Page 7 of Tail, Dark and Handsome: Celestial Mates
“Anecdotal and nothing recent.” Zero shuffled the notecards, which meant no. He most likely wanted to open with soft data that would put Winter in a defensive position. Tricky, tricky kit. Zero continued, “As you know, my education has been extensive and intense.”
“You’ve had the best private tutors that currency can supply.” Winter would know. He sat atop a considerable fortune and poured a staggering sum of it into his kit’s education. In their private spaceship, they traveled from city to city, planet to planet, to attend lectures and workshops given by a variety of leading experts in whatever subject had caught Zero’s interest. Mathematics, music, philosophy, literature, history, archaeology, they all interested him to some extent, though Zero seemed to lean toward mathematics and music.
Currently, Zero’s interests centered on political rebellion expressed in music. They would soon travel to Earth to allow Zero the chance to watch human operas performed in original human languages. Apparently, Earth operas were quite seditious. What other kit could say they had the same opportunities?
“I have worked hard and my test results have exceeded the general requirements to graduate from primary education according to Interstellar Union guidelines.” Zero moved the card to the bottom of the stack. “But I believe this is one area of my education that is lacking. Remove cloth. Oh.” He looked up from the card, blinking. “Pretend this is the whiteboard.”
He passed the card to Winter. Neat blocky letters spelled out “Be a Normal Person” at the top. Underneath were six points.
1. Hire a tutor for social skills.
2. Live in one place for at least a year.
3. Attend a regular school.
4. Do a sport.
5. Make friends.
“You are a normal person,” Winter said.
Zero scrunched up his nose, and his ear flicked. “I’m not.”
Winter’s fingers itched as his claws threatened to unsheathe. The last seven years had been a tangled mess. He lost so much time to grief, blame, anger, and physical pain that he left his kit to find his way through the darkness. How badly had he failed Zero that he believed himself to be abnormal?
“Who said you were abnormal? Was it Chase? I will—” Winter bit off his words. He wanted to threaten violence but did not want to utter words that could be misconstrued, even in the privacy of his own home.
“No one. I just am.” Zero hesitated, his ears pressed back. “I can tell.”
“No one? What about that last tutor? He was a rude fucker.”
Winter paid a small fortune to supply Zero with the best tutors in the galaxy. Always precocious, Winter let Zero’s curiosity guide his education. As he flitted from interest to interest, he gathered books and tutors. They traveled vast distances between stars to attend lectures and visit museums. Winter hired experts to give guided tours and private one-on-one sessions. Any other kit might be spoiled, but Zero soaked it all up. No one kit had such a lavish education, a fact which pleased Winter. That Zero’s interest kept returning him to music pleased Winter less, but mathematics and music attracted him equally.
If Winter could burn every piano in the star system, he would.
Zero rolled his eyes. “Because I found an error in the textbook he wrote.” His tail swished in amusement. “My five-point plan,” he said, tapping the card to redirect Winter’s attention.
“Just five?”
Zero leaned forward to regard the card upside down. “It may fluctuate once the plan is in motion,” he said, then shuffled his cards again. “Point one. Socialization opportunities with my generation have been limited. There is much I do not know about kits my age.”
Winter softened. A hard life of disappointments created a protective barrier around him. He had little room for anyone in his heart except for his kit.
If Zero wanted to socialize with kits his age, Winter would not argue. Fourteen was too young not to have friends and too old to figure out how to make friends. It was a tender age, and Winter needed to protect his kit from the many hurts others inflicted.
Brilliant, as brilliant as his mother had been, Zero missed social cues. He relied on crutches, like tips on small talk from self-help books, and Winter knew the fault belonged to him. Isolated on their ship, Zero’s only companions were the people hired for his education, adults paid to see to the needs of his intellect. Zero would either flourish once he reached adulthood or flounder, and the outcome would depend on the skills he developed now.
There was only one answer. “I agree,” Winter said.
“You do? Of course. Very good,” he said, quickly recovering from his initial surprise. He shuffled to the next card. “We need to hire a specialist for social skills.”
“Is there even such a thing?” Winter scratched behind an ear. He considered a motivational speaker on winning friends, but that didn’t seem correct.
“I was thinking of another nanny.”
“A nanny? You’re too old.” Fourteen was too young to be unsupervised but too old for a nanny.
“Not to supervise, but to coach me. Help me be normal around people.”
