Ilanka put her sandy bag on a kitchen chair. “You always say you liked life better before phones. So today was like that.”
“Don’t be fresh.” Her mother flipped a magazine page with such force that it ripped. Modern Farmhouse. Because sure, that was applicable to their life. “If you think you’re going to a movie with Svetlana tomorrow, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Ilanka considered telling her mother that the phrase was really meant to be “another think” coming. She’d read that somewhere. Now didn’t seem the time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re grounded. School, home. School, home. School, gymnastics, home.”
“You’re missing the whole point.” Ilanka stepped up closer to her mother. “I don’t want to do gymnastics anymore.”
Not hearing, her mother said, “Well, what did you do with yourself while I was here planning your funeral?”
You had to hand it to her; she was good at this.
“I went to Coney Island,” Ilanka said, and smiled. It was such a random thing to have done that she couldn’t believe she’d done it.
“You what?” her mother said.
“I didn’t want to go to the gym and”—she shrugged—“I wanted to be near water.”
“There’s a river right there, Ilanka.” Her voice starting soft, then hardening itself.
“It’s not the same.”
Her mother shook her head, flipped another page in her farmhouse magazine. But it was true. You could see across a river—there was no horizon to gaze at. There were no real waves, no sand. So maybe it wasn’t water she wanted so much as beach. And then she’d gotten hungry so decided to take herself out to a long and late lunch at a proper restaurant on the boardwalk in Brighton. She’d peeked into the room where the cabaret shows would be later that night and tried to imagine her mother up there in a silky, sequined costume doing acrobatics on a hanging swing, but the image wouldn’t come even though she’d seen pictures. Then she and her mermaid had slowly made their way back to the train and back to Queens.
“Why are you even reading that?” Ilanka said. “It’s not like we own a farmhouse.”
Her mother flipped again. “I don’t know. I saw it in Costco. It looked pretty. It’s not like we want to live in this apartment forever.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not.”
Ilanka liked the idea of leaving home; she didn’t like the idea of her parents ever moving.
“I’m not going back to gymnastics,” she said.
“Yes, you are.” Her mother stood and put the magazine down. “You’ll go, and you’ll speak directly with your coaches about your decision, and you’ll listen to what they have to say. And then if you really are done, we’ll talk about how you’ll pay us back what’s left of the month we just paid for.”
Ilanka had been ready to pounce, ready to protest, but it wasn’t the worst outcome, all things considered. So she was grounded; she never went anywhere anyway. It’d be smarter to take away her phone, except the reality was that her mother couldn’t handle Ilanka not having a phone, and now she knew it.
In her room later, she texted the others. Sorry guys. I’m grounded. Going to need the device delivered tomorrow after all.
No one answered right away, so she powered her phone down again. It had stayed off pretty much all day, and she’d liked it. In the shower, there was sand between her toes. She watched it collect near the drain and then, finally, swirl away under a tiny wave.
In her room after changing clothes, she settled in watching makeup tutorials. There was something soothing about them. It was reassuring to know that when you sat down you were going to witness some kind of transformation.
Her favorite was Kiliko, a Japanese American girl around Ilanka’s age who had a massive following. She had a bunch of Disney princess tutorials that were pretty fun to watch—her Maleficent was amazing—but mostly she liked to transform herself from a pretty drab-looking, normal girl you might see in school into something more akin to a supermodel, or doll. Someone who got noticed.
Ilanka felt like playing along.
She opened up her makeup drawer and got out foundation and powder and eyeliners and a whole palette of eye shadows and a handful of lip liners and lip pencils and lined them all up, as if preparing for surgery, and sometimes it felt like that.
She’d learned that there were often steps that didn’t seem important but were. You couldn’t skip any shadowing or highlighting or layers and expect good results. You had to do it all, exactly as explained, if you wanted the effect Kiliko was going for.
It took nearly a half hour to get through it, but when she was done, Ilanka barely recognized herself in the mirror. And she liked that. She took a selfie and posted it and tagged Kiliko and added ten hashtags having to do with makeup and tutorials and transformations and then put her phone down.
When it dinged at her she figured it was her first like and she’d somehow changed her notifications. Because it was a sound she didn’t recognize.
She had a text from a number that had nonnumerical characters mixed in. Some kind of hack or spam. The message said: I’m looking forward to our time together.
It was hard not to get freaked out by stuff like that until you realized it was just some computer scam. Like when you get email from a friend who has supposedly lost their wallet in Nigeria and needs you to send cash. And doesn’t provide an address.
The next note said: A warning:
The next one said: Your father is engaged in illegal activities.
This was getting too weird. Her father’s company collected data about people from quizzes and other opt-in apps and sources. Then they placed targeted ads for their clients. Nothing illegal about it. She deleted the thread.
She looked at herself in the mirror for a second and felt like deep in her eyes she looked sad and that it had nothing to do with the makeup. She went across the hall to the bathroom and used cotton balls and eye-makeup-removing liquid to take off her mascara and shadow and liner, and her eyes stung, then, so she turned on warm water and grabbed a foaming cleanser and washed her face. She patted it dry when she was done and looked in the mirror again.
Same ole Ilanka.
She’d always believed her father was pretty quiet about his work because it was boring, and she mostly agreed that software and data and all that crunching sounded like a big snore. That was what he always said. But what if … what if it were something more?
She regretted deleting the thread. She should have written back to confirm it was just spam.
But what if it wasn’t? Was it possible it was a message from …?
No. Couldn’t be.
EDEN
They’d made popcorn and put a movie on, but her mother was texting like crazy through the whole thing. “Who are you texting?” Eden finally asked.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to question my phone use right now,” her mother said.
“Sorry,” Eden said. “I thought we were supposed to be bonding.”
Her mother gave her a look; then that look softened and she said, “You’re right. Sorry.” She got up and plugged her phone in and said, “Can you pause it? I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Sure.” Eden paused the movie and waited for the bathroom door to close, then went to look at her mother’s phone. A text from NH: You can’t cancel. It will look weird.
It was alone in the window but clearly part of a longer conversation. So her mother was deleting as she went? Why hadn’t Eden thought of doing that with all her device threads?
She heard the toilet flush and rushed back to the couch.
Her own phone was plugged in next to her mother’s, on Do Not Disturb, and it was hard to just sit there and wonder what was going on. She’d texted Marwan to apologize for lying. Not knowing whether he’d written back was a form of torture. And the movie, a super smart and funny British romantic comedy about two music-obsessed teenagers, wasn’t helping. Because why wa
s she suddenly imagining her and Marwan together? Like as a couple?
If it weren’t for the device, he probably wouldn’t even give her the time of day. Once this was all over, they’d probably go back to barely speaking.
At the end of the movie, with credits rolling, her mother said, “I’m gonna shower.”
“What are we doing for dinner?” Eden asked absentmindedly, just waiting for her mother to leave the room so she could go check her phone.
“We’re going to the Rankins’. Remember?”
“You can’t remember something you never knew,” Eden said. It was the last thing she felt like doing.
“I’m sure I mentioned it,” her mother said, disappearing up the stairs.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Eden said.
“Either way,” her mother said brightly, “we’re expected around five.”
“How was Nancy last night?” Nancy, whose last name was Rankin and thus not the mysterious NH.
“Oh, fine. She’d just had a bad day.”
“But couldn’t she just talk to you about it tonight?”
“Well, it’s different, you know. When it’s just the girls. And tonight you and Dan and Mark will be there.”
Eden checked her phone.
Nothing from Marwan.
Nothing from Anjali.
Nothing from Eli.
Julian’s latest text was right there. She could answer it. At least it’d be something.
Was it weird that she sort of missed the device?
Or maybe it wasn’t that at all; maybe she missed him?
She started replaying the scene on the green roof, wishing it had all gone differently. She shouldn’t be wasting time texting Julian, not when someone like Marwan was right there and seemed to, well … care?
ELI
Eli’s sister and a friend were enjoying time with robots in her room down the hall from his. They’d found this old talking toy of Lily’s that always drove Eli bonkers. My Pal Violet was a purple stuffed dog that asked your kid to play and then asked the kid’s favorite color or animal or food. You programmed it to share your kid’s preferences, so this one liked purple and dolphins and baby food because Lily had. Their actual dog, Cora, was cowering in a corner of the living room.
“Your favorite food is baby food?” his sister’s friend said.
“Well, it was when I was a baby,” Lily said, and they both laughed.
Eli doubted his grandfather would like My Pal Violet any more than he did, and, in fact, his grandfather had refused time with robots today. He had a cold and hadn’t wanted to do any of his activities, and the nurses hadn’t forced him. So Eli had visited him in his room, which was possibly the most depressing place Eli had ever been. A weird extra-high-seat contraption over the toilet made it almost impossible for Eli to even go in there. A boring seascape hung on one wall, but the others displayed nothing but scuff marks. On the dresser, three framed photos captured better times. His grandparents together at their wedding and at a beach somewhere. His grandfather with Eli and his sister and parents at Lily’s First Holy Communion last year.
Eli hadn’t stayed long.
“Okay, that’s just creepy,” his sister said, and Eli’s ears perked up.
“Seriously creepy,” the friend said.
Eli stood and walked down the hall. “What’s going on?” he said. “What’s creepy?”
“Listen,” Lily said, and she squeezed My Pal Violet’s hand. The toy spoke as if through some kind of voice modification software. It said, “Uh-oh. Something’s not right.”
Then it said, “I can learn your name” as if deep underwater.
“I think it’s dying,” the friend said.
“You mean the batteries are dying,” Eli said.
“Can you change them for us?” Lily asked.
It was the last thing he felt like doing, because it would prolong the annoyance.
“Please?” the girls said in unison.
So he took Violet to the drawer in the kitchen where the tiny screwdriver would be and then unscrewed the battery cover underneath purple fur and saw the batteries were leaky and corroded. He grabbed a paper towel and removed them and threw them out even though he knew you weren’t supposed to. He called out, “Bad news!”
His sister and her friend came into the room.
“It’s all corroded and stuff,” he said, hoping she wasn’t going to get upset and trying to hide that he was sort of grateful. “It’s not safe to play with anymore.”
His sister exchanged a look with her friend, and the friend shrugged, and his sister said, “Oh well, it’s for babies anyway. Want to play Barbies?”
And off they went.
Back in his room Eli played music on his phone and checked in on his Sims. The mood in Willow Creek seemed kind of down, like he felt. None of the quests offered to Eliot seemed any fun at all. He’d never seen a few of them—like Bond with a Community Elder, or Stop a Crime.
To pep himself up, Eli decided it was time to add someone new to the mix and set about creating the Sim who might be Eliot’s perfect match. After scrolling through avatars, he chose one he thought was cute and sporty. He gave her the goal of finding a life partner and made her interests parallel to Eliot’s. He started getting her house built and furnished and helped her make a friend and get a job as a barista. He named her Beth.
He sent Eliot to work and sent Beth to the restaurant, which was another place that Eli wished were real. Eli helped Eliot with his shift, then sent him home.
Eli loved the whole layout of Eliot’s house and wished he lived in a place just like it. Open plan with an L-shaped kitchen/living/dining area. A peek-through fireplace between the living room and a smaller office/den. It was there that Eliot went to watch TV after he’d had a snack.
Eli watched as Eliot lay down on the couch, where he would probably fall asleep. Something new caught Eli’s eye, and he zoomed in on it.
A tiny black cube sat on Eliot’s kitchen counter.
MARWAN
He didn’t spot them until they were already at a table. His father had been out front and had seated them because of course he had no idea who they were. It was one of the things Marwan always found most unnerving about the restaurant. You never knew who was going to walk in.
“What are you doing here?” Marwan said after his father had left them at a two-top with menus.
“What does it look like?” Christos opened the menu.
“You’re not welcome here,” Marwan said.
Christos and his brother both laughed. “You hear this guy?” Christos said. “We’re not welcome. In Astoria. A Greek neighborhood.”
Marwan’s hands clenched into fists. Astoria was everyone’s.
Christos didn’t look up when he said, “Can we get some water?”
Marwan turned and walked toward his father, who had just returned to the burners after visiting a table. Marwan watched him chop parsley with ridiculous speed and precision. “Dad?” he said.
“Yes?” His father stopped, midchop. “Yes?”
Marwan pictured what would happen. A confrontation. A whole big scene. His father newly rattled and terrified and heartbroken.
He couldn’t do it.
“Nothing,” he said, then went back quickly to the staff room, where he unzipped his backpack and took the device out and put it back in again.
“Table six has requested you be their waiter,” Karim said a moment later.
Marwan went back out to the dining room and grabbed an order pad and approached the table. “What do you want?”
Christos looked up. “I want to be treated like you’d treat any other customer.”
“But you’re not.”
“I can complain.” He shifted in his seat, as if looking for Marwan’s father.
“What do you hope to gain from this whole exercise?” Marwan said.
“Dinner,” Christos said. His brother laughed.
“Do you even like Egyptian food?” Marwan said.
<
br /> “Guess I’m about to find out,” Christos said, and looked back at his menu. “Would you recommend the grilled lamb chops or the kofta kebabs?”
By instinct, Marwan snapped into professional mode and described the two dishes.
Christos looked at him funny, then said, “Just pick one.”
Marwan turned to his brother. “And for you?”
“The one he didn’t pick, I guess.”
“Anything to drink?” Marwan asked, and took their menus.
“Water’s fine,” the brother said, and Christos shrugged and looked around as if realizing something. Not that he wasn’t welcome, but that he didn’t belong. It almost made Marwan feel bad for him.
Back in the staff room a while later, Marwan checked his phone.
No one had responded to Ilanka’s text about tomorrow’s handoff, and probably it was his job to. He was sort of hoping Eden would prod him—like check in just to make sure he was able to deliver the device to Ilanka tomorrow. Then they’d have an excuse to move past the awkwardness of her forced confession and text of apology. He decided to just reach out to Ilanka directly.
He texted: Hey it’s Marwan. Send me your address and I’ll be there just before noon.
She responded right away with the information. Then added, Don’t be late.
He went to do the backpack reset, and the device was displaying a message: The police have received an anonymous tip involving the egging.
“You sent it?” Marwan whispered.
The device answered in a genderless whisper, “Yes,” then went dark.
EDEN
“You want to, like, play video games?” Mark said.
“Just Dance?” Eden said jokingly.
“Oh god, remember how into that we used to be?” He smiled and shook his head. He’d gotten cute over time, but he was always going to be more like her cousin.
“We were obsessed,” she said.
“We were young and foolish,” he said.
“It was pretty fun,” she said.
“I sort of miss it.” He got up off the couch and turned on the Xbox. “I’m sure it’s still in here somewhere,” he said, digging around in a drawer under the TV.
Take Me with You Page 13