Too Small For Tall Read online

  “But look!” I cut through the middle toward another arm, race through that and back, cut through again, go to one back on this side, and do that a few more times. “Didja see? I drew a star! It’s exercise—and art, all at the same time!”

  This time I get hit with number five, which I’ve labeled “I can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or just starting shooting.”

  To change the subject, I ask, “Hey, what’s that?” Usually when I do this I just point somewhere at random, in order to distract people. But this time I mean it, and I’m gesturing at the bag Tall’s holding in one hand.

  “Oh, this?” A smug little smile takes up residence on his face, and sits there sneering at me. “This was supposed to be a reward if you agreed to do ten minutes of exercise.”

  “I’ve been exercising,” I argue. “I’ve been in this pool for at least an hour!” I splash some water at him for emphasis.

  “I didn’t see that,” he tells me—typical hall monitor mentality—“ so it doesn’t count. Show me you can exercise for ten minutes and I’ll give you what’s in the bag.”

  I eyeball him, the bag, then him again. “How do I even know I want it? Maybe it’s a bunch of smelly old socks or something. Maybe it’s leftovers from your lunch.” Though those I would want, probably. Hey, it takes a lot of fuel to protect the galaxy!

  “It isn’t.” And the way he says it, I can tell it’s true. Tall’s not one for lying, anyway. He’s too straight-arrow for that. Unless he’s on the job and feels it’s best for everyone, in which case he’ll lie his butt off and do it with a completely straight face.

  “Oh, fine. If curiosity could kill the cat, I suppose it can at least make me exercise for ten minutes.” I start walking again. “I’ve never really understood that phrase, anyway,” I say as I pace along another arm. “How did curiosity kill the cat? Was that the name of a really big dog? Or a runaway freight train? Or did the cat just get so curious about something that it wouldn’t leave and forgot to eat and wasted away? Or was the curiosity itself toxic somehow? Can a mental state be lethal like that? I mean, I know people say they’re bored to death—can you really die from boredom? Wouldn’t death just be even more boring because now you can’t even complain about being bored and it’s a lot harder to hide other people’s keys just for the fun of watching them freak out and go running around looking for them? What?”

  Tall’s just standing there, staring at me again. This is number four, “How could anyone talk so much and make so little sense?” Well, whatever, my mind thinks these things and so my mouth says them. Filters are for the weak.

  Besides, it helps to pass the time, and by the time I’ve exhausted this idea of dangerous emotional states and emotion assassins and rogue killer emotions and so on, I’m exhausted too. But Tall’s watch beeps—yes, he’s old-fashioned enough to still wear a watch, even though his phone has a clock on it and that and his watch always have the same time—and he looks as relieved as I feel when he says, “Okay, ten minutes. Shut up, dry your feet off, and come over here.” And he stomps over to the couch I’ve set up along one wall of this room.

  I follow him, taking a second to shake the water off my feet and ankles—as a part-duck I’m actually really good at shedding water; too bad I can’t seem to shed the pounds as easily—and then plop down. “Okay, what’s in the bag?” I’m all out of breath, but I’m proud of myself, too. Ten whole minutes of exercise! Underwater! Go, me!

  Tall gives me a big, proud-of-himself grin, reaches into the bag, and pulls out—a box of cookies.

  But not just any cookies.

  “Are those ChocoMints?” I grab at the box, and he actually laughs at the glee I know is showing but I don’t care. “They are! Where the hell did you find ChocoMints?”

  “My niece is a CampGirl,” he says, shrugging. “They just got their cookies in.”

  CampGirl is this big, big organization all over the U.S. that’s just for girls but it’s for any girl at all, and they do things like nature hikes and clothing drives and all sorts of arts and crafts. It’s really sweet, actually, and I’ve had at least one niece who was in a troop—at least, until she got kicked out. Turns out if you light someone’s house on fire you don’t get the Firestarter badge, even if you did a really good job gathering the kindling and creating the spark. Especially if it’s the local troop leader’s house. No, I don’t know where my nieces and nephews get it from.

  I pause in trying to tear open the box. “Wait, they just got their cookies now? Isn’t it like May or something? I thought the cookies came in March.” I know they used to. When I was a kid my friends and I would mug CampGirls for their cookies, then hole up somewhere and gorge ourselves.

  And when I say “young” of course I mean college. Hey, nobody got hurt. Victimless crime. Or something.

  “It’s actually spread out,” Tall’s telling me. “Because that way they can ship to a few troops at a time.” He shrugs. “My niece’s down in Austen with my sister and her husband, and they get their cookies in May.” He leans forward, plucks the box from my hand, and tears off the top, then tips it to slide out two waxed-paper-wrapped cylinders. One of them he sets aside, and the other he hands to me.

  “Yes!” I rip open the paper and shovel three or four cookies into my mouth at once. I love ChocoMints! They’re so thin and crispy and chocolaty and minty! I’m happily chomping and chewing when I realize Tall hasn’t taken any. “You want some?” I manage to mumble, holding out the open sleeve.

  But he shakes his head. “Naw, those are yours.”

  “You’re not gonna have any CampGirl cookies?” Now I guess I’m the one staring at him like he’s nuts.

  But he just grins. “I’ve got a dozen boxes at home,” he confides. “Most’re going in the freezer—they hold up really well in there. But I’ll keep a few boxes out to eat.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.” Moderation always makes sense to me. Unless it’s money. Or sex. Or friends. Or hot chocolate with brandy and butterscotch syrup and whipped cream—man, I could drink that all day long! For right now, though, I’m thrilled to be gobbling down ChocoMints. It was smart that he only gave me the one sleeve, because when I finish it I half-consider trying to get the other sleeve from him and downing that as well. But that would be bad—then I wouldn’t have any cookies left! So instead I just toss the empty sleeve in the trash, lean back, and belch. “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.” He tucks the remaining sleeve back into its box and hands it over to me. “Save these for later.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I’m gonna hold onto them until Mary gets back, and then we can enjoy them together. Assuming I can control myself for that long. “Hey, how’s it going at work? Any better? Any sign of the WiBs?”

  “No better,” he admitted, “but no worse, either. They’re still debating the whole WiB issue, so I’ve got a little time. We’re getting some kind of security upgrade soon, too, but they swear it won’t interfere with our daily operations.” Which usually means, of course, that it’ll shut the entire office down for days, and play havoc with everything for weeks beyond that.

  “Cool.” I look around, watch the Matrix for a second, manage to pull my eyes away after a bit—the way it rotates and bits of it turn and flash and so on, it’s pretty hypnotic, especially if you can also hear the music it makes, which of course I can—and then look at Tall. “So, you wanna dip your feet in the pool?”

  He looks down at it, shrugs, then sighs. It’s like MiB semaphore—if I had the dictionary I could translate that and all the other gestures and get a full language. “Sure, why not?”

  I shift over to make room, not that that’s really an issue—there’re whole arms still available. I’m considering starting a water fight, though. Or challenging him to a rousing game of Marco Polo, though admittedly the trick there would be not toppling out of the pool while searching. But I’m determined to show him that this is not only a cool conversation piece, it’s also a good investment and a wise purchase.


  Besides, after inhaling a whole sleeve of ChocoMint cookies, I’m gonna need a little more exercise.

  Chapter Five

  My ingredient list is in code

  “Enriched flour, yeah, okay, sure,” I’m muttering to myself the next time Tall shows up, trying to make out the little tiny print on the box. “Lots of stuff in the flour itself, guess that’s why they call it ‘enriched.’ Always figured that meant it was wealthy somehow, like flour that’d hit the lottery or made a killing in the stock market and now retired to relax and sit back and make cookies—literally—but what do I know? Let’s see—”

  He sits down next to me. “What are you doing?” He’s not glaring at me for once, and I glance over to make sure this isn’t some stranger wearing a Tall-suit. Hey, the things I’ve seen, you never know. But no, it looks like him all right. Though how I’d know if it was somebody in a Tall-suit, I haven’t a clue. Ask to see the label? Tell him I’ve decided to put the Matrix through a car wash to give it a good rinse, and listen for the sound of his teeth grinding? Say something about that one WiB and watch for drool?

  Well, whatever—I’m just gonna assume it’s Tall for now and leave it at that. Assumptions are handy things, I’ve found, especially if you’re secure in them. One time I just assumed I still had a job and kept coming in to work day after day, even though my boss had yelled at me one time to “get the hell out and never come back!” But I played it off like he was just kidding around, and Monday morning there I was like nothing had happened. I managed to pull that off for two weeks before he finally decided to call security. Turns out, assumptions? Not so helpful against big, beefy guys with low IQs and stun guns. Worked out okay, though—after they threw me out I called HR and told them to send all my back pay, overtime, vacation pay, and 401k made out to cash instead, and quoted a number at them. I got the check a few days later. Which was pretty good, considering I only really had the job for four days.

  But yeah, he asked me a question, and one of the things you’re supposed to do for your friends is actually answer stuff like that. Hey, I’m learning! “I’m reading the ingredients on the ChocoMints,” I tell him. “The second sleeve lasted a little longer—I actually ate a few of them one at a time!—and something about ’em tastes a little funny. Not bad, but I’m just wondering if they changed something in the mix.” I did hold out long enough for Mary to have a few when she got back from her latest assignment and before she headed out on this one—the Grays do keep her hopping!—but she said she didn’t notice anything unusual.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Tall says. “Mine were delightful.”

  Did he just say delightful? “Did you just say ‘delightful’?” I ask him. “What’re you, moonlighting for greeting cards now? Applying to join a tea club?” He just shrugs.

  Fine, whatever. Back to my reading. “Sugar, duh. Vegetable oil, okay. Cocoa, obviously. Caramel color, right. ‘Contains two percent or less of cocoa processed with alkali’—does that mean they’re made with batteries? Or maybe from batteries? Explains why I’m always so wired after I eat ’em—‘invert sugar’—is that where you take sugar and hold it upside down? Or turn it inside out? Or is that sugar that doesn’t like to talk much and sits off in a corner by itself reading most of the time?—‘whey, leavening’—so no eating this on Passover, I guess, which sucks—‘cornstarch, salt, soy lecithin, natural and artificial flavor, oil of peppermint.’” I toss the box at Tall’s head. “Huh.”

  Now, normally when I do something like that—throw something at Tall, not read off a list of ingredients—he bats it aside like a large, angry, suit-wearing cat. And then he throws it back at me, but harder. While glaring. This time, though, it just hits him in the face and falls in his lap. He barely even blinks from the impact.

  “Yo, dude, you okay?” I take a closer look at him. He isn’t wearing his sunglasses, though he’s got the rest of his MiB uniform on, and his eyes look a little glassy. “Are you high or something?”

  “Of course not,” he says, focusing on me finally, but there’s none of the usual bite in his tone. “I’m fine.”

  “Really? Because you’re not acting fine. You’re acting stoned.” To test this theory, I lean in a little closer. “You want something to eat?”

  That gets an immediate reaction—he sits up straighter, like somebody just zapped him, and snaps his head forward so he’s just staring off straight in front of him. “Yes, I would like something to eat, thank you. Do you have any cookies?”

  “Cookies?” I think about that. “Yeah, maybe. Hang on a sec.” I hop up and head into the kitchen, and the big alcove I’ve made into a pantry. So I’ve been redecorating a little, sue me—you try living inside a giant, sparkly pink skull and not wanting to put up some drywall and some paneling and maybe some French doors. I needed somewhere to prepare my food, anyway, and you can only order out so many times a week—when they start knowing your order by heart, and being surprised when you change it, but then suggesting that you might want to try one of the healthier options because they’re worried about the amount of trans-fat you’re ingesting every day, yeah, you should start to worry. So I rigged up a little kitchen in one of the wacky alcoves this place has—apparently whatever kind of creature this was, its brain was not just lobed like ours but actually segmented and split off like kids being sent to opposite corners of the room. I’ve got a grill, a microwave, a slow cooker, a fryer, a popcorn maker, and an espresso machine. Really all I need. Plus a cute little dorm-sized fridge and a sink. Those’re all arrayed against one wall, and I curtained off the area opposite it and put in some metal shelving to hold all my cans and packets and boxes and whatnot. Instant pantry!

  Anyway, I go in there now and start rooting around. Sure enough, I’ve still got half a box of Nonniung Critter-cakes. Those were just a little weird for me—they’re shaped like lizards, those cute little ones that scamper around on walkways and in gardens, and they actually try to get away when you take them out of the box, so you’ve got to gulp them down immediately. And they’re filled with some kind of jelly, plus the cakes themselves are spongy but have like a glaze or something that gives them almost a hardened-gel crust, like some gummy candies. It all makes sense, and it’s clever, and they taste good, but I just shudder every time I eat one.

  I bring the box back out with me and hand it to Tall. “Here you go, man. Knock yourself out.” Just the thought of him eating them is enough to make me shudder again.

  I’m a little surprised when he accepts the box—I told him about these things after the first time I tried them and he thought they sounded disgusting—but I’m even more surprised when he tries smashing it into his forehead. What the hell?

  “Aim for the mouth, dude,” I tell him. “Or, if you don’t want ’em, fine, give ’em back.”

  He doesn’t do either. Instead he bashes the box against his temple again.

  “Okay, this is officially going from ‘just plain weird’ to ‘getting kind of creepy,’” I say. “Tall, man, snap out of it!”

  He stops hitting himself with the box and looks over at me, and I can almost see the clarity coming back into his gaze. It’s like a film washing away.

  “What?” he mutters. He glances at the now-crumpled box in his hand, then thrusts it at me. “Get these away from me! You know I think they’re gross.”

  “I know. But you said you wanted cookies.” I take the box back. Hey, if I’m really desperate for sweets I might try one again. Maybe. Or if I ever get a cat he can have them to bat around a bit.

  “I did, didn’t I?” He rubs a hand over his face, then does it again. “I remember saying that, but I can’t imagine why.”

  “Got me. You’ve definitely been acting weird since you got here.” That gets him to glare at me again, which feels like coming home after a long trip, but it’s only Number Seven, “I feel like you know more about something than I do, and it’s making me crazy.” “Hey,” I defend myself, “All I know is, you show up, you act like a robot, you ask
for cookies, you hit yourself in the head with the cookie box, and now you’re being you again.” That Tall-suit theory is starting to look better and better.

  He stands up, stretches, and does some of those arm-popping things you see athletes and bullies do occasionally. “I’m a bit foggy,” he admits while he’s flailing about. “Odd. I may need to get that checked out.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re acting normal—for you—now,” I point out. “And I think the Madrigoran spikeball semi-finals are on.” I flick the TV on.

  “Nice.” Tall sits again, leaning back and stretching his arms across the couch back to either side. It’s a good way to make sure the couch stays together. “Too bad about the ChaosFiends getting knocked out last round.”

  “Yeah, yeah, rub it in.” The ChaosFiends are my team. They had a good season, but lost the quarterfinal on a technicality. Technically, the other team scored more points. I still think they should have contested it.

  We settle in to watch, and I go grab some Omegan fire-beer after a bit. I even try another Nooniung Critter-cake. Turns out if you shake the box enough beforehand, they’re stunned and can’t try to get away. Still a little squicky, though.

  Chapter Six

  There’s a WiB in the house!

  “Well, they went and did it,” Tall grumbles as he stomps in. I’m just chilling in front of my computer—literally, because its screen is formed from giant holographic ice crystals. Gives you a wickedly good picture, fantastic resolution, but you need to don a parka if you’re gonna do more than quickly check your email. I’ve been playing a new game I found online and I can’t really feel my fingers anymore, even with the feathers, so I use Tall showing up as an excuse to log out and turn the whole system off. Probably for the best anyway—a few times I’ve wound up in a War Games sort of situation, where it turned out I wasn’t so much playing a game as actually dictating lives and a few times even meteorological events on some distant planet. Turns out proximity to the Matrix has done some pretty weird things to my computer. Like, when it first arrived and I set it up, it wasn’t actually supposed to respond to voice commands. Or raised eyebrows. Of course, it also didn’t open my email beforehand and decide what I should and shouldn’t read, which is getting to be a real problem—three times now I’ve had to explain that Sue Louise is just my cousin and that’s the way she writes to everybody and no, I’m not cheating on Mary.