She grunts and looks sideways at me before she resumes tidying my room. "You know Dr. Gatsbro never tells me anything." She grabs the shirt I wore this morning off the floor and holds it up. "I'm just the nanny for two spoiled children."
"A nanny? Hardly." I take the shirt from her and fold it. "But you see a lot around here. And hear a lot. Do you think I should be worried? We've never had a visitor."
Miesha stops and folds her arms across her chest. She can't be more than five and a half feet tall, but she makes herself look like a ten-foot wall. That's something my mom could do too. I look at the scars on her forearms, long ragged lines that crawl across her skin like barbed wire. She's never told me how they got there, and I wonder, with everything they seem to be able to fix now, why she hasn't had them removed.
"You worry too much," she says. She's right. I do. But I have to.
She returns to her tidying, pulling at the blanket on my bed. I am silent. One thing I have learned about Miesha is that she doesn't like silence. I wait for her to fill it.
"And I'm not a snoop, either, if that's what you were implying. I know better than that." She punches my pillow and then fluffs the pit she just created. "I need this job--and I'm grateful for it. No one else would hire me. And I am well aware that Dr. Gatsbro could have used a BioBot for you two instead." She turns around to look at me, one brow raised. "You kids aren't rocket science, you know?" She busies herself with my lunch dishes, returning the antique porcelain plates and silver utensils to the tray. "But that doesn't mean I always like what I see. I didn't check my brain at the door, either." She sets the tray on the end of the bed she has just made and steps closer. "This estate is old, and that makes a lot of it familiar to you, but out there..." She pauses and shakes her head. "There's a whole new world out there that you haven't seen on your Vgrams. He may say he's protecting you, but sometimes I think..."
"Think what?"
She pauses, her fingers absently tracing the raised lines along her arms. She sees me looking at her scars and abruptly grabs the tray from my bed. "Nothing. We're both thinking too much. Now, finish getting ready," she says, looking at my bare feet. "And comb your hair. I need to go put a fire under Queen Kara. God save me if Her Fickle Highness has gone for another stroll in the gardens." The door shuts behind her, my question still unanswered.
Mostly.
She may not know who the visitor is, but she's as uneasy as I am. I go to my dressing room and find the shoes I want to wear. Even the simplest things like shoes are so different now. I have spent the past year getting used to this new world, and Dr. Gatsbro has spent as much time teaching us about it. We have learned centuries' worth of new technology and history. Some of it has made me gasp, other parts, laugh, and still other parts, cry. But I allow myself to cry only when I'm in my room alone and no one can see me. Maybe Miesha is right. Maybe I am just a boy. But I saw my father cry three times, and he seemed like more of a man than anyone I ever knew. I wish I knew what happened to my family. I think about them every day and wonder if what I did destroyed their lives.
I slide my feet into the shoes on the floor. "Shoes. Fit." I think brown goes with what I have on, so I add, "Dark brown." The shoes comply, molding to my feet, so it truly feels like I'm walking with nothing on them, then they change to the color I have requested. My mom would have loved shoes like these. She always complained about her feet after working long shifts at the market, and kicked off her shoes the minute she walked in the door. Some things have definitely improved. Other things not so much.
When I was poisoned by rogue BeeBots in the garden, I realized how different the world was now. BeeBots don't have the ability to sting but have developed a defense system by concentrating plant toxins on their back legs. They leave nasty welts if you try to obstruct their purpose, and now their purpose, like any other animal, is to survive. About the only real honeybees that exist anymore are in Insectoriums. They've tried reintroducing them into the environment, but they can't compete with the BeeBots that pollinate crops now. Eradicating the rogue BeeBots has proven difficult too, since they developed a unique way to procreate--splitting their bodies in half and then repairing themselves as they were already programmed to do. In all our historical and environmental studies, there was no mention of rogue BeeBots, and until I showed him the welts on my hands and arms, Dr. Gatsbro never mentioned them, either.
All the changes he has told us about or we have viewed on Vgrams are good. Like waste to energy. I secretly laughed when I thought how my visits to the bathroom were helping to energize the world. And I thought robots performing most dangerous tasks was a good idea. My uncle was a police officer who had his brains blown out when he was making a routine stop. I wish there had been Roboticers back then. And I love my iScroll--a tiny patch on my palm that allows me to do just about everything. There isn't a game I can't play. I'm even getting good at boxing with my Vgram instructor, Percel. He says I'm one of his best students. Of course, I know he isn't real, and I am probably not one of his best students, but his holographic punches still manage to hurt and land me on my ass. A lot.
Ass. That's another change. They don't blink at some words anymore. In fact, I can use a lot of words right in front of Miesha and Cole that would have launched one of my mother's classic lectures. If you can't say it in God's house, Locke, then you can't say it in our house. It's like Miesha and Cole don't have a clue. But maybe I don't have a clue, either, about a lot of things. Maybe that's what Miesha was talking about. Maybe there's a lot that you can't learn from holographic lessons--like the kinds of things I used to pick up on the streets of Boston but we never talked about in the classroom. What am I missing? Is there more Dr. Gatsbro hasn't told us?
I walk back to my mirror and comb my hair with my fingers. My hair looks exactly like it used to, the dark brown color and texture a perfect match, but there's still a difference, a subtle one that I miss. The cowlick above my right eye that I used to hate is gone. My hair all lies in the same direction. I lick my fingers and pull a strand out of place. It bobs over my eye. Miesha wouldn't approve. Dr. Gatsbro, who is always so perfectly groomed, wouldn't approve, either. But I do.
I turn away from the mirror, but then remember. The visitor. I look back at my reflection. A man. A boy. A something. I really don't know what I am anymore, but I slick the strand back into place. For Kara's sake--and mine--I need to follow the rules. I can't take a chance. The last time I took a chance it cost us 260 years.