Page 34 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
When I get to the courtyard for lunch on Wednesday, Maren’s setting a clunky film camera onto our table.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and her hair in a ponytail, and she grins when she sees me. “I finally picked a project.”
I blink at her three times before the words land.Seniorproject. School. There’s a world, still, outside the new MASH categories and love training.
“Should I be worried?” I slide onto the bench, squinting against the high October sun. The aspen leaves have yellowed over the edge of the hill. “Competitive future-predicting app?”
She barks out a little laugh, then fiddles with the camera strap. “Close, but no. I’m going to do a photo study type of thing. All film, black and white. Mr. Kong is letting me borrow this until I present in April.”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her, meaning it. Maren’s loved photography forever—she took all the photos for Beans on the Lake’s new website a few years ago, and she heads up the skeleton crew of ouryearbook committee. She’s thinking about studying art next year, wherever she winds up for college. Hopefully not too far from XLR8 and me. “What kind of photo study?”
“Still massaging the details,” she says, pulling a Ziploc of carrots from her bag. “But I’m thinking like awhen they’re looking the other waysort of thing. Pictures of people when they’re unaware or caught off guard. Capturing people without all the preening.” She changes her voice to sound like a movie trailer narrator. “Peering below the hood of humanity.”
“I love it.” I steal one of her carrots. “As long as there are no unflattering photos of me.”
Maren crosses her heart. “I’d never. Though I would love to take some at XLR8 if you think you could bring me in. A lil’corporate Americasauce to spice things up.”
“Anytime,” I tell her. “Felix loves to have his photo taken.”
Maren laughs. “That’s the opposite of the point of this, but thanks.”
“Though, most everyone at XLR8’s taken the MASH survey, so you’ll probably feel out of place.” I raise my eyebrows at her, and we sit like that for a moment in silence. Maren’s been hedging for a month now—I’ll take it soon, just haven’t had a sec, I’ll get to it.I’ve been busy, but still. It’s like a little splinter, always pinching at me. Catching on things as soon as I’ve forgotten about it, reminding me with a twinge of pain that something foreign’s gotten stuck here between us.
It’s one thing for my dad and Vera not to have taken the MASH survey; they barely even text, not to mention use apps. But with Maren, it’s something else. MASH has become nearly my entirelife, and it’s like Maren doesn’t want to share that with me after all.
She sighs, long and slow, not looking at me. Laughter erupts at the table next to us and we both look over to see Taj Singh telling the soccer team a story with his hands waving through the air. A couple of weeks ago he came up to me in calculus, told me MASH predicted he’s going to be a dentist when he’s always wanted to be a doctor.Can it be wrong?he’d asked, his voice half a whisper.There’s a seven percent chance it’s wrong,I thought but didn’t say. XLR8 was clear: we pitch MASH as foolproof or not at all.It’s still medicine, I’d told him instead.
I look back at Maren and she’s watching Taj, like maybe she can put off this conversation with me if she listens to the end of his story.
“Maren.”
Her eyes finally move to mine. “Ro,” she says, and I know in the same second that she’s never going to take the survey. The way her voice moves around my name is an apology. “I don’t want to know my future.” She shrugs, almost helplessly. “MASH was only supposed to be a game. What if I hate what I learn? What if it scares me? I just want to feel my life as it happens.”
“But you said yourself that as soon as the partner match was live, you’d want to take it.”
She hesitates, swiping at her bangs the way she always does when she’s stalling. “I mean, no offense, but.” She gestures toward me. “I’ve seen how the matching thing can go south.”
“I don’t think it’s even possible for you to wind up in a situation like mine.”
She sighs. “Maybe not. But, um.” Maren bites her lip, looksback at Taj, at the aspens on the hill, at anything but me.
“Maren.”
“I met someone.” She blurts it like the words are hot, like they hurt in her mouth and she has to get them out. “And I don’t want to get matched and fuck it up.”
I lean away from her, blinking rapidly. “What? You didn’t tell me?”
“You haven’t exactly been around to tell,” Maren says. “Which I get, honestly. MASH is amazing, and you’re busy, and it’s really fucking cool, Ro, but I barely see you anymore.”
She’s right—I know she is the moment she says the words. But still I find myself saying, “That’s not true. I see you every day at school.”
“Yeah,” Maren concedes slowly. “And we catch up about the latest Miller disaster, or the fact that another celebrity joined MASH, or how many downloads you’re at. I’ve tried to tell you a couple times, like that day in the parking lot with Aiden, but we kept getting distracted.”
I drop my head directly onto the picnic table, closing my eyes. I picture that moment: Aiden’s stupid sneer, Miller’s stony silence. “I’m the worst,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Maren’s hand lands on my shoulder, shaking it until I look up at her. “I agree that you’re the worst and I accept your apology.”
