Nomvula thinks maybe she was wrong about skirts made by strangers in faraway places. Her new one came with a tag on it and everything. The tag has a pretty picture of m-birds against the sky that says Mac and Mabel’s at the top, and below in teeny lettering: Made in Taiwan. Nomvula would like to visit there one day to thank the lady for making such a beautiful skirt. Pink flowers are stitched all the same in a twirly pattern that flows all the way down to her shoes.
And her coat! It’s just as pretty and just as long, with deep pockets in the front to put her hands in and a hood that hangs down in back. Sydney says fashion is important, especially on days like this one, when they’re going to this Riya Natrajan concert. Sydney, she looks like a queen in her dress! Oh, how it sparkles. Maybe they’ll both have a good time tonight, though Nomvula wishes Sydney would have remembered to fix lunch today, or dinner the day before, and lunch the day before that. But Nomvula doesn’t complain. This dress is so nice, she hardly remembers how hungry she is.
Outside, Nomvula bundles up against the cold and balances along a curb. These shoes she has on are hard and flat and pinch her toes, but they make wonderful music along the pavement.
“Come,” says Sydney, as she snatches Nomvula closer to her. “Wouldn’t want you falling into traffic.”
“How much farther?” Nomvula dares to ask. Normally she wouldn’t, but tonight Sydney’s in such a good mood.
“Quiet, you,” she says, waving her hand into the air, then putting it back down.
A bright blue bus passes them, lights on the side with big letters Riya Natrajan Live in Concert!, packed full of screaming people. “You think they’re going where we’re going?” Nomvula asks.
“Demigoddesses do not take public transportation. I’d rather die first.”
Nomvula walks silently for a few steps, concentrating on the patter of her shoes, then she pulls her pretty clothes tags from her pocket. She fans them out, counting them like money.
“Why don’t you throw those worthless things away?” Sydney raises her hand up at the oncoming traffic again.
“But they’re so pretty,” Nomvula says, then asks, “Why do you keep doing that?”
“I’m trying to catch us a cab,” she grumbles. “Those good-for-nothing bot taxis. I swear, if I ruin these heels . . .” Then Sydney starts muttering about demigods and flying and how things will be different tomorrow and forever after.
“I can get us one,” Nomvula says, right before she’s confronted with Sydney’s slit-eyed glare.
“Hush, child. I can’t hear myself think with you yammering all the time.”
There are cabs everywhere, but most of them are already full with people. Nomvula thinks if she can catch one of them, then Sydney would love her, maybe a little bit at first, but more and more each day. So Nomvula shoves her tags back in her pocket, then balances on the curb and faces into the white lights coming from hundreds of cars, like ghost eyes peeking out from the dark.
She sticks up a hand, just like Sydney had done, but they pass her, again and again and again.
“It’s pointless,” Sydney says, snapping Nomvula forward by the arm. “They’re all taken, and the ones that aren’t don’t stop in this sort of neighborhood. Now hurry up, or we’ll be late to the end of the world as we know it.”
Nomvula is about to ask what that means, when a long, black car pulls up to the curb next to them, so close that Nomvula reaches out and touches it. It’s got windows and windows and windows, so dark Nomvula can barely make out the bot sitting in the seat behind the steering wheel.
Hello, Nomvula, it says. Clever4–1.5.3 at your service.
Nomvula jumps up and clicks her heels together. “Sydney! Here. This one’s for us!” She goes to the door and pulls up the handle.
Sydney’s eyes get wide, her mouth tight. She looks at the car, and for a moment, Nomvula thinks Sydney’s about to hop right inside, but then she slams the door shut. “You can’t go jumping into strange cars!” she says, almost like she really cares.
“It’s not a strange car. It’s here for us. To take us to the concert.”
“That’s just what I need right now, to get thrown into jail for commandeering a bot limo! Tonight we play it safe, Nomvula, my dear.” She strokes Nomvula’s short hair, then tilts her chin up. “I’ve waited so long for this, you can’t even begin to comprehend!”
Sydney takes another step, then shrieks. She steadies herself, balancing on one foot as she examines the brown mush on her sole, her face drawn tightly in disgust. “These stupid dik-diks! I swear if I ever get my hands on one . . .” Then Sydney yells a string of curse words that Nomvula isn’t allowed to repeat.
There’s a line around the corner when they arrive. Nomvula’s good at waiting in lines. She shoves her hands in her coat pockets and rocks back and forth, enjoying the wind blowing past her ears and the smell of all the people and their perfumes and colognes. She doesn’t fear them anymore, not with the buzzing of belief in her stomach reminding her that she’s something greater. Nomvula wishes she had better control of her gift, and that Mr. Tau had taught her to use it properly. The bees are calm right now, but still slippery as slivers of wet soap.
The lights on the side of the building spell out Riya! and flicker in a pattern that Nomvula watches until it makes her dizzy. Riya’s picture is up there too, as big as the building itself! She’s smiling at Nomvula like she’s glad she came.
Closer to the front of the line, it sounds like people are mad. Nomvula steps to the side and peeks around, seeing a man heading in through one set of doors and an alphie being led through another.
“Well, I’m not leaving my bot unattended,” another man screams from the front of the line. “There’s nothing on this ticket that says anything about a no bot policy. Now either you let us in, or I demand a refund!”
“Sir, I appreciate your concern, but our storage area is completely secure. Your bot will be as safe there as it is next to you,” says a man Nomvula can only hear, but he’s got the kind of deep voice that sounds like it comes from a very big person.
“I don’t know you from a horse’s ass. Do you know how much I paid for this thing? More than you make in a year, I can assure you that!”
“There’s no need for insults, sir. I apologize for the change, but we made every effort to get the word out through all media outlets.”
“Well, obviously you did a piss-poor job with that!”