Chapter 8

"There, now. Hold still and let me straighten your collar."

"Miesha, stop fussing!" I try to dodge her grip, but she already has me. "Next you're going to spit on your hand, I suppose?"

"Now, why on God's green earth would I do something as nasty as that?"

Because it's what my mother used to do to tame my cowlick. But I don't tell her that. I don't want her to think my mom was a savage. And I don't want her to think I'm implying she's my mother, either.

"Because you're nasty," I tell her.

She gently slaps me on the side of the head. "And you're a good boy," she says. "Even if you don't know it."

"Miesha, I am not a boy. Look at me. Do I look like a boy?"

"Height has nothing to do with what's in here." She pokes my forehead with her finger. "Now, turn around!" She pushes at my shoulder to spin me, and I comply. I know she will win anyway--she always does. She swipes away wrinkles that aren't there and pulls the cloth in unnecessary directions to make sure the fit is perfect. I already know that when she's done she will give my back two pats. I don't think fussing was in her job description. She does that part for free.

When I'm with Miesha, I can almost forget where I am. I could be in my old house on Francis Street. I almost feel normal. She asked me about my family once and I lapsed for two hours, so she doesn't go there anymore. She doesn't talk about the past or the future, only the moment, and that's where I try to stay when I'm with her, because my future is too uncertain, and my past is something she could never understand.

Two pats squarely in the center of my back. Done.

"Done," she declares, and I smile.

I turn around and look in the mirror at the new clothes Dr. Gatsbro has requested I wear for today's visit. As usual, he knows exactly what fits me. The shirt is green, a color I don't usually wear. Miesha says it goes well with my eyes.

"My eyes are brown, Miesha."

"But with flecks of green."

There weren't green flecks before. At least I don't think there were. I honestly never looked that closely. How can anyone look in the mirror every day of his life and not notice something like that? But I didn't. All I noticed were emerging blemishes or a nose that seemed too big or facial hair that I wished was thicker so I could actually grow a beard. Green flecks were not even on my radar. I turn sideways, taking in my image from all angles, thinking I need to pay closer attention to such things.

There were, however, a few details I checked out right away. Any guy would. I have the equipment. Dr. Gatsbro made sure of that. And I've tested it, so I know it works. But was Gatsbro as careful with Kara's particulars as he was with mine? I can't ask. I don't want her to think it matters. It doesn't. It shouldn't. But it's almost more than I can bear. I am, without a doubt, the oldest virgin in the history of the world. It's not a record I want to keep.

"So, Miesha," I say, looking in the mirror and pretending I'm adjusting the collar again, "who's the mysterious visitor today?"

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.