Page 74 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
Leila lives in a big place on the outside of town, so new it still smells like paint inside. The furniture is sparse and modern and uncomfortable-looking, like someone picked it knowing they’d never be home. Through the massive windows in her living room, we have a clear view over Dillon Reservoir, sun-sparkling water crowned on all sides by mountains.
“My dad’s out,” she says when she lets us in. It’s noon on the first day of the year. She doesn’t mention her mom. Leila’s a senior,like us, headed to UPenn in the fall after being admitted early decision. She’s wearing a dress and has her hair carefully curled, like this is a job interview.
“I should be happy,” she tells us in an even voice that holds no emotion. “I got into my dream school two weeks ago and didn’t even feel it.” She clears her throat, holds up her phone to the MASH interface—all that familiar branding, the seamless UI that I helped code myself.
“Financial planner,” Leila says, at the same time we read it ourselves. “Frisco, Colorado.”
There’s a heavy silence as we wait for her to connect the dots.
“My dad owns the only firm in town,” she says. “I’m going to wind up working for him after all.”
When Maren lugs her camera equipment back out to the truck and shuts the door behind her, I reach for Miller’s hand. We’re alone in Leila’s driveway, interview wrapped and ready to head home. But Leila’s words are ringing in my ears, the lingering ghost of all this hurt I’ve caused.I got into my dream school two weeks ago and didn’t even feel it.
Miller is framed by the broad swath of Leila’s neighborhood: huge houses rising between snow-flecked trees. He deserves to be so far from here—reading books in some musty library on the East Coast, talking about stories written a thousand years ago if that’s what makes him happy.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, because I can’t keep going without saying it. It’s been here inside me ever since New York, ever since thearticle. “Listening to her talk about college, I just—”
Miller weaves our fingers together, taking a step closer to me.
“I wish I could fix it.”
“Ro, it’s okay.” He dips his chin, makes me meet his eyes. “You keep talking about this like I’m going to die, but we don’t know what’s going to happen. It could all work out fine.”
“But you deserve to have it all paid for, like we’d planned.”
He sighs, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “There are loans,” he says. “There’s work-study, and state school, and a bunch of scholarships I can apply for. There’s more than one way, okay?”
“But what if—”
“What if anything?” It’s so cold his breath condenses between us, each word a white cloud. “What if my perfect match is born two blocks from me? What if she makes an app for her senior project and it goes viral and changes her life?”
He smiles, and his is my favorite face in the whole entire world. The last four days have been a nonstop tour of all the bad I’ve done, all the people who are angriest at me and have every right to be. And here’s Miller, who forgave me from the start.
“Things happen every day that are like catching lightning in a bottle,” he says. “Just because we don’t know what school’s going to look like doesn’t mean it’s going to be bad.”
He’s right—of course he is. MASH has made me so unfamiliar with uncertainty that any unknown future feels terrifying and wrong. But there are good surprises, too. Anything could happen. And maybe we just have to let it.
“I’m going to figure it out,” Miller says. “Whatever happens. You’ve got to stop apologizing.”
“I’m sor—” I clap a hand over my mouth, and he laughs.
“Look,” he says, and a cold wind plays through his hair. “Four months ago, I had no idea how I was going to pay for my degree, and I had no idea if I’d ever talk to you again, and it was killing me.” I take a step closer to him, and he drops my hand so he can push the hair off my forehead. “Now only one of those things is true. Net gain, okay?”
I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him, just as Maren knocks on the window.
“Let’s go home!” she says, her voice muffled by the glass.
I squeeze Miller’s hand, and I pull out my car keys, and we do.
41
This time, on the plane to New York, there is no itinerary review. No Felix monkeying over the top of our seats to walk us through the game plan. We spent Sunday afternoon at the XLR8 office with him and Jazz, everybody sticking to the script of How Things Are Now. No laughing, nothing at all except the basics of what we need to say on live TV Friday morning.
We fly to New York after school on Thursday, Dad with Miller and me in one row, Evelyn with Felix and Jazz in another. My mother and Willow sit together ahead of us, the conversation between them stilted and strange. Seeing them next to each other feels like a trick:Here is my mother, and here is the woman who mothered me.The only person missing to round out the who-raised-Ro roulette is Vera.
We’re traveling eight people strong this time, just in case. In case we get mobbed again, in case shit hits the fan even worse than it already has. And in case, I suspect, Miller and I put any toes out of line.
But there’s a flash drive in the bottom of my backpack, a video file that Maren spent every night after school this week stitching together. That made me cry, like the Gossamer Lake dam thrown open, when I watched it before driving to the airport. That—if all goes according to plan—even Evelyn Cross won’t be able to stop us from sharing with the world.
