How to Make a Human

"It's all over," I mumbled dully. That wasn’t strong enough. Be more mean.

"I only dated you to confirm my sexuality. Turns out you turned me gay, so thanks for that, you pathetic excuse for a man."

No, still not good enough…

"You're the reason some animals eat their young!" I said loudly, pointing straight at my reflection in the mirror, and pasting a nasty sneer over my rather plain features.

"Bobbie?" a soft voice chimed. I whirled around to see my grandma standing at the door, her back hunched and her long grey hair pulled back into a braid.

"Christ, Oma, you scared the living shit out of me!" I gasped, clutching my chest.

"Good. There shouldn't be anything living inside of you except for your body cells and organs. And maybe in the future a baby, but I doubt that'll happen at the rate you're going," she shuffled lightly over to my bed, patting the space beside her.

I sat down next to her, putting my elbows on my knees, my head resting lazily on my hands.

"So, what were you doing?" Oma asked, picking up a strand of my blonde hair and braiding it. I never had great hair. It was too dark to be legitimately blonde and not shiny enough to look good. It was a mess of untamable curls that came to my chin, with the texture of straw.

"Practicing for the day I have to break someone's heart," I replied sadly. "The poor sap will be worth mud when I'm done with him."

"Mein Gott. You're not serious, are you? "

I was quiet, before- “Yeah, when the day comes, I want to be eloquent.”

"The day will come, and when it does you will have long forgotten your speeches,” Oma said, patting my cheek lightly as though she was complimenting me, not saying by the time I find a man I’ll have memory failure.

"You know what? If Tom Cruise could find a lady by now, then so can I. I mean find a man. I can find a man, and Cruise can have a lady."

"Helfen Sie mir Herr, meine Enkelin ist ein Irrer," she mumbled.

"Oma!" I whined, "You know I can’t understand you when you speak German!"

"You don't need to know. Now, Schlaksig, get dressed. Is everything packed?" she said, standing up and walking toward the door. I glanced around the room. The walls were white and naked, the floorboards spotless. The only things left were the blinds on the window, an empty mattress, and me. I looked at Oma pointedly.

"Messe genug. Treffen Sie mich im Auto," she spoke quickly, and with that she left the room. I sat on my bed for a minute. Gazing around my empty bedroom. I wasn't sad that we were moving. I was prepared. I had no strong attachments to Utah, no attachments that would be hard to sever. I had people I was indifferent to, and people I didn't like. There was no in between. Even if I wanted to stay, I wouldn't say anything. My Opa wanted to move to Rhode Island, and we would follow.

I flipped the blinds closed and left, no regrets.

Well, no regrets until we arrived in Rhode Island.

Our new house was nice. I say "nice" because when I said it looked almost exactly like the house in CSI where the pedophile sold children online, Mae Beth cried, and Oma shrieked at me for a good hour.

Mae Beth, my prodigy sister, was part of the reason we moved here, East of Nowhere. She was age eight, and played the violin with talent of a fifty year old who had been playing for decades. Opa, having just discovered the wonders of the internet, took it upon himself to find a way to expand dear Mae Beth's talent.

Unfortunately, the only way an eight year old can expand her incredible talent is by going to some overpriced school at the other end of the world (or country, but whatever), Rhode Island.

I know I sound bitter and sarcastic, but I’m not. I really am proud of her. Well, maybe just a little bitter.

"Mae? What do you think of this?" I asked her, waltzing into her room without knocking. I had on my new school uniform, a white button up blouse, a blue plaid skirt, knee high socks, black shoes, and a black cardigan, the usual. Mae was sitting on a spinning chair in front of her new desk, hunched over her violin, plucking at strings and tuning it.

A look of irritation shadowed her frown as she spun around to face me, "What?"

"What do you think of this? Pretty classy, huh? " I asked, doing a spin.

Mae eyed me up and down before bluntly replying, "The black thing makes you look like a bean pole."

I am a bean pole. I was five foot and five inches, and flatter than an eight year old boy. In fact, the only the reason why even wore a bra was because I hoped that Mother Puberty would take the damn hint and introduce itself to me already.

"You mean the cardigan?" I asked, taking it off and examining it.

"Yeah. That," she replied absentmindedly, turning back to her violin.

"You don't like cardigans? That sucks," I muttered loudly enough for her to hear.

"Why?" she sighed, spinning around to face me again. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Just because at the rate you're going you'll be wearing them a lot," I shrugged.

"And why is that?" she shot back.

"Violin players always wear cardigans. You've seen 'em. Just pay attention next time we go to one of those classical concerts. Everybody is wearing them."

"Get out of my room," she mumbled indifferently, turning back to her violin. I shuffled into the kitchen looking for my Oma. She was unpacking dishes with my Opa, who was on his first glass of whisky of the day. Oma glanced up from the cardboard box when she heard me coming and exclaimed, "Schauen Sie darauf!"

My Opa turned away from stacking the plates in the cabinet and looked at me.

"My, Bobbie! Aren't you just a sight for sore eyes!" Oma cooed, rushing toward me.

"That's the way more schools should do it! Uniforms!" Opa said nodding his head in approval and turning back to the cabinet and stacking the dishes.

"Meh, I think it's a bit old school," I said, pulling at a thread in the cardigan.

"Nonsense! Every school I ever attended had us wear uniforms!" Oma exclaimed.

"That's sort of what I meant," I mumbled dejectedly.

"Oh, hush," Oma lectured. "Dinner will be ready by six, tell your sister."

"Fine," I sighed, slouching out the door.

"Stand up straight!" I heard my Oma call from behind me. "And do something with your hair!"

Living with my Oma and Opa had certain expectations.
1.) Dinner is at 6:00pm. Not a minute later. You must look presentable.
2.) GPA must be at a solid 3.6, no lower.
3.) You must set aside at least thirty minutes a day for a talent you would like to expand on. Mae Beth used the thirty minutes for violin, I used it for making candles. I didn't really have a talent and I could sell candles on the internet.
4.) And the usual mumbo jumbo. Call and tell us your plans. Be home by 12:00pm. No drugs, sex, alcohol, the usual things that a teen was bound by law to ignore.

They rarely enforced the third rule. It lasted for about a year before I ran out of room for my candles and hid them in Opa's sock drawer.

"Mae, dinner is at six," I told her as I slouched into her room and fell back on her bed.

"No duh," she mumbled, plucking a few strings on her violin.

"Just saying," I defended weakly.

"Get out of my room," she said simply, resting her violin on her shoulder. I ignored her and watched as she began to play.

"Seriously. Go fix your hair or something," she tried, setting down her violin and looking at me with a bored expression. Unlike Mae, who had thick straight auburn hair, that fell gracefully past her shoulders, my hair was an explosion of awesome. Well, that's what I told myself anyway.

"I can't. I try and I try, but it just won't sit," I sighed, running my fingers through the mass of curls I called hair.

"Straighten it or something."

"My hair is like Harry Potter. It won't work," I paused and thought about what I said. "I mean my hair is like Harry Potter's hair. You know, how it won't look normal and stuff? My hair isn't like Harry Potter. It's not all angst-ridden and pissy."

"Ah," Mae responded unenthusiastically, setting down her violin and resigning herself to listen to me.

"I suppose I'm sort of like Harry, what, with my parents being dead and all," I mumbled dejectedly.

"Our parents aren't dead," Mae snorted.

"Mae, Mae, Mae," I sighed, shaking my head. "They went to Japan without me, even when they know I love it. They're dead to me."

Mae rolled her eyes, "Only for a couple of years, and they're here on holidays and birthdays."

I knew she was right, and I wasn't actually angry with my parents. Three years ago, when I was a freshman, my parents had to go to Japan for work. They would live their for five years and expand some corporation. It was a neat deal. They had free housing and paid plane tickets for holidays, birthdays, deaths, graduations, the usual things family members should (probably) show up for.

I had nothing else to say to Mae, partly because I don't think I could handle Mae's quick, eight-year-old wit, and partly because I had nothing else to complain about. I heaved a sigh and dragged myself out of her room, heading to mine, only two doors away.

Glancing at the clock I found that I had killed about eight minutes in Mae's room. It was now 5:56pm. Dinner was in four minutes. Sighing, I began searching through a box for a hairbrush. Although I had all day to unpack I instead opted for bothering Mae and moping around.

Oma will kill me if I don't look presentable.

Oma- Grandma
Opa- Grandpa
Mein Gott- My God
Helfen Sie mir Herr, meine Enkelin ist ein Irrer- Help me Lord, my granddaughter is a nutter.
Schlaksig- Lanky
Messe genug. Treffen Sie mich im Auto- Fair enough. Meet me in the car.
schauen Sie darauf!- Look at that!