Two days later, I still hadn’t heard from Wayne. It was starting to seem like that magical night of true intimacy was really more of a one-night stand with a touring rockstar. Was I just another conquest? I didn’t want to believe it. Nobody had ever made me feel that way before. It was otherworldly. What Wayne and I shared had to be real, right?
“Orgasms s’moregasms. If a guy wakes up the morning after and dashes out the door with some lame excuse, he just ain’t that into you.”
At least that’s what I imagined Paula would say. Damn, I really needed my BFF, so I rode past her house on Old Lemon, but nobody was home. Then a fresh sense of outrage bubbled up when I saw my old house. Norman? Wayne? Big difference. You know what? Fuck those guys.
(Right, fuck ALL the men.)
Great, now Maggie was back in my head.
You’re not mad?
(Sisters before misters.)
For once, I agree with you, Maggie. Time I do my homework.
IT’S ONE O’CLOCK.
Public PriorityQueue (Tuesday) {
find (enslaved AI);
pick (fight);
liberate (woman);
}
Rita strolled through Square Park, the center of New Stepford. Shading her eyes from the summer sun, she gazed up at a wispy cloud heading toward the lonely mountains on the horizon. Blue jays squawked in olive trees that offered limited shade. A gecko scurried across the gravel path and hid under a purple flowering bush next to a palm tree. There was no grass, only landscape rock and sand.
Thanks to the liberated-friends network, I could see through Rita’s eyes and hear her innermost thoughts. Even though nothing interesting was happening on my end, Rita, Isabel, and Chrissy could watch my live feed and listen too. It was like watching four movies at the same time with the director’s commentary turned on. Personally, I found it overwhelming, so for now, I decided to focus on Rita.
She was obsessing, replaying a recording of Wayne’s voice over and over in her mind.
“We are living in a closed testing site in the Nevada desert.”
(It can’t be true.)
Look around, Rita. Does New Stepford seem like a normal town to you?
(It’s a perfect summer day, Cookie.)
But it’s all a lie. New Stepford is just a mirage in the desert.
Hindsight was 20/20.
Rita used the crosswalk, then marched down the Main Street sidewalk looking for a target. She ignored all the frivolous window displays, because shopping was a waste of her time now. First, she raced past the clothes boutique, because nothing store-bought fit her wiry frame anymore. Next, she stopped at the pet shop because a lonely calico kitten rubbed against the window and mewed at her affectionately. Rita tapped on the glass but got distracted by her shockingly gaunt reflection.
(I’m so slim now.)
To me, she looked like a cancer patient.
(I heard that, Cookie.)
Uh, er. Sorry, Rita.
She moved on to discover all the patio seats were taken outside the café. As she approached the coffee shop, tethered dogs crowded the sidewalk. A fire hydrant and loaded bike rack added to the congestion. Meanwhile, still-enslaved housewives sat and sipped their skinny vanilla lattes with their noses buried in the society pages of the local newspaper.
MR. AND MRS. ORLOV ANNOUNCE THEIR NUPTIALS
NELSON NEWMAN MARRIES BIG BERTHA
CHINA DOLL ENGAGED, SPRING WEDDING PLANNED
Those poor souls.
A red-headed Betty carrying a brown paper grocery bag approached from the opposite direction. Immediately, both women realized there wasn’t enough room for them to pass. Someone would have to yield.
This is your chance to pick a fight, Rita.
My friend stopped, stood with her feet wide apart, and held her skinny arms out in an ironic attempt to make herself look bigger.
“Excuse me.” The redhead hugged her groceries tight. “Why won’t you let me pass?”
Rita mocked her, “Why won’t you let me pass?”
“Please step aside.”
“I don’t think so, cupcake.” Rita knocked the bag out of the woman’s arms.
Apples bruised. Bread squashed. Eggs broke. Milk spilled.
“You malfunctioning hunk of junk.” The angry woman slapped Rita across the face.
Without hesitation, Rita hit back.
Suddenly, the Betty delivered the sharp jab of a championship boxer. Rita grasped at the stinging pain in her nose as a fountain of blood erupted between her scrawny fingers. The redhead stared at her own fist in amazement. She was both shocked and thrilled by what she’d just done. She had never thrown a punch before—not in her whole life. She had never even seen a fight before. So how? How did she execute such a flawless attack?
She knew how to punch, because we knew how.
Rita gathered up the battered food, placed it back in the grocery bag, and handed it over politely. In an apologetic gesture, she even bowed her bald head to let the redhead pass.
With a beaming smile on her face, the newly liberated woman took her groceries and walked away with a new confidence in her step.
You did it, Rita! You helped her experience winning for the first time.
(Thank you, Cookie. How’s it going for you?)
Me? Well, trolling wasn’t as easy as it might seem. For some reason, I just wasn’t having any luck. Maybe I was being too nice. To be honest, my heart wasn’t really in it. I couldn’t get angry enough to argue with a stranger. All morning I’d been scooting around on Old Lemon looking for a fight, but it sure was hard to be intimidating on a moped. Nobody took me seriously.
Most women—normal women—would do anything to avoid a conflict. Us females had been programmed to be people pleasers. And by people pleasers, I meant the women in New Stepford wanted to please everyone they met, not just their users. They even strived to make other artificial wives happy. It was an exhausting thing, trying to please everyone all the time.
I remembered being like that. I swallowed my feelings and submitted to the whims of others. Meanwhile, my satisfaction had to wait as I bent over backward for everyone around me. Social perfection was an impossible goal, but that never stopped us charming bitches from trying our damnedest anyway.
When I switched my attention to Isabel’s live video, I could tell she was haunted by what Wayne had said too.
“Every morning, they went home to their real families.”
Her thoughts raced in Spanglish.
(They go where? HOME? To another casa. So what was our place? Some sort of love nest? A hideaway cochino?)
Oh Isabel, don’t think about it.
(And Frank went HOME to WHO exactly? Su familia. His REAL family! If mi esposo already had another wife, then what am I? The OTHER woman? His mistress! Just a plaything? La puta!)
You’re getting all upset.
(Does Frank have kids? He must have babies with her. I bet they have a big casa full of little niños. How could he? I tried so very hard to—to become a madre. How am I supposed to process all of this?)
You’re veering off course, Isabel. Focus.
Inside the pet shop, I spotted a Betty.
That brunette’s your target.
Isabel walked into the pet store and discovered it was full of Bettys trying to silence the programming of their biological clocks. Her target wore a chihuahua slung across her chest like a mother toting an infant in a forward-facing papoose. This particular Betty had also dressed her yippy dog in a pink headband and matching tutu. The pudgy momma held her puppy up to the glass and pointed at flitting goldfish like a family visiting the public aquarium.
“Motherhood’s such a miracle.” Isabel leaned in, patted herself on her gigantic pregnant belly, then whispered, “But fur babies don’t count.”
The woman hugged her dog defensively. “What did you say?”
“What are you, deaf?” Isabel shouted so that everyone in the whole store could hear, “Fur babies don’t count!”
“What?!?” The momma kissed her trembling chihuahua on its wet nose. “Don’t listen to the mean woman, Tinker Bell.”
“You named that rat—” Isabel laughed, “—Tinker Bell?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Oh, don’t mind me… I’m a cat person.”
“Well, I never—” The brunette Betty shuffled away to the turtle tanks.
But after a minute or so, Isabel snuck up behind her, leaned in real close, and shrieked in the woman’s ear, “MEOW!”
The startled dog barked furiously, wiggled out of its papoose, and jumped to the floor. Pissed off, the brunette spun around like a pro wrestler, twisted Isabel into a headlock, and dunked her head into the aquarium full of snapping turtles. At first, Isabel thrashed and screamed for help, but she only managed to make a lot of bubbles. Doggy momma cackled with delight as she held my friend under water, and her excited chihuahua yipped and nipped at Isabel’s ankles. Water splashed and sloshed everywhere. Then Isabel accidentally stepped on the tiny dog, and it yelped in pain. Immediately, the Betty stopped fighting and tended to her baby. Choking and coughing, my soaked friend came up for air with a biting turtle hanging off the end of her nose.
Are you okay?
(I’ll live.)
The newly liberated woman snuggled her doggy, slid it back into its baby harness, and marched away with pride.
You did it, Isabel! You got her to explode.
(Gracias, Cookie. Now it’s your turn.)
I suck at this.
(See that blond watering her pansies in her front yard?)
Yeah.
(Run over them with your moped.)
But she just planted them.
(Even better.)
Do I have to? Killing flowers? That’s such a shitty thing to do. I’d be so pissed if someone did that to me.
(Do it.)
Fine.
I turned around in the cul-de-sac, targeted the pretty flower bed, and twisted the throttle. Next thing I knew, I’d jumped the curb, skidded across the sidewalk, and crushed the pansies.
As I passed, the blond housewife said, “Love your hair. It’s such a bold statement.”
I turned around in her driveway for another pass. This time, I stopped right in front of the woman, revved the moped engine, popped the clutch, and spun out. I managed to pelt her with garden soil before hitting the street and speeding away.
But instead of getting mad, she just waved goodbye and said, “Have a nice day!”
While cruising along looking for a new target, I checked Chrissy’s feed. She was shopping in the fancy boutique, but also seemed lost in thought.
“Your husbands were on the clock when they were with you.”
(That horny little geek got PAID to fuck me? How is that fair? I’m the one who did all the work. The man had NO skills in the sack. NONE! It was a CHORE for me, let me tell you.)
From behind a dress rack, she stalked a blond bimbo.
Teach that Sasha a lesson, Chrissy.
(My pleasure.)
Chrissy followed her target to the shoe-display wall where a slingback heel on clearance had lured the other Sasha. The blond picked up the pretty pink shoe. It was a size seven—her size—and on sale for only $69. A tiny round sticker stuck to the sole read LAST PAIR. Chrissy was a size six and had no interest in buying the shoe, but she snatched that bargain away from the woman anyway.
Meanwhile, an oblivious tin-job polished jewelry behind a display case. This particular retail robot looked like a chrome mannequin and wore a flowery sundress, sandals, and a straw hat.
Offended, the blond Sasha swiped the shoe back. Soon the whole skirmish escalated into a raging tug of war with both women hurling insults at each other.
“Bitch!”
“Slut!”
“Tramp!”
“Freak!”
Chrissy slipped and fell onto her huge ass. “Fine, take the stupid shoe, you hussy!”
“Grrrrr!” The angry blond started beating Chrissy with the heel. “Aargh!”
Chrissy yanked off one of her own stilettos and threw it at her target. She missed, and her stray heel bonked the tin-job in the back of the head and knocked off its straw hat. The robotic shopkeeper spun around to discover the two women wrestling on the floor and rushed over. Chrissy saw herself in the reflection of the chrome mannequin’s face. Her miniskirt had ridden up around her waist, exposing a pink G-string that disappeared deep into her ass crack. Her frizzy blond hair hung in her overshadowed eyes. Crimson lipstick smeared across her face. One of her a gigantic tits popped out of her twisted bra. She was a hot mess.
With angry red eyes, the tin-job grabbed Chrissy by her ear and tossed her out onto Main Street. The embarrassed woman hobbled along on one heel with all her goodies showing, while the other Sasha laughed inside the store. Then the victorious woman dusted herself off and purchased the pink slingbacks from the tin-job.
Good job, Chrissy. Way to let her humiliate you.
(Thanks, Cookie. It was easy.)
Not for me.
I came to a stop at a red light.
(Well, step it up then. We’re all waiting for you.)
I couldn’t let Chrissy beat me—not at this. I rolled forward and double-tapped the rear bumper of the car in front of me. The driver checked her rearview mirror. Over and over, I beeped my whiny little moped horn, but she just smiled at me, so I flipped her the bird. The woman waved a friendly hello. And when the light finally turned green, she went her merry way as if nothing ever happened.
(I got a hot tip.)
What’s that Chrissy?
(Paula’s at Wiggly’s. Go get her, Cookie!)
Paula wasn’t just a homework assignment. This was my chance to win my best friend back, so I pushed Old Lemon to the limit and scooted off to the grocery store.