by Yvonne Woon
Her mention of my name reminded me of all the times I’d been made fun of or told I didn’t belong. It reminded me of AJ, telling me that I was a nobody and that I would always be a nobody.
>Got it. Thanks
I stuffed my phone under my pillow. Through the door, I heard Amina’s door opening and closing. She must have seen the photo. I wondered what she thought about it and found myself wanting her to knock on my door and collapse in my bed and tell me everything was going to be fine, that we were right and they were wrong. But I only heard footsteps disappearing down the hall.
That night, I received a new message in BitBop.
NEW MESSAGE FROM U/OBJECTPERMANENCE:
Do you ever feel like you purposely sabotage your own life?
I was at a party last night and got too drunk and did something stupid. Well, a few things, really, but one big thing. I hurt someone I didn’t want to hurt, and I’m worried the damage is unfixable.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this and not the person I hurt. Or maybe I do. It’s because I don’t have to face you in my everyday life. You don’t know any of the details so you can’t think that I’m terrible.
Am I a coward? Maybe. I’m going to try to do better. I don’t even know what I expect you to say. Just . . . thanks for listening.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling like the air had been knocked out of me. It was an unwitting apology that fit with the events from the night before, though I still had a hard time picturing AJ writing it. If this side of him was real, it was just a minuscule portion of his interior life, one that he hid completely from the people he interacted with every day, and wasn’t that the side that really mattered?
In a previous life, I might have written back and assured him that he was a good person, that I could say that with confidence because I knew him.
But I didn’t know him. Not like I thought I did.
I closed my computer and curled up in bed and felt lonelier than I had in a long time. This, I supposed, was what grief felt like.
I didn’t go to class the next day. What was the point? To hear the class hush when I walked in? To see Mast ignore me, his eyes glued to the whiteboard? To have to steel myself when I walked past AJ, knowing that he was ObjectPermanence? To have to endure Kowalski’s withering gaze as I sat through yet another lecture that I didn’t follow? What was the point, when I could spend the day not being humiliated and working on Wiser instead?
I called Mitzy to see if she wanted to get breakfast, but she didn’t pick up, so I went by myself to one of the fancy coffee shops we’d frequented. There, I ordered a latte and an avocado toast and felt my confidence slowly return as I ate alone in front of my laptop and pretended to look busy and official.
I tinkered with Wiser and tried not to think about ObjectPermanence and AJ when I saw a new message in my inbox. It was from Lars Lang.
Could you stop by my office today? 2pm. -LL
The fact that he was scheduling the appointment was worrisome, and I wondered if it had something to do with the AJ photo. Though there wasn’t a rule about dating other fellows, the photo was unprofessional. Maybe Lars wanted to talk to me about that.
I packed up my things and went back to campus. I tried to avoid everyone by walking to Lars’s office the long way, but Mike appeared beneath the pergola in the courtyard. Even more concerning was that he looked like he was walking toward me.
“Hey,” he said. “I was wondering if you were ever going to show up on campus again.”
The mere act of having to look Mike in the eye after knowing he’d seen the photo of me and AJ was mortifying.
“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.” I thought back to our time in the closet and wondered why the universe had decided to make AJ ObjectPermanence and not Mike. He would have been such a better choice.
“Look, I just wanted to apologize for AJ.”
“Are you his keeper or something?”
“No, but I know what he did and I know he feels bad about it.”
“Then he should apologize himself. It doesn’t count if someone does it for you.”
“He really is a good guy deep down. You just have to get to know him.”
“I know enough,” I said, realizing that Mike would never understand how well I actually knew his friend.
“He’s been going through a tough time. His dad walked out on him when he was a kid, and now his mom has cancer. It’s been really hard for him and he’s just taking out his anger wherever he can.”
The room around us froze as if someone had pressed pause. “What did you say?”
“His mom has cancer.”
“No, not that part. I mean, that’s terrible and I’m sorry to hear that, but the other part. About his dad?”
“His dad walked out on him when he was a kid?”
“I—I didn’t know that. I thought his dad was rich and lived with him and gave him money.”
“His dad is rich and does send him money but that’s the extent of their relationship. I don’t think he’s seen him in years, unless you count public appearances or online stalking.”
“So he doesn’t talk to him?”
“No.”
“Like, not ever?” I said.
Mike looked confused. “I mean, maybe once a year, if that. They don’t have a relationship.”
“Then why does everyone talk about him like he’s his dad’s carefully groomed protégé?”
Mike shrugged. “People make assumptions.”
I could have hugged Mike.
Mast wasn’t ObjectPermanence, but neither was AJ. I’d made a mistake, which, for the first time in a long while, gave me hope. I studied Mike, and for a moment we were back at the party and he was sitting across from me, his eyes lingering on me while Kate asked him who else he would kiss. If I’d been wrong about AJ, maybe I was wrong about Mike and Arun, too.
Lars Lang was already sitting in his office when I arrived. That should have been the first sign. The second sign was that he was dressed up in office casual, which was bizarre and confusing. The third sign was that he seemed nervous, his leg sporadically bouncing under the desk as I took a seat across from him.
“I wanted to bring you in today to see how things are going.”
He sounded like a manager who was about to fire someone. That’s when I should have known.
“They’re fine,” I said.
“I spoke with Mr. Kowalski. He’s concerned about your progress in class.”
My stomach sank. So that’s why he brought me here.
“I know I’m behind on the assignments,” I said. “I’ve just been really busy. I don’t know if you heard about the Vilbo offer?”
“I did.”
I’d expected him to be a little more congratulatory, but he only frowned.
“It’s impressive. However, it doesn’t make up for the fact that you haven’t completed your required coursework.”
Sweat beaded on my upper lip. “But the year isn’t over yet. I’m going to finish it.”
“Your instructors don’t seem to think so.”
“Instructors? As in more than one?” Though I knew I’d fallen behind in most of my classes, I hadn’t realized that other teachers had been concerned about me, too.
Lars nodded.
“Why didn’t they say anything?”
“According to Ms. Perez, you weren’t in class enough for her to tell you. And Mr. Lajani said he’d written you a few notes on your assignments to come see him, but you never followed through.”
I thought back to Mr. Lajani’s assignments. I’d turned so many in partially finished that I’d avoided looking at his comments since I could already guess what they would say.
“But my stock is so high,” I said. “I’m missing class because I have meetings with important tech people. I’m not just twiddling my thumbs.”
“Look, I appreciate that, I do. But this is still a school, and in order to finish the year you need to complete all your requirements.”
<
br /> My face went cold. “What do you mean, in order to finish the year?”
“That if you continue like this, we can’t list the Foundry on your transcript.”
“So what, I’d have to repeat the grade at home?”
“If you have incompletes for all of your classes, then yes.”
This couldn’t be happening. “But I’m doing what you said I should do. I’m getting funding. I’m starting a company.”
“Yes, but we ask that you do that while completing your coursework,” Lars said. “All of our former fellows were able to do both, so I know it’s possible.”
“But you said in your welcome speech that classes weren’t mandatory.”
“Classes aren’t mandatory but assignments are, and I think that as a policy, that’s already extremely lenient.”
Was he implying that I was being unreasonable, when he had told the entire class in his welcome speech that all that mattered was our product?
“What am I supposed to do? Make up all of the work from the last semester that I didn’t finish? That would take months.”
Lars sat back in his chair as though I were proving his point. “Your instructors have agreed to curate the semester’s assignments to a small selection of their choosing and let you finish those instead. Pass them in by the Showcase and you’ll be fine.”
I must have looked upset because Lars continued, “It’s a good deal. Everyone else in your class had to do the full load.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, but I didn’t feel grateful. I felt like everyone had turned against me.
Twenty-Six
That night, when I should have been starting my backlog of assignments, I went through all of ObjectPermanence’s messages again, searching for any signs of Mike or Arun. Had either of them hurt anyone irreparably at the party? Arun had answered so many of the truth questions in rude and degrading ways, and Mike had given me that look when Kate had asked him who he’d kiss, but other than that I couldn’t think of anything. Did either of those count? Did they cause irreparable damage? I wasn’t so sure. With no other options, I opened a new window and composed a message.
SENT MESSAGE FROM U/ARRAYOFLIGHT:
I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry you had a bad night and that I know exactly how it feels to have hurt someone in a way that you can’t take back. I wish I could say that you’ll figure out the right thing to do. All those things are true, but the truth is, every time I start typing a message to you, I stare at the cursor, unsure of what to say because any response feels dishonest.
I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’ve been keeping something from you.
You’re here, at the Foundry. I know because I’m here, too. I’ve known for a while, and I’ve been trying to figure out who you are. I thought I knew, but now I’m not so sure. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.
Can we meet in person?
It was the scariest message I’d ever written. I clicked send and shut my laptop, imagining the words shooting through the ether, arriving moments later with a ping in his inbox.
A week passed. Then another. I didn’t hear from him. In fact, I barely heard from anyone. Mitzy was strangely absent. I hadn’t received a message from her since our tense texts about the AJ photo, and though I’d been calling her to see if she had any leads on new VC meetings, she never picked up or called back, despite the fact that my messages were getting increasingly desperate. Should I have taken Ella Eisner’s offer? Would I ever get funding? Would I have to move home and go back to my old high school where I’d be held back a year and have to live through the mortification of everyone knowing that I went to the Foundry and failed spectacularly?
When I wasn’t trying to learn all the things I hadn’t last semester, I busied myself by reprogramming Wiser, but the advertisement integration wasn’t going well. I vaguely recalled Kowalski talking about unconstrained convex optimization in one of his lectures and how it could improve an algorithm’s processing of personalized messaging, but I couldn’t remember anything beyond that.
When I got frustrated, I checked BitBop only to find an empty inbox. ObjectPermanence had probably combed through our messages and my post history, just like I had his, trying to figure out who I was. The only difference was that there were only five girls at the Foundry, so far fewer people to choose from. What if he’d discovered it was me and was disappointed, and that’s why he hadn’t written back?
I was so desperate for contact that I went so far as to check my physical mailbox, which I hadn’t opened in over a month because I so rarely received anything other than junk. It was packed full, the spam catalogues and sale fliers torn at the edges. I sorted through them when an envelope slipped out.
It was made of beautiful, textured paper that felt substantial in my hand. My name was written in flowing cursive. The return sender was Veronica DuChamp, the tech stylist. I wondered if it was an invitation to a fancy event or private party and thought excitedly about who would be there and what I would wear, but when I opened it, my chest deflated.
It was an invoice. For $12,541.
I blinked. Surely I had misread the placement of the decimal point—but no, the number was still there, all five digits of it.
I felt light-headed. It had to be a mistake. She had to have sent it to the wrong person. Why would I owe her $12,541?
I scanned the itemized receipt. $5,000 for services rendered by Veronica DuChamp. $750 for services rendered by Lillian Vines. $1,500 for two and a half hours of studio use. $5,291 for goods.
A $750 haircut? $1,500 to try on clothes in her dressing room? Over $5,000 in clothes and shoes? I’d never owned an article of clothing that cost more than fifty dollars, including my winter coats, so it seemed impossible that the T-shirts and pants I’d been wearing for the past few months could add up to more than a hundred times that amount. It had to be a mistake.
I called Mitzy, who didn’t pick up, but this time I didn’t stop calling. It rang and rang until finally she answered. She sounded groggy, like she’d been sleeping.
“Are you dying or something?”
“I just got a bill from Veronica for over twelve thousand dollars.”
“So you’re not dying?”
“It’s for over twelve thousand dollars,” I repeated, expecting her to respond with as much disbelief and indignation as I had.
“So pay it.”
“I’m not going to pay it. It’s a mistake. She must have sent it to the wrong person.”
“Is your name on it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it itemized?”
“Yes, but it’s outrageous. She’s trying to charge me just for using her dressing room. And the haircut—”
“Why would you assume that her studio was free? Would you go to a gym and just assume you can walk in and do whatever you want?”
“No, of course not, but this isn’t a gym.”
“No, it’s much fancier. Do you think she has all those clothes around because she feels like it? Do you think she got them for free? Do you think she made that dressing room for herself? All of it costs money, money that people pay her in exchange for using it.”
I felt like I was going to be sick.
“And it wasn’t just a haircut. It was a consultation with one of the best hair stylists in Northern California.”
“But I didn’t know it was going to cost this much.”
I could almost hear Mitzy roll her eyes. “Oh, come on,” she said. “What did you think a person like Veronica was going to charge? Did you think she was helping you out of the kindness in her heart?”
Her words made me feel miserable. “No.”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset. Are you unhappy with your clothes? Are you unhappy with your haircut? Or the outcome of your new look?”
“No.”
I was starting to feel embarrassed. Mitzy was right, I’d gotten exactly what Veronica had promised me.
“And did the Foundry not give you $150,000 to spend at your disc
retion?”
“They did.”
“Did your stock not go up right after you took Veronica’s suggestions?”
“It did,” I admitted.
“So why are you complaining?”
I hung up and stared at the invoice. Though I knew I had to pay it, the thought was too upsetting to act on now, and I set it aside and decided to offset my guilt by getting frozen yogurt.
The fro yo shop was in downtown Palo Alto. I took the long way there, meandering down the streets, trying to remember that I lived in paradise. I should be happy.
That’s when I saw the marquee. It was for the Stanford Theatre, a preserved 1920s movie palace that specialized in old, classic films. I’d walked past it dozens of times before and had never heard of any of the directors or movies until that afternoon. This month, they were featuring Kubrick. Their headliner was 2001: A Space Odyssey.
It felt like a cruel joke.
I’d never actually seen the movie and stood out front staring at the movie poster, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I abandoned the fro yo and went home.
When I got back to the dorm, I checked BitBop again, which was beginning to feel like a form of self-punishment, when the breath caught in my throat. He’d written back. I hovered over the new message, wanting to stretch out the time between knowing and not knowing so that I could remain in the hopeful in-between.
NEW MESSAGE FROM U/OBJECTPERMANENCE:
Okay. Let’s meet.
The theater was crowded when I took a seat in the last row. We’d arranged to meet in the back, five seats from the left. I was too nervous to eat my popcorn, so I sat there clutching it and tried not to compulsively watch the people, none of whom I recognized, filing inside.
Most of the moviegoers were couples. I watched them chat and smile, their heads tilting toward each other, and found myself feeling lonely. I wondered what it would feel like to come here with Mast. I imagined him sitting next to me, calling out the answers to the pre-movie trivia on the screen and laughing when I got it wrong. I imagined him elbowing me for the armrest, then tangling his fingers in mine in compromise. And when the lights dimmed, I imagined him stealing glances at me while the movie began, the warmth of our bodies like magnets, finding each other in the dark.