Page 70 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“You’ll showcase these testimonials onToday,” my mother says, turning to Miller and me. She’s wearing her hair curly, and it makes her distressingly familiar. “Felix and Jazz will train you on their stories, make sure you know them inside out before you’re up onstage. All we have to do is lean into the good.” She smilesbriefly. “And there’s plenty of it.”
This feels categorically untrue.The goodhas felt hard to find the last few days, like a reflection in the lake—blurred out, sometimes there and sometimes not. My social media’s been a mixed bag of support for Miller and me, and direct messages that make me breathless with their cruelty—that leave me feeling gutted and foolish for ever trying to make something worth sharing at all. Sawyer texts me almost nonstop about how guilty she feels for finding joy with MASH when so many others are hurting.Tell me about it, I think. A day after theNew York Timespiece breaks I turn my phone off and close it in my desk drawer. I leave it there.
The only good has been Miller, sitting with me in the quiet when I don’t know what to say. And Maren, dropping off sugar cookies on Christmas Day. And my dad, pretending he wasn’t close to crying when I finally got to work on my college applications at our kitchen table. He was right, in the end—I’m going to need some other options come spring.
“We can set up interviews,” Jazz says, snapping me out of it. I look at her, and she can’t quite meet my eyes. “If it’ll make you more comfortable. Everyone we’re profiling has already agreed to talk to us, so I can set up conference calls for the two of you to get to know them before we head back to New York.”
That’s when it lands on me, what we need to do now. The idea arrives fully formed, like something divine. Like Athena herself has struck me down. I nod absently at Jazz.
Under the table, I grab Miller’s hand.
“Here’s one,” Autumn says. She’s cross-legged on my living room floor, bent over herself to peer at her laptop. “Jazzhands24 on Reddit.” She pushes the computer over our rug toward me, and I lean down to get a better look.
Honestly,the post begins,been keeping this to myself but everyone’s talking about this shit now so here I go. I’m 15 and live in Colorado and I’ve been playing piano since I could talk. Maybe even before. Anyway it’s not cool or anything but all I want is to play professionally one day. Do Juilliard and the whole thing. I downloaded MASH in October and it says I’m going to live in Wichita and be a teacher. Nothing wrong with teaching but damn. Not like being a jazz pianist in New York. Been down and yeah. Any words of advice on how to just like live with this would be great. thanks.
The first comment, from someone named _bringtheheat, says onlyFUCK MASH! NEVER GIVE UP THE PIANO MY LITTLE FRIEND!
“Add them to the list,” I say, and Autumn nods as she drags her computer into her lap.
I lean back into the couch, where Miller is sitting with his own computer balanced on his knees. He’s cross-legged, in sweats and a T-shirt for some video game calledHades. His hair’s all grown out since August, curling over his forehead and the tops of his ears—it’s goose-down soft, which is something I know now, very well, from personal experience. I kiss the side of his neck and he smiles at me.
We’ve been here all day—Miller and me on the couch, Autumn sprawled across the floor, Maren folded up in the armchair by the fire. We’re tackling this assembly-line style: Autumn and Marenfind the leads, I send them direct messages, Miller takes their information and maps out our schedule. We have six days until the start of school, which will be plenty of time to get this done if we’re smart about it.
“Snacks?” Dad says, crossing in from the kitchen with his arms full of bowls. He’s been hovering hard the last few days, packing the Beans schedule with college kids home for break so he doesn’t have to go in. He doesn’t love this idea, but he didn’t veto it, either. He knows, I think, that this is something I have to do. “I made cheddar popcorn and puppy chow.”
“Puppy chow?” Autumn asks, looking up at him from the floor. “What’s that?”
Maren gasps theatrically. “Autumn Lillian Li. You’ve never had puppy chow?”
Dad puts the popcorn in Miller’s lap, then extends the puppy chow toward Autumn. She peers into the bowl, eyebrows raised.
“It’s Chex with chocolate and peanut butter and sugar,” I tell her, and her eyes widen as she looks up at me.
“Ummmm.” She takes the bowl from my dad. “Excuse me? Yes, please.”
Miller’s phone buzzes on the armrest next to his cast. It’s Felix, in our group text with Jazz.
We’ll need to pick a day between now and New York for some media training. When works for you both to come in?
It’s professional and polite, two things Felix has never really been around us. But that’s how things are now, ever since he tried talking to us at the elevator.
I look at Miller, who’s still staring down at his phone. He blinks, then says, “I think he’s the hardest part, for me.”
“Hardest part of what?”
“This whole betrayal.” He turns his phone facedown on the armrest, then looks at me. “Felix was always on our side, even when he was mad at us.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
“I just can’t believe he’s okay with it.” Miller shakes his head, which is framed by the firefly-glow of our Christmas tree across the room. “How could he be? He was supposed to be good.”
“They all were,” I say. Miller moves his hand from his laptop to my arm, runs his palm over my scar and down into my hand before locking our fingers together. “I guess you never really know.”
He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. “Sometimes you know,” he says.
I smile, tip my head forward to tap his shoulder. “Sometimes, yeah.”
“All right, gross.” Maren throws a decorative pillow at us, and it hits me in the side of the face. “That’s enough over there.”
