Page 30 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“It doesn’t work,” Miller says. “You look like liars. People stop believing, and you don’t get the money from Celeritas. So if that’s what you want, I’ll go.” The doors slide open, and he sticks out ahand to hold them in place. “Just say the word.”
My fingers are curled into fists. He’s right: If he goes, we’re fucked. If he stays, I’ll die a small death every day from here to February. He’s so calm, like this doesn’t matter to him at all, like nothing that’s happened over the last few days meant anything.
“Why are you like this now?” It’s a stupid question to ask, but it comes out on its own. “I used to always be able to tell how you were feeling, and now you’re like this—this robot, or something. Do you even remember what an emotion is?”
Miller stares at me. When he blinks there’s something offended about it, like I spit in his soup or forgot his birthday. “Maybe you don’t remember,” he says icily, “but there’s this thing calledother kids, and when you grow up having huge feelings all the time, they sort of eat you alive.”
My cheeks flame. Of course I remember—Aiden Sharp turning our whole class against Miller when we lost Dumpling the hamster. Those middle school years Miller spent transforming into the quiet, hidden version of himself. But if there’s one thing I’m not going to do right now, it’s feel bad for him after that stunt he pulled on live TV.
“You were an asshole yesterday,” I tell him, and his shoulders stiffen.
“Maybe.” Miller drops his hand from the door. “But you need me.”
The doors start to slide shut, and Felix appears out of nowhere to stop them with his arm.
“What are you doing?” he demands, looking back and forthbetween us. He’s wearing a silk kaftan and has never looked more exasperated. “Get in here.”
Evelyn waits in the conference room in absolute silence. When we file in and sit across from her, she just stares at us. Felix takes the seat beside her and rubs his temples. Next to me, Miller rests his hands flat on the tabletop.
“Well,” Evelyn says. Her voice is low and exhausted. “You’ve seen the reactions by now. You two have made an absolute mess, and we’ve been running ragged for the last twenty-four hours trying to fix it. Fielding phone calls, answering inquiries, sending gift baskets to everyone atRocky Mountain Live.” She looks at me, then Miller. “What were you thinking?”
When neither of us speaks, she says, “The only positive thing—and I mean theonlypositive thing—is that people seem to have interpreted Miller’sprotectioncomment as some sort of feminist stand.” She hits a button on the table and the projector blinks on, already open to a slide with screenshots of tweets. Miller in his button-down with the words overlaid—Ro doesn’t need me to protect her—posted with glorifying captions likeWe stan a feminist kingandSay it louder for the fuckboys in the back.
“Thank god,” Evelyn says, “because we needed a silver lining here.”
I stare unblinking at the screen.This is not a silver lining, I want to tell her.This is the very worst part. This is the knife Miller put between my ribs.
“We’re sorry,” Miller says. I don’t want him to speak for me,but I’m having trouble speaking at all. “How do we fix it?”
“Great question,” Evelyn says. “We’ve been working on a beta version of the survey, a new model that pulls in additional questions each week to predict new aspects of users’ futures: projected income, pets, illness, etcetera.”
“What?” My voice is loud in the empty office.
Evelyn laser-beams me with her gaze and keeps talking. “We weren’t going to release it quite yet, but you two have created the need for a distraction. A new hook to keep MASH not only relevant, but beloved.”
“You can’t just add questions because you feel like it,” I say, leaning toward her over the table. “Vera and I spent months refining those to make sure the predictions are accurate; it’s not—”
“And with Vera out of the equation,” Evelyn says, “we’ve been consulting with a behavioral scientist in Los Angeles. Rest assured, we’ve covered every base.”
My mouth opens and closes, working to form a word. “Who?” I finally ask. Vera is the scientist behind MASH; there can’t be someone else. “Why haven’t you told me any of this?”
“His name is Dr. Blaise Wisener,” Evelyn says. “And we haven’t wanted to distract you from the matching narrative. Though it’s clear you need to increase your focus, even still.” Her eyes flick from me to Miller and back again. Then she looks at Felix.
“Which is why we’ll be doing media training,” he says. My brain feels like it’s shuddering between tracks, struggling to keep up. Who the hell is Blaise Wisener? Why didn’t anyone ask me about this? “You and me, all day. Then after school if we need it.Then next weekend if we need that.”
Felix leans back in his chair. He leaves one hand hovering in front of him, emphasizes his words with a finger tapped to the table. “We’re going to talk about what to say in public, when to touch each other, how to look at each other—every little human thing that I did not think you needed to be told as two fully functioning young adults but that youobviouslydo.” Felix looks between us, and I swallow. I feel about five years old. I feel like everything in this room is spiraling out of my control. “That was a disaster. And we also need to address why it happened at all.”
We are silent. Felix’s eyebrows yank up into his hairline. “Well?”
“It was a mistake,” Miller says. I look at him, and he pulls his hands into his lap. “We had an argument and we let it affect us. It won’t happen again.”
How simple, stated like that. What a perfect cause-and-effect.We had an argument. Is that what it was?
“No,” Felix says. “It certainly will not.”
18
After that, Evelyn goes home. I wonder, watching her move toward the elevators, what else she’s keeping from me. But I don’t have too long to consider it because then it’s just Miller and me in the conference room, listening to Felix deliver the most ridiculous lecture of all time.
