My jaw dropped.
OH MY GOD. MY HAIR.
Where is my hair?
Nate saw me like this! Sweaty hair. In a hairnet. Sans wig.
Then, Oh, shit! IT’S IN HIS CAR!
Poor Nate. What a revolting thing for me to leave behind. Not a glass slipper, or a monogrammed handkerchief, or a lipstick-kissed napkin with my contact info on it.
I left hair.
HAIR.
Gnarly, knotted, sweaty hair. And I couldn’t warn him about it. He’d have to discover this on his own. He’d drive to Starbucks or something and BAM, a nasty pile of hair in his passenger seat. Could I please curl up and die?
Our house phone buzzed at top volume, and my heart nearly stopped. Dad had just installed a new communications system in every room, and this was one of the first times we had an incoming call or message. Was it Nate? Was he a super-genius who telepathically figured out my home phone number from our few interactions?
No, of course it wasn’t him. No one called me except for Dad.
Dad, letting me know I’d be on my own for dinner again.
I got some food already, I messaged back on the bathroom wall screen.
For a few months I had a nanny hovering over me, my dad’s eyes and ears, but I finally convinced him I was a senior and old enough to handle things myself, which included dinner, something my nanny used to make for me. It was usually just mac and cheese, pasta, or sandwiches, but still, someone else had the job to keep me fed. I had no clue how to cook properly, and those short “easy” internet cooking videos never had measurements, so I usually just got a shitload of Lean Cuisines delivered from the store and ate a lot of fast food. Dad never noticed my no-vegetable-no-legumes diet. He also didn’t know about my new job. Hopefully he never would.
Next to the bathroom sink, I pushed my preset shower button: medium hot, strong pressure, low steam. Sprays of water came from all directions and fully warmed my body. I lifted my face to the main shower nozzle, holding my breath as the gray, red, and black makeup streams dripped to my feet and swirled down the drain. I stayed in the shower longer than usual, taking my time through my washing ritual, making sure I’d taken great care washing my eczema flare-ups on my hands, neck, and feet with my prescription soap.
Once dressed, I dumped everything left in the Dick’s bag onto a plate and parked myself on the couch. Another Friday night alone, watching AMC’s The Walking Dead marathons on our eighty-five-inch TV screen. The once-crispy fries were now cold and soggy, and the Special burger sauce had leaked everywhere, soaking both the bun and wrapper. My delicious shake had morphed into thick chocolate milk, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“Jeeves, please turn the lights down!” The lighting overhead dimmed to the default, preset darkness of my liking. “I need a napkin, too, please.” Whirring sounds echoed from the kitchen. Within seconds, our cylindrical white robot resembling a four-foot-tall marshmallow appeared by my feet, with a trail of napkins behind it. Little robot arms flew upward and handed me an empty plastic wrapper that once held a twenty-four pack of plain white dinner napkins. “Thanks for trying, Jeeves,” I sighed. I logged this delivery error on my dad’s company’s website.
Dad is CEO of Digitools, and we always test his company’s products at home before they were released to the public. It used to be fun, but with the necessity of quickly launching products to beat out competitors, we ended up with a home full of buggy software and hardware. After his company commissioned an elaborate research study revealing that consumers viewed smart-home technology like Google Home and Alexa as “dumb” and “impersonal,” Digitools began immediately investing millions of dollars in humanoid robot AI systems like Jeeves. For over a year, Dad had traveled frequently to Japan and China to meet with machine automation visionaries so he could be on the forefront of robotics technology in the United States. This new AI would not only deliver basic, fully integrated smart-home technology, but could also be used for home security, basic eldercare, and childcare, in a 3-D form.
I cringed, remembering the last time I had to log a product malfunction. Our voice-activated security system had required us to say “suspend the house alarm” to deactivate it, but after a power failure, it switched to Japanese mode and couldn’t understand any of my commands. The police were auto-dialed. Guns were pulled. I was home alone. My dad was out of town, of course, and his company’s legal representative came to our home in the middle of the night to field law enforcement questions. This napkin delivery error was nothing compared to that.
I closed my laptop and wrapped myself in a comforter, returning to The Walking Dead. I’d gotten pretty good at copying their horror makeup. I paused it and pulled out my sketchbook. Next Friday, I’d pick a look that was extra special and extra gory, showcasing visible bone and entrails. Maybe Nate-the-zombie-room-host would like it.
I smiled, thinking about Nate, in his too-baggy jeans and funny novelty shirt. He liked artificially cheesy snacks and foreign zombie horror movies, just like me.
No question about it: I’d look forward to seeing him again.
“Incoming message for Kate Anderson!” Our home communication system squawked at full volume, jolting me awake. “An urgent message from your father: ‘Forgot to tell you I’m at the airport on a redeye flight to NYC. I’ll be back on Wednesday. Use the emergency credit card for food if you need it.’”
I responded with one of the preset, canned replies on the wall unit. “No problem!”
“Also, happy birthday! I just ordered you a cake. It should be arriving now.”
Canned reply: “No problem!” It didn’t exactly make sense, but I didn’t care.
The front gate squeaked, and one of Dad’s company’s delivery robots handed me a pink box, a padded envelope, and a bag of napkins and plastic utensils when I opened the front door. “Happy birthday, Kate,” it singsonged in a British accent. The Mary Poppins–like voice didn’t match the stark-black, faceless veneer of the delivery bot.
The only other person who remembered my birthday was my best friend Zoe because it was hers too. She was a year ahead of me and was a freshman at NYU’s Tisch School, studying theater. She’d messaged me that morning on my cell phone that I rarely used.
Happy birthday, bitch!
Bitch, you too!
have fun tonight!
Since she’d started college two months ago, we hadn’t talked or messaged much. Maybe it was the time difference. I imagined her hanging out with her new roommates, going to dive bars with fake IDs, snort-laughing her head off, and forgetting me. Kate who?
I put the box on the coffee table and opened it. A midnight delivery of ice-cream cake from Baskin-Robbins. No inscription, just a generic chocolate cake with mint-chip ice cream, which was my dad’s favorite, not mine. I hated artificial mint; it reminded me of toothpaste. I plopped down on the couch and pried apart the chocolaty cake layers, leaving the ice cream to melt in the box.