Page 71 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“Ow!” I sit up, widening my eyes at her. “You twofullymade out in front of us the first time we met Autumn.”
Autumn laughs through a mouthful of puppy chow and says, “I’m not sorry.”
From the kitchen, Dad yells, “No making out!”
“Oh, I’m gonna do it now,” Maren says, raising her voice to be sure he’ll hear her. She’s halfway out of her chair when he comesback into the room, spatula pointed warningly in her direction. It’s an empty threat, which feels like a gift after the last week with so many real ones.
It snows all afternoon, lazy flakes that float past the A-frame windows while we work. Vera loved this weather, even when she was old and the ice on her driveway kept her inside.Like being in a snow globe, she’d say.What could be more beautiful?
I wonder briefly what my mother’s doing, snowed in to her hotel room downtown. But then I lean against Miller, or laugh at something Autumn says, or reach my hand into the bowl for more puppy chow. And I push her away.
By sundown, we have ten names. A route with three stops plotted through Colorado and seven video calls scheduled with kids across the country. A list of people with stories of how MASH has stolen their dreams. Six days to meet them and hear what they have to say.
Just like Miller said, we’ll burn it down. And now we just have to spark the flame.
39
It’s still snowing when we leave for Colorado Springs on Wednesday morning to meet Jazzhands24 (whose real name is Owen). We take the truck, Miller riding shotgun and Maren in the back of the cab with all her video equipment. Turns out Mr. Kong’s got a few more tricks up his sleeve than just film cameras. He met her at school yesterday afternoon to hand everything off, holiday break and all.
“You sure you know how to use that stuff?” I ask, catching her eyes in the rearview as we pull out of her driveway. She’s yawning, hair in a topknot and wearing a CU Denver sweatshirt of Autumn’s.
“Pretty sure,” she says, then holds up a thick manual. “And if not, I’ve got two hours to learn.”
“We believe in you,” Miller tells her. He’s got a notebook open in his lap, interview questions he’s penned out in his small, precise handwriting. His pointer finger rests against the top line.
“I’m glad someone does.” Maren pops her head up between us, reaching for the thermos of coffee waiting for her in one ofthe cupholders. “Because according to MASH, I’m going to be an accountant.”
I slam on the brakes, half the truck in the road and half still in Maren’s driveway.
“Jesus,” she says, clutching the edge of my seat as I turn around.
“You took the survey?”
“Yeah,” she says casually. “Me and Autumn both.”
“And you—it said you were—I—”
Maren looks at Miller. “Did her brain stop working?”
I finally force the words through my shock. “And it said you’re going to be anaccountant?”
“Yeah.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Said I’m going to wind up with some dude named Paul, too, but that seems unlikely.”
I’ve never seen her calmer, more unaffected. “But you don’t care?”
“Not really.” She leans back, reaching for her seat belt. “I know who I am, and what I want. If that changes someday, okay. If not, also okay.” Our eyes meet. “It’s the smartest algorithm ever, because you made it, obviously. But it’s still just an algorithm.” Maren shrugs. “I still get to decide, in the end.”
We drive to Colorado Springs as the sun creeps up over the highway, pale winter light casting everything yellow. I’ve had to turn my phone back on to keep Dad in the loop—one of his conditions. The other was video-calling the kids we’re meeting in person beforehand, to make sure “they aren’t fifty-year-old men with cigarette breath trying to lure you to your death.” My notificationsroll in pretty much nonstop, pinging from the cupholder so frequently that Miller finally takes my phone and slides it under his leg, screen-down on the seat so I can’t see it at all. I look over at him, and without lifting his head from his reading he reaches to rest his hand on my knee.
Reactions to XLR8’s statement have been completely polarized: There are those, like us, who know nothing could justify putting people in pain. Draining the color from their lives. But there are plenty of others who’ve shrugged off the entire thing because, after all, the truth hurts.That’s showbiz, baby,one tweet said.Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to.It had 250,000 likes.
We’ve agreed to see Jazz and Felix this weekend, to run through their talking points and study their success stories and do all the rest to get ready for New York. I’ve been silent on social media, against Jazz’s wishes, because what could I possibly say? It’s one thing to watch her lie all over the@MASHapp handle. It’s another to do it under my own name.
As we hurtle south in the frigid December morning, I have the feeling, suddenly, that the world’s gone very quiet: that the last few days have winnowed everything down to just the three of us. Miller, and Maren, and me, cutting across the state on our own. Chasing the only option we have left.
Owen lives in a boxy blue house off I-25, and when we pull into his driveway no one says anything. We just sit there, breathing, looking up at it. Empty planter boxes in the front windows, a pink snow shovel leaned against the garage door, all the grass in the yard frost-crisp and dead.
“You ready?” Miller asks, and I look over at him. He’s wearing a puffy coat, forest-green and draped over his sling like a cape.
