by Liza Palmer
“But not that one.” I point to the last spike.
“Right. Whatever it was they were testing—and I think we’re looking at Chris’s handiwork here. I read up on his coding and this—” Thornton shakes his head in awe. “This has got him written all over it. But right here? This is where what they were testing started to work.”
“If you tell me that I am a looking at a working CAM algorithm right now—”
“You are looking at a working CAM algorithm right now.”
“Holy shit.” I lean back in my chair. I want to stand up and walk. Run. Get in Billy’s truck and drive away. Go up the coast. Maybe take a road trip across the country and swim with the whale sharks in Georgia instead of being faced with a working CAM algorithm mere days after I wrote a scathing article about a very nonworking CAM algorithm.
“But that’s not the bad news.” Thornton’s voice is so kind. I can’t say it. I can’t ask. Thornton continues, his voice heartbreakingly tender as he does so. “The bad news is that what Chris designed the CAM algorithm to do—and what he’s been testing this whole time, apparently using Bloom as some elaborate smoke screen—was not to store data.” He waits as I take that in. “What the CAM algorithm actually does is strip the user data from the companies and people who used Bloom for storage. Completely undetected. So while your documents and your music were safe—”
“You weren’t.”
“Right,” Thornton says.
“And now it works. He knows it works.” I look back over at Thornton’s computer. All those spikes. Relentless testing. Single-minded. And then that one spike. The moment CAM started working.
“Yeah.”
“And Meera signed over her shares and—”
“Asher just signed away his today,” Thornton finishes.
“So Asher didn’t know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No surprise there.”
“Nope.” Thornton and I have a brief second of levity as we share the tiniest of smiles knowing that of course Asher didn’t know, because he’s a fucking idiot.
“The digital artichoke,” I say, my entire face flushing and tingling from the epiphany.
“What?”
“When Chris was super high he told Asher he wanted to invent a digital artichoke. It was the one piece that never fit.”
“What does that—”
“The artichoke is just a transportation device.” Thornton doesn’t get it. “Bloom was the artichoke, but the user data is the melted butter. It’s all about the butter. I mean, how often does anyone eat just a plain artichoke?”
“I hate artichokes, so…”
“It was a trap.”
“Yeah.”
“And I stepped right into it,” I say.
“We all did.”
Thornton rests his hands on my arms and makes me look at him. He’s telling me how everyone missed it, no one caught it, and how my article was just the beginning, but his words muffle and disappear, as the ghost of The Dry Cleaning Story howls and moans inside my own head. Gloating and taunting me with the facts that I missed:
Chris, Asher, and Meera developed CAM.
CAM couldn’t store data securely, but it had the potential to be able to strip-mine user data.
Meera and Asher had no idea CAM did this.
Chris did.
Chris convinced Meera and Asher that CAM didn’t work.
But they could build a company off the harmless lie anyway.
Chris needed data to test CAM.
Bloom was born.
Meera signed over her shares, thinking the company was built on a lie.
Asher went all in on the big scam.
Asher got to work on the server farm.And the whole time, Chris used the data Bloom gathered to test the real CAM algorithm.
Bloom is exposed.
Chris and Asher have written protective clauses into their contract.
No lawsuits, fraud allegations.
But Asher signs away his shares anyway.
Bloom folds.
Chris is 100 percent owner of the CAM algorithm.
The CAM algorithm that now works.
Chris will use the CAM algorithm to strip user data completely undetected.
He will sell this technology to the highest bidder.
He was smarter than everyone else.
Even me.
23
Fuck
I was wrong.
24
Broad Street Water Pump
I’m at the sink. Getting water. I don’t know how I got here. I can’t remember getting up or walking over. Thornton is watching me, witnessing this. Witnessing me. Seeing me be wrong and watching as that single realization throws me into such a frenzied tantrum that I’m like some spoiled toddler being denied a shiny balloon.
I fill up my glass with water. And drink. Fill up my glass with water. And drink. I don’t know what else to do, because I’m afraid if I don’t give myself a mindless job I may take this house apart with my bare hands, one piece of wood at a time. I turn around from the sink and face Thornton, the glass of water still in my hand, my shirt stained with wet droplets of rogue water spray.
“I hate that he won,” I say.
“He didn’t win shit,” Thornton says, standing. “This is the first domino, that’s all. They’ll all fall, I promise you.”
“That little piece of shit was smarter than me the whole time, and if you hadn’t found that stuff from the server farm I would never have known.” I hear myself in that moment. It’s not about the story or the truth. It’s about who won: Joan Dixon or Chris Lawrence. “Jesus Christ, how did I get here?” I walk over to the dining room table, pull out a chair, and sit. Because I know exactly how I got here. I fought tooth and nail to get here. I thought about one thing day in and day out and sacrificed everything and anything in order to get it. I am here because I put myself here. I am here because I keep putting myself here. I am here because I made choice after choice in order to get here. “No, that’s not…” I close Thornton’s laptop, unable to watch as CAM mocks and taunts me.
I think back to the inspirational pep talk I gave myself while interviewing for jobs. It was all there. I only tolerated rock-bottom because I was certain it’d lead to a plucky and inspirational commencement speech at an Ivy League college. I valiantly weathered this fun, disruptive detour because I fully planned on laughing and joking about my time in the trenches as I dispensed hard-earned pearls of wisdom. This crucible of failure was supposed to be the battleground for my greatness.
I never thought I’d be trudging through mud and shit just to get to being … okay.
“Why didn’t Tavia invite me to lunch?” I ask.
“Wasn’t the whole thing that you were supposed to ask for it?”
“I really thought I wouldn’t have to. That the story would be so amazing—”
“The story is amazing,” Thornton cuts in.
“So, then it’s me.” I can’t look at him. “There is something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m just … I’m never going to be good enough.”
“Joan—” Thornton sits down next to me.
“Why won’t it stop?”
“What?” he asks.
“Why am I so mean to myself? I mean, Jesus, I know I may not love myself a ton, but fuck … does that mean I have to spend every waking moment shitting all over everything I do?”
“When you get an answer, I’d love to hear it,” Thornton says, sinking back into his chair.
“I keep”—I put my hand out—out there, out there—“thinking I can earn it, work for it, that someone can give it to me. And if I get it, then all of the sudden I’ll”—I take a deep breath—“be happy.”
“Yeah,” Thornton says, his voice faraway and haunted.
“I hate that it’s—” I shake my head. Back and forth, back and forth. Getting madder and madder. “Ugh. I am my one thing.” I roll my eyes. “Why … why can’t I get that?”
“In Eng
land in the 1850s—” Thornton looks over at me and can tell right away that I’m confused. “I swear this is related. When has a story that started ‘in England in the 1850s’ not been what you were spiritually looking for?” I smile. “In England, in the 1850s, there was a cholera outbreak. Now stay with me. And no one could figure out the origin. Was it in the air? Germs? Interestingly, there was even this brewery in the middle of the contaminated zone, and everyone who worked there was fine. Which threw everyone off. Were they not breathing the same air? Shaking hands with the same people?” Thornton waits for me to react. I nod and lean in. “So, they finally figured out that the cholera was originating from one water source: the Broad Street Water Pump. The brewery boiled their water, so…” Thornton leans in and takes my hands in his. “Inside of us is the Broad Street Water Pump. But, instead of cholera, it’s infecting every cell in our body with this…” Thornton looks up to the ceiling. He’s thinking. “Bullshit.” He squeezes my hands and makes eye contact with me. Makes me look at him. Makes me listen. “If we are going to live, we have to stop drinking from the Broad Street Water Pump.”
“The call is coming from inside the house,” I say. Thornton laughs.
“Exactly.”
“I thought it would work. The story?” Thornton nods. “I thought it would make me feel like somebody.” Thornton smiles, leans in, and kisses me. He pulls back mere centimeters and in the raspiest whisper, says—
“I don’t know if that’s how it’s going to work for us, my love.”
“No?”
“No.” Thornton pulls me into him. I can feel him nodding.
And tucked into the crook of his neck I whisper the strongest possible thing I can think of. “But I still want to take that motherfucker down.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s going down.”
* * *
Thornton and I speed up the 5 freeway. I pour handfuls of M&M’s into his hand and have decided to bring a box of questions from an old Trivial Pursuit game Mom and Dad had. As we hit the outskirts of Palo Alto, Thornton has chosen Brown.
“What book ended: ‘It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late’?” I flip the card over. I knew it.
“Alice in Wonderland, right? Gotta be Alice in Wonderland,” Thornton says.
“It is none other than Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, yes, you are correct.” I tuck the card into the back of the box, look over to the map, and guide Thornton off the freeway. Palo Alto is rainy and wet, the leaves are changing, and as usual Northern California in autumn smells of fireplaces and crisp air.
“Gimme an Orange,” Thornton asks, shifting down into second gear as he makes the turn off the freeway and continues to wind through toward our destination.
“Orange it is! What’s the oldest trophy competed for by professional athletes in North America?” I flip the card over. I knew it.
“Stanley Cup, my dear. Now come on, I thought you said these questions were going to be hard.” Thornton floats through an intersection and I tell him to turn right at not this light but the next one. He gives me a quick nod, puts on his indicator, and gets over into the right lane. He flips on his windshield wipers and finally makes the last right turn onto the beautiful tree-lined Palo Alto street.
We find parking and pull over. Thornton turns the car off, unbuckles his seat belt, and shifts his body toward mine. I put the lid back onto the box of Trivial Pursuit questions and drop them into the Road Trip Bag o’ Fun, as it’s been named. It’s really just a reusable bag from the Dixon Gardens that I borrowed.
“Where did they say they were going to meet you?” Thornton asks, scanning the horizon.
“Here, this is the address. We could be early, I mean maybe—”
“Breaker, breaker, this is Red Otter here with Pink Sunshine, do you read me, over?” Hani crackles through the walkie-talkie.
“Red Otter, this is Bloodhound One, we read you loud and clear, over,” I say, smiling.
“We, over?” Thornton shakes his head and takes the walkie-talkie.
“Red Otter, this is Black Fox, over,” Thornton says.
“Black Fox, welcome. Pink Sunshine says she saw a donut place just around the corner, over.”
“Red Otter, we will obtain donuts stat, I promise, over,” Thornton says.
“Black Fox, this is Red Otter. Wolf Two is among the sheep, over. I said Wolf Two is among the sheep, over.”
Thornton and I look down the tree-lined street and see Chris Lawrence walking toward a sleek office building along with three other tech bros. I look over at Thornton and smile. I take the walkie-talkie back from Thornton.
“This is Bloodhound One. Wolf Two is now officially under surveillance, over.”
Acknowledgments
This book was a tough one. So tough I don’t think I can accurately really list … I’m getting choked up just … I am grateful to so many truly wonderful people. So endlessly grateful. Thank you.
Recommend
The Nobodies
for your next book club!
Reading Group Guide available at
www.readinggroupgold.com
Also by Liza Palmer
The F Word
Girl Before a Mirror
Nowhere but Home
More Like Her
A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents
Seeing Me Naked
Conversations with the Fat Girl
About the Author
Liza Palmer is the internationally bestselling author of Conversations with the Fat Girl and several other novels. An Emmy-nominated writer, she lives in Los Angeles and works for BuzzFeed. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1. [crying emoji]
2. To Go
3. There’s Always Nudity
4. Turns Out, You Can Go Home Again
5. Doris Lessing Is My Nemesis
6. No Such Thing as a Stupid Question
7. Box Fries
8. I Can Do This
9. Piggybacking
10. Just Don’t Say Tit
11. I Got It
12. Blood Oath?
13. That Enamel Pin Life
14. The Pumpkin Drop
15. Maverick, Elliot, and a Basket Case Walk into a Party
16. Flight
17. That’s the Good Stuff
18. Nights in White Satin
19. One Thing
20. Midnight
21. Everywhere
22. Redemption
23. Fuck
24. Broad Street Water Pump
Acknowledgments
Also by Liza Palmer
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE NOBODIES. Copyright © 2019 by Liza Palmer. All rights reserved. For information, address Flatiron Books, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.flatironbooks.com
Cover illustration and design by Kelly Blair
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Palmer, Liza, author.
Title: The nobodies: a novel / Liza Palmer.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Flatiron Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019012555 | ISBN 9781250169846 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250169853 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3616.A343 N63 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
&n
bsp; LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012555
eISBN 9781250169853
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First Edition: September 2019