The Next Big Thing

by Sadie Hayes

  She wandered to the Louvre and stood before the glass pyramid looking for … what? She felt a pang of anxiety: What were the chances that Amelia was even logged on to the game right now, much less that she was in the same part of the virtual world as Patty?

  Patty scrolled along the bottom of the screen for her options and found a “Post a Message” selection. She clicked the icon and selected “For anyone to read.” Amelia had been avoiding everyone for months: What could Patty post that would make her come around? A plea for help? A threat?

  Suddenly the opportunity her mother had told her to watch out for hit her: She finally knew how to use Focus Girls for good. Yes! She almost laughed it was so obvious. She scribbled a note she knew Amelia would answer: Ameel, my company’s in trouble. Need your help. You’re the only one smart enough and the only one I trust. SOS. Patty.

  She posted the message on the entrance to the Louvre, then went inside and perused the paintings. There was something cool about being alone with the Venus de Milo, even if it was in HD 3-D.

  Suddenly a message popped up on Patty’s screen.

  AMealYeah:

  Hey.

  Patty laughed at Amelia’s avatar photo; it looked exactly like the real thing, down to the glasses and the hoodie. Patty wrote back:

  BrooklynBrush:

  Hi!

  AMealYeah:

  How’d you find out about this?

  BrooklynBrush:

  I made a new friend. A nice compsci geek who shares my taste in men.

  AMealYeah:

  LOL. Is T-Bag doing okay?

  BrooklynBrush:

  I think so. We just had brunch.

  AMealYeah:

  Delta Gamma brunch?

  BrooklynBrush:

  Yes.

  AMealYeah:

  Oh. What’s going on with Focus Girls?

  BrooklynBrush:

  It got shut down

  AMealYeah:

  What happened?

  BrooklynBrush:

  Turns out the men were using it to get dates, and the girls were happily accepting pretty big tips for their … affection.

  AMealYeah:

  WHAT?

  Patty had said it so many times that she was no longer shocked by the gravity of the situation.

  BrooklynBrush:

  Yeah. It’s been an interesting couple of weeks.

  AMealYeah:

  Is everything okay? Are you in trouble?

  BrooklynBrush:

  Yeah, it’ll be okay. The police know what it turned into, but they’re not pressing charges. But I need someone to wipe the database, to make sure none of the clients or girls’ names are anywhere on the Internet so no one can ever incriminate them.

  Patty watched the screen and then typed what she really wanted to know.

  BrooklynBrush:

  When are you coming back?

  There was a long pause and Patty held her breath, certain she’d blown it and waiting to see Amelia’s profile drop off the screen. Virtual Amelia finally replied:

  AMealYeah:

  I am back.

  Patty’s first thought was that she meant “virtually,” but then typed skeptically:

  BrooklynBrush:

  For real? Where?

  AMealYeah:

  I can’t tell you.

  BrooklynBrush:

  I understand

  AMealYeah:

  But we should meet and talk about it. I think you can help me, too.

  Patty’s heart was beating fast and she wasn’t sure whether it was because she’d managed to locate Amelia or because Amelia needed her help.

  BrooklynBrush:

  Tell me when and where.

  AMealYeah:

  Medieval history stacks of Green Library? In an hour?

  BrooklynBrush:

  I’m on my way.

  58

  Tangents

  “Ow!” Violet snapped, rubbing her arm in overreaction to the man who had just knocked into her, sending her phone skidding on the pavement. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “So sorry, miss.” The old man pulled his briefcase close to him in apology and raced to pick up her phone, toying with the case before he handed it back to her. “Is this one of those new Apple phones?”

  She snatched the device back. “An iPhone?” she asked in exasperated impatience. “Yes.”

  She hated being on campus. It made her think about her own lack of a degree. You could have had it if you’d wanted it, she reminded herself, but instead you have four-hundred-dollar designer boots and a BMW, and they’re wearing sweatpants and riding skateboards. She turned to keep walking toward the Stanford bookstore, where she was going to pick up a book she’d ordered for Adam as part of her new woo-him-with-gifts strategy.

  “Miss?” The old man was suddenly at her side, pulling her coat sleeve.

  She instinctively pulled her arm away in disgust. The man’s wool blazer had a moth hole in its sleeve and was pathetically worn at the lapel; his trousers were too short and accompanied by orthopedic walking shoes. His eyes darted, giving the sense he wasn’t all there, and she concluded he must be either homeless or a professor.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss,” he continued in a surprisingly gruff voice, “I know I’m not the one to be making requests, but could you direct me to the post office?”

  She looked at him for a moment, considering, then conceded: “It’s right up this way”—she pointed in the same direction she was headed—“just past the bookstore.”

  “Thank you so much.” He gave a little bow in appreciation. “Off to mail my latest article to The New Yorker. It’s based off some very titillating research.”

  She studied his face—he looked somehow familiar, and she wondered whether he was one of the great Stanford professors one reads about from time to time in a magazine, half remembering their theories but inevitably forgetting their names. Regardless, her irritation began to melt as they kept in step together toward their respective destinations. Calm down, she told herself. No need to take your anxieties out on this old man.

  “What is your research topic?” she asked.

  “The prisoner’s dilemma.” He offered a sly grin, as if this was the universe’s sexiest academic topic.

  “Interesting,” she said in a tone that said it wasn’t, and stopped in front of the bookstore. “Post office is right up there,” she said, encouraging him along.

  “Thank you so very much, Miss—” He stuck out his hand and waited for her name.

  “Weatherford,” she said, accepting his grasp, “Violet Weatherford.”

  “Pleasure, Miss Weatherford. Perhaps I’ll see you around sometime.”

  She retracted her hand from his grip and felt her sentiment shifting back to being creeped out. Nevertheless, she offered a polite smile. “Yes, perhaps.” And she headed quickly up the stairs to the bookstore.

  59

  The Lonely Hearts Club

  Stuart Chen checked his watch again. 6:48 P.M. Only two minutes had passed since he’d last checked, and the girl still wasn’t late for their seven-o’clock date at The Cheesecake Factory. He needed to be ready for her arrival, though, and focused on how he wanted to look when she came in.

  Casual, he thought, slouching in the booth. But doing so made his pleated khaki pants bunch in the waist, and he straightened back up in his chair, thinking about how he’d have to iron them when he got home.

  Important, he thought. He needed to look important. He pulled out his BlackBerry, a three-year-old model, and prayed the red light in the corner would start blinking and deliver him something to read. His inbox was, of course, empty, all his e-mails in their respective folders, which he backed up, carefully filed, and erased every Friday at six o’clock before the weekend. Seeing as it was Saturday, he had nothing to look at, and stared instead at the blank Outlook folder.

  A waitress startled him. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

  “No,” he inadvertently snapped, “I w
on’t be waiting much longer.”

  The waitress lifted her eyebrows and forced a smile, moving on to another table where a mother was trying to calm an unruly toddler throwing crayons at his brother.

  Stuart’s palms started sweating: Maybe booking this place had been a mistake? He never went out, except when clients took him to fancy restaurants where the absurdity of the prices made him squirm. Ted Bristol was the worst of them all, blowing fifty dollars on a piece of fish and some steamed vegetables. It was unacceptable for anyone, no matter how much money they had, but the irresponsibility was particularly appalling for a man on the verge of bankruptcy.

  No, Stuart reassured himself, this was a good choice. There was always a long line out the door, so it must be popular, and it felt youthful, like the last girl he had met through Focus Girls.

  6:54.

  Of course, that meeting had been more than six weeks ago. He’d liked the girl. They’d met for coffee. But when he’d called the number back to make another appointment, the phone line had been disconnected. He’d tried and tried again and then convinced himself that the girl must have complained—he must have been blacklisted and blocked from making further appointments.

  So when he’d gotten a call the other day from the company’s founder saying he was one of their most valuable customers and asking him to schedule another appointment, he’d almost dropped the phone.

  6:56.

  But what if it had been a joke? What if it was a cruel prank? His face flushed with the embarrassment of his high-school self.

  No, he told himself. It wasn’t. She was supposed to be here at seven o’clock, and women liked to be a little late on top of that, so he still had at least until 7:05 before he needed to panic. It was possible she was already here, he realized; after all, he didn’t even know what tonight’s girl would look like, let alone her name.

  Look important, he reminded himself.

  The BlackBerry still wasn’t flashing. He saw the game icon and contemplated: He suddenly had an irresistible urge to play a round of Minesweeper. Yes, he thought, that would calm him down. But what if she caught him? Could he stand that judgment? On the other hand, how would she know what he was doing on his device? As long as he looked focused he’d look important. He opened the app and set up his game strategy.

  “Hi,” a girl’s voice interrupted him. He glanced up at a vivacious blond girl with tanned skin and an athletic build. “Are you Stuart?” she asked confidently.

  “Yes.” He smiled in relief and joy and stood, shaking her hand and immediately wishing he’d kissed her cheek instead. She wasn’t petite like the last girl, which was normally his taste, but she was still very pretty. And she was here, with him, which was the important thing.

  “Mind if I sit?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, of course, please,” he stammered. He was not doing well.

  “Were you playing Minesweeper?” the girl asked, sliding to the middle of the booth across from him and indicating his phone.

  Stuart blushed furiously. “Oh, yeah, I just got here a little early and I thought—”

  “I love that game,” she interrupted, smiling.

  “Really?” He perked up in his seat. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Yeah. One time I clicked the wrong cell and I got so angry that I threw my phone across the room. After that I got into another game and stopped playing as much,” she explained.

  “That’s awesome!” Stuart’s face lit up. What luck that he’d found a girl who shared his interest in Minesweeper.

  The waitress came back to the table to take their order. “Oh, sure,” Stuart said, “I’ll have a burger, I guess.”

  “Which one?” The waitress didn’t look up from her pad.

  “Oh, are there multiple choices?”

  She looked up from the pad, evaluating whether or not he could actually be serious, and directed him to page seven of twelve in the menu, where two dozen burgers were described.

  Stuart’s face flushed. “I’ll have the Factory Burger, I guess.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Oh, a beer, please.” He hurried to look at that menu. “This one,” he said, and pointed to the first on the list.

  “For you?” She turned to the girl.

  “I’ll have the Maui Chicken Salad, please, and a glass of Chardonnay,” the girl said, and he suddenly realized he’d forgotten to ask her name.

  “What’s your name?” he asked after the waitress left.

  “Patricia,” she said, smiling coyly.

  “It’s really nice to meet you, Patricia.” He reached across the table to grab her hand, but she’d kept them folded in her lap so he awkwardly squeezed her shoulder instead. Where was that beer?

  Stuart and Patricia made it through the dinner with pleasant conversation, mostly carried by her bubbly musings on random pop culture he pretended to know about. By the time the waitress asked if they wanted dessert, he still wasn’t sure if he could get her to come home with him, but he didn’t want this to end.

  He turned to her, nervous about how to proceed. “I could use something sweet, could you?”

  “I’d love that.” She smiled at the waitress and said, “How about two slices of Oreo cheesecake to go?” Then she turned back to him. “Okay if we get out of here?”

  Stuart cocked his eyebrow. “Back to my place?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better idea?” Her flirtatious grin made his heart pound in his chest.

  He turned triumphantly to the waitress. “You heard the lady.”

  “Sure thing,” the waitress said, rolling her eyes as she turned.

  “I really like you,” Stuart said to Patricia.

  “Yeah, you too,” she answered, downing the rest of her wine.

  He paid the check and they headed to the door. “I just live up the street on Hawthorne,” he said. “Are you okay to walk?”

  “Sure. What’s the address?”

  “Twenty-seven Hawthorne,” he answered, wondering why she needed the address, but she asked so casually he decided it was nothing.

  “Great,” she said. “Do you mind if I send a super quick text to a friend? I was supposed to meet her a little later, but I’d rather stay with you.”

  Stuart blushed furiously. “Oh … yeah, of course.” No woman had ever come on to him like this, and he liked it.

  They got back to his apartment and Stuart fumbled to open the door.

  “You sit,” Patricia insisted, pushing him onto the couch. “I’ll take care of the cheesecake. Do you have any booze?”

  “There’s vodka in the freezer.” He got up to help her, but she shooed him back.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, taking the to-go bag to the kitchen and returning shortly with a plate of dessert and two glasses of vodka and orange juice. She handed him one and clinked his glass. “Drink up!” she said, smiling.

  He took a long sip of the drink and reached to pull her close.

  “Nu-unh.” She shook her finger. “I need at least one drink to get up my courage.”

  He smiled: as if this girl needed courage. He drank his drink quickly to encourage her along. A few minutes later, he felt on top of the world.

  “Do you dance?” he asked, standing up and grabbing her arm.

  “Only after another drink,” she answered. “But don’t let that stop you.”

  And it didn’t. He stood up and put on music and started swaying, then swaying more. And then the whole room started swaying and he wasn’t sure whether it was moving or he was. The CD switched songs, and he gripped the sofa to steady himself. “I think I need to sit down.”

  Patricia stood up and guided him gently to the couch.

  “I don’t feel so good,” he blurted, belching inadvertently.

  “It’s okay,” she said calmly. “Just lie down.”

  “You’re so calm,” he said.

  “It’s okay, it happens to everyone,” Patricia coaxed, guiding his head toward the pillow.

  �
��You’re so … beautiful.” He clumsily brushed her face. “But I’m just so tired all of a sudden.” His heavy eyelids fell and his neck relaxed into the throw pillow.

  * * *

  Patty steadily watched him breathing and waited five heavy exhales before she stood up and took a long exhale herself. She ran to the door and opened it for Amelia.

  “What took you so long?” Amelia asked. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “He wasn’t drinking fast enough,” Patty said. “Don’t worry, we’re good now. Here,” she said, guiding her friend through the house. “The office is back here.”

  According to Dawson, they had two hours from the moment Stuart fell asleep until he’d be fully recovered. It wasn’t a drug, she’d been assured, just a mixture of herbs that, when digested alongside alcohol, helped people go to sleep.

  Patty couldn’t believe it was actually working: that she’d managed to drug a Focus Girls client and that he was actually sleeping now, providing her friend Amelia with full access to his home office and the accounting information Stuart apparently had and Amelia desperately needed.

  “Don’t jinx it,” Amelia said.

  “Can I help?”

  “Go keep an eye on him—I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Amelia produced her laptop and opened it on Stuart’s desk, plugging it into his hard drive, logging in to his computer and quickly hacking past security. His inbox was empty and his hard drive clear. Weird, she mouthed.

  She looked up from the computer at his bookshelf, where locked boxes were neatly labeled and organized alphabetically. She found one labeled “Bristol” and pulled it down from the shelf. But the lock was fully secure. She couldn’t take the whole box, could she? Picking locks was not part of her security-breaching toolbox.

  She scratched her head and wracked her brain for ideas. Where would Stuart keep the keys? Her eyes scanned around the office: Surely he wouldn’t keep them in here. She went into the bedroom, equally meticulous in its organization. She pulled open drawers and perused shelves but to no avail.