The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  I squirm and avert my eyes, pushing away all thoughts of that day in the rain.

  “So what was it?” Robbie asks.

  “Huh?”

  “The ‘best thing ever,’ remember?” Sara says.

  “Oh.” I feel a smile spread across my face. “I saw two sorority girls talking about the app, and I swear to God I thought one of them was going to cry. How amazing is that?”

  “Braden, you can’t celebrate a girl crying.” Her nose scrunches in a look I’m sure is meant to intimidate me but is way too cute to work.

  There’s the Sara I know.

  Roberto laughs, almost tumbling over the arm of the couch he is sitting on.

  “Okay, okay.” I take a seat, setting my bag on the ground and flipping my chair so I can sit backward. “That’s fair, but she didn’t actually shed any tears. Anyway, you’re missing the point—people are getting into our app.”

  “That is kind of cool,” Sara says. A smile plays on her lips. And I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I think she might be slightly less antagonistic toward me. And not just in that pitying way of before. I smile back and for a moment my gaze lingers on her.

  An email alert sounds. We reach for our iPhones simultaneously, but it was me who got the message.

  “USC!” I say, standing up as I read the email. “That’s ten!”

  Perfect. Another big school that ranks high on US News & World Report. Not to mention one full of rich kids in the middle of Hollywood, greedy for this sort of status.

  I look up from my phone and turn to Sara. “How long will it take you to get things ready for that?”

  She looks at Robbie. “We already bought the extra server space. But we need to make sure the algorithm is ready to scale.”

  Robbie types a few things before looking up. “We are adding a way to sort your general location, so people here won’t see profiles of people at, like, USC or wherever.”

  “All right, nice.” I nod. “We also should put out a press release when we do the next launch.” The wheels in my head start turning, already trying to perfect the way we present this next move.

  “Sure,” Sara says.

  Robbie shrugs, eyes still locked on his screen.

  I wish they understood how important this part is. Otherwise it would just be us three and their CS study group on the damn thing.

  “They’ll want to know numbers too,” I say.

  “Two thousand users,” Sara says. “As of this morning.”

  “No,” I reply. “That’s not how we should say it.”

  “Why?” Sara asks. “That’s what Michael asked us.”

  I cringe at the mention of the meeting. But I’m glad that she at least used a neutral tone.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “But we shouldn’t say that figure.”

  “Why?” Sara says.

  Robbie is plugged into whatever he is doing, this discussion apparently not even warranting his attention.

  “Because we’ve released it only to Warren students,” I say. “So our numbers will be much lower than our competition.”

  “So say a percentage,” Robbie mumbles.

  “What?” I turn to him.

  I guess he was listening. And coding at the same time. I’m impressed.

  “There are what, seven thousand undergrads on campus?” he says, like this is obvious. “Can we get information on how many of those people are single?”

  “The Daily did something about it a month ago,” Sara says. “Or at least an estimation, when they wrote that article about dating on campus.”

  “Perfect,” Robbie says. “Then divide our users by that, and bingo, the percentage of single people on campus on our app.”

  “Yeah but it’s been like two weeks,” I say. “The number can’t be that...”

  He spins his computer toward me. I walk toward him so I can read it.

  He has the Daily article pulled up, along with some sort of fancy CS Engineering Whatever calculator that is definitely overkill for this task.

  It’s a bit hard to read for a mere mortal social science major like me, but even I can tell where the grand total is.

  “That can’t be right,” I say.

  Robbie shakes his head. “Numbers don’t lie.”

  Sara leans toward us. “What is it?”

  I smile, feeling the weight lift from my shoulders for the first time since we launched.

  “Half of the single people on campus are using our app.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “We might just become millionaires after all.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Roberto

  “What does their company do again?” Sara asks.

  Outside the car window, palm trees move past rhythmically. They line the path toward the main quad, all towering and spaced precisely, like Roman columns.

  We are in an Uber Black, due to Braden’s insistence on not asking an upperclassman to borrow a car, and on our way to seek advice from a Warren upperclassman who went to Braden’s boarding school. Or, I guess he really isn’t an upperclassman anymore, considering he dropped out in the middle of last year to pursue his start-up idea.

  “It’s an anonymous message board platform for middle school and high schoolers.”

  I make a face. “Does the world really need that?”

  Braden shrugs. “It got funding.”

  “Hmmm.” Sara flicks a piece of fuzz off her pink tweed skirt. She looks nice, with a white blouse that ties into a bow at her neck and stylish shoes with little buckles.

  I feel a bit underdressed myself, in just a button-down and a dark pair of jeans. I wasn’t sure if I should dress like I was going to a business meeting, or just to hang out with some other kids around our age. I feel like I chose wrong.

  “How much funding?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I asked my dad’s assistant to look it up, but she couldn’t find any numbers.” The car turns off campus, heading through the overpriced shops of downtown Palo Alto and toward the residential neighborhood beyond. “The house we’re about to visit has got to be worth a few million though, if that tells you anything.”

  I raise my eyebrows and nod, then settle back in my seat and look out my own window as we zoom past homes with sunny gardens and Teslas parked out front.

  I try to wrap my mind around the idea of a kid just a few years older than me with millions. I mean, I’ve just begun to get used to the ridiculousness that is Braden, a teen who has access to and will one day inherit a butt-load of money.

  But someone who has earned it himself? Someone who is done worrying about homework and is instead worried about his company’s quarterly report? Someone at an age where a job should mean camp counselor or grocery bagger, who is instead probably running around in thousand-dollar suits as he heads to board meetings? I can’t even picture that.

  A few minutes later, the car comes to a stop in front of a modest-looking ranch house.

  The driver slides a finger across his screen to end the ride and offers us bottled water or mints as we get out. A little bit different than taking the bus or train.

  Can I offer you someone’s old gum that’s been stuck under the seat? might be the BART equivalent.

  I close the door behind me and step around the car to take in the house. It’s not what I thought a multimillion-dollar house would look like. I always envisioned more Scrooge McDuck levels of elegance. Maybe some big white columns framing a grand entrance. Perhaps someone in uniform who runs to open your door for you and take your coat, before beginning a rendition of “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here” from Annie, complete with a dance break performed by housekeepers in black-and-white uniforms. I was thinking it’d be a house so big there were rooms with no purpose, or maybe one just meant for swimming in money. Okay, maybe that’s more
what I thought when I was a little kid. But still, the place looks kind of normal. I can’t believe they paid so much for it.

  Braden punches the doorbell and I can hear it ringing inside, through a window a few feet from the door, although a curtain masks my view. A few weeds poke out from the cobblestones that make up the front steps, and junk mail and a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue poke out from a mailbox with a blue bird painted on it.

  The door swings open, and the guy standing in the dark doorway is not what I expected either. He is a little bit taller than I am, although he looks like he could be younger than me. He has shaggy brown hair and wears light-wash jeans with frayed cuffs, a T-shirt that says Brogrammer on it and no shoes. He is also holding a bong.

  “Heeeyy,” he says. “Braden, my man.”

  Braden laughs as the guy hugs him.

  “I’m Brett,” he says.

  I reach out my hand, but he shakes his head before hugging me tight and patting my shoulder like we’re old friends. He smells like a concert.

  When he finally steps away, he turns to Sara. She stumbles back in surprise at his enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, all right then.” A smile breaks across her stunned face and she laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s out of discomfort or amusement.

  We step inside and Brett closes the door behind us. Inside the air is sickly sweet and stale; although plenty of light filters in through the windows, they are all closed.

  “So you’ve really taken to California, I see,” Braden says.

  “What?” Brett’s brow furrows. He follows Braden’s gaze down to the bong in his hand. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot I was holding that.” He sets the glass object on a tall table lining the hallway. The type of thing you’d usually use to display family pictures or scented candles. “You guys don’t mind the smoke, right? I could open a window.” He looks to Sara, seeming to have just noticed her business-casual attire.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and...” His words fade away, but he keeps walking briskly. We follow him into a living room with a large sectional couch and flat screen TV.

  He steps over a coffee table littered with beer bottles, lighters and what seems to be a mason jar of weed, making his way to the back wall where huge sliding glass doors reveal a large patio and pool.

  He slides the door open, and then walks over to flip a switch on the wall, sending the ceiling fan spinning.

  “Is that better?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Sara says, waving her arm in an awkward gesture. “Whatever you usually do is fine.” She examines the couch, pursing her lips as she brushes off a spot before sitting down as close to the edge as possible. She folds her hands carefully on her lap.

  Braden sprawls out on a large armchair, his expensive leather shoes resting on an ottoman of a different shade of expensive leather.

  I sit a few feet away from Sara, leaning back against a throw pillow with a stitched image of a Banksy painting on it, but I’m not much more comfortable than she looks.

  I take a deep breath, although it is hard to feel refreshed with this air. Someone tells a joke and the others laugh, but I miss it. I can’t stop looking at the jar. I know it sounds stupid, but I usually walk the other way if I enter a room and see drugs. I mean, sure, I’ve seen them used in school bathrooms or at concerts, and it’s not like I can’t deal with the idea of it happening around me, but I try not to stick around a party when that’s all people are doing. I never made a big deal about it, usually just saying I’m not feeling well or have to get up early and head home.

  I just never wanted to be around if something went down. I knew too many kids whose lives were ruined because they were walking around with something in their backpack when the police decided to randomly search them. If a party was busted and I was there... I wouldn’t be able to look my parents in the eyes and tell them that, after all their sacrifice, I had messed up my chances to go to college just to stay at a lame party. The state made it legal a few years ago, but only for people over twenty-one, which I am not. And the federal law could still screw everyone over.

  I glance behind me at the door. I am technically here on official business. It’s not like I can just make an excuse and leave. And it’s not like I’m just risking my future being here; in fact, I could be helping it quite a bit.

  And for some reason I feel like the police aren’t about to break down this million-dollar door with a battering ram. Some bullshit.

  I exhale and lean back, trying to make myself look less uncomfortable.

  “My roommates and cofounders went out for burritos,” Brett says. “But we can just start without them if that’s cool with you.”

  I look to Sara, who shrugs.

  “Sure, why not,” Braden says.

  “Sweet,” Brett says. “So what do you want to know?” While he waits for us to respond, he heads back across the room to grab the bong.

  “Uh...” I try to think, distracted by the sight of Brett lighting up the bong, and then letting it fill with smoke for a good ten seconds before inhaling. “I guess, do you wanna just walk us through the process, from your initial idea to company?”

  He nods as he reaches for a beer and takes a long sip. He wipes his mouth before answering. “So yeah, I usually use a process called ideation. Are you guys familiar with design thinking?”

  Sara laughs.

  “Yeah,” I say. “A little bit. I’m in a class about it now, but it’s been my first introduction.” I reach for my backpack to pull out my notebook and a pen.

  “You want some?” Brett says. I look up to see him holding out the bong to Sara.

  Her eyes go wide. I’m about to launch into my speech, that she doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to and that she shouldn’t feel bad, when a huge smile breaks across her face.

  “Sure,” she says. “Why not?”

  My eyebrows shoot up, but I look away so she doesn’t see. I open my notebook to a fresh page and write the date at the top.

  I underline it a few times and then write ideation below. And now I’ve officially run out of things to distract me.

  I look at Sara, who is balancing the bong on her panty-hosed knees. She holds the lighter in her hand and is looking at it like it’s some sort of artifact from an alien civilization.

  “I don’t, uh, know how to...” She looks to me and then to Brett.

  “Oh here,” he says, taking the lighter from her. “Watch out for your hair.”

  She pulls the silky blond curtain away from her face, holding it in a ball behind her head, and Brett sparks the lighter. Curls of white smoke float toward her lips, and then Brett pulls the pin and she breathes it in.

  She throws her head back, coughing uncontrollably. Her eyes turn glossy and her face bright red, but she is smiling through her gasps.

  “I’ll get you some water,” Brett says, taking the bong from her.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  I hear a cabinet open and close and then the sound of a faucet in the kitchen.

  Sara continues to cough but nods.

  By the time Brett has emerged from the kitchen with a cup, she’s caught her breath.

  “Thank you,” she says, reaching for the glass.

  “How do you feel?”

  She furrows her brow, considering this. “I don’t know.” She looks back and forth between us. “A little light-headed, but that might just be because of all the coughing,” she laughs.

  “Fair enough,” Brett says. He offers the bong to Braden, who takes it and needs no help or instruction to smoke.

  “Beer?” Brett asks us.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Sara just nods.

  “What do you have?” Braden asks Brett. He tries to hand the bong to me, but I shake my head. He sets it on the coffee table without a word.

  Brett goes into the kitch
en and reemerges with a six-pack. “It’s craft,” he says, pointing to the logo on the box. “It’s made just a few miles from here.” He hands me a bottle, which has an illustration of a tree on it. I reach for the bottle opener on the table and pop the top while he continues to pitch it. I’m sure it’s fine. “I just really like to know where my stuff is from, you know? With big companies, it’s like you don’t even know what kind of crap you’re putting into your body.”

  I resist the urge to laugh at the irony as he finishes his statement and reaches for the bong, expertly balancing it in one hand while lighting it with the other; he manages to pull the pin with the same hand that holds the lighter and take a long rip, all while standing up. I get the impression this might be how he spends every evening.

  He leans back and blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Okay, so like I was saying, ideation.” He hands the bong to Sara again. Braden moves toward her to help.

  I set down my beer and reach for my notebook.

  “What you really need to do is approach the creative process in a need-based way. You find a gap in the market that needs filling and bingo.”

  “So how did you get from that to...your idea?” I ask. With his need-based approach, I picture some sort of medical equipment or a system that helps track the shipment of food so it doesn’t spoil, not a chat room for preteens.

  “Well, a lot of middle schoolers these days are prevented from accessing the traditional social media sites by their parents, so we thought if we developed a new one that no parent had heard of and made the app appear like a game on their phones, we could fill that market.”

  “Are you worried though?” I ask. “About bullying and predators and all the reasons middle school parents tried to get their kids off social media in the first place?”

  “Nah.” He shrugs. “We’ve got a lawyer on retainer. He says we shouldn’t be liable for any of that.”

  Yeah, but even if they can’t sue you, doesn’t it bother you that people use what you made for terrible things?

  Brett reaches for the bong; he doesn’t seem preoccupied with this.