Chapter I
Most people can not remember a traumatic event that occurred under the age of four. Most people can not read War and Peace at age four. Most people can not design a car's ignition system at age five. Octavia was not most people. She was six when she began to suspect this. It was a hot, muggy midwest day. She was sitting on the carpet, evenly spaced between the two beer stains, carefully fiddling around with two soda cans and a circuit board. Her older brother marched into the apartment and slammed the door with a careless air, knowing full well that both next door neighbors had already lodged complaints. He made his way into the kitchen and twisted the cap off a water bottle and poured it over his head, soaking his already sweat-stained tee shirt.
"Mom doesn't like water on the floor." Octavia spoke up from her spot on the living room floor, or the family room, as mom insisted on calling it. Eric shrugged. "She doesn't like a lot of things." Octavia considered refuting the fallacy of that statement, but decided against it. Eric drummed his fingers on the counter and watched her connect a wire to a battery. "What are you doing?" He came around the counter and sat down beside her, bending over the project. Octavia pulled it closer to her lap, covering it with her small hands. "Playing around with your old trash," she forced herself to say. Her breath caught in the throat. Time for a subject change. "Speaking of trash, where were you today? You didn't pick me up from school." Good. She had connected the last subject mentioned with the new topic, just like the social psychology book she had recommended.
Eric looked up, frowning. "What? You calling me trash, Dot?" Octavia stopped breathing. It should have worked. The hand clutching the toy shook slightly. Eric sighed. If he had noticed Octavia's anxiety, he didn't react. "I was out working. I know you can make it home fine without me." He shifted on the dingy carpet, placing a hand halfway onto an old stain. Octavia inwardly cringed and suppressed the urge to push his hand into symmetry with the stain. She didn't care that he had already lost his job but was still bringing home cash, a fact that had escaped mom's notice.
"Where's mom?" Eric asked shortly. Octavia shrugged. "She went out searching for dad. Again. She was here when I came home. Apartment was a mess. Crumbs all over the floor." Eric laughed and stood up. "The only place she'll find him is six feet under." His laugh rang hollow. "I know, Eric. I was here." Eric shoot her a surprised look. "Here?" He flopped on the couch. "You were barely more than a year. Babies can't remember." He said dismissively. Octavia, relieved that Eric was out of her project, found herself irritated again. "Oh, I remember, Eric. We hadn't seen him for three days. Mother had been crying on the couch. Then there were two policemen who knocked- they stood close to the doorway. I was drawing a crude design for a bubble-powered flying car. You were in your room. The cops were here for a total of seven minutes and 35 seconds, I counted. You handled them. Mother stayed on the couch. I remember, Eric," she snapped. It didn't help that Eric was sitting on the line between the cushions instead of directly in the middle of the cushion. Octavia had Eric's full attention. He looked steadily at her with an expression she couldn't read, and then blinked. "I guess you do," he said, then fell silent.
Octavia was too young to understand the importance of that event. Until his death, Eric began to tiptoe around the apartment. Octavia frequently caught him standing silently behind her, watching her draw and design the toys she couldn't afford. A year later, the cops paid another visit. They spent 14 minutes and 15 seconds this time, however, handling a mother who almost had a complete breakdown over the death of her only son. But a complete breakdown wouldn't happen for a few more years.
Octavia was old enough to recognize the gravity of the situation and quickly got busy. By 4th grade she had stopped attending elementary school and immediately began working on a high school degree at home. By age 10 her plan to grow money on trees had failed and she began to sell her blueprints. Then she built and sold machines and toys to kids in the neighborhood. Then cars to the young adults. The extra cash was invested in the stock market. She committed her best projects to memory, convinced they would be stolen and used against her. By age 12, she had graduated high school. While her mother slept, cried, and worked, Octavia built, schemed, and dreamed. By age 16, she was ready.