go and then sent Connie a dozen red roses the next day, with one rare blue rose at the center of the bouquet; money he could ill afford to spend, but it felt somehow necessary. The card read, “You’ll always be my special rose.” He didn’t know if the sentiment was romantic or corny as hell (he strongly suspected the latter), but Connie ate it up, and since the whole point of the gesture was to make her happy, Jazz counted it as a win.
Sometimes his programming simulated human emotions pretty well. And sometimes he convinced himself that it wasn’t programming at all.
On Mondays, between calculus and biology, he had five minutes to kill, five minutes when his schedule jibed with Connie’s. They connected outside her history class, as they always did on Mondays. Today she was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt that stretched across her chest, reading, CONTAINS 0% PLASTIC . He moved in for a quick kiss on the lips.
“Dent!” barked Mr. Gomez. “PDA!”
Jazz threw his arm around Connie’s shoulders. “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Gomez!” he said with just the right amount of swagger in his voice. “Could you resist?”
Jazz could read people, and he had a pretty good suspicion that Albert Gomez entertained some R-rated—at the very least—fantasies about the girls in his class. So he didn’t outright accuse him of anything, just poked right at the tender spot.
Mr. Gomez cleared his throat nervously—music to Jazz’s ears—and wiped at an imaginary bead of sweat on his upper lip. “Just watch it, okay?” he said, and suddenly found something else to occupy his attention.
“That was mean,” Connie said as they found a spot against the wall to lean and talk. “He’s not a bad guy.”
Yeah, right. “I was just being honest. How could anyone resist?” He moved to run a hand through her cornrows, then pulled back, remembering the one time he’d tried that—Connie had lectured him on the Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not touch thy black girlfriend’s hair. Ever. He kissed her again instead, quickly and out of the visual range of any random teacher drones.
Hmm. Drones. Not good. People matter.
Especially Connie. Connie, with her soft lips, her wicked grins, her dark eyes that couldn’t see into his soul, but still made him jump a little inside whenever they roamed his way. Her hair—off-limits to touch, but not to his other senses—entranced him, jet black, shoulder-length, tightly coiled like powerful springs, smelling slightly of chemicals and cinnamon, the beads at the end of each braid clicking together as she walked. It was as if she bound up limitless energy in those braids, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to release it. Her skin was soft to the touch and the color of…
Well, who cared about color? She was the color of Connie. Beautiful.
For his part, Jazz knew he was handsome. It had nothing to do with looking in the mirror, which he rarely did. It had everything to do with the way the girls at school looked at him, the way they became satellites when he walked by, their orbits contorted by his own mysterious gravity. If attention could be measured like the Doppler effect, girls would show a massive blue shift in his presence. In the last year or so, he had even remarked the scrutiny of older women—teachers, cashiers at stores, the woman who delivered UPS packages to his house. What had once been a maternal flavor in their glances had taken on a lingering, cool sort of appraisal. He could almost hear them thinking, Not yet. But soon.
Despite his upbringing, despite the infamy of his father, they still watched him. Or maybe because of it. Maybe Howie was right about bad boys.
None of this mattered to him, except that it made getting his way fairly easy. Most guys were cowed by him, and most women were attracted to him. As long as he could exploit that, he had a pretty easy time of it.
Prospects are there for you and for me, Jasper. That’s what they exist for, get
Sometimes his programming simulated human emotions pretty well. And sometimes he convinced himself that it wasn’t programming at all.
On Mondays, between calculus and biology, he had five minutes to kill, five minutes when his schedule jibed with Connie’s. They connected outside her history class, as they always did on Mondays. Today she was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt that stretched across her chest, reading, CONTAINS 0% PLASTIC . He moved in for a quick kiss on the lips.
“Dent!” barked Mr. Gomez. “PDA!”
Jazz threw his arm around Connie’s shoulders. “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Gomez!” he said with just the right amount of swagger in his voice. “Could you resist?”
Jazz could read people, and he had a pretty good suspicion that Albert Gomez entertained some R-rated—at the very least—fantasies about the girls in his class. So he didn’t outright accuse him of anything, just poked right at the tender spot.
Mr. Gomez cleared his throat nervously—music to Jazz’s ears—and wiped at an imaginary bead of sweat on his upper lip. “Just watch it, okay?” he said, and suddenly found something else to occupy his attention.
“That was mean,” Connie said as they found a spot against the wall to lean and talk. “He’s not a bad guy.”
Yeah, right. “I was just being honest. How could anyone resist?” He moved to run a hand through her cornrows, then pulled back, remembering the one time he’d tried that—Connie had lectured him on the Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt not touch thy black girlfriend’s hair. Ever. He kissed her again instead, quickly and out of the visual range of any random teacher drones.
Hmm. Drones. Not good. People matter.
Especially Connie. Connie, with her soft lips, her wicked grins, her dark eyes that couldn’t see into his soul, but still made him jump a little inside whenever they roamed his way. Her hair—off-limits to touch, but not to his other senses—entranced him, jet black, shoulder-length, tightly coiled like powerful springs, smelling slightly of chemicals and cinnamon, the beads at the end of each braid clicking together as she walked. It was as if she bound up limitless energy in those braids, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to release it. Her skin was soft to the touch and the color of…
Well, who cared about color? She was the color of Connie. Beautiful.
For his part, Jazz knew he was handsome. It had nothing to do with looking in the mirror, which he rarely did. It had everything to do with the way the girls at school looked at him, the way they became satellites when he walked by, their orbits contorted by his own mysterious gravity. If attention could be measured like the Doppler effect, girls would show a massive blue shift in his presence. In the last year or so, he had even remarked the scrutiny of older women—teachers, cashiers at stores, the woman who delivered UPS packages to his house. What had once been a maternal flavor in their glances had taken on a lingering, cool sort of appraisal. He could almost hear them thinking, Not yet. But soon.
Despite his upbringing, despite the infamy of his father, they still watched him. Or maybe because of it. Maybe Howie was right about bad boys.
None of this mattered to him, except that it made getting his way fairly easy. Most guys were cowed by him, and most women were attracted to him. As long as he could exploit that, he had a pretty easy time of it.
Prospects are there for you and for me, Jasper. That’s what they exist for, get
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