by Corrie Wang
“You sure about this?”
“No.”
In fact, if Ellie’s slap-happiness had taught me anything, it was that rapid-fire decision making did not always lend itself to the best results. So I was pretty certain it was a bad idea to face off with Jonah. But I also knew that if I told my parents, they’d call the lawyer, who was on vacation. And even supposing they could reach Rick, in a few days he would draft some kind of cease-and-desist doc. Shortly after that, he’d mail it to Jonah. Jonah would then lawyer up. And during that whole process, we’d lose all element of surprise, and I’d be past my college-application deadlines.
“But I don’t have a whole lot of other choices.”
I’d practically lost every single friend I had over this video. If taking a gas-guzzling, Philly-bound death trap toward an unpredictable, possibly dangerous scenario might salvage my future? Sign me up.
This was where Mac would normally offer to skip school and come with me. Instead he squinted up the street like some weary gunfighter in an old Western.
I swallowed hard. “Your turn.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Can’t do what?”
Mac chewed on his lower lip.
“Us,” he croaked. “It’s like I said from the start. I can never be just your friend, Kyla.”
I was suddenly aware of the weirdest things. How our breath made perfect cumulus clouds. How all this fluctuating weather meant the subways would be filled with sick people. And how utterly unsurprised I was by Mac’s words. I’d been expecting this. All those times I knew Mac would dump me after he got what he wanted, it looked exactly like this.
“Say something,” he said.
What was there to say? Mac was “just friends” breaking up with me. And that meant we’d never again lie side by side and say our words directly into each other’s mouths. He wouldn’t send fake messages to my teachers from Dr. Graff that pulled me out of class because he’d found a song that would, like, change my life. I wouldn’t hear his cackle laugh anymore and I’d never see him get ubersentimental after watching that dumb underdog soccer movie. And there was definitely no possibility he’d be my first. Mac hadn’t gotten what he wanted. Neither had I. What was the whole stupid point?
I struggled out of my coat. Then I whipped it at him.
“I hate you, Mackenzie Rodriguez!”
“Kyla—”
“I fell for you the second I saw you, freshman year.” I flung my scarf at him. “And since then I have watched you make out with almost every female on the planet and still you’ve managed to be the best part of any of this, you dumb jerk. But you want to stop being my friend? Now? What, because some new skank is there waiting for you? Go ahead!”
Hat.
“End our friendship.”
New faux-leather gloves.
“Ruin the entire point of this whole crummy exercise in not dating because you’re impatient and you can’t wait a little longer for me.”
One shoe. “This is what I was trying to prevent all along…” Other shoe. “…you complete and total a-hole.”
Fresh out of winter wear, I stood gasping for breath. It looked like Mac had been standing next to a snowman that melted. He pressed his fists to his forehead almost like he was going to laugh, but then he flung his head back and kind of, like, howled instead.
“So what are we supposed to do?” His voice cracked. “Because you clearly don’t trust me, which means you’ll never date me. And this ‘look but don’t touch’ thing we’ve got going on? It makes me crazy, so we can’t be just friends.”
And then all of a sudden his eyes filled, his lower lip kind of trembled, and Mac, my Mac, started to cry. Clearly not pleased with this development, he gave an exasperated huff. Yet tears kept sneaking out. He brushed them away with his thumb, sniffed. More tears came. And watching Mac try to not cry while fully crying—at the thought of losing me, mind you—I mean, it was almost as upsetting as watching the Mr. E. video for the first time.
Whatever other labels he fell under, Mac was one of my best friends. We were supposed to protect each other from hurt, not cause it.
All my anger dissolved away as if I had melted out of my clothes. Picking up my coat, I rummaged through the pockets until I found a tissue. I handed it to him. He blew his nose. I picked a fleck of tissue off his cheek.
“Thanks.”
He held his arms open. I walked into them and, in my socked feet, stood on his shoes. I messed with his curls. He pressed into my touch. We put our foreheads together. And it was then I realized I did trust him. Mac had been there for me this week. More than my mom or my dad or my brother, and, with the exception of maybe Sharma, more than any of the girls. So what did the past matter? Mom and Audra were right. The thing about history was that it was freshly created every second.
I’ve never understood indirectness or people who were afraid of definitive sentences. It’s actually really easy to get what you want. You just say it. And what I wanted was Mackenzie Rodriguez.
“Mac—”
He kissed the side of my head and untangled himself.
“It’s been real, amiga. Be safe tomorrow in Philly, okay?”
Sure, I could have stopped him. I could have completed my sentence. But if Mac so badly wanted to walk out of my life without any further discussion, then I figured it was probably best that I let him.
At two a.m. my Doc belched. It was the new txt sound I’d given to AnyLies. President Malin always said that we are born limitless and then proceed to chip away at that status throughout our lives. She said we create our own fears. So I figured why give AnyLies the power of a scary txt tone?
Audra could worship the B&P chick, or, well, herself, I guess—ew, hello, narcissism—all she wanted. Corny as it might be, I still thought President Malin was the SHT, and her Limitless speech still equaled my all-time fave. I’d first heard it after a particularly rough spell with my mom second week sophomore year. Up to that point, I’d been using my mom as my sage-advice wellspring. But since I began at Prep, all her advice had gone down the “maybe you should try being less you” route.
President Malin had been my go-to guru ever since.
My Doc belched again.
I know we’re not txt friends anymore.
Was wondering tho how it feels?
After a lengthy pause, I replied.
moi How what feels?
Coming in last. Not on top anymore, are you? Look at what weak foundations you built. I took it all away in a matter of days.
moi That’s what you think.
My Doc spooled angrily.
THAT IS WHAT I KNOW.
Grinning, I fluffed my pillows, then clicked off my light. Before muting my Doc and hunkering deep under my covers, I shot off one last message. I even happy-sighed as I closed my eyes. It would be a good sleeping night.
moi Sure thing. I just hope you’re ready. I am SO coming to get you.
A HopSkip bus to Philadelphia took two hours and cost eighty-five dollars round-trip. Sharma and I arrived forty minutes early and still had to wait in a line at least a hundred people long. Last night, I’d group txted all the usuals about going to Philly, and then one by one I’d deleted names from the list. Mac’s went first, then Audra’s, then Fawn’s, and last Kyle’s. So it was only Sharma who’d received the Rory debriefing, along with the Woofer pic that AnyLies had sent me of her wearing the Kyla wig. Her reply had been instant.
sharm Ha! Where’d you find that? Wore it all night. Me + extensions = awesome. What time we leaving for cheesesteak central?
Earlier that morning—almost exactly one week to the hour that the video dropped—Sharma and I were excused from classes before we even set foot in school. Off-grounds passes, signed by each of our dads and a deputy secretary of Homeland Security, were sent to each of our teachers excusing us for the entire day so that we could attend a classified meeting.
“Whoa, a little over-the-top, don’t you think? How’d you forge t
hat?” I asked when I saw the e-sig. “Graff will never—”
“Will never say anything. Only forged the parent signatures. Hubert owes me.”
“Sharma, sometime I’d love to hear more about what you do in your free time.”
Now, as a glacial wind blew up Thirty-Seventh Street, we huddled together for warmth. It was so cold, Sharma wasn’t even on her Doc—a first. It also equaled the first time we’d hung out alone, ever.
“And then they were down to two, huh?” she said, as if she’d hacked my brain. “Man, winter is by far my least favorite season.”
“Sharm,” I snorted. “It’s so cold, you just made a complete sentence.”
“Kylie, did you know only one percent of people are thought to have an IQ higher than one hundred thirty? When they tested mine for Code to Work, they estimated it at one-sixty-eight. The test’s wack, because there are infinite kinds of intelligence, but Einstein’s IQ was only estimated at one-sixty. I’m pretty sure I’m able to speak in complete sentences, but no one wants to hear what fourth-wheel Sharma has to say unless it’s about amping up their connection speed or, like, hacking Destiny Spark’s Doc. Which is not even that interesting, B-T-W. She totally underutilizes her tech. It’s okay. You don’t have to make consternation face. I was a fourth wheel even when there were only three of us.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised than if Sharma had peeled off her face, yelled Ha-HA, and turned out to be an alien. I’d known Sharma for three-plus years. She’d been talking in gamer-speak this whole time because otherwise she thought no one would listen to her?
“Do I know my friends at all?”
“Better than anyone.” Sharma blew warm air into her gloved hands. “Don’t look so upset. We all do it. If I didn’t watch you online, I’d never know how amazing you are. The chats you have with the people in your clubs, the essays you write. Audra thinks I’m the smartest, but Kylie, I think we tie. Every morning, when I give newsreel, you already know it all except for the funny trending vids. Trying to trump you equals the most interesting part of my day. But around us, you way scale back your smarts and natural interests.”
“If I didn’t, you guys would think I was even more unbearable.”
“Who thinks you’re unbearable? Kyle being more Kyle only equals more awesome.”
It was without question the sweetest thing Sharma had ever said. Possibly to anyone. Ever. With her hair hidden beneath her beanie and the magnification on her giant old-skool lenses she looked 90 percent eyes. They widened further as a puffball of winter clothing appeared and held up a gloved hand for a high five.
“Rory!” I cheered. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m tagging along on this Hunt the Hater Hacker, er, Hunt. Oh, hey, you must be Sharma. Nice to meet you IRL. Didn’t know you’d be here. Figured it was too nice out to sit in the office all day. Might as well get some vitamin D sunshine and whatnot.”
The only part of Rory not covered by his oversized pants, boots, winter parka, scarf, gloves, and fisherman’s cap was the lower half of his face. We all looked skyward. There had never been a bleaker NYC day.
“Think you forgot what sunshine is.”
Sharma spoke this in the general direction of Rory’s shoulder, like she was addressing the elderly grandmother in line behind us, who didn’t look all that happy that her line had gotten longer by one. Rory laughed like he was txting it—all-caps HAHAHA followed by dozens of exclamation marks. He smacked his cheek to stop.
“Well, it feels like sunshine being in present company,” he bellowed.
Sharma gave him such a frosty look, it made the air feel tepid in comparison. Then I realized it wasn’t Rory she was glaring at. It was the person behind him.
It was Mac.
I put my hand into his airspace, thinking he might be one of those holo-ads that plugged in people from your favorites list. My hand hit coat. It was really him. He was holding a tray of steaming hot teas.
“Oh, thank G-O-D,” Rory breathed. “You made it.”
“I never let down a primo.”
As Mac and Rory did a one-armed bro hug, the grandma behind me swore in what my EarRing told me was Russian. As a peace offering for cutting, Mac handed her a tea. Grumbling, she snatched it, then sighed at its warmth. He passed out the other three to us.
“You came,” I said.
“Well, I kinda needed to urgently tell you something. Plus, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t stick around to find out who your hater was?”
“The kind who gets slutty hickeys and then ends a cool relationship?” Sharma intoned.
She slid her glasses to the bottom of her nose and glared at Mac over them like a librarian scolding a talker.
“Oh, hey, Sharm, nice to see you, too.” Mac took my elbow and resolutely turned us so our backs were to her and Rory. The Russian grandmother smacked her lips, pleased to now have a hot drink and entertainment. “When did Sharma start speaking in full sentences? Never mind. So I had this realization after I deserted you outside your house last night. Before you, I never got the point of holding hands. I mean, it’s two bony appendages pressed together. No me importa. But as soon as you took my hand on our date—”
“I recall you taking mine, amigo.”
“Agree to disagree. That day, I got why people dug it. I’d never felt so connected to someone or so ready to be immersed in all their messiness. I never felt happier and all I was doing was holding your hand.”
“Aw,” Rory sighed.
We glanced behind us. Startled, Rory looked skyward, like the clouds had just called his name. Sharma simply stared at us, not even trying to pretend she wasn’t listening.
“Keep going,” the Russian grandmother said.
Mac cleared his throat; even quieter, he continued, “I know you think I want us to go out so I can, like, run your bases, but it’s not that. It’s that I kinda knew from the first time we held hands that we fit—really nicely—and that it was special. And, well, yeah. That’s sólo todo what I had to say. That’s all I got.”
Rory clomped his ski gloves together in muted applause. Sharma discreetly wiped at her cheeks, then punched Mac lightly on the arm. Mac’s eyes roved over my face.
“Nah,” he said. “That’s not all I got.”
Tea sloshed on the sidewalk as he lifted me off my feet. With our noses touching, he swung me back and forth. Just as Mac angled his lips down to kiss me, I snuck a hand up and clamped it over his mouth.
“I don’t want to be your girlfriend.” Before all the happy drained from his eyes, I hurried on. “I haven’t just been worried that you’ll break up with me; it’s that I don’t ever want to experience a day when either of us ‘moves on.’”
Mac set me down. I kept my hand over his mouth.
Through my glove, he said, “So now we’re getting married?”
“No, dummy. I’m saying ‘just friends,’ ‘going out’…the labels don’t work. They’re all too limiting, because I love you, Mackenzie Rodriguez. And—fingers crossed—I’m also going away to school for four years. Which means if we date, we’ll have to break up at the end of summer, because everyone knows you don’t date your high school boyfriend past high school. And I can’t imagine a day when I won’t want you in my life.”
We both got a little teary. I wiped my nose on my coat sleeve.
“Gross,” he sniffed. “So this means you promise to be in my top five lost contacts when the Virus strikes?”
I nodded. “Macky, I am exhausted with not kissing you. But be warned, if anybody other than me gives you a continental-sized hickey in the next few months, I will get Sharma to delete your fantasy-fútbol team faster than you can say ‘skank.’ And, for the record, even though you’re taking me to prom, I refuse to do it with you in the back of some car or, like, dirty motel room afterwards.” I took my hand away from his mouth. “Now say something.”
“Lo siento. I spaced after ‘I love you, Mackenzie Rodriguez.’ So we’re not going out aga
in?”
“Correct. But we are also not not going out.”
Behind us, Rory said, “Uh, so what’s your CB relationship connection gonna read? On-Again, Off-Again?”
“Free Spirits?” Sharma asked.
Mac danced that eyebrow up. I bit my lip, trying to hold back my smile. There was only one out of the hundreds of connection descriptions that fit us.
“You Wouldn’t Understand,” we said together.
And just as we leaned forward to kiss, the bus arrived. The line surged. Rory hurried forward. Sharma looked back at me with a you’d better not stick me with this guy glare. Russian grandma behind me ran her suitcase into my heels.
“What I understand is that the line has moved.”
I took Mac’s hand. He smiled at our interwoven fingers.
“Yeah, that’s better,” he said as we moved toward the bus. “And, hey, did you just ask me to prom?”
Two and a half hours later, a little before noon, we were off the bus, and the Elite Rory pinged—now that Sharma was present, look who had credits—was pulling up in front of the tan, aluminum-sided house that Jonah Logan called home. Mac let out a low whistle. The whole neighborhood didn’t look more than ten years old, but I got the feeling that in those ten years newer, fresher neighborhoods had been built and all the people with lawn mowers and, like, hedge trimmers had moved there. Maybe it was the gray day, or maybe I was used to living in a building that had nearly two hundred years of character built into it, but Jonah’s home equaled so dingy it was unnerving. Mac squeezed my hand. He hadn’t let go of it since we got off the bus.
“Wait for us, please,” Rory said.
“I got you,” the car replied.
The woman who opened Jonah Logan’s door was wearing a bright pink sweatshirt, mom-khakis, and running shoes. I already knew what Jonah’s mom looked like. She was in one of the GoogSatellite pics. What it failed to capture was her warm smile. When I told her we were there to see Jonah, she brightened even more.