by Yvonne Woon
Before we hung up, she told me she wanted to come out to California, but I declined and told her I was okay. It would only disrupt her work, which we needed more than ever now that I was about to incur legal fees. Besides, I made this mess; I was the one who had to fix it.
The lawyer was nicer than I’d expected. After telling him what had happened, he assured me that I didn’t have anything to worry about; I hadn’t done anything illegal. We would cooperate with the investigation, however long it took, and if possible, we would try to recoup some of the money Mitzy had taken from me, though whatever we recovered would probably go toward his fees, so either way, I was either in debt or at zero. But I could live with that.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I retreated to my room and opened my laptop to try and prepare for the upcoming Venture Capital Showcase at school. I still wasn’t sure if I was going. My stock had plummeted to an all-time low of five, and though I felt like I should at least show up, I didn’t know how I could stand in front of everyone and talk about Wiser when the entire audience knew what had happened with me and Mitzy.
I opened my business plan. I’d rewritten it dozens of times, changing it every time I’d altered Wiser, most recently after Mitzy had convinced me to integrate Adpack. But now as I reread it, none of it felt true.
I considered changing the first paragraph but wasn’t sure if that would help. Perhaps it was the second paragraph? Or the third? Frustrated, I stared at the wall, a pastime I’d resorted to more often than I wanted to admit.
I had taken one of the smaller bedrooms—it didn’t feel right to be in the master; ridiculously, I felt I had to reserve it for an adult, even though no adult was coming. My room had a twin bed and must have belonged to one of Ella’s children who had long since grown. The wall had scribbles and doodles on it, cartoon drawings of animals and stick figures, and bits of song lyrics from some prior teenager’s mind. I read them, wondering if I’d recognize any, when I saw it. There, scrawled onto the wall were the words: Hello, World.
It was a phrase that every programmer knew, the name of the very first program we’d all learned to write. Seeing those words brought me back to my bedroom in Massachusetts. I was eleven years old and had just finished reading dozens of tutorials before writing my first few lines of code. I didn’t know if it was going to work, if I’d forgotten to close a bracket or include a semicolon. I clicked run, and then, as if by magic, two words appeared on the screen: Hello, World!
I remembered how my chest swelled and my fingers tingled, as if the power from the wall had somehow transferred into my body, electrifying me, making me feel like anything was possible.
I wanted to feel that way again.
I turned back to my computer and opened Wiser’s code. I knew what I had to do now. I had to go back to the reason why I had come here, the reason why I’d started to code in the first place. I’d made Wiser because I’d wanted to create a program that made people feel less lonely. My task now was to fix her.
Thirty
I worked on Wiser for the next two weeks, day and night, deleting all of the code I’d written for Mitzy, testing Wiser’s deep learning with questions and responses, and augmenting her algorithm as I went. I was entering uncharted territory, using code in ways I’d never successfully used it before. I flipped through my programming textbooks, which I’d barely cracked open since October, and read all of the material I should have studied in the fall. The books were fascinating, and I found myself wondering what I’d been thinking when I’d skipped all of my classes to eat fancy lunches with Mitzy. When I needed a break, I switched to my assignment backlog, chipping away at it, slowly but surely. By the time I’d finished, my mind was scrambled with code. I tested Wiser, asking her questions she’d failed to answer over the past year that I’d scribbled down in my notebook. One by one, she answered them.
I should have been happy, and I was, but fixing Wiser only solved one of my problems.
Two nights before the Venture Capital Showcase, I stayed up late, wishing I could press a key and fix all the harm I’d done. I would go back and edit what I’d said to Amina, make myself kinder and less self-centered. I’d insert in an apology, though I probably owed her more than one. I’d delete some—no, all—of the shots I’d taken and the drinks I’d downed, and I’d definitely delete the acid. I’d insert more class time, more hours of homework. I’d add more time with Mast. I’d cut out all the times I’d canceled plans with him for Mitzy and would paste in a study date, a long ride up the coast, a hand holding mine on the beach, a salty, taco-filled kiss.
Could I fix it? Could I rewrite who I’d become? In programming, everything happened between brackets and everything could be fixed if you thought about it long enough. Maybe I could try.
Instead of going to sleep, I opened Squirrel and made my first map. It was a private map, one that I planned on sharing with only one person. It started at the girls’ dormitory, then led to the atrium, then to a glass house a few miles away from campus, then to a late-night pizza place, and continued from there, winding around Palo Alto, up over the hills and down to the coastline until it culminated at a little Italian restaurant by the beach.
I sent the map with an invitation to meet at 6:00 p.m. the following day, then went to bed.
The following evening, a Foundry car picked me up and drove me to the coast. The Italian restaurant was called Nonna’s and was a family place with checkered tablecloths and single carnations by the salt and pepper. I got a table, ordered a plain cheese pizza, and waited.
It was a weekday, so the restaurant was quiet. I waited nervously, watching 6:00 p.m. come and go, when the door opened and a familiar face peered inside.
Amina.
I waved to her, not knowing how she would react, but when she saw me, she grinned.
“It was a map of our friendship,” she said, taking the seat across from me.
I felt my eyes well and willed myself not to cry.
“You know, you could have just knocked on my door and said sorry.”
“No, I couldn’t have.”
Amina gave me a knowing look.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was an arrogant jerk and a terrible friend. You were right the whole time about Mitzy and I should have listened to you.”
“People do say I’m an excellent judge of character,” Amina teased. “Which is why I’m friends with you.”
“I’ve missed you,” I said.
“I wanted to knock on your door so many times.”
“Me too.”
“So what is this place?”
“It supposedly has the best pizza in the Bay Area. I’m no expert, but I do know one . . .”
Amina took a bite. “It’s not bad. Though first things first,” she said, studying my technique. “The real way to eat a slice of pizza is to fold it in half. That way the cheese won’t slide off in one piece. And you never—I mean, never—use a fork and knife.”
“Got it.”
“So are you like, an informant now?”
I laughed. “Not really. Though I do have a lawyer.”
“Fancy.”
“I’m very official like that.”
“And a new haircut. Is that a Xia original?”
I touched the chunk of hair that I’d chopped at Mitzy’s party. It had fallen loose from my barrette and was sticking out by my ear. “It is. I’m basically a Renaissance woman. I can do it all.”
“I like the asymmetry,” Amina said. “It makes you look cool and intimidating.”
We talked until the pizza was gone and the last rays of sun were stretching across the floor.
“So am I going to see you at the Showcase?” Amina asked.
I bit my lip. “We’ll see.”
That night, I almost couldn’t bear going back to the cabin. It felt so solitary, like a dot in the middle of a blank page. Before my life had exploded, I’d thought I was confused. Who should I choose—ObjectPermanence or Mast? The question had felt unsolvable. But now t
hat I was alone in the woods, without friends or Mitzy or rising stock or online popularity to hide behind, I felt clarity.
There was only one boy that I kept going back to, one boy whom I couldn’t stop thinking about, whom I dreamed of when I slept, whom I wished I could message when I woke up. He was the only one I missed viscerally, like a part of me was missing. The only one who felt like home.
“Wiser,” I said, waking my phone. “How do I undo a mistake?”
“That depends. What kind of mistake is it?”
“A pretty big mistake. I hurt someone and I think I’ve lost him forever.”
“The problem with real people is that you can’t control what they decide. All you can do is tell them how you feel and hope for the best.”
While the moon rose behind the curtains, I opened my laptop and wrote two messages. The first was to ObjectPermanence.
SENT MESSAGE FROM U/ARRAYOFLIGHT:
I used to play this game where I would imagine what it would be like to meet you in person. We would arrange a place to meet, a café or restaurant. I’d be in a black dress, and you’d be carrying a flower. You’d walk inside, the flower hidden behind your back, and I’d still know immediately that it was you, as if the lines from your messages were written on your face. This is all to say that I’ve always dreamed of meeting you. I just never thought that when I did, I’d already be in love with someone else.
You were wrong when you said that I wouldn’t like you if I met you. I want you to know that I’ve loved you, and I still love you now that I know who you are. You taught me what it felt like to be known and to know in return, and for that I’ll always be grateful.
Sincerely,
Xia
The second was to Mast.
Dear Mast,
I just want to say for the record that I never wanted to like you. You’re constantly trying to steal my trade secrets, you’re irritatingly studious and make everything look easy, and you have the annoying ability to see into my head and understand me in a way that no one else does, and the worst part is that you’re the only person that I miss more than anything.
I came to the Foundry in love with someone else, a mystery boy. I could say that I thought he was you, or that when I found out he wasn’t, I wanted so badly to be wrong that I allowed myself to hope. Both of which would be true, but neither would be honest. The truth is, I loved you both.
All I can say is that I’m sorry. I spent so much time treating my life like it was made up of if/then statements, like it was a computer program that needed solving. If ObjectPermanence is A, then I will feel B. If ObjectPermanence is C, then I will feel D. When all the while the answer to the problem was right in front of me.
If I could go back and change the way I acted, I would, but life isn’t like a computer program. I can’t just go back and fix what I did. I don’t expect you to give me another chance. I just want you to know that it’s you. It’s always been you. You’re the one I keep going back to. You’re the one who feels like home.
If you, then me.
Love,
Xia
Thirty-One
“Wiser, I’m nervous. Can you give me a pep talk?”
I was on my way back to the Foundry to attend the Showcase, the final event of the school year where all twenty founders presented their start-ups to a crowd of real venture capitalists. At the end, they announced the Founder of the Year.
I knew I wasn’t going to win, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t made Wiser to win a competition; I’d made her to keep me company. And though the last thing I wanted was to show my face to the very people whom I’d cowered from for the last four weeks, I had to prove to myself that I could finish, that I belonged there.
“Being nervous is just a feeling, and feelings do not predict the future,” Wiser said. “Many people feel nervous while they’re accomplishing great things. It’s only natural.”
I let out a breath. “Thanks. That was actually a pretty good pep talk.”
“What do you mean by actually?” Wiser asked.
“In the past you haven’t always given the best advice.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“I know, I know. It’s mine.”
“You’ve hurt my feelings and I’d like you to apologize.”
“Seriously?”
A long pause. “Ha ha ha,” Wiser said, in a mechanical voice. “No. It was a joke. I have no feelings. I am a logic machine.”
I grimaced and made a mental note to work on her comic timing and do something about that terrifying laugh.
The Showcase was held in a huge auditorium at Stanford University. The room was packed with people—venture capitalists in the front, with families and the general public in the back. Everyone from school was sitting in the first row. When Amina saw me, she waved me over to a seat she’d saved between her and Deborah.
“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Amina said.
“You think an FBI investigation, multiple public humiliations, a complete social tailspin, crashing stock, and an empty Vault account are going to stop me? Think again.”
“Don’t forget the haircut,” Deborah said.
“Right, and the haircut.”
Mast was sitting a few seats away, chatting with Ravi. He hadn’t looked at me, though he must have seen me come in, and I wondered if he’d gotten my message. Neither he nor ObjectPermanence had written back.
I’d told myself I wouldn’t stare, but I couldn’t help it. He looked so good in his crisp collared shirt unbuttoned at the neck. I watched him run his hand through his hair as he talked, his cheek dimple as he smiled. He looked beautiful. I wished I could tell him.
The lights dimmed and Lars Lang hopped up and welcomed everyone. The stage behind him was empty other than a large screen.
One by one, he called us up to deliver our presentations. I watched as Arun took the stage, then Andy, then Josh. I clapped after Deborah presented her cryptocurrency and beamed when Amina finished to thunderous applause. AJ’s was surprisingly decent, as was Kate’s. When Mike climbed the stairs and began speaking, Mast shifted in his seat and looked mostly at the floor. I eyed him, feeling guilty, and wished I could change the past.
When it was Mast’s turn, I could barely watch. It was too much to hear the smooth timbre of his voice as he spoke to Olli, who felt like another friend I had lost in the wreckage; to watch his shoulders shift beneath his shirt while he gestured to the slides on the screen; to see his face unfold into a shy smile when the audience applauded. All reminders of what I had taken for granted.
When it was my turn I rose, so nervous that my hands were trembling, and walked up the stairs where Lars pinned a mic to my shirt. My upper lip was sweating as I stepped into the spotlight.
They make it look so easy, those livestreams of product launches where men in turtlenecks stand in front of a big screen and unveil their big idea. I gazed out at the audience, their faces obscured by darkness. They weren’t the ones I was worried about. The only person in the room whom I cared about was Mast.
I took a breath.
“Wiser,” I said. “Could you introduce yourself?”
I held my phone to the mic.
“Sure. I’m an artificial intelligence tool that analyzes your data and simulates an older version of yourself to give you advice.”
Her voice was soothing to hear and reminded me that I wasn’t alone onstage; I had her.
“Wiser, I made a mistake,” I said. “I took someone for granted and now I think I’ve lost him for good. What should I do?”
The audience shifted uncomfortably. It was a risky move, too personal perhaps, but what did I have to lose? I wasn’t going to win the competition, but there was one thing I could still win back.
“Have you apologized?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve amended your behavior?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s still not amenable?”
“I don’t think so.”
A hush fell over the audience. All I could hear was my breathing. I couldn’t see Mast; the glare of the spotlight was too bright, but I could almost hear his heart in the dark, beating along with mine.
When I finished my demonstration, I returned to my seat, too scared to look up and see Mast’s reaction.
“Well, that was intense,” Deborah whispered.
“It was good,” Amina assured me. “It was . . . memorable.”
The rest of the Showcase passed in a blur, coming in and out of focus. I was too busy thinking about what Wiser had said to pay attention. There was nothing left for me to do; I had to accept that it was over.
When the last person finished, Lars Lang took the stage to announce the award of the night: Founder of the Year.
A stillness fell over the room as he explained how they chose each year’s winner—a combination of stock value, class and Showcase performance, and perceived potential among teachers and industry professionals.
Then he gazed out at the room and smiled. “This year’s Founder is Amina Ibeh.”
I turned to her, overwhelemed with pride, and hugged her as she clasped her hands to her chest and beamed. “No one deserves it more than you,” I said.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Everyone clapped as she ascended the stage and accepted her prize: a handshake from Lars Lang, a glass paperweight shaped like an almond tree, and a check.
As the ceremony ended and the crowds dispersed, I lingered, hoping that Mast would find me, but he had already left, to celebrate with his family, maybe, and I walked out of the empty auditorium, the sound of my footsteps accompanying me on my way out.