The Perfect Escape (The Perfect Escape #1) - Suzanne Park Page 0,7
who telepathically figured out my home phone number from our few interactions?
No, of course it wasn’t him. No one called me except for Dad.
Dad, letting me know I’d be on my own for dinner again.
I got some food already, I messaged back on the bathroom wall screen.
For a few months I had a nanny hovering over me, my dad’s eyes and ears, but I finally convinced him I was a senior and old enough to handle things myself, which included dinner, something my nanny used to make for me. It was usually just mac and cheese, pasta, or sandwiches, but still, someone else had the job to keep me fed. I had no clue how to cook properly, and those short “easy” internet cooking videos never had measurements, so I usually just got a shitload of Lean Cuisines delivered from the store and ate a lot of fast food. Dad never noticed my no-vegetable-no-legumes diet. He also didn’t know about my new job. Hopefully he never would.
Next to the bathroom sink, I pushed my preset shower button: medium hot, strong pressure, low steam. Sprays of water came from all directions and fully warmed my body. I lifted my face to the main shower nozzle, holding my breath as the gray, red, and black makeup streams dripped to my feet and swirled down the drain. I stayed in the shower longer than usual, taking my time through my washing ritual, making sure I’d taken great care washing my eczema flare-ups on my hands, neck, and feet with my prescription soap.
Once dressed, I dumped everything left in the Dick’s bag onto a plate and parked myself on the couch. Another Friday night alone, watching AMC’s The Walking Dead marathons on our eighty-five-inch TV screen. The once-crispy fries were now cold and soggy, and the Special burger sauce had leaked everywhere, soaking both the bun and wrapper. My delicious shake had morphed into thick chocolate milk, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“Jeeves, please turn the lights down!” The lighting overhead dimmed to the default, preset darkness of my liking. “I need a napkin, too, please.” Whirring sounds echoed from the kitchen. Within seconds, our cylindrical white robot resembling a four-foot-tall marshmallow appeared by my feet, with a trail of napkins behind it. Little robot arms flew upward and handed me an empty plastic wrapper that once held a twenty-four pack of plain white dinner napkins. “Thanks for trying, Jeeves,” I sighed. I logged this delivery error on my dad’s company’s website.
Dad is CEO of Digitools, and we always test his company’s products at home before they were released to the public. It used to be fun, but with the necessity of quickly launching products to beat out competitors, we ended up with a home full of buggy software and hardware. After his company commissioned an elaborate research study revealing that consumers viewed smart-home technology like Google Home and Alexa as “dumb” and “impersonal,” Digitools began immediately investing millions of dollars in humanoid robot AI systems like Jeeves. For over a year, Dad had traveled frequently to Japan and China to meet with machine automation visionaries so he could be on the forefront of robotics technology in the United States. This new AI would not only deliver basic, fully integrated smart-home technology, but could also be used for home security, basic eldercare, and childcare, in a 3-D form.
I cringed, remembering the last time I had to log a product malfunction. Our voice-activated security system had required us to say “suspend the house alarm” to deactivate it, but after a power failure, it switched to Japanese mode and couldn’t understand any of my commands. The police were auto-dialed. Guns were pulled. I was home alone. My dad was out of town, of course, and his company’s legal representative came to our home in the middle of the night to field law enforcement questions. This napkin delivery error was nothing compared to that.
I closed my laptop and wrapped myself in a comforter, returning to The Walking Dead. I’d gotten pretty good at copying their horror makeup. I paused it and pulled out my sketchbook. Next Friday, I’d pick a look that was extra special and extra gory, showcasing visible bone and entrails. Maybe Nate-the-zombie-room-host would like it.