The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 21

Call her. I'm supposed to call her? Physically dial her number, try to talk over the phone, and call her? Who calls anymore?

I pace in my room frantically, darting from wall to wall, and biting on my nails. I twist my hand in and out of its socket, a habit I have developed over time. I stop abruptly and bend down and grab the note off of my pillow. I trace the number with my fingers, they were loopy and curled at the ends, very delicately written. I smile thinking about how she must've tried to make her handwriting legible and whimsical. I walk over to the mirror, note still in tow, and analyze myself. It's easy to pick yourself apart, regardless of who you are. But being a cyborg makes picking yourself apart much easier. There is a larger margin of error that the body has encompassed.

Most girls my age are worried about pimples, weight, hair styles, make up techniques, and other trivial matters. I worry about those too, but with an added layer of insecurity which stems from the fact I am not human and already less-than. It's easy to put yourself down when you're already at the bottom. So when the mechanic called me cute, it is easily understandable that this was something of a foreign word to hear.

When I was younger I was cute. I would consider myself to be perfect even. I was bright, both intellectually and emotionally. I had perfect skin, not a scratch on me. My hair was a vibrant amber and I was confident in myself. Then the accident happened and everything took a one eighty. After that accident my parents never stopped telling how I used to be perfect, how I used to love others fully, and how I used to be. "Used to" being the key words. Now I am unable to love, not like humans at least, and it makes sense. I am not worth a whole person, so why should a whole person love me?

I critique myself in the mirror noticing my pale skin, scattered freckles, dull eyes, annoyingly frizzy and annoyingly rusted hair, acne, and I am too scrawny for my own goof. How could the mechanic, a goddess, think I am cute?

I read the number and bite my lower lip. Hesitantly, I pull my phone out of my back jean pocket and with a shaky hand begin to dial the number. The phone rings and I hold my breath.

"Hello, the mechanic speaking"

I hang up instantly.

Her voice is just so sweet and so pleasing. It's not deep, but it is lower giving it a very tranquil tone. I can just imagine that cocky grin. She's probably doing it right now. I hit my phone against my head and let out a scream which kind of sounded like a dying pelican. I stretch out on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I need to do this. I want to do this. Why can't I do this? I sit back up and pull a pillow into my lap and hug it. I bury my face in the fluff. A thought crosses my mind, the mechanic is a human, why would she be attracted to someone less than her. Unless, she isn't human. Her hair was slightly discolored on one side, but I shouldn't assume anything. If I call her though I could observe her. Yes, that is logical. That is why I want to talk to her, that's the only logical explanation as to why I feel so strongly about her. I want answers.

I dial her number again and wait for her to pick up. I feel confident. I feel logically sound.

"Hello, the mechanic speaking-" again her voice is so pleasing. Now I feel my confidence diminish and my words are once again lost.

"Hi-Hello, this is Betes. We met earlier today? You-you fixed my hand" my words sound forced and I run out of breath towards the end.

"Oh hey, Cutie. Glad you decided to call-"

"Hi, so... Uh.. why, why did you want me to call?" high pitched at the end and out of breath. Annoying.

"Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out later this week" I can hear her sly smirk through the phone. My mind is now racing and I can tell I am starting to get anxious.

"O-okay. Sure, yea!"

"Great, pick you up at 8:00 PM?"

"That's close to my curfew..." I reply back. I sound like a child having a curfew in the summer. Damn it.

"Okay, then 7:00 then?-"

"Perfect-"

"Great, I'll pick you up.-"

"Wait, how do you know my address?-"

"Uh you dad gave it to me? The one with all the dollar bills-"

"Oh-"

"Yup! See you soon, Betes!-"

The line goes dead and I glare over at the door and picture the surgeon standing behind the door, ear pressed against the wood, listening in. They are so smart. I am grateful for that.