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Ami did not remember the first time she had been likened to a computer.
The tone was always complimentary — it meant that she was intelligent, with machine-like (that is to say, near-perfect) efficiency and accuracy, and since the PC-98 had come out when she was 4, rapidly adopted by the adults in her proximity, it had been a common refrain of amazement. It was so common, in fact, the core praiseworthy element had seemed to rub off with every repetition, the sheen dulling until only the painful bones of the comparison remained.
“You’re like a computer,” her teachers and classmates would say to her, and she heard echoes of her inhumanity — her clunkiness, her coldness, her lack of social ease. Yes: a computer could solve problems, play chess better than anyone else. It was true that she scored the highest on tests and could checkmate with ease — but that was if she found someone willing to play with.
Her father being an expat from the United States had come with its advantages — namely, the fact that he had taught her English as a child, preparing her for the elite Anglophone universities she dreamed of — but, an African-American, he had passed down his dark skin and curly hair, designating Ami as different immediately when she walked into a room. When she was stared at, she was deemed criminal. When she opened her mouth, she became mechanical. (And that, she supposed, was better.)
It didn't matter, she told herself, again and again, gripping the desk where she studied, pounding formulas into her brain. Being friends was not a requirement for being a doctor; getting into Harvard or Oxford was not a popularity contest, it did not matter, now what was the trick for remembering scientific notation?
It took her until 14 years old — a decade after the inception of the computer comparison, a decade spent solidifying her reputation as a prodigy, and a lifetime of being accustomed to peaceful solitude — until she made real friends.
But years of training herself to live without them had made their introduction into her life strange and almost unwelcome — as much as she had craved companionship, warping a schedule around to accommodate the presence of people instead of dutifully spending most of her waking hours studying for her future felt strange. Yet it was what these girls expected. Minako and Usagi especially wanted to spend their time gaming, or reading manga, or snacking together, gossip served alongside tea. They were kind, and warm in a way that was unfamiliar but pleasant, yet they were fundamentally remote. Rei, she could understand to some extent — her solemnity, her dedication were familiar, although her particular brand of austere severity — combined with occasional bouts of snappy frustration — could be too much.
But Kino Makoto, she connected with the most. Both of their bodies had been designated wrong in their communities — Makoto, too tall, muscular, and mannish; Ami, too dark. There was a sort of beauty Ami had seen in Makoto immediately — something she had, for once, that he struggled to name until later.
She was a statuesque beauty, elegant and gorgeous in whatever she wore, her body seemingly carved out of marble. Ami thought of Galatea, the woman of Greek mythology made from stone, Makoto’s appearance so unique and so remarkable that it seemed primeval, fantastical.
From the beginning, Ami felt acute in her smallness next to Makoto, but neither in the sense of superiority or inferiority — first, in some amazement, and then — as their friendship deepened, in the hope of comparison; that their bodies could lie beside each other, limbs tangled together, and Ami could feel her shorter, browner body, in the moment, as blessed.
It was only with Makoto that she felt herself fully reject the computer allegory. When she reached for Makoto’s hand, asking for a dance, she began to feel her body as something beyond the pure technicality of a computer. She became tangible, physical, real as Makoto took one hand, grinning, and placed another hand on the small of Ami’s back.
Ami felt her body move, governed for once not by carefully-calculated logic but by raw emotion, dizzying feelings flushing her cheeks and pressing her head to Makoto’s chest, listening to her heartbeat.
She was so, so human.