could the manufacturers not notice this little problem?
How am I going to tell Mom and Dad about this? Telling Mom was not an option. Talking to Mom ever again was probably not an option. And if I told Dad, he would have to choose, to pick a side. I sighed. I couldn’t tell Dad anything.
Maybe I could tell Sydney, or Jayla. I shook my head. No one would believe me. They would think I made it up, being overdramatic.
Maybe a scowl didn’t mean anything in robot expressions. Maybe I was working myself up over nothing.
No. All the research and robot owners’ manuals I had read indicated the same thing. The manufacturers had been clear on that. Robots weren’t supposed to have expressions.
At all.
Only now I had a new search to try.
Class with Professor Rosquet was good, as usual. My next class started in thirty minutes. I headed for the library. I needed books. More books on robots. It would be harder for anyone to track me this way than with an IP address from an Internet search.
Nothing was going right anymore. My home life was falling apart, my dating life was falling apart, and the outside world was falling apart—bricks shattering to dust and the dust wouldn’t be able to rebuild anything, leaving me, possibly leaving us all, in ruins.
I entered the library and found it was the same librarian as last time. Bingo. One less explanation I’d have to give.
“How is everything going? Have the books been helpful?” she asked.
“Great. I’ve already started going through them. I just had another thought, though.” I leaned in close over the counter. “Would you happen to have anything on the possibility of robots having emotions or feelings? I was thinking of maybe trying to find a way to work that into my essay.”
“Emotions, you say?” She frowned and adjusted her glasses. “That’s such an odd concept but maybe in the online journals there’s something you can find.” We spent the next thirty minutes hunting but with no luck. There was nothing published about even the possibility of robots having feelings. Humph.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, as I checked the overhead clock. “It was just an idea.”
She gave me a wobbly side smile, and I waved back at her as I dashed to my next class. The poor lady probably thought I was nuts.
Chapter 8
Timmy T’s lyrics reached my ears as I walked through the front door. I was glad Mom was off painting, or whatever she did, in her studio. I didn’t know how to act around her.
Robotatouille scurried around the kitchen.
I didn’t know how to act around anyone anymore.
I headed down the other hallway, past Mom’s studio. The music was still blasting so I didn’t have to worry about tiptoeing around the place.
“Vienna?”
Everything kept getting worse. How did Mom know I was home? I turned around, facing Mom.
Mom tapped her fingers together. “Vienna, I . . .”
I pulled a strand of hair from my ponytail and twirled it.
The silence stretched, neither of us talking. I don’t know why Mom started this if she had nothing to say. I got it. She couldn’t talk to me. So why didn’t she talk to one of her artist friends? They were her go-to people, people closer to her than I had ever been.
“Don’t worry about it.” I turned away.
Mom reached for me. “Vienna . . .”
I stopped again. Was she waiting for me to say something? I’d already said everything I felt. I had unloaded everything. There was nothing left for me to say. Mom had said nothing, explained nothing, and apologized for nothing. Mom’s actions had said also everything, too clearly.
I had my back to her, listening to see if she would say anything more. The music turned off.
“I keep painting the same thing.”
What was that supposed to mean? Now she could sell a bunch of paintings.
I frowned. “That’s great, Mom.” I don’t know what she wanted from me. To gloat at how good her art skills were? Whatever. I couldn’t take it anymore. I started off toward my room.
“No, it’s not great.”
I stopped walking then turned to face her. What did she want from me?
>
“I’m creative.” Mom leaned against the door. “That’s what I do, and now I can’t come up with anything. I keep painting the same thing.”
Mom was still further than I had ever gotten at painting then. “I keep painting things on fire.” Mom ran her fingers on the edge of the door. “Every scene I paint ends in flames. I tried painting still lifes, but they turn out to be bowls of burning fruit. I tried people, and they burn. I tried a lake.” Mom’s eyes filled with tears. “The lake catches fire.”
“I thought you hated—”
“I know.” Mom leaned against the door. “I do.”
I didn’t know how to help Mom. I hardly knew Mom.
We stood in silence again. Mom had never opened up like this before, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to handle it.
“Have you tried asking other painters how to . . .” I scratched my head. “Stop, whatever it is you are doing.”
Mom stared at the ground.
“Mom?”
“They can’t help me.”
“Maybe they can.”
Mom’s fingers looked as if they were sketching flames up along the door.
I swallowed. “Are you all right?” I went to her.
“I’m fine.” Mom yanked her hand away from me and the studio door slammed shut in my face.
I was left standing there, dumbfounded. Strike Number Two.
What was wrong with her? What was wrong with me? What did she want me to do? Drop everything and run to her rescue? How did she expect me to help her the one time she let me in? I didn’t even know how to help her. I didn’t even know where to start. Try painting with different brushes, try painting with the brushes in your mouth? I rubbed my temples. I always thought Mom was weird, but this? I looked back at the shut studio door. This was something else.
