A Trick of Light

by Stan Lee

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she says.

  From his place on the couch, Cameron calls to Juaquo. “You see her?”

  “Yeah,” Juaquo says, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Yeah, she’s here.”

  * * *

  Juaquo stays in the kitchen for another few minutes before returning to the couch, removing the AR glasses and cradling them in his hands, like he’s terrified of breaking them. There’s a long silence.

  “She looks younger,” he says, finally.

  Cameron nods. “All the clips I could find were at least a few years old. From when you and I were kids, mostly. She didn’t post to her accounts that much after that. But if you have more recent ones, or pics, I can adjust it a little.”

  Juaquo shakes his head. “No, I mean, she looks great. Don’t mess with it. Just . . . I don’t even understand what just happened. Is she always going to be in the kitchen?”

  “No, she’ll go where you go, as long as you’re wearing the specs. The thing with the dish just seemed like a good place for you to, y’know, meet. Something familiar.”

  Juaquo nods slowly, like a man in a trance. “I was in seventh grade when I shot that video. Just playing with my camera, you know? I never thought . . .”

  He trails off, and Cameron jumps in. “So here’s the deal. It’s a fixed program, not super-sophisticated AI. Like a home movie you can interact with, or—”

  “That Deadpool hologram down at the movie theater that mooned everyone standing in line for tickets,” Juaquo says.

  Cameron laughs. “Something like that, yeah. Only you won’t see her unless you run the program and put the specs on, and I promise, she will never, ever show you her butt.” Juaquo makes a joke of looking visibly relieved. “She can talk with you,” Cameron continues, “but her repertoire is limited. If you spend too much time in there trying to have a conversation, she’ll start repeating herself. The upside is, she’s not gonna develop a whole new personality or go all HAL 9000 or Westworld on you.”

  Juaquo gives Cameron a horrified look. “Please do not ever talk about my mom and those HBO sex robots in the same sentence again.”

  Cameron laughs. “Sorry. Bad example.”

  Juaquo shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable. I mean, that you did this? You made this? It’s funny, though. It’s been years since she called me chiquito.”

  “I can fix that,” Cameron offers, hurriedly, but Juaquo smiles and shakes his head again.

  “No, don’t. I like it better. I don’t want some android that thinks it’s my mom, where I maybe spend too much time with it and maybe I start thinking it’s my mom too. I just want to remember her like she was, before she got sick.” He pauses, and breaks into a grin that makes him look like his old self, even with the black eye. “It’s incredible. You made, like, the ultimate interactive memorial museum of my mom.”

  There’s a long, companionable silence as Juaquo looks from the AR glasses to the kitchen and back. Finally, he leans forward and gently places the wearable on the coffee table. Then he turns to Cameron.

  “So, anyway,” he says. “What’s new with you?”

  * * *

  In hindsight, Cameron doesn’t know what he expected from Juaquo. At first, his friend is keenly interested to hear more about Nia—right up until Cameron starts describing the details of their relationship. That’s when Juaquo stops looking intrigued and starts laughing.

  “She’s homeschooled? Oh my God, dude. That’s the worst cover story ever. If you’re gonna make up a fake girlfriend, have some self-respect and go with the ‘model who lives in Canada’ trope. It’s a classic for a reason.”

  Cameron is indignant. “She’s not my girlfriend . . . yet. But she’s not fake! Look, buddy, we had a date.”

  “Right. All my dates end with the girl running away while I’m peeing behind a bush,” Juaquo says, and then holds his hands up as Cameron scowls. “All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s magic. Just . . . seriously? You haven’t even tried to kiss her?”

  “I respect her more than that!” Cameron scoffs, and Juaquo cracks up again.

  “There’s a word for ‘chickenshit’ I’ve never heard before.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a different kind of connection,” Cameron says. He pauses before adding, quietly, “And give me a break, it’s the only one I’ve ever had.”

  Juaquo pats him awkwardly on the back. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I get it.”

  “I’ve never even kissed a girl, you know. Not in a way that counted.”

  “Well, then maybe Nia’s the one,” Juaquo says. “You gotta ask her out properly, though. And be persistent. Not desperate, but remember, girls want you to pursue them. Especially the cute ones. She’s cute, right?”

  Cameron hands Juaquo his phone. “See for yourself. She sends me pics all the time.”

  Juaquo studies the photo. “Needs more boobs.”

  “Juaquo.”

  “I’m kidding! Yeah, man, she’s cute. Pale, but cute. She actually looks kind of familiar.”

  “You’ve probably seen her around,” Cameron says. “In town, or something?”

  Juaquo frowns. “I don’t think so. I think it’s more that she looks like . . .” He peers at the photo a moment longer, then shrugs. “Eh, whatever. It’ll come to me.”

  The phone buzzes in Juaquo’s hand; he glances at it and grins.

  “Speak of the devil,” he says.

  “What?”

  Juaquo passes the device back to Cameron, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

  “It’s your girl.” The eyebrow waggles. “She wants to know if you’re ready.”

  14

  Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

  Cameron pulls to the curb in a hurry and practically skips up the porch steps, not noticing that the same ragged man from outside Juaquo’s house has reappeared—still staring, this time from behind a large box truck idling on the corner, the object of his interest clearly Cameron himself. But Cameron isn’t paying attention; all he wants is to get in front of the computer in time to help Nia with the next prank. Not that she couldn’t handle it all on her own, but knowing she could, and that she’s holding off until he can join her, makes his heart feel like it’s about to take flight. It’s what makes them so perfect for each other. What they’re doing isn’t just about doling out justice, righting wrongs. It’s about doing it together.

  His phone pings again.

  I’m waiting!

  Cameron takes the basement stairs two at a time and lands in front of his desktop array, the screens coming to life as he glances at them.

  I’m here, he says, and grins. Let’s do some redistributing.

  CONTROVERSIAL FINANCIER SAYS HE IS A VICTIM OF HACKERS

  Renowned investor Ford Freeman made a series of statements today suggesting that the recent donation of a combined $10 million in his name was the work of hackers. After several organizations tweeted their thanks for his support, Freeman took to social media early on Sunday morning, writing, “Whichever one of you [expletive]-heads gave $10 million of MY [expletive] MONEY to make [expletive] cat sweaters IT’S NOT FUNNY AND I WILL FIND YOU.”

  Freeman has long been scrutinized for what critics call his predatory business practices, buying a majority stake in struggling companies and then systematically selling off their assets, often resulting in widespread layoffs as the shrinking business struggles to stay afloat. Ted Frank, former CEO of Bluegrass Brands, personally blamed Freeman for ransacking the company and eliminating hundreds of jobs before liquidating his position.

  The $10 million in donations, which Freeman insists were stolen by hackers who raided an offshore account and converted its contents to high-value cryptocurrency, appear to have been channeled with the intention of helping those who were negatively affected by the investor’s dealings. Several charities dedicated to connecting struggling families with affordable housing and long-term employment received donations of $500,000, but many individuals also r
eceived what they say were desperately needed gifts of cash. Melanie Whistler, a former assembly line worker who has been selling hand-knit pet sweaters to make ends meet since losing her job last year, told ANN that she woke up to find that a crowdfunding campaign to expand her business had received $100,000 overnight, ten times what she had hoped to raise.

  “I would thank Mr. Freeman for his generosity,” said Whistler, “but since he says he didn’t do it, I guess I’d like to thank the fine person who did. And to that person, I’d just like to say: If you have a cat, you just let me know its favorite color and I’ll make it a beautiful sweater.”

  In the comfortable dark of the basement, Cameron throws his head back and laughs until tears come. He’s still cracking up when Nia’s message pings through, and her bewilderment only makes him laugh harder.

  Do cats even have a favorite color?

  I don’t know. I don’t have a cat.

  Me neither, Nia says.

  You know what I do have? Another idea.

  YES. TELL ME.

  He does. When he’s finished, there’s a long silence while he waits for Nia’s response. Finally, he pings her again.

  So? What do you think?

  When she replies, her avatar is wearing a pair of devil horns.

  I think we should deal her some justice, Nia says.

  There’s another pause, this one briefer.

  I think we should do it right now.

  15

  Aria Sloane Gets Canceled

  It’s just after dawn on the Ohio State campus, with soft light beginning to filter along the quiet pathways where a few straggling partiers are stumbling home, when Aria Sloane’s cell starts to buzz. She jolts awake, first confused, then annoyed, when she sees Sarah Wright’s name on the display. Blowing up her phone at six o’clock in the morning? This girl is seriously overestimating how much nonsense I’ll tolerate from an ally, Aria thinks, tossing the phone aside and rolling over with a huffy sigh. Just because you show up to a few protests, signal boost the movement, and donate a few hundred dollars to my Ko-fi to compensate me for the emotional labor of being your friend, that doesn’t give you the right to just call any damn time you feel like it.

  Plus, she muses, if you think about it, waking someone up before dawn could really be considered a form of violence, couldn’t it? Sarah’s privilege is definitely showing. When Aria does get out of bed, the very first thing she’s going to do is get online and call out that entitled—

  “OH MY GOD,” she erupts, as the phone starts to vibrate again. She grabs it, noticing as she does that she seems to have an awful lot of alerts. Not just the missed calls from Sarah—Jesus, how many times did she try before the buzzing woke her up?—but texts and notifications from all over the place, every single app just exploding. For the first time, she wonders if something might actually be wrong, if maybe Sarah is calling because nuclear war has broken out, or worse, her favorite celebrity couple has broken up. Hurriedly, Aria taps the screen to accept the call.

  “Sarah, what the hell? It’s six o’clock in the morn—”

  Sarah interrupts her, ignoring the question. “Have you seen what’s happening on Clapback?”

  “Wha?” says Aria, shaking her head in disbelief. She must still be half asleep; Clapback is the school’s anonymous messaging app and a frequent source of outrage, but it’s not the kind of thing that you call someone up at the crack of dawn to discuss.

  “So you haven’t, then,” says Sarah. “You have no idea.”

  Aria stifles a yawn. “I must be missing something,” she says, annoyed. “You’re calling me to tell me that someone is showing their ass on Clapback?”

  In the pause before Sarah answers, Aria realizes that there’s something strange about the other girl’s tone. Instead of being deferential and apologetic, falling all over herself to avoid offense the way she usually does, her voice sounds hard.

  “Yeah,” Sarah says. “You are.”

  Aria sits bolt upright. “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, it’s not just you. Some kind of virus or hacker or something just pulled back the curtain on an absolutely massive pile of internet shit. So you’re not the only person getting a taste of her own medicine. This one guy, he was running a revenge porn website, and somehow all the content got taken down and replaced with this absolutely hilarious video of him having a crying fight with his mom because she threw out his binder full of Sailor Moon erotic fan art—”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Aria snaps, only to be met with a low chuckle on the other end of the line.

  “You’ve been hacked, Aria. De-anonymized. Every shitty thing you ever posted on anon, because you thought nobody would ever find out it was you? It’s all out there now. Not just Clapback. Your little secret Facebook group went public overnight too, and for a bunch of people who claim to be sooooo concerned about hate speech and abuse, you and your friends are responsible for like ninety percent of the bullying on this campus. But you, you’re something else. It was you. I just can’t believe it. The Josh thing. You just made it up.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aria says, only her voice is shaky and uneven. Her cheeks and ears are burning, and the world seems to be shrinking around her, making it hard to breathe—because she’s pretty sure that she knows exactly what Sarah is talking about. On the other end of the phone, Sarah draws a deep breath and lets out her next words with a hiss.

  “He tried to hurt himself after he got expelled. Did you know that? He ended up in a psych ward.”

  Aria closes her eyes and thinks, Oh, shit.

  The scandal surrounding Josh Woodward had been the biggest news on campus that winter, after an anonymous poster on Clapback said he had been spotted making a Nazi salute from the balcony of the Chi Phi fraternity house. Within hours, postings began to pour in saying that yes, Josh Woodward was a known white supremacist, forcing the school to investigate—at which point a group of brave social justice activists led by the sophomore Aria Sloane came forward to allege that Josh was also verbally abusive, misogynistic, and a known mansplainer. Meanwhile, the story went viral online, where an internet game of telephone ensued until the rumor was that Josh had not only performed the offensive salute, but was also holding a copy of Atlas Shrugged and wearing a T-shirt that read I ❤ FASCISM at the time. In the face of mounting media scrutiny and phone calls from outraged parents—and since Josh Woodward of course could not produce any evidence that he hadn’t done what he was accused of—a campus tribunal convicted him of hate speech and expelled him, just a couple months before he was supposed to graduate. The last Aria heard, he was back living with his parents and had been fired from a job at a fast food restaurant, thanks to an anonymous tipster who uploaded a photo of him in his work uniform to Twitter, making sure to tag his employer: “So apparently @McDonalds is cool with having a misogynist white supremacist in their kitchen LOL.”

  In hindsight, Aria thinks, maybe that last part had been a bit much. She didn’t really need to get him fired from flipping burgers. Starting the rumor and then flooding Clapback with enough anonymous testimony to start the dogpile rolling would have been enough—and she didn’t even make all the comments, only half of them, or maybe seventy-five percent. Even then, she’d only wanted to teach him a lesson after he attacked her in lit class and called her “coddled” just because she wanted a trigger warning on Crime and Punishment. But Josh Woodward was the living embodiment of white male privilege. So what if he had no degree and no job? Neither did lots of people, and you didn’t see them losing their minds about it.

  Aria takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t know what you think you know, but if Josh Woodward went crazy after he got expelled, that’s certainly not my fault.”

  “Are you kidding me!” Sarah is practically yelling. “You fabricated the entire story, and not only that, you got all of us wrapped up in it. You said it was our duty as allies to back up whoever was brave enough to call Josh out. Quinn broke
up with him because you said his masculinity was toxic. I took you out to lunch for a week because you said you were too traumatized to eat from the same buffet as a Nazi!”

  “I—” says Aria, but Sarah cuts her off.

  “I’m calling the dean, Aria, and I’m telling her everything. I’m telling her how you pressured us, bullied us to say those things. I’m going to tell her how you threatened to wreck my reputation if I didn’t post and retweet and donate every time you decided to take someone down. And I want my five hundred dollars back. I talked to my dad and he says this definitely counts as fraud, and I have every right to—”

  Aria hangs up on her.

  As soon as she does, the phone lights up immediately, the alerts scrolling by faster than she can read them. Three clubs in which she was a member have already posted statements disavowing her. People are unfollowing her as fast as they can; her Twitter account has been suspended and her Facebook friend list has dropped by two hundred and counting. Dimly, she’s aware that Sarah was right, that she’s not the only one this is happening to—her name is trending alongside several other victims’, including the revenge porn guy who’s already been nicknamed #WailerMoon—but somehow that only makes it worse. Her email chimes with the latest of ninety-seven unread messages; the subject line reads, “Shame on you.”

  In her hand, the phone begins to vibrate again. The color drains from her face as she looks at it. It’s not Sarah calling back. It’s worse: the caller ID says “DAD.”

  Aria Sloane pitches her phone across the room. It skids under her desk. The vibrating stops.

  She waits. Hoping. Praying.

  Let this be a bad dream, she thinks.

  Under the desk, the phone begins to buzz.

  Outside, someone begins knocking at her door.