Sparked (The Metal Bones Series Book 1) (3 page)

“It’s studying.” I shrugged. I gestured to the TV. “Another missing person?”

Dad sighed. “I don’t know why I bother watching anymore. The news is rarely good news.”

I nodded. “This brings the number of missing to twenty-something now. Right?”

“That we know about.”

I put my bag on the sectional. “Mom painting?”

“Yup. I actually got a peek this time. Something involving the beach.”

“Wow. Surprised she let you see it.”

“She didn’t. She left the door open.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “Don’t tell her you saw anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dad’s stomach rumbled. “Ready to eat? I’m starving.”

I followed him to the kitchen.

At least if we’re poisoned by Robotatouille, we would die together.

The music went off in the studio. Mom would be joining us soon, the sooner to tell her about my escapade with Robotatouille. I sighed. I wish we were eating with Aunt Becky and Sydney today.

Once a month we would have dinner with Aunt Becky, Uncle Leroy, Sydney, and her ten-year-old brother, Joel. We would eat with Dad’s family, only his mom lived in South Carolina, in an assisted living facility. My grandfather left one seemingly random day and my grandmother was never the same. I was four at the time but I’ll always remember his eyes. My grandfather had eyes as turquoise as the sea. Too bad I take after Mom’s side of the family.

Both of Mom’s parents died before I was born. My grandmother died in the house Mom grew up in. The gas water heater caught on fire and she died of smoke inhalation. My grandpa died three months later of a broken heart. After that, Mom and Aunt Becky never liked fire, never could be next to one, light one, or have birthday candles.

Mom had two sisters, Aunt Becky and Aunt Tamera. Aunt Tamera was the oldest, Mom was the middle, and Aunt Becky was the baby. No one spoke much about Aunt Tamera. She was estranged from the family.

On my way to the kitchen, I walked past Mom’s photo of them on the mantel. The three sisters posed together, curtsying in matching dresses. They could have been mini clones of each other. Blond hair swirled around their faces and each of their pale, piercing, green eyes held the viewer captive. Honestly, it was a shame. I wanted to know Aunt Tamera. I had so little family as it was. I wanted to know if she had the art gene. I wanted to know if she was anything like me.

“I’m here,” Mom said. “Doesn’t it smell good? You still think Robotatouille is such a bad idea?” Mom winked at me.

I gave a weak smile.

Make it more obvious. Spell out to Robotatouille that it freaks me out? I’m sure then we’d get along much better.

I checked for signs of soup. Nope. A casserole was sitting on the stove. Thank goodness.

I would still have to tell Mom because if she found out later . . . I didn’t even want to think about that.

“Mom.” I dragged out my chair. “There was a little problem earlier today but don’t worry, it’s been resolved.”

Her eyes turned a deep green. “What kind of a problem?”

“You see.” I rubbed my forehead. “I was distracted when I was leaving to go hang out with Sydney and them. My head was down, my keys were slipping, and then, I saw a stranger in the kitchen. So I did the only natural thing someone would do.”
Oh please let this work.
“I punched him.”

Mom crossed her hands over her chest, the light bulb slowly turning on. I caught Dad smiling. At least he wasn’t mad.

“When you say
him
, who are you referring to?”

She’d figured it out. She just wanted me to say it.

My throat became parched. I reached for a drink. “Robotatouille.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

I swallowed, caught off guard. “My hand’s a little sprained but not broken.” She had taken it better than I expected.

“What about Robotatouille?”

“I told him to cook soup if he needed repair. Since there’s no soup, I think everything is fine.” I nodded in affirmation.

Mom walked over to Robotatouille. “Incline your head if you are functioning properly.”

Now why didn’t I think of that?

Robotatouille nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Mom scowled at me. “You are still in trouble. You think it’s okay to accidentally punch a twenty-thousand-dollar robot?”

My mouth fell open.
Twenty thousand?

“I’m sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“It won’t. Robotatouille will make sure of that. He will keep a five-foot perimeter from you at all times, and
you
lose your Internet privileges at the house. Indefinitely.”

What?
Was she kidding? There was no way she was going to ground me.

“Dad,” I said, my jaw locking.

He pushed off the counter and went over to Mom. “Try to see things from Vienna’s point of view.” His hands encircled Mom’s waist.

Dad. Not what I had in mind.

“I guess you’re right. I did overreact, a little.” Mom leaned into him.

I needed this to stop. “I’ll try not to punch it anymore.” I thought a nice gesture might soften Mom up so I turned to Robotatouille. “Sorry.”

It nodded its head and its eyes changed from brown to light brown. I frowned. Did it understand me?

No, it couldn’t. They’d specifically said
—

I shook my head, and when I looked at Robotatouille, clear, hallow eyes stared back at me.
I
was the one going paranoid. I had to be. There was no way it could understand me. Right?

The casserole was moist, juicy, and delicious. Robotatouille had pulled it off.

Sitting on my blue sofa, several hours later, my nostrils were still filled with the scent of cheese. I had to give it to Robotatouille, the food was good and I didn’t die. Yet. The living situation, though, I didn’t think I could get used to.

Robotatouille was in the kitchen now, charging. On robots’ down time, they recharged. The back of robots’ Achilles’ heel had a slit where a three-pronged charger cord was inserted. The charger cord then plugged into an outlet in the wall, like any appliance.

When I went to the kitchen for some milk, it was standing there, charging. Its eyes wide open. How was I supposed to feel safe at night with it charging in the middle of the kitchen? It looked like a possessed person.

I stared back down at my textbook. No more midnight snacks.

I tried to engrave the painting in my mind.
Cimabue. Upper Church of San Francesco. 1300. Assisi.
I closed my eyes to see if I could retain the information.

Nothing.

I took the clip out of my hair and let it fall around my face. Tension released from my head. My gaze fixated on Caribbean. His tail shimmered in the ceiling lighting while the deep blue color of his fins faded into the night sky through the window.

The moon hid beneath clouds, making it quite dark outside. Different hues of blue and black colored the landscape. The trees’ slender bodies made it easy to see them swinging back and forth.

My pulse jumped. Something moved. I did a double-take, sitting up in my sofa. Things didn’t dart through the trees here. I peered out the window, scanning the darkness for something bigger than a dog, something that shook leaves six feet in the air.

What was it?
We didn’t have big animals here.
I closed my blinds and hoped it had been children playing outside. My fish made a splash, drawing my attention down. I slumped into a chair and watched my fish swim around the tank
.

Cimabue. The Upper Church of San Francesco. 1300. Assisi.

I remembered.

I gazed at my books sprawled on my blue sofa. Tomorrow would be better. I would make sure of that, and I would make sure I kept better tabs on Robotatouille.

Chapter 3

“Who did the readings for today’s class?” Dr. Osquet asked, pacing in front of the PowerPoint. Art history classrooms contradicted what was taught in class. The rooms were cold, bland, dull, and boring, this one especially. Black drapes covered the windows to keep light from entering in and diluting the image on the PowerPoint.

“Anyone?” she asked.

Dr. Osquet’s earrings made class interesting. Each day they were different. Some days she came to class with a hanging moon dropping down from one ear and a hanging sun from the other. Some days she wore flower power earrings, and others her earrings were mismatched.

“Ms. Avery?”

My head snapped up. “Yes?”

“What did you think about the article of the young Giotto master in the upper church of San Francesco?”

I mumbled something, trying to relate what I’d read last night.

“Correct, the techniques used in this piece seem similar to the type of paintings Giotto does later in his life—”

I tried to focus but my mind kept wandering back to last night’s animal, or child, running through the yard. I pulled out my phone and Googled robots, specifically the French Cruise Chef one. I scanned through the information, not finding anything useful. I’d have to try something else next time. The bell rang. I collected my papers and as I walked out of class, I collided with a robot.

Aw, man.

The load of papers it was carrying almost hit the floor. The professor, passing in front of it, turned around.

“Watch where you’re going. Those papers are confidential. You should know better than to barge into a robot. They can’t predict you coming.”

Someone was in a grumpy mood.

“I’m sorry.” I lifted my book bag higher.

The professor nodded. “Watch your step next time.” He walked away.

Wonderful.

Robots were officially everywhere.

Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”
poured out from Mom’s studio.
I made my way toward the kitchen and I looked around for
Robotatouille
. It was next to the sink, chopping carrots.

Scurrying past him, I went to my safe haven and locked the door. My fish swirled around its tank.

“Hey, Caribbean.” I dropped flakes into the tank. He gobbled them up, making me smile. I glanced out the window again, looking for something that would explain last night. Footprints? Broken branches? But only trees stared back.

I snorted. I had seen something there. I had.

To try and restore my sanity, I yanked out my workout clothes and dusty running shoes.

Outside, the cool air blew around my face, invigorating me. I took my frustration out through the soles of my feet, expelling it with each step I took, pounding it out. The air filled my lungs and cleaned my mind. I pushed myself, my muscles tensing and relaxing, listening to the sound of my feet hitting the pavement.

Maybe I was looking at robots the wrong way. Maybe I needed to dig further into the underground base in Virginia where robots had been made. Maybe that’s where I’d find my answers. My mind turned over the different possibilities but the most distressing one was that all searches were public record. I would no longer be an intrigued party but possibly a conspirator against the government. I wish I knew how seriously they monitored the Internet or how serious they were about people trying to dig up information the government conveniently found a way to push to the side, by creating new and shiny things to preoccupy people—robots.

I kept running, trying to come up with less-conspicuous search phrases until my knees started protesting and I gave in.

I showered, dried my hair, and sat at my computer. Google did nothing except suck hours of my life away telling me useless facts about the different kinds of robots I didn’t want to know about. Granted, that’s what I’d put in the search but I was hoping to find at least one lead. I tried to refine my search digging into how they were created and all I could find were the basics that the news had already broadcasted.

Hmm. I slumped in my seat.

My fingers were itching to type in VIRGINIA and ROBOTS.

Don’t do it, Vienna.

I stared at my alarm clock. Four-forty-five a.m. Not only had I seriously lost track of time but I had class at nine, in just over four hours. Darn. I shut my laptop and stared at my wall.

Don’t do it,
the voice repeated in my head.

It wasn’t worth it. Not yet. I had other ways of trying to get around blatantly typing in the search phase and I would use them first.

After class the next morning, I scoured the library. I asked the librarian for all sorts of books on robots, telling her I was writing a piece about humans creating art through robots. She was overjoyed to help and loaded me up with twenty different books about the functions of robots and how they were created. I pressed to see if she had anything on the Virginia base, and I brushed her questions off by saying it would be cool to incorporate into my story. She checked but said they had one book that vaguely mentioned the Virginia base.

The book was over nine hundred pages long.

When I came home later that afternoon, I avoided Robotatouille, which was very easy to do as I could hardly see over the tops of the books I was carrying in.

I dropped everything on my bed and opened the behemoth book that the librarian had said mentioned something about Virginia. Nothing was listed in the index so I flipped to the table of contents.

My phone rang as I was searching and I answered it without checking.

“I’m at your door,” Sydney said and hung up.

I panicked as I looked around my room. Sydney would think I’d lost my mind. Heck, anyone would think I’d lost my mind. I stuffed half of the books under my bed, two more in my desk drawers, and the other halfway up top in my closet then ran to the front door.

“Were you going to leave us out here until it decided to snow?” Sydney pushed inside.

“My room was a mess.” I let Jayla and Carmen in after her.

They stepped into the artfully styled family room. Mom had hung an impressionistic painting of a snowy mountain scene above  the sectional. Across from it was the fireplace that we never lit, with the three sisters curtsying photo and above that the most recent oil family portrait.

“You don’t look ready.” Jayla pouted.

“Twenty bucks.” Carmen held out her hand.

“Ready for what?” I asked.

“It’s Wednesday?” Sydney said, as if that should be a clue.

“As opposed to it being Thursday?”

“Chandler?” Carmen tried.

Oh no.
“That’s today.” I sighed. “Isn’t it?”

“And guess what we brought you?” Sydney said.

“A clone?”

“Very funny.” Sydney waved two shopping bags in the air and headed toward my room.

“You’ll probably have a great time,” Jayla said, following.

“Where’s the robot?” Carmen nudged me. “Can I see him? Is he as—”

“Hey, girls.” Mom emerged from the studio.

Lovely.

She was immersed in paint, literally from head to toe. She looked like a ‘90’s paint disaster.

“Hey, Auntie,” Sydney said.

Jayla dragged me toward my room and didn’t flinch as we passed the robot chopping away in the kitchen. “Aren’t you excited for the date?”

Not even a little.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be having any doubts once you see what’s in these bags.” Carmen came up behind us and lifted the packages. “And you are so lucky.” Carmen shut my bedroom door and then melted. “That’s one of the cutest robots I’ve ever seen, and he cooks!”

“Then you can take him,” I said. “Besides, it’s not like he can be your boyfriend anyways, he’s a robot. You know, metal, electricity, not human, fake ev—”

“All right.” Sydney walked between the two of us. “Knock it off. We have a job to do.”

I rolled my eyes.

Jayla waved at my fish bowl. “Can I feed him?”

“Sure.” I gestured toward the fish food.

“Ahem.” Carmen cleared her throat. “Take a look at what we brought you.” She pulled out a black slinky halter top with two skimpy triangles holding up the front.

“And what’s that?”

“What you’re going to wear tonight,” Sydney said.

“Not funny.”

Carmen held the shirt in front of me. “It’ll look good on you.”

“This.” I fingered the fabric. “Is not me.”

“It will be,” Carmen said.

“Wait until you see the shoes,” Sydney said.

“Shoes?”

“You’ll love them,” Carmen said. “They were such a steal.”

Sydney pulled out a pair of three-inch high heels, held together with strings.

And life keeps getting better.

“Imagine his face when he sees you!” Jayla said. “You’re going to look so amazing.”

How did this happen?

I rubbed my forehead.

Carmen started pushing everyone out the door. “We need to let her get dressed.”

“Oh.” Sarcasm dripped from my voice. “Why, thank you.”

“I’m not sure she’ll be able to put these on,” Sydney said, holding the shoe, or rather just strings.

My sentiments exactly.

“Or walk in them,” Jayla said, eyeing the intricate crisscrosses of the strings.

“I’ll help her,” Carmen said, ushering them out.

Once she closed the door, I sat on my bed, glaring at the mess of fabric and strings.

I needed a stress ball.