cordless phone in the kitchen. “No painting till after you do your homework!”
“Sorry! Ze artist formerly known as Benzamin cannot hears you. But he shall be in his room should anyone needz him.”
Ever since he was little Benjamin had drawn everything in sight, and the walls of his room had been covered with napkin portraits, crayoned menus, and pencil sketches of downtown Highland Park. But when his older brother had hooked him up with private Sunset painting lessons from Figarro Mastrioni, Benjamin raised his game to an entirely other level. “The Maestro” had trained him in all aspects of the profession— from horizon to clouds to the Emotion instilled within—and the wallpaper had quickly disappeared in favor of glorious panoramas, painted directly on the plaster itself.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Benjamin tied on his smock and picked up his pallet from atop a pile of dirty underwear. “Come inz!”
The door swung open, and in walked what looked remarkably like his brother, Becker. So remarkably that it could only have been that lifelike invention of the masters at the Toolshed known as a Me-2.
“Hey, Me!” Benjamin bumped elbows with the replica like they were old pals. “What’s shakin’?”
“Chillin’ like a villain,” Me-2 said as it plopped down on Benjamin’s race car bed.
“Hey, guess what?”
“That’s what?”
“Better.” Benjamin dipped his brush into a spot of Alizarin Crimson and laid down a base. “Figarro says all I need is one or two more signature pieces and I’ll be ready for my show.”
“When’s your show?”
“Next week. Administrator Nye from Public Works is gonna be there and if everything goes well, I could totally get a job as a Junior Scenic.”
“Sweet.”
“Tell me about it. If you play your cards right, I might be able to score you an original Benjamin Drane at half price.”
Me-2 smiled proudly. With Becker gone as much as he had been, the lifelike Tool had become almost a brother to Ben, and seeing his excitement and his blossoming artistic ability gave its mechanical heart real joy. Which only made what was about to happen that much harder to swallow.
“What’s wrong, Me?” Benjamin dabbed a small blob of Phthalo Blue into a patch of sky on his canvas. “Why the long face?”
There were a few things that weighed heavy on the Me-2’s mind that day. First and foremost was the fact that the precocious Sunset painter would probably never have his long-awaited show. Because of the Court of Public Opinion’s ruling, Benjamin would never remember that there was a Seems, except as a figment of his brother’s imagination. But if that brother had no L.U.C.K. in finding the Lost Train of Thought, unremembering would be the least of their problems.
“Actually, I’m a little concerned about this whole Unthinkable thing.”
“I thought you said Becker’s team had it under control?”
“They do, it’s just—” Me-2 held up in midsentence, not wanting to let on that just minutes ago it had abruptly lost contact with its real self. “The last update from Thought & Emotion wasn’t so hot.”
The other Becker grabbed the remote control off the night table and fired up the TV that had been installed on Benjamin’s ninth birthday.
“C’mon, Me, I’m trying to get some work done here!”
“I just wanna see what’s going on in The World.”
As Benjamin tried to tune out the video and get back to his sunset, the Me-2 flicked between the nine-hundred and seventy-one available channels. And if what it saw on CNN and BBC was true, things on the ground were even worse than feared.
Someone had started a wildfire in the hills of Santa Barbara, and the flames now stretched across a hundred-mile radius. The fans of two soccer teams had clashed outside a stadium, and the resulting riot had left scores of people injured and three innocent bystanders fighting for their lives. Worst of all, the rebels were on the move in the Congo again.
“I told you,
“Sorry! Ze artist formerly known as Benzamin cannot hears you. But he shall be in his room should anyone needz him.”
Ever since he was little Benjamin had drawn everything in sight, and the walls of his room had been covered with napkin portraits, crayoned menus, and pencil sketches of downtown Highland Park. But when his older brother had hooked him up with private Sunset painting lessons from Figarro Mastrioni, Benjamin raised his game to an entirely other level. “The Maestro” had trained him in all aspects of the profession— from horizon to clouds to the Emotion instilled within—and the wallpaper had quickly disappeared in favor of glorious panoramas, painted directly on the plaster itself.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Benjamin tied on his smock and picked up his pallet from atop a pile of dirty underwear. “Come inz!”
The door swung open, and in walked what looked remarkably like his brother, Becker. So remarkably that it could only have been that lifelike invention of the masters at the Toolshed known as a Me-2.
“Hey, Me!” Benjamin bumped elbows with the replica like they were old pals. “What’s shakin’?”
“Chillin’ like a villain,” Me-2 said as it plopped down on Benjamin’s race car bed.
“Hey, guess what?”
“That’s what?”
“Better.” Benjamin dipped his brush into a spot of Alizarin Crimson and laid down a base. “Figarro says all I need is one or two more signature pieces and I’ll be ready for my show.”
“When’s your show?”
“Next week. Administrator Nye from Public Works is gonna be there and if everything goes well, I could totally get a job as a Junior Scenic.”
“Sweet.”
“Tell me about it. If you play your cards right, I might be able to score you an original Benjamin Drane at half price.”
Me-2 smiled proudly. With Becker gone as much as he had been, the lifelike Tool had become almost a brother to Ben, and seeing his excitement and his blossoming artistic ability gave its mechanical heart real joy. Which only made what was about to happen that much harder to swallow.
“What’s wrong, Me?” Benjamin dabbed a small blob of Phthalo Blue into a patch of sky on his canvas. “Why the long face?”
There were a few things that weighed heavy on the Me-2’s mind that day. First and foremost was the fact that the precocious Sunset painter would probably never have his long-awaited show. Because of the Court of Public Opinion’s ruling, Benjamin would never remember that there was a Seems, except as a figment of his brother’s imagination. But if that brother had no L.U.C.K. in finding the Lost Train of Thought, unremembering would be the least of their problems.
“Actually, I’m a little concerned about this whole Unthinkable thing.”
“I thought you said Becker’s team had it under control?”
“They do, it’s just—” Me-2 held up in midsentence, not wanting to let on that just minutes ago it had abruptly lost contact with its real self. “The last update from Thought & Emotion wasn’t so hot.”
The other Becker grabbed the remote control off the night table and fired up the TV that had been installed on Benjamin’s ninth birthday.
“C’mon, Me, I’m trying to get some work done here!”
“I just wanna see what’s going on in The World.”
As Benjamin tried to tune out the video and get back to his sunset, the Me-2 flicked between the nine-hundred and seventy-one available channels. And if what it saw on CNN and BBC was true, things on the ground were even worse than feared.
Someone had started a wildfire in the hills of Santa Barbara, and the flames now stretched across a hundred-mile radius. The fans of two soccer teams had clashed outside a stadium, and the resulting riot had left scores of people injured and three innocent bystanders fighting for their lives. Worst of all, the rebels were on the move in the Congo again.
“I told you,
Similar Books
