How to Hack a Heartbreak

by Kristin Rockaway

  With that decision made, it was time to head to Hatch and tell Bob to go shove it. I showered, dressed, and got back on the subway, grabbing a grande Flat White from Starbucks on the way in, simply because I could afford it now.

  During the commute into the city, I entertained myself with daydreams, imagining the look on Bob’s face when I told him the news. He’d be totally blindsided. The best part was, without an immediate replacement, Bob was going to have to take on the bulk of the help desk work. No more hiding out in the server room for him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t give the Hatchlings a hard time.

  I strolled into One Seaport Plaza with a smile on my face, my half-empty coffee cup still in my hand. Rather than going to my cubicle, I went directly to Bob’s office.

  “Knock knock,” I said.

  He smirked. “So nice of you to finally show up.”

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “You’re right, we do. But not here.” He stood up from behind his desk and pointed into the hallway. “Follow me.”

  I imagined he had plans to chew me out for skipping work yesterday. Perhaps he wanted to take me into a conference room to do it. A place where we could both sit down, unlike his cluttered hovel of an office.

  He led me down the corridor, through the open cube farm housing the Hatchlings. As we passed the Fizz area, I kept my eyes on the floor, hoping to pass by unnoticed. But I didn’t have to look up to know Alex was staring at me. I could feel the heat from his gaze traveling all over my body.

  Then it hit me: this could very well be the last time I ever saw him. Suddenly, I felt the urge to run to him, to talk about what happened, to suggest we wipe the slate clean and start over. I looked up, eager to catch his eye. It was too late, though. He was already looking away.

  So I kept following Bob, who was walking toward an area of the floor I’d never been to. Where was he taking me? Was there some hidden conference room reserved for reprimands?

  Then he stopped in front of a big blue door. The placard beside it read V. Agrawal. Bob had taken me to Vijay’s office. As if the founder of Hatch cared about my illicit day off. He didn’t even know who I was.

  This was laughable. But if that’s what Bob wanted, I’d just have to quit in front of them both.

  The door opened, and there was Vijay. He nodded at Bob, then looked at me, a glint of recognition in his eye. “Melanie, Bob. Come in.”

  Since when did Vijay know my name?

  As we entered his office and took our seats, I noticed the stark contrast between his drab brown surroundings and the colorful whimsy of the Fluttr executive suites. I’d always thought Vijay was such a big deal, but after seeing the Silicon Valley heavyweights in action, it became clear he was pretty small potatoes.

  He had a great view, though.

  “So,” he said, clasping his hands on his desk blotter, “you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

  “It is a bit strange.” My eyes drifted out the window, following a helicopter as it flew across the river. “I’ve worked here for four years and I’ve never been called to your office before.”

  “Well, there’s never been a reason to speak with you until now. In short, I’m very interested in what you’ve been doing with JerkAlert.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair, afraid I might fall out, since Vijay’s drab brown office seemed to be tilting onto its side.

  Maybe I’d misheard. “Excuse me?”

  “Your website. JerkAlert.”

  Okay, I hadn’t misheard.

  In that case, maybe I could just play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play dumb, Melanie,” Bob said. “We’ve got all the logs. We know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Logs?”

  “Do you think we can’t track everything you do on our computers?” Vijay said.

  At first, I didn’t understand what he meant. I created JerkAlert at home, on my personal laptop. But, of course, I had logged in to the admin dashboard from work a lot to check up on stats. And there was all that time I’d spent tweaking the existing code to account for performance problems.

  God, I was an idiot.

  “After you started slacking off,” Bob said, “I decided to start monitoring your web activity. I also installed a keylogger on your system to see exactly what you were up to. Since you pointed out that it was sanctioned by the Code of Conduct, I figured it was the most efficient way to ensure you were adhering to company policy at all times. When I found what you were doing with JerkAlert, it suddenly made sense. You were distracted by boy trouble.”

  “I wasn’t distracted by boy trouble,” I said. “I was building a website. One that’s become quite popular, by the way.”

  “Yes,” Vijay said, grinning. “I’ve noticed how much publicity it’s received, which means traffic is increasing. However, I think performance would improve if it was moved to a load-balanced environment. We can make room on one of Hatch’s server farms.”

  Unbelievable. Vijay had sat back for years, allowing the Hatchlings to treat me like garbage. Now that I had a successful side project going on, he expected me to jump on board and become a Hatchling myself, all so he could make a quick buck. Well, it wasn’t gonna happen.

  “I don’t want to move it to one of Hatch’s server farms.”

  His face was warm, his smile was kind. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

  “Actually, I do. This is my website. I created it all by myself.”

  “Using Hatch’s resources.”

  “No. Maybe I tweaked it here and there while I was at work, but I built the bulk of it while I was home. Using my own personal laptop.”

  He produced a thick stack of printed pages from his desk drawer, slapping it on the desk in front of me. “I suggest you read the Intellectual Property Agreement you signed on your first day with Hatch.”

  I vaguely remembered my first day. It was a whirlwind of introductions and instructions and, yes, mountains of paperwork. I’d been ushered into Benny’s office and asked to sign contract after contract. I barely read any of it, and after a while I stopped even asking what it was I was signing. I was just so happy to finally have a paying job, I’d have probably signed away my firstborn.

  Which, in a way, I guess I did.

  “According to this,” he continued, “we own any software you’ve developed on a Hatch-issued device, at any stage of its development. Including small tweaks.”

  “Well,” I said, “this is coming a little too late. Because I’ve already accepted an offer from Fluttr. They’re purchasing the database. It’s a done deal.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a done deal.” Vijay’s voice was so calm and good-natured, it was hard to believe he was threatening me.

  “JerkAlert is mine.” I shot out of my seat. “You can’t steal it from me.”

  “It’s not stealing, Melanie. You willingly signed that agreement. It’s legally binding. If you don’t believe me, consult your lawyers. You’ll need them if you try to fight us on this.”

  Vijay smiled again. What an infuriating little man.

  “This isn’t over.” I snatched the Intellectual Property Agreement from his desk and ran toward the door.

  “Oh, Melanie?” Bob called. “One last thing before you go.”

  With my hand on the doorknob, I paused and turned back, hunching my shoulders against whatever bomb he was about to drop.

  “You’re fired for improper use of company resources.”

  Boom.

  26

  I was not going to freak out.

  Freaking out would not fix this.

  What would fix this was a time machine. Some way to go back and erase the moment I decided to make those tweaks to JerkAlert on my work computer.

  Or better yet, to erase the moment I decided to make JerkA
lert at all. Because honestly, what good had it done me? It had brought nothing but pain to my life: a pink slip, a breakup. The worst part was, Hatch would now reap all the benefits of my hard work, and I wouldn’t see a dime.

  Or at least, that’s what Vijay said. Who knew if I should believe him?

  Since time travel wasn’t an option, there was only one thing left to do: sit down and read this Intellectual Property Agreement from cover to cover. I returned to my empty apartment, brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and curled up with the pages I’d swiped from Vijay’s desk. I was sure I’d find a loophole in there somewhere.

  Except I couldn’t understand a damn thing I was reading. The entire thing was written in legalese of the highest order. There were some scary-looking terms in there, though, like the whole section referring to “Prior Inventions” and “Future Assurances.” Did this mean Hatch owned anything I’d ever made or ever would make, in perpetuity?

  The hell if I knew. The entire document was indecipherable.

  I started wishing for that time machine again. Only now, I wanted to turn the clock back even further, to freshman year in college, to the moment I checked the little box on the form to declare my major. Computer science seemed like such a good idea at the time. It was fun (mostly) and I was good at it (mostly) and I thought I would make great money. I didn’t realize I’d still be drowning in debt four years after graduation, or be dealing with an endless parade of douches hell-bent on making my life miserable.

  Filled with despair, I tossed aside the paperwork and texted the girls: I’m fucked.

  When Whit asked what happened, I told her the whole sad story—from my meeting with Fluttr to this unintelligible Intellectual Property Agreement.

  MEL:

  I should’ve majored in Communications.

  WHIT:

  Trust me, that’s not a cakewalk, either.

  LIA:

  Nothing’s a cakewalk. The ad business is one long douche parade, too.

  DANI:

  Ha. Try being a black lesbian in academia.

  MEL:

  I feel so stupid. I signed these papers years ago without even thinking.

  WHIT:

  And you’re sure there’s no way to get out of it?

  MEL:

  I have no idea. I can’t understand a word the agreement says. I’m not a lawyer.

  WHIT:

  Okay. Check your email in 10 minutes.

  Ten minutes later, a message appeared in my inbox.

  * * *

  From: Whitney Hwang

  To: Melanie Strickland; Yumi Tanaka

  Subject: Urgent Lawyerly Help Needed

  Yumi, meet Mel. Mel’s one of my best friends; a brilliant, funny, creative woman who’s going to change the world one day with her badass coding skills.

  Mel, meet Yumi. Yumi’s a colleague of mine. She’s sharp, insightful, meticulous—and she has a law degree.

  I’ve given Yumi an overview of your situation, Mel, and frankly, she’s just as pissed as I am.

  Now, acknowledging that Yumi is in no way offering official legal advice, she’s agreed to take a quick look at your Intellectual Property Agreement and help you translate some of the legal jargon into plain English.

  You got this!

  xo

  Whit

  * * *

  Wow. The power of Whitney’s network would never fail to astound me.

  Using my phone, I scanned the contents of the agreement and emailed the document over to Yumi with a note of thanks and a few of my most pressing questions, all of which boiled down to: Can you find me a loophole?

  In less than an hour, she responded:

  * * *

  From: Yumi Tanaka

  To: Melanie Strickland

  Subject: re: Urgent Lawyerly Help Needed

  Hi Melanie,

  I’m sorry to say, it looks like this agreement is set in stone. Hatch does indeed own your intellectual property, which includes all the code you’ve written, as well as the design of your database.

  However, there is one important distinction that may work in your favor: by the terms of this agreement, data content is not considered intellectual property. While Hatch owns the database itself—meaning, the creative decisions you made in terms of what data gets stored, how it gets stored, how it is organized, etc.—they do not own the data contained therein.

  Meaning, all the information inside the database is yours, to do with as you wish. You can keep it, you can destroy it, or you can sell that data to someone else.

  Again, this isn’t official legal advice. But, if I were you, I’d get a lawyer. Because if Hatch tried to come after your data, I bet they would lose.

  Hope this was helpful,

  Yumi

  * * *

  The data was mine. It was mine!

  I didn’t have to turn over a single name or review or email address to Hatch. Sure, they owned my code, but they could have it. According to Johnny, it was worthless, anyway. All Fluttr wanted was the data I’d collected. The names and reviews and email addresses. And if Yumi was right, I could still sell it to them.

  That half a million dollars was as good as mine.

  When my phone rang, I was still smiling. It was a 415 number, probably Fluttr calling to discuss the details of our transaction. I slid my thumb across the screen to answer, and heard Sheila’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Ms. Strickland. How was your flight home?”

  “It was perfect, thank you.”

  “Great.” There was a pause. The rustling of papers. Sheila cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I’m calling with some bad news. Fluttr is rescinding our offer of purchase.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We received a call from a Mr. Vijay Agrawal at Hatch Incorporated. He informed us of the terms of your Intellectual Property Agreement and it’s become clear you are not the sole proprietor of the JerkAlert business.”

  “No, that’s not true. I reviewed the agreement with my lawyer, and she said that Hatch only owns the code and the database schema. The data is still mine. That’s all Johnny wants to buy. He can still have it. I can show you—”

  “Ms. Strickland.” Sheila cut me off, her voice at once stern and resigned. “Intellectual Property Agreements are notoriously tricky. Fluttr is not interested in sustaining a protracted legal battle for this data. It would be far less costly to design a system to collect the data on our own. The offer is no longer on the table.”

  When she hung up, the click felt like a gunshot.

  It was over, for real this time. There was no loophole to be found in the word no.

  I opened my laptop and surfed over to JerkAlert, taking one long, last look at my creation before I handed it over to Hatch forever. The streamlined design, the faultless functionality: these were things I made from code I wrote, my intellectual property. It was an achievement I could be proud of.

  What I wasn’t as proud of? The data. Because no matter what that agreement said, this data wasn’t really mine. It belonged to the people who wrote it, the users who added it to this database by hitting Submit on a web form without even thinking of where it would go, or what it would be used for, or who it would impact. Would they have been so quick to hand it over for free if they’d known how much money had been offered for it?

  This data was a record of their hopes and their fears, their anger and their desire, their need for companionship and their failure to find it. It was messy and it was heartbreaking. It wasn’t this disembodied collection of facts and figures. It was a story of the human experience.

  Out of habit, I looked up Alex and scrolled through his profile, reading the reviews. How stupid and petty they seemed now.

  I went to the dashboard and pulled up the database admin screen. I typed in a few commands. And when a pop-
up message appeared with the question, “Are you sure you want to delete all the data from the JerkAlert database?” I answered, “Yes.”

  Hatch could take the schema, but they couldn’t take the story.

  As thousands of records disappeared from existence, I composed a letter, posting it on JerkAlert.biz, in place of the home page.

  * * *

  Dear JerkAlert User,

  Things look a little different around here, huh?

  Allow me to explain.

  My name is Melanie Strickland. A few weeks ago, I created JerkAlert on a whim. I’d had a few bad days dealing with a few bad dudes, and I thought creating a website to get revenge on them would somehow make things better.

  At first, I just wanted some catharsis. But as time went by, I realized this could be an opportunity for me to improve the online dating landscape. I envisioned JerkAlert as a safe space for women to avoid harassment, a way to weed out the liars and the frauds. I hid my true identity, thinking this would protect me, thinking I deserved it because I was doing something noble.

  Well, I was wrong. About everything. Because JerkAlert wasn’t a safe space. It was yet another online forum for harassment and bullying, allowing users to conceal themselves beneath the cloak of anonymity. It became the exact thing I was trying to fight against. It was anything but noble.

  And hiding my identity didn’t protect me, either. In fact, my life is much worse now than I ever could’ve imagined.

  I’ll spare you the details, but now JerkAlert is no longer mine. I’m sure it’ll continue to exist in one form or another, but I won’t be the one running things behind the scenes. Any reviews you added before today have been deleted. You can make the decision for yourself whether you want to continue to use this site moving forward. Before you do, though, let me offer some advice:

  Never trust anything you read on the internet.

  And never trust the internet with your heart.

  If you’re looking for love, stop swiping. Instead, look up. Look around. The love of your life could be working in your office, or sitting next to you in a bar, or standing right beside you on a crowded city street.