American Girl

June 3rd, 2440 – 11:45 PM CST

T’mari already missed Matt. And for the first time in her life, she felt a flicker of resentment toward her Uncle W’ren—for requesting she come to orbit early, hours before insertion and a full day before Matt would arrive dirtside. She could have attended the party. She could have been with him.

No, she told herself, pushing the thought away.

He had asked her to call him Matt, then shown her more of himself than anyone she had ever known. He would be Matt to her, always—even if the briefing she was about to deliver would make him Matthew again, if only for a little while.

The shuttle would dock around 2:00 AM Missouri time, and T’mari found herself missing her bed—its warmth, its softness, the comfort it gave her body and her mind. She missed the soft things that had once belonged to Matt’s sister. She still felt guilty for wearing them, but both he and Angelina had told her she should. The monument to his sister was in his heart, not in a dresser drawer.

She wondered how many other V’ren women were starting to feel what she felt—drawn toward human men. She hoped it was a lot. It would be easier if she weren’t the only one.

She looked around and decided the rest of the flight crew were too busy with their tasks to care, so she flipped her display screen to get a look at herself. She was meeting W’ren not as Officer T’mari Th’ronn, but as his niece—and as Matt’s cultural ambassador. Her uniform was folded in the bottom of her bag if she’d erred, but she didn’t think she had.

She’d chosen the tight jeans with deliberate tears, her green skin flashing through the white fringes of blue fabric. New, uncreased red canvas shoes—one girl had called them high-tops, another had called them Chucks—made her feet feel light for the first time in as long as she could remember. The shirt had been his sister’s. Soft white silk kissed her skin. Her curly copper hair was tied back with a twisted square of fabric that had once borne the image of his country’s flag. She had recognized it from the countless hours of “Americana” she’d watched over the last twenty years.

She knew she looked good. What she hadn’t quite expected was Matt’s reaction. He had marched her straight back to her room, and for a moment she thought he was angry—but then he started rummaging through her desk drawers, found a replica of an ancient watch from a company called Swatch, located the charger, and fastened it to her wrist himself.

“There you go, my American Girl.”

She wasn’t sure about the reference, but the tablet he had given her pulled up several movies and songs by that name. It was nice to finally have her own access to Netflix, YouTube, and Spotify. The galactic services never had everything she wanted—or sometimes even full episodes. But Matt had told her this device linked to every streaming service Earth had to offer. With her adapter, she watched the whole way to her rendezvous with the flagship.

She felt a little guilty for not reading the book he had given her, but she just couldn’t concentrate. Maybe later—when she kicked back with the cheese and Dr Pepper Angelina had packed for her. She thought about Angelina’s other command: Get yourself back here soon. He needs you.
She wondered if Angelina had meant what she thought she meant. Did Matt need her, or did High Lord Matthew Marmaduke need her? Either way, she wanted to get back dirtside and find out.

Now sure she slayed—as one of the girls had put it—she grabbed her bag and headed out to find her uncle. And the man had damned well better be awake.

She grinned at the irreverence of that thought.

American Girl, indeed.