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

much I can say to change his mind.  We eat in silence for the rest of the first course.

It’s too good to last.

After Helper brings the second course, which is a three-layer salad, Thomas clears his throat.

“Helper12,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Who,” he lowers his voice, and glances toward the door to the kitchen, “is the Artist?

I freeze, a spoonful of cereal halfway to Jobee’s mouth.  He watches the spoon for a minute, wondering why it isn’t coming any closer.  He frowns.  Just in time I realize the next step is crying, and I get the spoon into his mouth.  All smiles again, he gums the cereal happily.  I sneak a look at Thomas.

He’s waiting, looking at me.  I fidget, not sure how I’m getting out of this.

“It’s just . . . it’s someone I—”

“It’s you.”  He nods, still looking at me.  “I thought so.”

I wait.  I wonder what price there will be for this.

“You’re really very good.”  He takes a bite of his salad.  I can’t even look at my food.  My stomach is churning, and sour bile threatens my throat.

“Of course, better tools might be in order.  Better paper.”  He gives me a funny look, when he says that.  “And maybe some real charcoal instead of whatever that was you were using.  We could get those tomorrow.”

“Sir.”

He looks up sharply at that word.

“I can’t use any paper, or any charcoals.  I am designated and trained as a Baby Helper.”

“Well, I know that.”  He shrugs.  “I mean, surely they aren’t that strict about those things.”

I interrupt him before he can say more.

“They are, sir.  They are that strict.  If you choose to report me for drawing the pictures you took from me, I can be charged with acting out of designation, along with creation without license, and I don’t know what else.  I will be put in a labor camp and I will never get out.  I will . . .”  My voice had risen to the point where Helper might be able to hear it in the kitchen.

He’d come around to my side of the table without me realizing it.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.  He looks at my hand holding Jobee’s cereal spoon.  It’s shaking like I was a twitcher.  I see that Jobee staring at me too, and I take some deep breaths to try to calm myself.

“It’s okay,” he says again.  “I’m not going to tell anyone.  Your secret is safe with me.”   He waits until my hand stops shaking, and then he goes back to his seat.

I finished the meal without throwing up.  But when I get back to our room, as soon as I have Jobee in his crib, I run to the bathroom and empty my stomach.

Later, when I’m lying in the dark, I hear a dry, scraping noise at the door.  I jump up and go to it, placing my ear against it, but I hear no more sounds.  I flick on the light.

There at my feet, slipped halfway under the door, are my drawings.

Chapter Fourteen

In the morning I sleep later than I usually do.  Jobee does too.  I think we are both tired from the tension; I know he must have felt it emanating from me last night.  But he’s all smiles when I dress him, and I feel better too, for the extra rest.  We head downstairs for breakfast.

Usually, Helper has some fruit and bread set out for breakfast for the Driver and me.  For the Sloanes, she does a formal meal, but they aren’t here, and we don’t merit the trouble.  But today, the table in the kitchen is set for one, and Jobee’s high chair is pulled up next to the place setting.

“What’s this?”

Helper scowls at me.  “Mr. Thomas said to be sure the two of you had a proper meal before you head to the city.”  She brings a covered dish over and sets it down with a clatter.  “Soy eggs.  And there’s cooked cereal for Mr. William.  It shouldn’t be too hot anymore, seeing as how you slept so late.”

The city?  This sounds bad.  I shouldn’t have thought the drawings being returned meant anything.  But I did, last night.  I thought it was a peace offering, a way to tell me I was safe.

I wonder what he’ll do—if he’ll turn us into the police, or sell us.  Given that our presence in his parents’ home is illegal, I’m leaning toward the idea that he’ll sell us.  I look around, eyeing the knife on the counter, thinking about whether I could make a run for it.  But what would I do exactly, run down the quiet street lined with private dwellings, lugging Jobee on my hip and brandishing the knife at anyone who came near?

“Morning.”  It’s Thomas.  He looks wide awake and ready to go.  I don’t know what to say to him.

“I’ve got Driver waiting for us, but take your time—he usually finds something to do.”  Thomas grins, as though whatever the Driver finds to do while he’s waiting on his employers is funny.  I can only imagine.

“What’s happening?”  I try to stay in control of my voice, but it sounds a little squeaky to me.

“We’re going to the Commons.”  Thomas looks at Helper, who was just on her way out of the kitchen.  He lowers his voice as though he doesn’t want her to hear.  “For William, so he can see the animals.”  He waits until he’s sure Helper is listening, and then he continues.  “I always loved the animals, and I want to be the best brother to him that I can.”

I can see Helper out of the corner of my eye, clasping both hands over her heart and tilting her head as though she’s so charmed by him she can’t keep her neck straight.

He’s good at lying.

The Commons is the largest green space in the city, and a part of it is devoted to extinct species.  There are mock-ups of natural settings, featuring, say, a tiger, or a horse, or a parrot.  All of them are