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“Whatever else happens, even though you’ll be the most spoiled, pampered little things, remember, you’re not one of them.” Miss Garner, a woman just a little over middle age, golden brown hair streaked with thick lines of gray and pinned up in a prim, severe bun said, her posture rivaling in ballet dancer as she stood in front of the group of twenty teenagers, nineteen girls sumptuously dressed in silk taffetas, velvets, and satins colored in rich plums, delicate shades of pinks, deep, dainty blues, and one boy in simple slim fit deep gray and black tuxedo that showed off his slim figure.
In between Miss Garner and the teens, was a white door marked with a 1 on it. It was the door where one of them would await their potential owners.
The trainers had been preparing the batch for their sell for weeks, briefing them on the process. Each pet would be placed in their own room, where the buyers would come in and examine them, ask questions, get a showing of talents if the buyers so desired. Once all the customers had a chance to examine each one of them, they would reconvene in the sitting rooms to make their selections while the pets waited.
“Your lives’ purpose won’t suddenly change.” She continued, “Your sole purpose in this life is bettering the lives of your owners. Always remember your place.” With that she opened the door, saying, “Number One, if you would please.”
An ivory skinned girl with blue-black hair stepped from the gaggle, slowly walking into the room. Wordlessly, Miss Garner shut the door.
Eight followed their trainers, somewhere in the middle of the group as they led each girl to their door. After One, Two went. Then Three, then Four, then, Five, then Six, their group dwindling by two with each step. Seven was despitoed into her room, then at last it was his turn.
“Number Eight.”
Eight stepped into a small but well-lit room, decorated in earth tones. Sat on one of the walls was a dark settee upholstered in dark brown fabric, two matching chairs sitting across from it. He quickly made his way to the settee, sitting down and carefully swinging one leg over the other.
As he worked on his position on the settee, the door opened and a graying man in a suit came in. Eight was a bit surprised, but not much. He was the only boy in his group, so it wasn’t the first time he received special attention from the male trainer, and of course today of all days Mr. Delany would want to ensure everything was perfect.
“Eight, we need to talk.” Mr. Delany said, crouching down in front of him.
It was an oddly intiment gesture, something one might do with a loved one, and something about it didn’t set right with Eight. Still, he held his tongue and waited for the trainer to speak.
“Sit with your legs straight.” Mr. Delany instructed, “You’re going to be sitting here a long time, your legs will fall asleep if you stay that way.”
Eight did as he instructed, grateful for the advice and the option. He had always kind of felt bad that girls had to cross their ankles all the time. That couldn’t be comfortable.
“Now, I want you to be prepared.” Mr. Delany began, “There are going to some people who are only going to be interested in the…the girls. “
Malcolm cocked his head a little in surprise, but politely listened.
“Don’t be discouraged by that.” Mr. Delany said, “Just do what they ask, there’ll be someone who’s interested in you.”
As the implications hit him, a wave of fear washed over Eight like nothing he had ever experienced before. “But what if no one wants a boy? What if…” His voice trailed off. He knew what happened to unwanted pets and he didn’t even want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about the backroom, where pets went in and didn’t come back out.
“Eight, there are twenty pets and twenty tags.” Mr. Delany reasoned, “Everyone here will be leaving with a new owner.”
“But what if they would rather leave with nothing than leave with a boy?” Eight dared ask. He knew he didn’t really have a choice in the matter, but he didn’t want to go with someone who didn’t even want him.
Mr. Delany gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ve never seen a customer leave who wasn’t stratified with their purchase. There’s always someone in the crowd at least open to a male pet. Remember Thirteen?”
“Yes, sir.” Eight confirmed. There weren’t many other boys at the kennel. They only bred one or two boys in every batch. The last time he saw Thirteen the male pet from the batch ahead of him, was the week before his sale. They said their final goodbyes just like he had said goodbye to Three and Four, the boys in the batch behind him, a week ago.
“Well, I know for a fact he went to a very nice home.” Mr. Delany told him, “It’ll be the same for you, I promise.”
With that he stood up and left, leaving Eight alone. He was already nervous about today, the most important day of his life. Now he was afraid. Afraid of being unwanted. Of what happened to unwanted pets.
Everyone knew what happened in the backroom. They had never actually seen it happen, of course, but Mrs. Garner had even shown them the needles once. We don’t resell our products.
Fortunately, Eight didn’t have long to stew about it as the first customers were led in. An older man with thinning white and gray hair and a much younger woman, maybe in her twenties, who seemed to bounce into the room. The young woman walked over and leaned in, towards Eight, before speaking in an accent he had never heard before. “Hanky, look at the eyes on this one. That blue.”
The man, Hanky apparently, didn’t seem as interested, but look anyway. “Sure, they’re nice.”
The young woman’s attention was still focused on Eight. “I’m Carly and this is my wonderful fiancé, Henry. What’s your name hon?”
“We’re given numbers by the order of our conception, ma’am.” Eight explained, “Our owners get to name us. I’m Number Eight.”
Carly turned into her fiancé. “I like this one. So polite.”
Henry, however, was much less impressed. Eight could tell.
“I’m sure they’ll all trained to be that way.” Reaching out a hand, he put it under Eight’s chin, turning his head, “He might still be a good candidate, though. Let’s get a look at the others before we make a final decision.”
Eight’s heart sunk.
It’s alright. He silently told himself, There’s nineteen more buyers. Someone will want you. And he just said you might make a good candidate. You might even go home with them.
“Can we get a look at his talent, though?” Carley suggested, clearly more excited about the whole affair than Henry. “They said each pet had one or two talents.” She then addressed Eight directly. “So, what’s yours? Your talent, I mean?”
“I dance.” Eight answered, “The room’s set up so I could demonstrate if you would like.”
Carley’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that sounds just lovely.”
The next two sessions, a lone woman and then another married couple, went about the same way. They would examine him, ask him a few questions, then he would show his talent, though the second couple declined to see it. If the look on their faces were any implication, he wasn’t what they were looking for and were only humoring him.
Three down, seventeen to go. Eight though, as the next customer came in, this time a lone man with molded, inky black hair, perhaps in his thirties, his face falling when he saw Eight. “You’re…you’re a boy?” His voice and face were surprised, a little dismayed.
Eight wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question. They had been instructed only to speak to answer a question. Taking a chance, he responded pleasantly, “Yes, sir. I’m the only one in the batch.” In spite of himself, he smiled proudly, if demurely.
The man just stood there uncomfortably for a moment, before sighing, sitting down, saying nothing.
Eight just looked at him expectantly, waiting him for to ask a question, or at least look him over.
“Look, it’s nothing personal, “The man spoke up, “You’re just…not what I’m looking for.”
You mean, I’m not a girl. Eight thought, but said nothing, trying to keep the hurt from showing through. Why did this hurt so much?
“Could you please…stop looking at me like that?” The man requested, looking uncomfortable.
So much for not letting it show. Eight looked away, his heart sinking.
That was the longest session, just the two of them waiting for it to be over. Eventually it was, and the next three visits went much better. He was waiting when the next costumers came in, a man with brown hair and primly dressed woman with straight, strategically frayed hair who looked like she didn’t really want to be there.
“Well, you can’t suspect me of fooling around with this one, Estelle.” The man quipped, gesturing to Eight.
“Do you have to say that in front of one of them?” The woman, Estelle apparently, questioned, walking over, and beginning to look Eight over. “Can you stand up?”
Eight complied, smiling, politely.
The man walked around Eight appraisingly. “Can you turn for me?”
Eight complied.
“How are you with children?” Estelle asked.
“Um…I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you mean.” Eight responded, truly not understanding, “Could you elaborate, please?”
“He’s not going to give you any difference answer than the last five did.” The man cut in, “I’m sure he’ll be fine with Chris. You know Jenny won’t let him get away with anything.” Then he addressed Eight again. “So, what’s your talent?”
“Dance.” Eight answered, having the answer down pat by now.
“Really?” Estelle chortled, surprised.
“Yes, ma’am.” Estelle said.
“Why don’t we see some of what you can do?” Estelle’s husband suggested encouragingly.
Eight decided he wouldn’t mind going home with these people. They seemed nice.
Twelve sessions later, the inspections were over and Eight was left staring at the door, silently wishing it to open.
Someone will come. Eight silently told himself, Any minute my new owners will come from me.
But what if they didn’t?
What if no one ever came for him? Or what if that man who wanted a girl got stuck would him somehow? Like no one else wanted him either and that man got last pick.
Eight didn’t know what fear was worse: Fear of going to the backroom, or the fear of being unwanted.
Had Thirteen really gone through this last year? Would Three and Four go through it next year?!
That was when the door opened in an attendant walked in, followed by one of the couples. What were their names? Estelle and Grant?
Eight immediately stood up, his heart pounding even as relief washed over him. Were they here for him? Was he really going with them?
As if to answer his unspoken question, Grant said encouragingly, “I take it that means you’re ready to go home.”
Home. Someone was saying that to him! “Yes, Master.” Eight trying to smile demurely when wanted to grin, the earlier fear completely gone.
Estelle’s eyes widened and Grant looked uncomfortable.
“Is something wrong?” Eight asked, nervous but being sure not to let it show.
“We’ll just have to work on the title.’” Grant explained, “Now, come on, we have a plane to catch.”
The airport terminal was overwhelming and a bit frightening, but Eight kept his composure, fumbling through the security measure and onto the plane, walking through two long rows of seats, before walking through a curtain to a smaller section, with two seats each.
“You can come sit with me.” Grant said, guiding Eight over to a pair of seats at the back of the plane. “I take the aisle and you take the window, alright?”
“Yes, um, sir.” Eight agreed. Was ‘sir’ acceptable? Or was there a problem with that, too?
The senator—he picked up on the way that his new owner was a senator- didn’t seem to have a problem with Eight using ‘sir’, sliding into seat as Eight carefully sat next to him, Estelle sliding into the window seat in the row ahead of them. Turning around, she said, “Maybe we should have drove back.”
“From New York to Virginia?” Senator Tyler countered, taking something out of his suit jacket, removing two paper wrapped sticks and handing them to Eight.
“You unwrap them and chew them when the flight starts.” Senator Tyler explained, “Helps with ear popping. “
“Ear popping, sir?” Eight asked, not sure what that was. Sir seemed to work. He was defiantly sticking with sir for now.
“It’s something that happens when the plane takes off because of the pressure.” The Senator explained, “If you’re not prepared, it can be painful.”
Eight looked down at the sticks uncertainly. Should he take them now? Or did he wait until they were up in the air?
“You can start now if you like.” Senator Tyler told him, as if reading his mind.
“Thank you, sir.” Eight carefully unwrapped the paper, revealing pale orange flat rectangles. He carefully put them in his mouth and bit into them, his mouth filling with a sweet, fruity flavor, like the cut-up fruit they were sometimes allowed. He chewed it into a thick, soft concoction, then swallowed.
“Mr. Tyler will be fine—” The man began.
“Grant, I think he just swallowed the gum.” Estelle spoke up, peering around from her seat.
“Was I not supposed to?” Eight asked anxiously. They weren’t even home yet and he was already upsetting them. “I’m sorry.”
However, Mr. Tyler seemed rather nonchalant about the incident, taking out two more pieces, “Don’t worry about it, I should have told you. You just don’t really consider that someone might not know what chewing gum is.” He handed Eight two more pieces, “Chew it, but don’t swallow it. Then you can spit it out after we get up in the air.”
“Yes, Mr. Tyler, thank you.” Eight replied, unwrapping the next two sticks, grateful the matter was cleared up so quickly.
They all sat there quietly for a moment, Eight chewing as quietly as possible, when Mr. Tyler spoke up again. “So, I suppose now our new pet needs a name. I mean, we just can’t keep calling him Eight forever.”
Mrs. Tyler adjusted herself so that she was looking back at her husband. “I don’t know, it certainly has a unique ring to it.”
“You can’t be serious.” Mr. Tyler scoffed.
“You know I’m not.” Mrs. Tyler scoffed right back at him.
Eight looked between the pair, unsure of what to do. The conversation seemed friendly enough. This had to be a way of joking. He decided to wait, and if they wanted his opinion they’d ask.
“I don’t want anything too common, though.” Mrs. Tyler mused, “But, not too out there, either. “She pursed her lips, “How ‘bout Harry?”
“Wasn’t that the guy you dated before me?”
“I thought I might want to reclaim the name.” Mrs. Tyler explained.
Mr. Tyler peered over at Eight thoughtfully, “I’m not sure he looks like a Harry. What about…Cedar? You know, cause of the hair.”
“How did you get Cedar from his hair?” Mrs. Tyler laughed.
“The coloring.” Mr. Tyler answered awkwardly, “I mean, look at it. Doesn’t it look like the color of a cedar tree?”
“Mmm,” Mrs. Tyler mused, “Hey, what about Duke?”
Mr. Tyler looked over at Eight and back to his wife. “You know, I actually kind of like that one.”
Eight wasn’t sure he liked that one.
Long after the plane was up in the air, the couple batted names back and forth to each other. Norbert. Buddy. Jake. They came back to Duke several times. Eight watched the whole thing with bated breath.
He was about to resign himself to being known as Duke when Mrs. Tyler snapped her fingers. “I got it! Malcolm!”
Both the Senator and Eight turned their heads. “Malcolm?” Mr. Tyler repeated.
“You know, like the good prince my favorite Shakespre play.” Mrs. Tyler explained, “You know, the Scottish one.”
“You know, you can actually say Macbeth, nothing bad is going to happen.” Mr. Tyler said, then looked Eight over, “But I think you might be onto something. What do you think, bud?”
It’s better than Duke. He thought, but said outload, “I think it’s nice. I love it.”
“Well, Malcolm it is, then.” Mr. Tyler declared, sounding rather pleased.
Over an hour and half later, the three of them pulled up to links of metal grates connected together in places with pillars made of red bricks.
This must be a gated community. Miss Graner had told them all about these types of places once. She said they provided extra protection, and that some of their owners may live in them.
Mr. Tyler waved at the camera at the front of the gate at and it opened, letting them through. As they drove down the streets, Malcolm glanced briefly at what had to be dozens and dozens of houses. They were all large and lovely, made with stones of white and varying shades of gray, but except for choices in law decoration, they were all almost identical, like someone had made a picture and printed copy after copy.
They pulled up to a house just like all the others, except with pale pink flowers decorating the flower bed, parking the car and getting out. “Well,” Mr. Tyler began, “This is it.”
Following behind his owners, they proceeded to the front door. Mr. Tyler unlocked the door, stepping into a spacious entryway, and calling out, “Jenny? Chris? We’re home.”
Suddenly, there was the sound of little footsteps running from the living room, and small boy, maybe about three or four years old, ran into the room, followed by a young woman with long black hair.
That has to be their son. Malcolm thought. They had both told him about their young son, Christopher. He was four, too young to bring with them on the trip, but he apparently had been very excited by the idea of getting a pet.
Christopher stopped in front of his Malcolm, staring up at him with wide, confused brown eyes.
“Christopher, sweetie, we have someone we want you to meet.” Mrs. Tyler spoke up gently, “This is Malcolm, he’s our pet now. Malcolm, this is Christopher, our son.”
Malcolm smiled down at the boy. “It’s very nice to meet you, Christopher.”
Christopher, however, still looked confused. “He’s not a puppy.”
Malcolm wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“No,” Mr. Tyler admitted awkwardly, “Malcolm’s a special kind of pet. One most people can’t have.”
That seemed to be a good enough explanation for Christopher, who smiled, running towards Malcolm, and hugging his legs, causing the surprised pet to nearly topple over before regaining his balance.
Mr. Tyler chuckled. “I take it that means you like him, then?”
“Yes, yes.” Christopher confirmed, happy taking Malcolm by the hand.
“Well, then.” Mr. Tyler smiled fondly at his son, “You want to help us give him the tour?”
“Yay!” Christopher beamed, pulling a willing Malcolm alarm.
The Tyler’s house was two stories, with ceilings higher than anything Malcolm had ever seen the walls painted beige, dotted with family picture and artwork, the windows large. Malcolm wasn’t sure he had ever seen so many rooms, not at the kennel, not at the training center. As he walked through the house, he had a little companion, pulling on his hand, pointing out everything and excitedly explaining what it was to him. He did a three-minute explanation on the wall lamps in the hall that was very dramatic.
“Oh,” Christopher explained, tugging him to come into one of the rooms. The furniture, a bed, a nightstand, a large wooden box and bed were all painted in a pattern of black and white hexagons.
“This is my room.” Christopher explained, “Mommy picked out most of but she let me pick out the bedsheets!” Pulling his new pet along, he declared, “It has soccer balls on them!”
“Chris is a nut for football.” Jenny, who was something called and au pair, spoke up.
Wait, he said soccer, she calls it football…Malcolm wondered, looking around the room and trying to figure out what everybody was talking about.
However, before he could Christopher pipped up, “Can Malcolm stay and play?!”
Looking down at the excited little boy, he found himself wanting to honor the request. In that moment he realized he would do whatever this child wanted, even if he hadn’t already been trained to in the first place.
“Maybe in a little bit, bud.” Mr. Tyler spoke up, “We have one more room to go.”
The last room, as it turned out, was Malcolm’s. There was a full bathroom off the side, large doors to what he thought had to be a closet, chest of drawers off to the corner, and large bed and nightstand in the center all made with glossy reddish brown wood.
“There’s already clothes in the closet, if you want to look.” Mr. Tyler encouraged him.
“Thank you.” Malcolm said, still processing that this was actually his room. But he still managed to catch the perturbed look Mrs. Tyler gave him. Not saying anything, he peaked inside and saw a line of suits, but also several dressed. Maybe a few more dresses than suits.
“We weren’t entirely sure if we would be leaving with a boy or girl today.” Mr. Tyler explained.
“It’s wonderful.” Malcolm told him, turning back to face his new family, “Thank you.” He just hopped he could live up to.
Christopher must not have been able to contain himself any longer, because next thing Malcolm new there was a toddler clinging to his arm and wiggling.
Suddenly little Christopher couldn’t contain himself anymore, wiggling in place, exclaiming, “Can Malcolm come and play?!”
“Right,” Malcolm tittered, “We were going to play in your room, weren’t we?”
The little boy nodded, pulling Malcolm who went along, chuckling a little bit and glancing at the Tylers, who stepped out of the way, Mr. Tyler smiling and shrugging. “I see Chris has already got him wrapped around his finger.”
As Malcolm let himself be drug down the hall, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this little ball of energy that seemed to have latched onto him, but he did know one thing. He was home.