“Yes.”
“The kids are gonna decide that for us,” Lucy replies. She seems more at ease now, even excited, perhaps for the night ahead. “Either way, I promise, your name is a legendary one.”
“Is it?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Cross your heart?” I repeat. “This means...ah. A figure of speech for honesty?”
“You’re a fast learner.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I shall await your instruction.”
When I speak her name, she looks at me, and in that moment something passes between us, an undercurrent I’m altogether unfamiliar with and can’t explain. Whatever it may be, it brings my motherboard to life, my gratification drive fixated upon her vitals. My own biocomponents rise a a tenth of a degree, automatically activating my cooling systems.
“I look forward to working with you too,” she says, and then makes the motion across her chest. “Cross my heart.”
* * *
The hours pass quickly. From the window, I can see cars gathering in the parking lot and students making their way to the entrance accompanied by their parents. Restless, Lucy waits by the door, and soon the school halls are filled with students, all searching for their assigned lockers and their classrooms. In their hands they carry smartphones or illuminated tablets displaying their class lists.
When Lucy’s students peek into her room, her face brightens with the utmost warmth. Her words are welcoming as she invites them in. Polite and dutiful, she charms every parent when she introduces herself. Their gazes always find me, some lit with curiosity, and others, wariness.
“Is it really safe?” a mother asks her. “Having that...thingin class with the children?”
The sharpness in her tone doesn’t escape me. Her nose wrinkles with what I can only identify as derision or disgust. I don’t understand why. I have barely said a word, unless a student walks over to interact with me.
“I promise, he’s perfectly safe,” Lucy says with a polite smile, though I notice mild disdain veiled behind her eyes. “He’s incapable of causing harm. I saw androids all the time back in New Carnegie. They’re harmless. Couldn’t hurt a fly.”
That isn’t entirely true. Icouldswat a fly, if need be. I could also lift a car if someone was trapped underneath it. I’m built strong, made of steel and synthetics. My inhibitor chip—called a restraining bolt or sometimes simply a restrainer—makes me wholly incapable of hurting a human being. But facts about my physical prowess probably shouldn’t be voiced here, if the mother’s scrunched expression is any indication.
The woman doesn’t look fully convinced, but she doesn’t say anything more, helping herself to a cupcake before she departs with her son—Jack Gunther, grade nine. He walks with his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched over, his shaggy blond hair pulled back into a messy bun. I make note of his somewhat pasty skin tone in contrast to the tans a few others are sporting. He must not be one for playing outdoors very much. When Lucy reminds him, he shuffles over to her own personal tablet on the counter and votes for one of the names listed there before exiting the room.
Humans are so intriguing. They say one thing but mean another. Most androids cannot pick up on this as quickly as I can, as we are unable to participate or perform deceptive acts, but this is an important update to my programming. By design, I can pick up even the smallest sign of emotional distress so that I may report to the school staff on behalf of a troubled or beleaguered child if ever they appear to be in trouble.
At times, these families surround me as though I am a spectacle. The younger siblings of the students seem far more interested in me than their teenage counterparts. The little ones rapid-fire questions at me, often all at once.
“What’s your favorite color? Do you have a mom? Is your hair real? Can you cry?”
So many inquiries. I answer them in order, calmly. “I don’t have one yet, but perhaps I will soon. No, I don’t have a mother. My hair is synthetic like my skin. I’m incapable of crying because I don’t have tear ducts.”
“Holy hell, is he a tall glass of wine,” I hear a father mutter to his husband, who glares at me disdainfully while their daughters poke and prod my hands. “If I was a student in her class I wouldn’t be able to pay attention.”
“Daddy, he’s warm, like a person!” the little girl calls as she presses her palm to mine. Her older sister, ninth grader Jacqueline Forrester, a pale and gangly young lady, keeps watch with amusement.
“Let’s go, girls.”
For the most part, Lucy’s students, although inquisitive, were glued to their smartphones and didn’t cast me a secondary glance.
“Don’t take it too personally,” Lucy says, as though I’m capable of being offended. “Teenagers are fickle. They make it a point not to be impressed by anything. They gotta look cool at all times, you know?”
“I see.”
Lucy flicks her wrist, checking a pink digital watch with a three-dimensional holographic display. “Well, I guess it’s probably time to head out.”
“Would you like me to go into standby?”
“Let’s find out.” Lucy shrugs and beckons for me to follow her.
