Page 24 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
Vera looks at me for a long, silent minute. She doesn’t even glance at Dad; it’s just the two of us in this, staring each other down. Her thin voice is threaded with steel when she finally speaks. “Don’t let them force you into what you aren’t ready for, Rosie. Don’t lose control of the narrative.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “This is your story to tell.”
The next week, I get to tell it. TheDenver Postsends a reporter and a photographer to XLR8, and Jazz sets us up in a cushy back office I didn’t even realize existed. I sit on a brown leather couch in front of a mountain-facing window, and because we’re doing pictures first, Felix flits into the room with a rolling rack of clothing. I look down at what I’m wearing—white T-shirt, corduroy miniskirt, black boots—and then back up at him, eyebrows raised.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he says quickly. He slips a leather jacket off a hanger and hands it to me. “Just add this.”
It matches my boots, soft and worn-in with fringe at the shoulders. As I slip it on he moves closer, fluffing my curls out of my face. They’re different day by day but this afternoon’s not bad, all things considered—low on the frizz and still sun-blond from summer. Felix has blue nail polish on and his eyebrows are immaculate, every hair perfectly in place when he leans close to unstick a curl from my cheekbone. He smells expensive.
“Okay.” He leans back to take me in, then nods. “You’re a vision.”
I roll my eyes and he holds up a finger to stop me. “Always take the compliment.” Then he turns to the reporter, a midthirties woman in a navy pantsuit. “She’s all yours.”
The photographer moves in, directing me to look this way, then that way, cross my legs and then uncross them. Felix and Jazz stand at the corner of my vision, leaned against the wall with their heads together, whispering. I’m starting to feel like a tiger in a cage when Jazz flashes me a smile, both thumbs up.
“Fantastic,” the reporter says. She introduced herself earlier as Vanity Jones, which sounds maybe fake but also pretty cool. Her blond hair is so shiny that I can practically see my reflection in it. “I’m going to ask you some questions, Rose, and Jeremy’s going to keep taking photographs. You can ignore him.”
I glance at Jeremy, who’s wearing a huge green hoodie and kind of looks like he just rolled out of bed. He gives me a sleepy smile, then takes another photo as I’m staring right at him.
“Um, okay,” I say to Vanity. “And it’s just Ro. My name.”
“Okay, Ro.” Vanity smiles, her teeth white as milk glass. “Can you tell me how you came up with the idea for MASH?”
“Based on the game,” I say. “Mansion Apartment Shack House. I used to play it growing up with my best friend, Maren, and I thought: ‘Wouldn’t it be cool if it was real?’”
“And is it?” Vanity asks. Her eyes on mine are like the sun through a magnifying glass. “Real?”
Across the room, Felix whistles. No softball questions here, apparently. But Jazz put together a five-page key messaging document, and I’ve spent the last week poring over it. I know this shit back to front.
“Sure it is,” I tell her. “Human behavior’s ninety-three percent predictable. MASH peers into your brain, takes a look around, and uses those predictable patterns to show you what the future looks like.”
“So you’re saying it’s based on science.”
“Yep.”
“Whose science?”
There’s a brief, held-breath pause. I’ve been clear with everyone since Vera asked me for that promise: her name can’t come up. She wants her privacy, and even if I don’t agree with it, I can understand it.
“I worked with a behavioral scientist to build every part of the survey,” I tell Vanity. She’s recording me and taking notes, and Jeremy’s orbiting us like an incredibly slow-moving satellite. “I can promise you MASH uses the latest research to predict users’ futures.”
“Great,” Vanity says. But her voice is like a honeypot: sweet with a knife underneath. “Can you give me a name?”
“No,” I say, and Vanity’s eyes come up from her notepad to find mine. She says nothing, like she’s waiting for me to elaborate. I don’t.
“So we’re just supposed to take your word for it?”
I glance at Jazz, who mouths,You got this. When I look back at Vanity, she’s watching me expectantly. “Have you taken the survey?” I ask.
Something in the set of her smile goes rigid. “I have.”
“And?” I fold my hands together in my lap. “Any surprises?”
She clears her throat and glances at Jeremy, who’s leaned between us to snap a photo at a deeply unflattering angle. “A few, yes.”
I raise my eyebrows, and for a moment no one speaks. Finally, Vanity says, “I got ‘kindergarten teacher.’ For my profession.” She crosses her legs. “So you can imagine why I’m dubious about the accuracy of all this.”
I shrug, unshaken. “You’re not exactly ancient, Vanity. There’s time.”
“So you’re saying I’ll be making a career change?”
