“HOW DOES THIS LOOK?” Fran asked.
Will and Rory looked up from the remote-controlled combat robot they were building. It was a Rammer, and was about the size of a canister vacuum. In fact, the very first robot he’d ever built had been made from a canister vacuum, which Fran was still annoyed about, as it had been her vacuum and practically new. This Rammer was low to the ground, with six wheels and a heavy casing. It was a totally new design for Will, who normally preferred to compete with spinning robots, right up until his last Spinner—nicknamed Freddy—had been mercilessly crushed against the arena wall by a Rammer built by two teenagers from Orlando. After that, Will started to see the wisdom in competing with a heavy-duty bot. Today’s project was to mount the wheels onto their axles. The parts were scattered along the workbench Will had built along one side of the garage. Will and Rory sat perched on high stools to work.
Will blinked at his wife, who was wearing a black-ribbed sweater over a dark denim skirt and low black heels.
“It seems like overkill for movie night,” Will said.
“No, it’s for tomorrow. To wear to the dinner party.”
“You’re pre-dressing?”
“I’m trying to decide what I’m going to wear.”
Will decided this must be one of those odd womanly behaviors that he was never going to understand, and was therefore better off not asking too many questions. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Fran made a face. “I don’t want to look fine. I want to look pretty.”
“It’s very nice,” Will said.
“Nice isn’t any better than fine.”
“You look great. Don’t you think, Rory?” Will asked, hoping his daughter would bail him out.
Rory scrutinized her mother. “I think the sweater is too tight. It shows your stomach.”
Fran clutched her stomach. “Seriously?”
Rory nodded.
“Then why did you tell me it looks good?” Fran asked Will accusingly.
He shrugged. “I like it.”
“I swear, I have nothing to wear. I’m going to have to go shopping tomorrow,” Fran said. She turned and stalked back into the house.
Will looked at Rory.
“What?” Rory said. “I had to tell her the truth if you weren’t going to. And I was nicer about it than Iris would have been. She would have told Mom she looked fat.”
“That’s true,” Will said. Iris had recently become incapable of saying anything nice to anyone and was especially nasty to her mother and younger sister. “Where is your sister, anyway?”
“Babysitting,” Rory said.
“Again?”
“She’s saving up for some ceramic iron thingy,” Rory said.
“She’s saving up for an iron? You mean, like, to iron her clothes with?” Will asked, completely bewildered. “What’s wrong with the iron we have in the laundry room?”
Rory laughed. “No, not for clothes. It’s an iron for her hair. You know, to make it straight.”
“Why would Iris want to straighten her hair with an iron?” Will asked. Iris had inherited Fran’s beautiful dark corkscrew curls. He’d always been glad one of the girls had lucked out. Rory had straight hair so baby fine, barrettes and ponytail elastics slid right out of it.
“She hates it. She says that curly hair makes your face look fat.” Rory turned her attention back to the battle bot and began sifting through a pile of bolts. “It’s so stupid. I’m never going to bother with that girly stuff.”
Will remembered with a pang Iris saying almost exactly the same thing when she was Rory’s age. Just a few years earlier, Iris had been more tomboy than girly-girl, always climbing trees and playing soccer and helping him in the workshop. He tried to remember the last time she’d been in the garage. Months? No, longer. It had been over a year, at least. He glanced at Rory, who was intent on the workbench, distractedly pushing her blue wire-frame glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose, and wondered how much longer she’d be willing to hang out with him out here, building fighting robots, talking about upcoming competitions. Rory was still young enough to lack the self-consciousness that made the teen years such hell. Sometimes Will would catch her breaking into a dance for no reason at all, throwing her skinny arms around and shaking her head, lost in rhythmic abandon. The sight never failed to fill him with joy.
Will gave Rory a one-armed hug, which she tolerated for exactly three seconds before wiggling free.
“Come on, Dad. I want to get the front wheels mounted before we watch the movie,” she said.
“Then we’d better get to work,” Will said, smiling at her.