Man Made Boy (2 page)

“I have lots of human friends,” I said.

“Internet friends,” said Charon. “Those don’t count, either. They have no idea what you are.”

“I don’t get why everyone makes such a big deal about that.”

“That’s because you’ve always been sheltered in this bubble.”

“Like that’s my choice,” I said. “Believe me, if I could get out and meet some humans, I totally would.”

A new voice, dark and soft, asked, “Would you?”

Ruthven stood at the customer window, shrouded in the shadows that always clung to him so that only his pale face was visible. His piercing red eyes bore down on me in a way that made me squirm in my seat.

“Hey, boss,” Charon said. “I was just telling Boy here that he doesn’t know how good he has it. Back in the old days, before you started The Show, we had to fend for ourselves. Hiding among the humans, always in danger of—”

“Yes, yes.” Ruthven silenced him with a flip of his hand. Then his eyes turned back to me. “So you would like to meet some humans. The weather is pleasantly overcast, so I intend to go out and run some errands. Would you like to accompany me?”

I stared at him for a moment. “Out? As in, outside the theater?”

“Yes.” He said it like it was no big deal. Like he and every other adult hadn’t told me my entire life that I must never leave the theater, or I would probably be killed, expose our secret, and ruin everything for the entire theater company. “Isn’t that what you just said you wanted?”

“Um…” I said. “Yes?”

“Marvelous. You can carry things for me.”

“Boss,” said Charon. “Don’t you think people will notice he looks…different?” He glanced at me and shrugged apologetically.

“Actually,” said Ruthven, “I’ve given it careful consideration and I am certain it won’t be a problem. Boy’s parents did a marvelous job building him—the matching skins, the fine stitching. Believe me, their creator didn’t make such an effort when making
them
, arrogant, self-absorbed bore that he was.”

“You really think people will see me as…a
human
?” I asked.

“One that’s been maimed in a horrible accident, certainly.” Ruthven flashed a faint, fanged smiled. “But yes, I think you’ll pass.”

A dopey grin crept onto my face. “Wow.”

“However, you will need to get permission from your parents.”

“Oh.” For a second, my heart fell. But then I asked, “Both? Or just one?”

A thin, black eyebrow slowly rose into an arch. “One should be sufficient.”

I KNEW DAD wouldn’t still be in our apartment by this time, but there were a couple of places he could be. I checked the stage first. Sometimes he liked to watch last-minute rehearsals for the new
numbers. I entered at the back of the house and scanned the seats and the stage. Since he’s so big, it only took a second to see that he wasn’t there. I was about to look somewhere else when the trowe came onstage.

Technically, the trowe were trolls. But their leader, Ku’lah, felt there were too many negative associations with the word, so her den went by the traditional Scottish name instead.

They gathered onstage, talking quietly among themselves. Trowe didn’t look much like the fat, ugly stereotype trolls in the movies. They were only a little taller than humans, with the same build, but they had dark green skin, white hair, pointed ears, and bright jewel eyes. The adults had patterns etched into their skin with scars; the more complicated the pattern, the more important that trowe was in the den. None of them was in their traditional tribal costumes yet. Instead, they wore ripped tights and plain T-shirts.

“Let’s begin,” Ku’lah said. She was larger than the others, and her entire face and shoulders were covered in intricate scars.

Cordeav, an older male trowe, nodded, raised his wide, flat hands in the air, and clapped once. The sound echoed through the theater and the trowe grew silent.

“Right,” he said. “From the top.”

A few trowe banged on strips of sheet metal in a slow, steady beat. Another slapped wood slats against the ground, creating a counterpoint. Then a few more came in, sucking and blowing on glass bottles and ceramic jugs, harmonizing in bursts of melody. The last of the musicians joined in with wires stretched taut across wooden frames, layering a dense, rippling twang. It sounded somewhere between West African and Scottish folk.

Male dancers moved to center stage, grunting and growling as they stomped and lunged in time with the music. Then they
split to either side, and the lead dancer stepped forward. For this number, like most, it was Ku’lah’s daughter, Liel. She was the reason I watched the trowe. She moved like a pickax cleaving through rock. Her long, white hair whipped around her head as her lean, muscular limbs stretched down, up, and across her body. Her face was relaxed, but her diamond eyes burned with fierce solemnity.

“Boy, what are you doing?”

The song was over, and the dancers were taking notes from Cordeav. Ku’lah stood directly in front of me.

“Um…” I said.

“Did you need something?” She glared at me.

“Just looking for my dad.”

“Try backstage.”

“Sure, that’s what I was about to do.”

I took one last look over Ku’lah’s shoulder. Liel sat on the edge of the stage, one leg dangling over the side, the other pulled close to her chest. Her chin rested on her knee as she listened to Cordeav with complete concentration.

“Boy,” Ku’lah said.

“Going,” I said.

I CHECKED THE green room next. That’s the place where the performers hang out backstage before they go on. It had comfy old furniture, a refrigerator, microwave, TV, books, cards, games, and lots of other random stuff that people used to entertain themselves while they waited for their act. Speakers fed in sound from the stage, so they didn’t miss their cue. Closer to showtime, it would get loud down here, but this early in the day it was chill. Sometimes, Dad would hang out on one of the couches and read.

Dad wasn’t there. But unfortunately, Shaun and his crew were. They were watching some reality show about fishing. Shaun was a satyr: Shaun the Faun. I mean, I’m not one to talk about names, but it was almost as if his parents went out of their way to screw him up. Like all satyrs, he was human from the waist up, and goat from the waist down. His sandy-blond hair was styled up like a surfer, except, of course with two nubby horns sticking out, and he wore an expensive sports jersey. He was stretched out on the beige corduroy couch, scuffing up the fabric with his hooves and stinking up the place with his goat funk.

The rest of his crew wasn’t much better. The twin harpy girls, Aello and Celaeno, were perched behind him. Ernesto the brownie sat next to him on the couch arm. The last member of his crew, Oob the ogre, lay on the floor at the foot of the, couch.

I tried to slip back up the steps, but it was too late. Ernesto’s little, piping voice called out:

“Uh-oh, look who it is! Robot Junior!”

I didn’t look anything like a robot. I didn’t even have bolts sticking out of my neck. But somehow, Ernesto had gotten the other kids to call my dad “Robot” and me “Robot Junior.” The nickname had even spread to some of the adults—and not as a term of endearment. Almost everyone in The Show blamed Science as the reason all of us monsters were hiding. Like it was some big, heartless machine that came along and ran magic out of town. And my family was just a bit too “sciency” for a lot of the company members. I had tried to explain to Shaun’s crew that I was
mostly
magic—that in pure science, there was no way I could exist. But their grasp of science and technology was so vague that my explanation didn’t make sense to them. The fact that I knew enough about science to talk about it at all made me more guilty in their eyes.

“Where you going, Robo-nerd?” said Shaun. “It looks like you’re running away from something.”

“No.” I turned back to them. “I’m just in a hurry.”

“What’s wrong?” Ernesto asked. “Spark plug leaking?”

Aello and Celaeno giggled as they preened their black feathers. It was pointless to tell them all that I didn’t have spark plugs and that, even if I did, spark plugs don’t have any fluid in them.

“You making computer house calls now?” Shaun stretched out his goat legs and yawned. “Our own little Geek Squad?”

“No, I’m—”

“Because,” he continued, “I’m having some problems with my iPhone. See, I ate it.” He rolled over so that his fluffy tail stuck up in the air. “And I need someone to pull it out of my ass.”

They all laughed.

“I’m helping Ruthven. Outside the theater.” As soon as I blurted it out, I regretted it.

“Oooohh.” Shaun nodded seriously at the rest of the crew. “Robo-kid wants to get out of the theater.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Aello asked loudly.

“Stupid robot,” said Celaeno.

“ROBOT! ROBOT!” Oob chanted.

“With any luck, Ruthven won’t let him back in.” Ernesto stood up and folded his arms. “The Show is for
real
magical creatures, anyway. Not sci-fi screwups.”

“Uh-oh!” Shaun grinned. “You gonna take that, Robot Junior? From a six-inch turd?”

“Hey!” said Ernesto.

“Shut it, Ernie,” said Shaun. Then he turned back to me. “Seriously? You’re going to let that little shitweasel back talk you? If I were you, I’d crush him flat.”

I wanted to. It would be so easy. One squeeze and he would
be mush and I would never have to listen to him again. My hands clenched so hard I heard the stitches around my knuckles strain.

But that was exactly what they wanted. So I took a deep breath and relaxed my hands.

“Not worth it.” And I walked away.

“Whatever, Robo-pussy,” Shaun called after me. “Try not to bring back any angry mobs with torches while you’re
Outside
, okay?”

I FINALLY FOUND DAD at the stage door. He sat in one of the metal folding chairs that Mom had reinforced to hold his weight, staring at a blank wall. When I walked over, he turned his massive, square head and looked at me with milky eyes.

“Hi.” His voice was flat and indifferent. He’d already been “switched off” for the night’s performance.

My dad was the head of security for The Show. It wasn’t just because he was strong and nearly indestructible. It was also because he could turn off all feelings. Many of the acts in The Show used magic to affect the audience’s emotions. Usually, the performers were careful not to push things too far—just enough to give the audience a thrill. But every once in a while, one of them got careless or lost control. That’s when my dad stepped in and took care of things.

I hated talking to him when he was switched off, because he acted like the robot everyone said he was. I stared at him, sitting there in the chair by the stage door, just an immense stupid lump of stitched-together body parts waiting for someone to tell him what to do. A lot of people really took advantage of him.

Of course, I was about to take advantage of him, too.

“Ruthven wants me to go run some errands with him.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Outside,” I added.

“Outside?”

“Yeah, I’m doing stuff away from the computer, just like you said. So can I go? He said I had to get your permission.”

“If Ruthven thinks you’re ready, then okay.”