Annie CLIII: Energized

(Immediately following Guest)

I was energized after the first sleepover at Buttercup's house. Or, well, at Chuck and Carolyn's house. At Buttercup's dollhouse IN Chuck and Carolyn's… You know what I mean.

I cleaned. We all did. We put an audio book in the tape player and said we were going to listen to it, so Carolyn left us alone to bond over a shared acoustic experience.

And it was a romance novel, so Chuck lit out for distant havens of manliness. A hardware store or maybe a feed lot? I dunno. Buttercup mentioned the title, he started to run.

And left to ourselves, the sylphs cleaned. I had full responsibility for the bathroom. I scrubbed the bath, the toilet, the sink (both the working one AND the plastic one that came with the dollhouse), and ran a vacuum cleaner over the carpet.

Ha! Got you! I ran a lint brush over it. Sylphs and vacuum cleaners don't get along well. Or at all.

And Carolyn WOULD have noticed that noise and stopped the guests from helping.

Anyway, it was a wonderful afternoon. We took responsibility for our own habitat. Or, you know, Buttercup's habitat.

Then we met Lurch and Denise at a restaurant in Kingsland. A nice dinner was enjoyed by all as Buttercup described how wonderful the bed was, and how great a guest _I_ was.

"Well, she was the one who made a pass at me," I told the giants. "So it was only polite to reward her for being a wonderful judge of character."

"You have character?" my idiot roommate said down to me from where he was masticating dead cow. "I mean, I know many people say you ARE a character…"

"Such an old joke," I said, dismissing it, and him, with a wave of my hand. I thought about another line, something I could say about how Buttercup would have judged his character. I didn't voice it, though. Pet's mom has too much class to indulge in such mean-spirited but terribly accurate evaluations of other people's minions.

And she's really cool, so she deserves the option to stay out of our infighting.

Pet stood up for Ray, of course, because she likes harmony and hasn't quite figured out how important it is to keep the giants in line.

Not Denise, of course, she's naturally well-behaved. And Buttercup has done wonderful work with her giants over the years.

The idiot is still a work in progress, though. I suspect the growth hormones in his beef have stunted his emotional development with respect to his obvious natural superiors. Namely me.

The dinner ended on a high note as Pet had found out all about being a maid of honor for Denny and Whatshisname's wedding. She taught all of us what Buttercup and I had taught her on the drive down here.

Ray was properly attentive to her recital, which I'm sure Denise appreciated. And neither Ray nor I brought up the duties of the Best Man. Because surely he'd point out that I wasn't a Man. More likely, he'd point out some bogus claim like my not fulfilling EITHER of the two words and then I'd have to get mean.

I didn't want to get mean in front of Pet and I begin to think it's physically impossible to be mean in front of Buttercup.

So eventually, there we were, alone in the car, speeding back to Jacksonville.

"I wanna build something!" I told him.

"I'm not buying you a table saw," he replied instantly. "You never clean up the sawdust and you make me-"

"No, SERIOUSLY!" I said. He stopped and looked down at me.

"Now, what?" he asked.

I tried to explain. I quoted my recent hostess a lot. I described the sense of accomplishment I felt when the bed was assembled.

I did NOT describe a similar sense of accomplishment achieved by scrubbing a toilet. I think we all know where that would have ended up, me with a tiny scrub brush and swim fins.

Then I started to try to explain some thoughts I'd had during the night. Things I'd lost when I sylphed. Basic humanity, freedom of choice, the sense of pride at a finished job.

He thought about it for a couple of miles (which, at his speed, was not a couple of minutes), then nodded. "Okay," he said. "You know, I would do just about anything for you. If what you want from me is that I do jack shit on your behalf-"

"Ah, ha, ha," I moaned. "The great Master Ray can't do anything by halves or even by reasonable degrees. I suppose you're going to make me drag my own carrier back into the house?"

"I will hold the door for you," he sanctimonied. Arrogant son of a bitch. Can't give me anything unless he can first prove I should not have asked for it in the first place.

I turned to go back into my carrier. I stumbled as he turned a little too sharply to take an exit. I grabbed the parking brake and looked up. Strange trees were visible through the window.

"Where are we?"

"Where are we, what?" he replied.

"Okay, be that way," I muttered. "Where are we glorious master?"

"No, I mean, do you want to know where we ARE or where we're going?"

"Why do I have to choose?" I snarled. "Is there some sort of revealing-exposition tax, now?"

"We're at the Duval Road exit," he said. He slowed, probably for a stoplight.

I thought about it. "We don't know anyone on Duval," I said. "Or anywhere near it." I thought some more. "There aren't any restaurants on Duval that don't have another part of the chain closer to home."

I blew air out and up, fluffing my bangs. "Okay, Master, I give up. Where are we going?"

"There's a store next to the Piggly Wiggly," he said.

"An apt description for just about every supermarket in the contiguous United States," I pointed out.

"THIS store," he went on, "sells furniture kits for sylphs."

"Exactly what do you mean by kits?"

"Kind of like Ikea or Home Depot." He touched the turn signal, a strange habit for a Floridian, and one that made his coworkers accuse him of being adopted. "You buy them and your sylph puts them together."

"Is this where we…? No, no, we got Buttercup's bed in the boutique." I rubbed my hands together, looking forward to self-actualizing my self-image through the manipulation of tools and producing solid, lasting and objective evidence of my existence on the planet. "Wait…"

I jumped to his thigh as he parked, climbing up to his shoulder and his ear. "How long have you known about this store?"

"Since it opened," he admitted. He sat there, hands on the wheel. He'd found a parking place in the row across from the sidewalk. The Cutie Carpentry Shoppe's front window was right there.

"And you never asked if I was interested," I accused. I mean, I pointed out. I'm sure I used a neutral tone of voice, too.

"Trying to avoid the worst case scenario," he said.

"What? That I make something for myself and you have to admit I am not totally dependent on you?" Again, I'm absolutely certain I had a neutral tone. His flinch must have been from something else, probably an internal thing. Guilty conscience, something like that.

"No," was all he said. I realized I was feeling some emotions coming off of him. I thought about those for a second.

"Were you afraid I'd turn out incompetent and it would embarrass you?"

"No," he insisted. His hands were still an arm's (his) length away from me. In sylph owner body language, this is like staying across the room from someone you're fighting with, not trying to loom over them or crowd them, not corner them.

"No, Annie, I figured the absolute worst possible outcome was that you'd manage to put one thing together, but you'd hate the frustrating instructions, the splinters, the difficulty in getting parallel parts to match…"

"But at the end," I said, "I'd have a piece of furniture."

"Yep. And once Dad found out that you had built a case for your reading scrolls, he'd buy you a dresser kit and a bed kit and a pantry kit…"

"Oh," I understood. "He'd fit me out for a hobby that I actually hated."

"And since they're loving gifts from DAD," he went on.

"I'd be forced to show him I loved him by completing the god-damned furniture," I moaned. "Who'd be terribly proud of me and showing off everything I made even if it came out looking like angry art."

"Worst case scenario," he said with a tiny nod.

I glommed onto the side of his head and nuzzled his ear. "I guess I don't spend enough time telling you that for a rat bastard, you're a pretty thoughtful rat bastard."

NOW he reached up with his hand and stroked my back. In real people terms, this is the hug at the end of the fight. Or at least putting a companionable arm over their shoulder.

We hugged that way for a moment. "So," he asked, "do you want a dresser or a scroll-case? Rocking chair?"

"Sounds risky," I said. "Unless… Can we keep it a secret?"

"I won't tell anyone," he promised. "Not family, not friends, coworkers, fiancés or their pets, no matter what the results or how you feel about it. YOU are fully in charge of all press releases, to sylphs, humans and the international furniture trend magazines."

"Including internet forum stories about 'my pet, this one time, nailed her dress to the sofa and tore herself naked?' No matter how funny?"

"No matter," he said, through gritted teeth. He REALLY likes telling 'my sylph one time' stories. And to be honest, he's pretty good at it. At least, he used to be.

The stories about my antics that he told years ago, I've come to understand they're pretty funny. The more recent ones… I haven't decided yet.

But he's also very good about keeping promises. So I hugged him again.

-------

"This shit reads like Japanese stereo instructions!" I spat.

"That must be frustrating," my unsympathetic roommate said, not looking up from his book. He was clear over on the end of the table, in his chair and even leaning backwards. He would not allow himself to taint Annie's Assembly Attempt in any way.

I couldn't ask for help or he'd remind me that I'd made him promise not to interfere. He'd raise his hand in that arrogant manner and repeat the full oath I'd scripted.

Or else he'd quote that scene in Young Frankenstein where the doctor made his lab assistants promise not to let him out of the monster's cell no matter how he begged or pleaded. Then they obeyed.

Either way, there I'd be, egg on my face, still trying to figure out how come the drawer wouldn't slide in or out.

I could call Dad. Dad would help. But then, Dad would spend time teaching me to fully enjoy the possibilities of carpentry.

I could maybe call Chuck. Chuck was better at tools than anyone I'd met. But then, there was a very good chance that teasing bastard would coach me into assembling my dresser into something obscene, then sit there with an innocent expression while the rest of the new family tried not to laugh too obviously at my expense.

So I cried.

Master's a soft touch for tears. That's why I keep them as the ultimate reserve. Don't want him to build up any inconvenient immunities.

I slammed the twist of wire they called a screwdriver on the table, kicked the balsa-wood upright and dropped back on my ass. "I can't even figure out WHAT I'm doing wrong, much less how to fix it!" I whined.

Master sat stone-faced for all of three seconds, then put his book down and reached over. "Let's fix this," he said.

I held up the instructions. "See, I'm supposed to-" He gently pinched the page between two finger tips and took the sheet away from me. Then he put the paper and all the parts and tools back into the box.

"Um…" Okay, it made sense. I was upset, he wanted me to take a break. But… "Are you putting me in time-out or the dresser?"

"No one's in time out," he said. "But confidentiality still applies." Part of Ray's promise of secrecy, all the parts of the cabinet were hidden at any time I wasn't working on it. No one visiting or bringing something by would ever find any indication that I was attempting to put furniture together.

I think he imagined himself a sniper, policing his brass, disassembling his weapon, adjusting his disguise. The man With The Golden Hammer, as it were.

"Whatever you call it," I said as he slid the box under the bookcase. "You're making me walk away from the project."

"Nope," he said. "I just assumed that if I was treating myself to ice cream, you would want to come along."

He found his car keys.

"Well," I said slowly. "It has been a while since I saw the more current list of flavors at Baskin Robbins."

"Yes," he agreed. "So you probably want to update your knowledge of their inventory."

"In case someone asks," I said.

"Or it comes up as a topic on Jeopardy," he replied.

"I'll take Flavors That Include Chocolate for a thousand, Alex," I said. He offered his hand and I sat back into it.

"And maybe a quality control check of the merchandise?" he asked.

"Since we'll be there, already," I acknowledged. "It would be impolite not to sample."

I cried for help, I got ice cream.

I started humming the Rolling Stones. Lurch started to… Sing isn't quite the right word. Gargle would be closer. Let's just say, he demonstrated that he knew the words to 'You Can't Always Get What You Want.'

He even went so far as to inquire my opinion on the flavor we wanted in our sundae. I couched it in neutral terms, of course. Something we hadn't had in a while, something that they appeared to have overstocked, trying to remember which flavors had sylph-friendly sizes of chocolate chips.

"Oh, I dunno," I said. "I supposed if you were asking me…" I dawdled along the shelf in front of the window, gazing down at the swimming-pool sized ice cream tubs. My minion waited patiently as the server stood there with scoop poised.

"Maybe just this one time, chocolate caramel fudge brownie?" I asked.

"The usual!" the server agreed and began fixing us up with a fitting dessert.

Ray set me and the sundae down on the table, with a little folding chair for me, and my big dessert spoon.

I dove in, digging for the brownie chunks. That way I get whipped cream on my face and head. Ray loves to see me with toppings.

He took a spoonful after I had my starting serving. As we chewed, he looked me over.

"What I cannot get, though, is how someone who managed to get rid of the Bebeast is brought to tears by a set of dresser drawers?"

"Eh," I said. "You wanted the Bebeast for her body. She hated Poe, science fiction, logic and math. That relationship was never going to last.

"I may have facilitated her departure, but it's not like I manufactured it." I stood for another shovelful of ice cream. Ray picked me up and licked the whipped cream off of me, teasing a jimmy out of my hair.

"Then, the inventor of the seed slayer," he said. That was all he said. No long speech about my worth, my self-image, his regard for me or my imagination.

He COULD have told me that even as a naked action figure, I'd earned the respect of his gaming group several times over.

Or MY gaming at college. I earned the respect of Veronica's all-girl-gamer group all on my own without Ray even being in the room. He didn't mention that or how proud he'd been of my Patty Pulling Memorial Dungeon Crawl. That was me, all me.

He could have brought up the Maur brush, and the trick I played on Deliah's competition.

Hell, there were any number of examples he could have brought up, ways to assure me, reinforce my self-worth, hamstring my fears. But he just mentioned the seed-slater and shut up.

It was just like the aggravating bastard, to make ME do all the work. I couldn't complain, though. I could, but then he'd point out that I wanted to do all the work on the damned dresser, so I should work through the dresser depression all by myself.

He's like that. I don't know where he learned to fight that way, all underhanded, using a good memory and direct quotes.

He was using his spoon to move the last morsel of brownie around the melted ice cream at the bottom of the bowl. He looked a question at me. I realized I was full.

"No, thanks," I said. He instantly dropped the spoon and scooped me up. A fingertip bigger than my head pressed against my forehead.

"I don't feel a fever," he said.

"No, really," I said. "I'm fine, I'm just full!" He looked skeptical. "You let me go first and I got a big ol' spoonful on both bites."

"Okay," he said, lowering me to the table. "If you're sure."

"I am." I turned and grabbed his hand before he lifted it away. I kissed a knuckle. "And…thanks."

"Unsolicited gratitude," he said softly. Then he reached for my forehead again. I fended the digit off with my shovel. I laughed, he giggled, it was fun. I was feeling like I was back to normal, to pre-dresser disaster Annie.

I dozed in his pocket on the way home. I was half asleep when he asked what I wanted to do about the dresser.

"Ask Dad," I said without thinking. Then I stood up. "But, no, we already identified all the problems with that plan."

"That plan in the current form," Ray pointed out.

"What?"

"I just…" He tapped the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. "Does that really sound like an Annie solution, anyway? Just up and ask, straightforward?"

"Noooo," I said slowly, gears turning in my head.

"Remember how you used to ask me to take you to movies?"

"By setting you up so that taking me to a musical was your punishment," I admitted. I thought along those lines for a while. Except that we had moved out of the folks' home, so they couldn't really punish Ray. And I wasn't angry at him as much as at the dresser.

But was there a way to… Trick, say, Dad into helping without knowing he was helping?

"Ray, would you like to help me put together a dresser for Pet to put HER stuff in? When she visits?"

"That'd be a welcoming gesture," he agreed. "We can afford a second kit." He signaled and shifted lanes. "So, what, we call this one a trial run?"

"No, we do the second one the exact same way."

"Okay," he said, waiting for the punchline. I felt him accelerate down the freeway on-ramp.

"Then, we can ask Dad how to fix PET'S dresser."

"For Pet's sake," he nodded.

"And only coincidentally helping me fix my problem with my Annie-only project!"

"And any future ideas of furniture gifts that occur to Dad," he mused.

"Are going to be gifts to both of us!" Or all of us, after the wedding.

"That sounds sneaky, like an Annie plan," he nodded. "I'm just not sure how this leads to me having to see Romancing the Stone."

"Gimmee time, Master," I promised him. It wasn't necessary. His fiancé was all set to ask him to take her to see that once it opened. If he put up a fight against HER, he deserved whatever happened to him.



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