HELPER12, Jack Blaine [reading in the dark .TXT] 📗

I say nothing.  I watch Jobee.

He sighs.  “What can I do, to change it?”

He says this so softly I’m not sure he’s talking to me.  I look over at him.  He is talking to me; his eyes search my face.  I shake my head at him.  Him and his kind.

“Just leave us alone.”  As soon as I’ve said the words I wish for them back.  I know he could have me punished for talking to him this way.  I know he could have me sent away.  I need to be careful.

He starts to get up.

“You scared me,” I say, quickly.

He pauses, settles back down.

“I know.  I’m sorry for that.  I was rude, and  . . . wrong.”  He bows his head.  “I wanted to thank you, too,” he says.  For cleaning me up.”  He chuckles.  “Nobody should have to do that.”

“It’s fine,” I say.  But I can’t look at him.

He is silent for a few minutes, watching Jobee gurgle.  I wish he would leave.

As if he has read my mind, he gets up.  “Well,” he says.   He waits, then walks toward the door to the kitchen.  I hold my breath until I hear nothing.

“Helper12.”

I startle—I thought he’d gone.  I squint at him, holding one hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You don’t seem like one, not at all.”  He says nothing else.

I bite.  “I don’t seem like one, what?”

He watches me for a moment.  When he speaks, his tone is serious, not mocking or mean.  “A Leisure Doll.”  He disappears into the kitchen.

I don’t see him for the rest of the day; I think he’s gone back to sleep.  Helper serves him dinner in the dining room, but I tell her I think it’s best for Jobee and me to eat with her and the Driver in the kitchen.  Later, at our dinner around the kitchen table, Helper and the Driver are full of talk.

“He’s been expelled,” says the Driver, shaking his head.  “I knew it’d be trouble if they sent him back after what happened with Greg—” Glancing at me, he cuts himself off.

Helper spoons a dollop of cream over her berries.  “It’s a shame.  Mr. Thomas could have done some fine things.”

I wonder if they have any idea how well they eat.  Berries and cream are a far cry from protein squares.

“Not anymore,” says the Driver.  “At least not at that school.”

I don’t ask any questions.  They won’t tell me anyway, and really, why should I care?  I have enough trouble trying to figure out how to make Ms. Sloane happy with Jobee.

I bathe Jobee, and get him ready for bed.  He laughs through it all, reaching for my nose, waving at me.  He is so much more alert in this place.  It’s because he has good food to eat, and a comfortable bed, and someone to love him.  I sit back in the chair next to his crib, shocked.  I love him.

I love Jobee.

I’m not sure how I feel about it.  I think of all the babies I’ve cared for in the Ward.  I cared for all of them well, and I hurt when they failed.  I was even sad when they moved on to what ever track they tested into, though that was a lesser pain.  But I don’t think I let myself love any of them, at least not with the kind of love I feel for Jobee.  This love feels fierce, and frightening.

I’m staring at the floor when he knocks.  The door is ajar, and his gentle tap pushes it further open, revealing him in the hall.  He steps inside the room.

“I saw your light,” he whispers.  “I wondered if I . . .” He stares past me at the crib.  “I wanted to say good night to him.”

I’m on my feet fast.  I don’t like this.

“He’s sleeping,” I say, though Jobee is clearly not sleeping.  His hands are still waving above his head, reaching for who knows what.  It doesn’t matter what I say anyway; Thomas is beside the crib already, peering down at Jobee.  I watch him, ready to tell him to leave.

“Hey, you,” he whispers to Jobee.  “You’ve got some tough road ahead, little boy.”

Jobee gurgles at Thomas, a serious expression on his face.  Thomas smiles, a real smile this time; not like the ones I’ve seen so far.

He reaches into the crib.  I tense, but he just smoothes Jobee’s cheek with his thumb.

“I’ll help you out.”  He whispers this so softly I can barely understand it.  Jobee pushes his head against Thomas’s hand.  He sighs, and closes his eyes.

Thomas steps back quietly. He looks at me.

“Thanks.”  He turns to go.

We both freeze at the same time, our eyes locked on the same thing.  My drawings are on the changing table, where I laid them last night.

Chapter Eleven

“That’s you.”  Thomas picks up the top drawing—the one of my eyes.  He studies it, looking from it to my face, comparing.

I don’t know what to say.  Excuses aren’t exactly leaping into my mind.  I keep trying to form words, but I’m so scared I can’t seem to unstick my tongue from the top of my mouth.

Thomas thumbs through the drawings.  He makes no comment when he sees the one of my Jacket, none when he looks at Kris’ portrait.  He flips back to the one of my eyes.

“You know an Artist?”  Thomas looks at me, eyebrows raised.  Artists don’t exactly hang around the complexes; when they’re not attending Society parties they stay in their studios, creating commissioned portraits of Society members.

I don’t answer him.

“Interesting paper choice,” he says, fingering the creased gown wrapper.

I am silent.

He examines the drawings more.  “Driver tells me that you usually eat in the dining room, with my parents.”  He waits.

“I do,” I say.  Your mo—Ms. Sloane, she wants William with her at meals.”

“Yet last night you ate with Helper and Driver, in the kitchen.”  There’s displeasure in his tone that mirrors his mother’s voice when she isn’t getting her