Page 20 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
Miller nods. “I think walking you to classes makes sense, and sitting together at lunch on Fridays when I’m not helping in the writing center. I can drive you to school every day but Thursdays; I have to be in early for National Honor Society. Holding hands feels reasonable to me. And we should pick different days to do our public appearances each week so they don’t seem scheduled.”
He says this like he’s delivering the weather report.Holding hands feels reasonable to me?I stare down at my fingers, wrapped around my chipped gas-station thermos. I think of Vera, clear-eyed in my dark living room.Does it not make sense?And I think of Miller and me, seven years old, rapt in his round chair listening to Willow read about the gods.
“Sure,” I tell him. “Sounds logical to me.”
Later, as Miller waits for me at my locker, he takes my hand. My fingertips curl over his knuckles and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating, but his skin is cool and dry. Even with a hallway full of people watching us, he is so calm—so impossibly, impossibly calm. I study his face, searching for the boy I knew once who wore the full contents of his heart outside his body for everyone to see. He smiles at someone over my shoulder, and I can’t find him here.
But then I remember: This means nothing to Miller. He’s doing it for money. He can hold my hand and fake a smile and all the rest because he doesn’t care, because there is nothing of his heart to show here at all.
“You’re different than you used to be,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” Miller doesn’t look at me. “So are you.”
First period, I have Environmental Science. Maren is waiting for me at one of the long black tables, and kicks a stool out when I come through the door. She watches Miller walk down the hallway with round, unblinking eyes.
“Oh mygod,” she hisses, leaning close as I sit down next to her. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon, though it’s not even seven thirty and I left my house less than fifteen minutes ago. “What did he say?”
“He’s like a robot,” I whisper. Everyone’s still coming in, getting settled, comparing new sneakers and campfire burns from the summer. “He showed up at my house unannounced and drove me here and we held hands in the hallway like assholes.”
“What?” Maren’s voice rises and I shush her, looking around. No one cares. Quieter, she says, “You held hands?”
“Like, in the literal sense, yes.” I flex my fingers, trying to shake him off me. “Not in a meaningful way.”
“Jesus, Ro.” Maren’s in a white T-shirt and jeans, red scarf tied around her topknot like Rosie the Riveter. I wish, furiously, that I could’ve just driven to school with her. We were on the phone for an hour last night, dissecting every moment of the tense meeting with Miller and Willow at XLR8.It sounds like he was scared to look at you or something, she’d said.Like you’re Medusa.But Medusa was a force, awe-inspiring and powerful. With Miller, trapped in the car this morning, I’d felt the opposite. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I say, and Maren rolls her eyes. I try again. “I don’t know. Kind of sick, maybe.”
“Ro,” someone says, and I look up. It’s Macy Sakamoto, holding up her phone and grinning. She has MASH open, spiral swirling in the center of her screen. “Are you kidding me with how cool this is?”
And that’s how it begins.
12
By lunch, I’ve texted thirteen people the MASH download link and taken two selfies with other seniors who matched over the weekend—Abbi Gold and Marley Bosnick, Zara Chapman and Noah Young. Abbi and Marley are shy together, careful how they touch each other, Abbi laughing nervously when Marley’s arm loops her waist for the photo. Zara and Noah just look relieved, like maybe they were always headed here, and I gave them an excuse to cut to the chase.
“Ro,” Noah says, his hand light around my elbow as I’m about to turn away. “Don’t tell her, but I’ve been crushing on Z for years.” He smiles self-consciously, the joy of it sparking in his eyes. “I feel like I’m cheating or something. Getting this lucky.”
“It’s not luck,” I tell him. I can imagine it feels that way, though—Noah hitting the button to meet his MASH match, hoping beyond hope it would be Zara and then seeing her name there. It’s not luck, exactly, but he’s lucky. Luckier than me. “It’s just science.”
There are others, unmatched—Zack Price nudging me in Spanish to tell me he’s going to play pro hockey, Ameena Lazaar stopping me in the hall with a smile like a lightbulb gone off to say she’s finally, actually going to get out of Switchback Ridge. “Chicago,” she whispers, putting it in the air between us like a gift, or a promise. It feels like everyone who didn’t know about MASH before today certainly does now—in every class period I watch at least one person download the app with their phone hidden under their desk.
I feel like I’m in a simulation. It’s maybe the best day of my entire life.
I’m sitting down for lunch with Maren when Sawyer texts me again. This time, for once, it’s not about her.
Dilemma:she sends, and I wait as the three dots ripple on-screen. Maren peels plastic wrap off her sandwich and leans toward me, reading along.
Let’s say you’re already in a committed relationship. You want to know your MASH results, but won’t the matching fuck things up with your boo?
You have to opt in to be matched, I tell her.You can get the rest of your results without it.
She should know; XLR8’s paying her to post about her other predictions until she matches.
Sure, Sawyer sends,but who would be able to resist?Then, the purple devil emoji.
I roll my eyes.Sounds like a personal problem. Who’s asking?
Josie, she sends, and Maren cries, “Sweet?”
