I Heart Robot (19 page)

“Nope, she’s just like a normal dog.” I plop her down. Glitch brushes up against Quinn’s legs, and I expect a puddle to appear. Instead, she nips at his trouser leg wanting to play. Amazing.

“Is your mom home?” Quinn asks, a little nervous.

“Probably.” I stalk through the living room. Mom’s in her office. “Hi Mom, brought a friend home. We’ll be in my room.”

“Asrid?” She glances at me over her shoulder, her fingers hovering above her databoard.

“No, a friend from orchestra.”

Quinn peers around my shoulder and gives my mom a tiny wave.

“You two going to practice?” Mom asks, her eyes narrowing a little.

“We’ll keep it down. Promise.” I close her door before she can protest or ask any embarrassing questions.

Quinn follows me into my bedroom with Glitch attached to his ankle, her curled tail wagging.

“She’s not usually this friendly.”

Quinn chuckles, a sound like brittle leaves rustling in a breeze. My room’s a mess. I should’ve thought about that before inviting Quinn over. I sweep a bunch of clothes off my bed and into the closet before jamming the doors shut. A digiframe sits on my bedside table, looping through photos of me and Rurik—awkward—but Quinn’s not even paying attention. His gaze is riveted on my vintage CD collection.

“Scriabin. Elgar. Rimsky-Korsakov. Bartók. What are these?” He plucks one from the shelf and studies the cover.

“They’re really old. It’s the way they used to record music. You’ve never seen a CD?”

“Only ever heard about them.”

Where did this guy grow up?

“These were my grandfather’s. Here.” Ignoring my violin for the moment, I take Scriabin’s Piano Sonatas out of Quinn’s hand.

“My grandfather had this old CD player too. Rurik helped me hook it up to my sound system.” Rurik. Better not to mention his name or anything even remotely connected to him. I slide the CD into the tray and hit play. Moments later, music trickles from the speakers crouching like spiders in the corners of my room.

“Glitch, enough.” She growls as I detach her from Quinn’s leg and drop her amongst the pillows. “You can sit if you want.”

“What is this?” He slides to the floor.

“Scriabin’s Black Mass.” I sit beside him, my leg pressed against his. He’s colder than I expected.

“This is one—”

Quinn shushes me. I’m about to harrumph with indignation when he winces at the dissonant harmony. His face scrunches up as if the clash of tones causes him physical pain. His features smooth out as the harmony resolves. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the bed, his fingers conducting an unseen orchestra. I watch him experience the music, and Scriabin has never looked so good. He feels the music; he doesn’t just hear it. He’s in it, living each progression and every jagged note of the melody like he did that night on stage. I wish I could see what he’s seeing, feel what he’s feeling. My hand slips into his, but it’s not enough.

The piano fades into the background as I study Quinn’s quivering lashes and twitching lips. His eyes are shiny with welling tears. At the tritone, his mouth quirks up into a crooked smile and all I want to do is kiss him.

“You all right?” I ask when the track ends.

“Thank you.” He grins and wipes his eyes.

“For making you cry?”

“For making me feel. That was spectacular.” His gaze is too intense and makes my insides turn to bubblegum. I try to let go of his hand, but he tightens his grip on my fingers. “I could see it. See the colors, like … ” He’s left grasping for words.

“See it?”

“An explosion of color. Each chord unique in shade and hue.”

“You’re synesthetic?” I ask, incredulous. Scriabin claimed he could
hear
color, but then he also thought he was god.

“Yes.” He squirms a little and releases my hand.

“So you can see sound and taste feelings?”

“My senses are complicated.”

“Have you always been this way?” Now I’m fascinated, trying to imagine what experiencing the world might be like if I could feel smells and taste sounds.

“It’s a more recent development.” His expression turns cloudy. “Can we listen to more?”

“Sure.” I put on Scriabin’s White Mass. Quinn spaces out to the music and I watch him, my gaze riveted on his face. At the end of the piece, he fixes me with a moonstone stare.

Ribbons of warmth spread up my neck.

“I have a boyfriend.” I blurt, not sure if it’s the truth but too afraid of how Quinn’s looking at me. A rabble of butterflies whips up a cyclone in my stomach.

“That him?” Quinn nods at the digiframe.

“Yeah. Rurik.” My cheeks blaze.

“Does he like this sonata?”

“He’s never heard it.” He’s never bothered to listen.

“Why not?”

“Rik doesn’t like music.”

“I struggle to comprehend that,” Quinn says, his eyes losing focus in the middle distance. “More?” He reaches for the CD case, his face millimeters from my own. He smells of the ocean and sunshine. I want to play Scriabin on repeat and lose myself in Quinn just as he lost himself in the music. Our lips meet before I have time to think about what we’re doing. His lips are too soft, his kiss too gentle, and I think of Rurik: lemon, cinnamon, and a lifetime of friendship if nothing else. It’s way too soon. I pull away, almost regretting the ten centimeters I put between Quinn’s lips and mine.

“Quinn, I … ”

“Shouldn’t I have kissed you?” His forehead furrows with concern. I want to smooth out those creases, but I resist and play with my own hair instead.

“It’s okay.” I stand up. Better to be further away from him. His eyes burn like smelting metal; his gaze should leave me blistered. “Could we play some violin?”

“Sure.” He gets to his feet.

“Did you grow up in Baldur?” I ask as we remove our instruments from their cases, the awkward kiss forgotten. I’m fishing for details, but I hope he won’t notice.

“Not exactly.” He meets my gaze, and a lopsided grin quirks up his lips. “You’re full of questions today.”

“I don’t know much about you.”

He chews on his inner cheek and drums his fingers on his thigh. “Fair enough. I grew up outside Osholm. What else do you want to know?”

“Do you go to school?”

“No.”

“You’re home schooled?” There are so many things I want to know.

“Something like that.” He’s as cryptic as ever.

“Do you prefer violin or viola?”

“Violin, but … ” Quinn closes the distance between us with a single step. His hand reaches behind my head and pulls out my hair band. His runs a hand through my hair as the waves fall across my shoulders. Codes, doesn’t this guy know what he’s doing to me?

“Playing viola that night, it was almost like, for the first time, I truly felt—”

“Alive.” We say in unison.

If Quinn kissed me right now, I wouldn’t pull away this time. Am I rebounding?

“Time for Fisker?” Quinn asks.

“Dvorák.” There’s no way I have enough control over my fingers for Fisker.

We play for an hour keeping the dynamics
pianissimo
so as not to upset Mom.

“I’m hungry. Want a sandwich?”

“Okay.” He holds his violin as if it’s an extension of his body, organic and living. Reluctantly, he leaves the instrument on the bed.

“Sara thinks you look like a dancer,” I say over my shoulder as we head toward the kitchen.

“Who’s Sara?”

“Asrid’s girlfriend. She said you’re built like one.” It’s a veiled compliment, maybe too subtle for a guy to get. Miles greets us, his orange digisplay lingering on Quinn.

“I’m not built for dancing. I have done some martial arts, though.”

“That would explain it then.” The broad shoulders and biceps straining against the sweater that fits like a second skin.

“Explain what?”

“Tea?” I change the topic. I’ve done enough blushing for one day.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He settles on a kitchen stool. His gaze keeps shifting to Miles.

“He’s harmless.” But my assurances are short lived when the house phone rings. Miles answers automatically before disconnecting the headset from his chest and handing it to me.

“Tyri, call from Rurik. Do you accept?” The last thing I want Quinn to witness is me having a post break-up melt down.

“Sorry,” I mouth to Quinn as I scuttle back down to my bedroom for a bit of privacy. Glitch looks up, tongue caught between her teeth, and gives me an unimpressed glare for disturbing her nap.

“Hey.” I perch on the edge of the bed and give Glitch tummy rubs to say sorry.

“You get home okay?”

“Yes.”

Awkward silence.

“About last night,” Rurik says. “I’m sorry to do this … Gunnar wants to know if you’ll reconsider.”

“Seriously?”

So, that’s why he called, not to apologize or declare his eternal love and beg me to take him back. No, he just wants me to snoop.

“I only said I’d ask. I’m not expecting you to say yes.”

“Good, because the answer’s no.”

“Okay.” Another lengthy pause and I think maybe he’s hung up when he speaks again.

“I meant what I said at the train station,” he says.

“Which part?”

“That I love you.”

“I know.” I whisper.

Then there’s more silence while hurt and rage vie for control.

“So you won’t help us out.” Rurik sounds defeated.

“Not like this.”

“Fair enough. So we’re done, for real?”

“Yes.”

“Because of this thing with your mom?”

“Mostly.” But that was just the cherry on the top of an enormous double-cream, black forest cake of problems.

He runs his hands through his hair loud enough for me to hear it through the phone.

“How was your first day?” I ask. He might not be my boyfriend anymore, but we’ve got too much history for me to stop caring all together.

“A bit boring since I know the campus already. I start proper classes on Wednesday.”

“Busy schedule?”

“Yeah. You sure you won’t even think about helping us? Do it for me, because I love you. Always have.”

“I’m sorry, Rik.” I hang up before he realizes I’m choking on those three little words that have flowed so easily since we were thirteen, before he realizes there’s a storm-eyed boy sitting in my kitchen who loves music as much as I do, whose lips I can’t wait to kiss again.

I pad back to the kitchen and find Mom interrogating Quinn.

Robots make me feel uncomfortable. Beneath all the layers of synthetic flesh, I’m just like that: skeletal appendages, pumps and circuits, valves and microchips. I only
look
human. Beneath the mask, I’m a machine little better than Miles the housebot. If it has the firmware to perform a live status scan and knows I’m an android, it isn’t saying anything. Perhaps it doesn’t know I’m AWOL, that I’m breaking the law by not wearing the orange armband.

Tyri’s mom emerges from the study rubbing her eyes. She’s dressed in figure hugging sportswear with a perfectly curled ‘do bobbing above her shoulders. The woman limps. She looks at me with eyes nothing like Tyri’s and my circuits sizzle in recognition as fear freezes my Cruor. There’s no way she’d recognize me. I thought she was already dead when I accidentally crushed her leg. She was unconscious with her eyes closed. There’s no possible way she could recognize me.

“Who are you?” Ms. Matzen says in a friendly tone.

“Hi.” There’s a tremor in my voice, and I wish I could clear my throat. “I’m Quinn.”

“Odd name.”

“I guess.”

“Do you go to St. Paul’s?” She accepts a tall glass of algae green liquid from Miles and takes a sip.

“No.”

“So you only know Tyri from orchestra then?”

“We’re both violinists.”

“Ah.” Her face cracks into a tight smile that never reaches her eyes. “And what do your parents think of that?”

“They support me.” I bend the truth, just like Sal said.

“And your plans for the future?” She leans her elbows on the counter.

My hands are shaking and the red exclamation mark blinks in my peripheral vision. I have two hours of hydrogen left. I’ll have to refuel before the gig.

“Um … ” I’m hoping Tyri will save me from this conversation. The moments trundle by without any sign of her. “I want to be a musician.” I default to the truth.

“So you’re the one encouraging my daughter’s dreams of a Bohemian existence.” She gives me a wry grin, but there’s a taint of bitterness in her voice.

“I’m not sure.”

“I have nothing against music.” She swills her algae juice. “But Tyri was meant for greater things.”

“I think you underestimate the power of music.”

“Really? Enlighten me.” She cocks her head expectantly. This woman works for M-Tech. If anyone can identify an android with a quick glance, it’s her. Her gaze lingers on my face.

“You have exquisite skin,” she says before I can form a coherent answer to the question about music.

“Um … ”

She reaches forward as if to touch me and I recoil. If she touches me, she’ll know.

“About music … ” My circuits misfire, unable to think of lies on the spot.

“Where did you say you were from again?” She narrows her eyes.

“I didn’t.” We lock gazes, and I’m convinced she sees right through my cybernetic eyeballs into the tangle of electronics inside me.

“Mom!” Tyri finally returns to the kitchen. “Quinn’s a friend.”

“Just asking some friendly questions.” She sips on the green goo and checks the time at her wrist. “I’ve got a company event tonight. Sort yourselves out for dinner will you? And Quinn,” she’s already walking away. “Nice to meet you.”

“Sorry.” Tyri sits beside me. “Mom can get all Spanish Inquisition sometimes.”

“It’s okay.” No it’s not, not at all. I crushed the woman’s ankle and snapped her leg like a twig; I watched Kit smash the life out of the man beside her.

“I know it’s early, but could we get out of here?” Tyri fingers the phone.

“Not good news?”

“I broke up with my boyfriend.” Her tone is flat, and yet her face is a conflagration of conflicting emotion: anger around the eyes, hurt in them, sadness in her down-turned mouth. Humans are so complicated.