Page 2 of Nolan
My body is just going through the motions as I pack up the things that make my office feel a little more like a home away from home. I’m not only in shock. I’m angry. Sure, I’ve watched the news. I’ve seen the strikes in my hometown of New Carnegie, Pennsylvania. I’ve seen Humanity First take to the streets. It’s hard to ignore the kind of shocks BioNex has sent through the world with their invention.
They’re exceedingly popular in LA. It’s normal to see an android girl accompanying a flock of teenagers at a shopping mall, or a daycare robot ushering children about like a mother hen. When I took a trip down south to San Diego, I even saw a few newer models surfing with their humans off La Jolla Beach.
Androids. The answer to everyone’s problems—and the cause of a hundred more that we never even considered when they first hit the scene.
I feel like such a fool. I really thought my job was droid-proof. It’s something everyone talks about, no matter the profession. What are the chances we might get replaced? I used to laugh it off. How could an android hope to replicate what I do, how personable I am? I work for Rousseau, the most prestigious fashion brand on the West Coast. Not only am I part of one of the most successful marketing teams the fashion world could boast, I was supposed to have a meeting next week with some designers.
Finally, finally, I was going to be able to show off my skills as a fashion designer. First stop, LA, next stop, Paris. At least, that’s what I told myself.
So much for that.
What the hell am I going to do now?
Filled with determination, I dust off my résumé and spend a good week hitting the pavement, applying to different jobs online with other fashion companies. But I get the same automatic rejection every time.
I’m not what they’re looking for.
I doubt human eyes even looked at my qualifications. Maybe there are androids in HR, scanning my application and rejecting me immediately. I could do something else, something minimal while I keep searching, but my rent is increasing next month. On my corporate salary, I could afford it. But now? There’s no way.
It doesn’t matter if you’re nineteen or twenty-nine, like I am. Some things never change when it comes to breaking bad news to the folks. There’s that worry constantly in the back of my head that I’ve disappointed them somehow.
When I tell my dad briefly what happened over the phone, I can hear the subtle concern in his voice. He tells me to come over tonight to talk it over. I take the train, and it takes me about an hour to get to their winter home.
My parents are snowbirds. My mother has a painful kind of arthritis, made worse in cold temperatures. When I moved out here for work, away from New Carnegie, they had a reason to buy a place here and got themselves a cute little condo. My dad doesn’t have to work, but he enjoys spending the winter months teaching at a nearby aviation technical college and flight school. Being retired Air Force, he’s sitting pretty with his retirement salary and pension, but we weren’t military brats. They didn’t have my brother and me until after he did his twenty years. Late bloomers, so to speak.
In person, my father keeps silent and doesn’t wear his worry too openly on his face. But I don’t need to see it to feel it floating in the air between us. He’s always been a reserved man. Quiet, thoughtful. My mother has no such qualms with letting me know exactly what she thinks.
“See?” She taps my father’s arm as I walk through the door. “What did I tell you?”
“That’s not helpful, dear,” he answers dryly. Nobody handles my mom quite like he does. Usually, anyway. “Let’s focus on the?—”
My mother ignores him and drives on. “Advertising has always been a risky business, and now look what’s happened. My poor baby, fired for some cheap robot!”
She throws her arms around me and hugs me tightly as my father shakes his head and offers me an apologetic smile. Relieved, I melt into that embrace. My mother is petite, a few inches shorter than me, but her hugs take me back to my childhood over scraped knees and broken hearts, and now everything doesn’t feel so impossible.
She cups my face. “Are you okay? Come inside. I’m making soup.”
Soup is a staple in the Bennett home during autumn, and I gratefully sit at the table with my father. My mother went all out in preparation for my arrival. Sliced strawberries, mangos, and pineapples are arranged tidily in a bowl on the table for us to munch on, and I have no problem eating my feelings right now. I tuck my legs up on the chair as I glance at my dad. The TV is on in the background, discussing growing wildfires in the region and sharing footage of firefighters braving the hungry flames.
“You can go ahead and say it,” I tell him, trying to hide how dejecting a week it’s been. “I’m ready for the ‘I told you so.’”
They weren’t exactly thrilled when I told them about my fashion dream. They wanted something more stable for me—nursing, maybe, or something in STEM. But none of those professions called to me. They encouraged me to pursue something lucrative, and build up to my dreams on the side, but that wasn’t my style. I knew I’d trap myself in something that made me miserable if I didn’t go all in, risks and all.
My father shakes his head. “Don’t want or need to say it. Your mother and I are proud of you. Worried, but proud.”
I smile appreciatively. They sometimes unintentionally hurt my feelings because they couldn’t understand why I might love clothes so much—me, the girl who wore my older cousin’s hand-me-downs throughout grade school. I had to beg my parents for a trendy piece of clothing—a pair of jeans, shoes, a style of shirt. And when I got it, I wore it until it fell apart.
I grew up knowing what it was like never to fit in. My parents were well-off enough to buy a house in a nice neighborhood so we could attend a good school, but when you’re middle-class and everyone else is filthy rich, it’s still tough to make your way. I don’t blame them. My parents worked hard to provide for my older brother, Apollo, and me. My dad has his military pension, but that only goes so far in a big city like New Carnegie. He worked hard as a flight instructor, and my mom worked long nights at the hospital. But after the bullying I endured in school—usually from my golden-child brother’s spoiled friends—I’ll never go anywhere unless I feel like I’m styling.
And that’s why advertising made sense for me. A compromise for my practical and fretful parents: a business degree that would promise to make me money, but with an avenue to get my foot in the door at a fashion brand I knew I had to be a part of.
It feels good to hear my dad say he’s proud of me. He’s a quiet man; stoic, reasonable. I admire him for those qualities. I’m more like my mom—stubborn, with a little temper I try to keep in check as best I can.
“I’m glad you came over,” my mother says. “I talked to Apollo.”
I cringe slightly. Mr. Golden Child is a firefighter, living in New Carnegie with his family. I wasn’t keen on calling Apollo and telling him what happened. We talk from time to time, but we’re not close. We’re three years apart, and we didn’t get along when we were kids. By the time we got to high school we were mostly staying out of each other’s way.
He was your typical athlete, complete with dickhead friends and a sense of arrogance because he could run around without getting winded. And while he was trying to impress girls and practice baseball and lacrosse, I was losing myself in art class and barely passing math.
