2. Crack
2
Crack
The drone pilot pushed out his palm with excess drama. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab the fire extinguisher.”
“But then you’ll ruin the engine,” I said.
He gave me an incredulous look and gestured to the smoking, cracked components. “I’m pretty sure you already did that, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
I wasn’t his girlfriend or some easily-placated kid in the audience. He nearly hit me with that damned drone. Indignant rage bristled through the finer hairs on my body. I rolled up my sleeves to let them breathe and slipped my phone into my ass pocket. “Components can be scavenged as long as they aren’t coated in liquid or foam. You think they trash battle bots every time they get banged up a little?”
“Banged up a little?” He raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
The drone wings popped off, and the body lit up like a damned spark plug.
“Ah, shit.” The pilot jumped back.
Kids shrieked and ran to their parents or cheered on the destruction .
This was an easier, familiar disaster. I whipped off my fleece, then smothered the drone, stomping until it stilled. The smog tapered off into the aroma of singed fabric, kind of like when a soldering iron caught hair.
I sniffled and pushed up my glasses. “There, see? That wasn’t so bad.”
The pilot gaped at me.
My manager rushed out. “Is everyone okay?”
The pilot poked my crackling fleece. “Yeah, but the drone is dead.”
As was my True Tech career.
My boss pushed her bangs back hard enough to tighten the skin on her forehead. She hadn’t said anything about the scratched glass yet, but, hell, she just saw me crack. There was no way I’d get a pass.
I lowered my cap, my throat clogged as I muttered, “Can I have the fleece back?”
“Yeah, just let me dispose of this.” The pilot used my jacket as a sack, then forced a smile for the kids. “Hope you all enjoyed the show.”
“I did,” enthused a boy, though his baby sister hid behind him.
“Right on, little man.” The pilot fist-bumped him on his way to the nearby toy shop.
I hurried after him so I’d at least have a jacket to hide in for this inevitable humiliation. The happy stuffed animals and wacky board games lining the shelves mocked me, as did his bright, patterned shirt. All those squiggly lines and abstract shapes reminded me of retro bowling alleys, or the fake backgrounds on those old shows where kids breakdanced and rapped about science.
Those were simpler days.
The pilot guy dumped the drone bits into the trash, then shook out my fleece. “So, you must be quite the optimist if this ‘isn’t that bad,’ by your standards,” he said.
I shrugged and crossed my arms. “I’ve seen a lot of mechanical misfires. ”
He arched his brow and laid my jacket on the counter. “Do you walk into drone demonstrations often?”
“No, I used to work in robotics.” Used to . Shame fried my insides. Why did I tell him that? I blinked so I didn’t leak. “I’m sorry for ruining the show. If you want, I can buy you a new drone.”
He took the box display of the demonstration model down. “Nah, it’s better we don’t buy or sell any more of those if that’s what happens when they crash. I mean, if kids get ‘em, we don’t want any accidents. You probably did me a favor.”
“Now who’s being an optimist?” I frowned. Why was he being so nice about all this?
He shrugged, then dusted off my fleece. “I don’t have a great outlook for your jacket. I’m pretty sure you’ll need a new one.”
“It’s fine.” I sighed and draped it over my arm. “I doubt they’ll keep me on long enough to give me a new uniform after this.”
“Oh, I don’t know. This proves you’re a quick thinker, a problem-solver,” he said.
I rolled my shoulders back. I was those things, yes.
“Maybe a tad reactive.” He glanced at the trash, his expression turning down in mock-contemplation.
I glared at him and scoffed. Just when I thought he was a nice person. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Sure. Go talk to Ash,” he said.
I adjusted my glasses. He knew my manager? “I doubt it would change the outcome of my employment. It’s my first day, and I avoided talking to a customer, inadvertently became a part of the drone show, and damaged the storefront.” Not that he needed my daily recap. I hugged the jacket against the weird pulsation in my chest. “It’s fine. I made more money freelancing, anyway.”
“Why were you here then? ”
“None of your business,” I said. No need to trouble him with my complications.
He held his hands up. “Okay. Have a nice day,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
My phone buzzed. Shit.
Victor: Are you safe?
My brain whirred. Was I? Yes. Yes . I kept typing and deleting an explanation. I’d failed the experiment. My hands shook.
“Don’t text and walk with headphones on. It’s a hazard,” the drone guy said.
“Thanks,” I snapped, but my stupid voice cracked, tight with anxiety. I wiped my nose and hid behind the stuffed animal shelves.
Victor: Are you okay???
Me: Yes. I’ll explain in a bit.
Victor: Should I come down there? Or you can hang here in the theater lounge until I’m free.
I sunk to the floor and wrapped my arms around my head to muffle my sigh. The shelving rod rammed into my back and the heels of my sneakers dug into my butt. This was so pathetic. I was his big sister. Why couldn’t I handle a stupid tech job? Or a stupid customer? Or that stupid drone show? All those fucking assholes I used to work with would tell me I was too emotional, but what if they were right? What if they turned me into something I’m not? I just wanted to function like I did before: independent, level-headed, and sane.
The drone-man’s shadow fell over my aisle. He peeked around the edge of the shelving, his voice softer than the plushies. “Hey. You’re having a rough day.”
I nodded. Somehow, I’d gone from tech queen to human pretzel.
He offered me a beach-ball-sized turkey plush. “Free hugs, as long as you need ‘em. ”
“Thanks.” I awkwardly balanced the plush atop my knees. Its ruddy orange body and black button-eyes verged on the edge of realistic and cutesy. “Do you sell a lot of these?”
“Grandparents usually get them for their grandkids’ first Thanksgiving.” He lowered his pale gaze and picked at the shelving. “Influencers love them too. Themed shoots. I’m just glad they sell–and uh, make people happy. Tis the season for gratitude.” He raised his brows and smirked, wrinkling the rubbery skin on his face.
I didn’t need a sales pitch on attitude or plushies. But he was, at least on the surface, being nice, so I straightened the cloth tailfeathers and nodded. “Thank you. For being understanding about the drone accident.”
“No problem.” He rubbed the faint scruff under his chin. “Listen, I’ve got to make sure I didn’t traumatize those kids, but you’re welcome to come in here and hug Turkey Tom any time, okay?”
“Sure.” I wasn’t a child, and I certainly wasn’t going to be back. I doubted I would ever show my face in this mall again.
He placed his palm over his chest. “My name’s Sal, by the way.”
“Zero.” I eyed his colorful printed shirt. “You don’t have a name tag.”
“Nope. Technically, we have monogrammed aprons somewhere, but we haven’t worn them in forever. Take care, Zero.” He saluted me, twirled the ‘long’ way to turn, then walked off with a bubble gun.
Weird guy. Maybe he had to be friendly. After all, he did work at a toy shop.
All I had to do was fix things. I eyed the turkey. Gratitude. More like feasting. Disease.
But it was pretty damned cute. And well-constructed. I patted the puffy body.
In the mall, Sal resumed his demonstration. “Just in case there are any other sparks out here, I’m gonna use my water gun. Ready?”
“Yeah,” the remaining kids cheered .
Bubbles versus a machine.
And what was my arsenal to cool the situation off? My brother? This turkey?
The black button eyes reflected me in their glossy sheen.
That’s right: I had me. I squeezed the turkey, then set it on the shelf. Even if I did have to leave my job, I wasn’t going to let that customer disrespect the next tech. I’d handle it myself.