‘Marble Girl’

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

Marble Girl

When she was eight, Alesha Henderson briefly held the world record for filling her mouth with marbles. It was an unforgettable experience.

At the mayor’s invitation, the Book of World Records crew traveled to the high school auditorium of the feisty town of Morocco, Idaho, to run competitions in three new categories: marbles in mouth, books on head, and bats being juggled. But only one caught Alesha’s fancy: the marbles. 

The final rounds for marbles in mouth began in the evening. Sitting in the first row, her handsome, rumpled father looked on, half-anxious, half-pleased, and a hundred percent proud. The small crowd watched as the clock began to tick. Could this girl retain 29 marbles in her mouth for a full minute? 

Mom’s well-coiffed head swivelled from side to side to ascertain the location of the paramedics. Sometimes contestants choked or hyperventilated during the competition. 

Alesha looked around frantically. Her mouth was ready to bursting. Each contestant had a white plastic spit-tub nearby but somehow hers had been pushed aside by the man in the gray suit with the stopwatch. As the time ticked down, her nostrils flared. She grew red-faced, bug-eyed, and her hands were dog-paddling the air.

The audience gave a clap here and there, cresting to full applause when the timer buzzed. 

Her father leaned forward, ready to hold out something—a pan, his coffee cup, or even his outstretched hands—to catch the torrent, as he had during so many practice sessions at home in the garage. Then he saw the tub she was looking for. “There,” he shouted. “It’s behind him!” 

Awkwardly, Alesha ducked behind the man in the gray suit and grabbed her tub. She spat out her marbles, gulped in fresh air, and sighed.

Her name went on the digital marquee and, beside it, flashed the number 29. Two more children tried to keep 29 marbles in their mouths for the requisite minute. They failed, and Alesha Henderson was declared World Champion in the 8-and-under category.

She was exhausted from weeks of practice and preparation, plus the hours spent waiting for her event to begin. She could barely keep her head up. The cameras snapped as the officious man from the Book of World Records approached with the fancy certificate in his left hand, and his right hand extended for a handshake. She stood blinking, her mouth open.

“Alesha, please shake his hand,” Mom said from her front-row seat. 

“Oh.” Alesha limply extended her left hand. 

“Right hand, please,” Mom clarified.

A flashy ceremony ensued, with fanfare from the high school brass band, and speeches praising world champions in all categories. Alesha watched and dozed while seated upright, giving the impression of a calm, cool demeanor. A champion’s demeanor.

Then, mercifully, the hoop-la was over. Alesha was free to go home, hang out with her father and Mom, and play with her infinitely amusing robotic dog, Tootsie. She tiptoed out of the spotlight and into the shadows as the thick velvet curtains flapped around her. The sweat on her shoulders turned to a chill and her eyes strained, looking into the darkness. Where was Dad?

Usually he was here by now, with his warm hairy arm pressed gently around her shoulders, a brisk chin rub of two- or three-day stubble as he embraced her. Saying “atta girl” and puffing a little as he lifted her up for a bear hug. Or—better yet—maybe he would say, “Are you hungry? Should we go for a quick lick of ice cream?” She wasn’t hungry yet—still running on adrenaline—but she loved visiting the fancy ice cream shop with its parlor of wrought-iron chairs and sparkly black-and-pink striped wallpaper with her dad.

“Hello, Alesha,” Mom said, extending two arms to catch the girl by the shoulders. Mom scanned the girl’s face, head tilting briefly one way, then the other. It was the same motion made by Robo-Rover, whenever Alesha mumbled her commands and Tootsie couldn’t discern if she’d said “beg” or “bag.”

“Where’s Dad?” Alesha asked Mom.

 “Dad received an alert on his pager before the closing ceremony,” Mom said. “It was urgent, so he left immediately.” 

“Oh?” Alesha knew that Dad’s job as one of only three doctors in town meant some days he had to carry (and answer) the pager. Apparently today was his day. Still, she kept looking around at other children gabbling excitedly, volunteers stomping across the plywood stage, and parents hollering over the din of metal chairs scraping. But no Dad.

“Oh,” she said again. Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t know if she could take another step. 

“He-ey, Alesha! Great job!” Frenchie, the new mayor of Morocco, Idaho, stepped forward and made a big show of formally shaking her hand. This time she correctly extended the right hand. “What a pro!” he gushed. “Morocco, Idaho, is the town of champions!”

Alesha felt her face grow warm. She tried to smile, like she knew she should, but her face felt like rubber. Her chin quivered. She reached for Mom’s wrist and steadied herself.

“Oh, hey, hey, don’t strain the hamster muscles.” Frenchie patted his own mouth, grinning, then gestured at hers. 

Alesha blinked, remembering Fluffy, the soft brown hamster kept in a cage at the front of her Grade 2 classroom.  Fluffy loved to stash sunflower seeds in his cheek-pouches. She could watch that little critter for hours.

Frenchie said to Mom, “You must be very proud, Mrs. Henderson. Alesha is a born performer. She kept her cool and stayed on point. She’s a credit to our town.”

“I agree. Alesha did very well.”

Frenchie drew back slightly, as if seeing Mom for the first time. “Well! I should let you go. See you soon, Alesha!”

Alesha never used to notice how different Mom was from her friends’ mothers. But now, she wished Dad had never ordered that premium deluxe Robo-Maid. 

She also wished Dad hadn’t, in the ultimate “Dad joke,” named their model “Mom.” It was too confusing to people. Most adults didn’t realize the moving mannequin was a robot named Mom—until they closely watched the Robo-Maid’s hands or face. 

When they finally did realize Alesha was in a modern “hybrid family,” one human parent, one robotic, most went along with the situation, like accepting a neighbor who kept chickens in his front garden or a postmaster who only wore pajamas. They tolerated such people but did not become close friends.

Alesha knew, because Dad had told her, that her real, biological mother had died of an aggressive blood cancer when Alesha was but a toddler. “Some people have companion pets… some people have robot maids,” Dad explained, “so I figured, why don’t we get a companion housekeeper.” Alesha also knew her real mother, a computer scientist by trade, had recorded many hours of her speech and “woven” her speech phonemes with AI so that this prototype would speak to Alesha and Dad with her real mother’s own voice tones. And Mom’s silicone face was a replica of her real mother’s face.

Mom scanned Alesha’s face. “You look disappointed. Why is that? You won the contest.” 

“I’m tired,” Alesha said. This was the thing about robots. They did not know “tired” the way that humans did. And they never would know. Unless someone programmed it into them—but why would anyone do that?

People kept streaming out of the school. Some nodded at Alesha and some nodded at Mom. For whatever reason, the people kept their distance from the new World Champion marble-mouth. Alesha’s vision became blurred by tears.

“Please put this on.” Mom held out a light jacket. “The evening is breezy and cool. Eighty-two percent of the children here are wearing jackets.” 

Alesha wiped her arm across her runny nose. “Did he see it? Did he see how many?”

“Yes,” said Mom. She scanned the crowd for the male they had spoken to and reported, “The mayor, Gustav Laframboise, commonly known as Frenchie, saw the proportion of children wearing jackets is eighty-two percent.”

“No, you idiot!” Alesha sniffled. “I’m talking about Dad! And marbles! Not Frenchie and jackets… Did Dad see my marble count?” Alesha thrust her arm into the jacket with such force she tore the sleeve. 

“That is rude. Do not say ‘you idiot,’” Mom said. “Please apologize.”

“But you are an idiot! You’re not my real mother. You don’t understand a thing I say!” Alesha’s face was turning purple. “I’m talking about marbles, and you think it’s jackets!”

“I do not think,” Mom said. “I detect word patterns in your speech and respond to them.” She recited, “As a secondary function, I detect voice tone and volume. Your elevated voice correlates with anger and frustration.”

“Arrrgh!” Alesha flung herself onto the nearest thing, which happened to be a rubbish bin, and hammered it with her fists. She didn’t understand words like “secondary function” and “correlates,” but she knew she was fed up, utterly fed up with this expensive gadget called Mom that Dad had brought into their lives. 

From the corner of her eye, Alesha saw shocked faces, the citizens of Morocco, Idaho, turning toward her and the Robo-Maid—and then quickly away. She suddenly remembered seeing a boy in the park last winter who had kicked his Robo-Rover—and how wrong it seemed because she couldn’t imagine harming her own little Tootsie. Alesha stopped hitting the bin. She said in a monotone, “Sorry, Mom.”

“I acknowledge.” Mom blinked her eyes then began to recite the information: “Dad saw Alesha take marble 29 into her mouth. Two other finalists took 29 marbles for less than one minute. They gave up and released 29 marbles into their spit-tubs and conceded to Alesha Henderson.”

“Yes! I won! I’m World Champion!” Alesha pumped her fist. Her mouth was starting to feel more normal so she smiled. “And what did Dad say?”

“Dad said, ‘Aha, I knew she could.’” This was an actual replay of the recording of Dad’s voice—coming from the partially open lips of the attractively molded female face.

Alesha giggled. “Oh yeah? What else did he say?”

The Robo-Maid obliged with the next sound-clip. Dad’s voice said, “Let her try 30! 31! Give her more marbles, you numskull!”

Alesha threw her hands over her face and squealed with laughter. Dad must have forgotten that Mom had this auto-record feature. Mom did not seem to register that Dad had said a rude word. But Alesha knew. And Alesha didn’t want to change it, either. She wriggled with joy. “Yeah, Dad and me got right up to 31 marbles during our last practice. So I’m ready to break my world record!” She forgot she was speaking to a robot—she just had to boast to someone. While chattering, she began playing with her jacket. 

“Do you need help with your zipper?” Mom asked.

Alesha fiddled with her zipper. “Thirty-one,” she said dreamily. “Can you believe it!” 

“I notice you had difficulty with this jacket yesterday,” Mom said. “I conclude you are tired in the evenings and cannot focus on a mundane task. Please stand still.”

This was another thing about robots. They mimicked polite speech, but they relentlessly executed their tasks. Alesha sighed, stuck out her arms like a T, and froze while Mom’s pincers precisely joined the two sides of the zipper and zipped her from tummy to chin.

One woman, walking with the boy who had made it as far as marble 28, paused and cackled warmly, “Oh, there’s the lucky gal.” She beamed at Mom. “You must be so proud of your girl! What an achievement! Tell me, what’s your secret?”

Mom tilted her head from side to side, and said, “Please clarify what you mean by ‘secret’.” 

Alesha blushed. 

“Oh, you know,” the woman said coyly, blinking her eyes behind smudged glasses.

“Yes, I know about secrets.” Mom recited: “Humans may attempt to consciously conceal information due to shame, or from fear of violence, loss of acceptance, or loss of employment. Animals conceal the location of their den or nest—”

The woman squinted, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Alesha yanked Mom’s arm. She spoke loudly, trying to cover up Mom’s exegesis. “My secret is lots of practice! Dad is my coach! Mom here reminds me of homework.” She pulled Mom away before the situation got any more embarrassing. 

When they reached the car in the parking lot, Alesha said, “Mom, text Dad to meet us at the ice cream place right away.” She rolled her eyes and added “please.”

“I can only drive to the home address,” Mom said. “We must wait until Dad confirms the change in destination.”

Alesha fidgeted with her seatbelt. “I coulda done 31,” she muttered to herself. “Next time, I’ll do 31.”

“May I suggest the Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor,” Mom said. “They have 31 flavors.” 

Alesha laughed. “Silly Mom!” She fidgeted in her seat, wishing she had Tootsie there to pup-wrestle with.

After a long minute, Mom said, “Incoming message from the hospital dispatcher.” 

Alesha’s screen flashed and the sound of Dad’s voice filled the car.

“Aw honey, I guess you’ve heard about the bus crash. I was called in to work.”

“Bus crash!” Alesha said. An accident meant hurt people who needed patching up, as Dad called it. He would be at the hospital, maybe already operating on someone. Her throat ached. She had dreamed about celebrating their victory in the ice cream parlor, getting stained and sticky with Tiger Stripe running down her hands. Licking it off her wrists. Teasing Dad about Lemon Fizz dribbling down his chin. And now the silly people with their silly accident…

Tears filled Alesha’s eyes. She’d had an accident, once. Falling off a swing, spraining her wrist. She knew it was not silly but very very hurtful. “Mom, go home,” she said. “Please.”

Around them, other children were holding parents’ hands. Or refusing to hold parents’ hands, scampering off with friends, and being rebuked. Running wild. Parents were threatening, cajoling, attempting to reason. All for naught. Because high spirits ruled what was left of the day.

Another message flashed from Dad: “We will have to move our celebration ice cream to tomorrow night. Meanwhile,” he said with his voice picking up the excitement that she loved to hear, “check out this new challenge!”

She clicked on the link to a contest featuring bowling balls: How many bowling balls could an eight-year-old carry?

“Bowling balls?” Alesha laughed. She shook her hands like the fingers were wobbly springs. “Count me in.”

V.J. Hamilton calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, and The Penmen Review, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest.