Page 77 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“We’re excited to have you,” Hoda says. She leans toward me, almost conspiratorially. “You know, Ro, when I was getting readyfor this interview, I actually read your first spotlight from theDenver Postall the way back in September.”
“Wow.” I manage a laugh. I can’t even remember what it felt like to be myself back then. So much has changed that when I picture that girl in her fringed leather jacket, speaking from a swanky couch in the XLR8 office, she feels like a stranger. “I’m flattered.”
“Oh, it was a great piece,” Hoda says. “I mean, it’s incredibly impressive—everything you’d already achieved then, and everything you’ve achieved since. To build something as impactful as MASH at such a young age.” Her eyebrows rise like an exclamation point.
I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or if she’s picking her words carefully, but I notice the neutral way she says it all: what I’ve achieved, the impact I’ve made. None of it negative or positive, just stated as fact.
“I guess I’m just so curious,” Hoda says, and I brace myself. “Everyone’s talking about you as this oracle, seeing the future.” Our eyes meet. “How does it feel to play god, Ro?”
There’s a sudden, immovable silence—so heavy I’m scared, for a minute, that I won’t be able to speak through it. Tears prick my eyes. The stage lights are hot, and I can feel the blood roaring in my ears. I told myself I wouldn’t, but I look at Miller anyway: next to me on the couch, his shoulders squared off, his jaw set. When our eyes meet he doesn’t blink, just nods at me. Serious and sure.
“I never wanted to play god,” I hear myself say. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I was just trying to graduate high school.”
Hoda blinks, surprised. “What do you mean, you never meant for this to happen? That you didn’t expect MASH to take off the way that it has?”
“I mean, yeah, that.” I draw a steadying breath. “MASH started as my senior project. Now it has this whole life without me, with people I’ve never even met. It’s just this algorithm I wrote, but it’s touching people’s lives. Their real lives.”
“Yes,” Hoda says, clearly trying to keep up. I feel guilty for leading this conversation where she wasn’t expecting it to go, for making yet another person uncomfortable. “Yes, MASH’s promise is to”—she lifts the notes in her hand, reads right from them—“‘predict the future and take the guesswork out of modern life.’” She glances up at me, then Miller. “I mean, that’s no small task. But this app really is changing lives. Let’s take a look.”
Hoda turns toward the screen, and I clench my hands into fists.This is it.As the video starts to play, I realize with simultaneous relief and terror that Felix didn’t let us down, that it’s not XLR8’s heartwarming testimonial video filling the screen. It’s Maren’s footage—right here on live television. The tape starts with Owen, his back to the camera, piano music filling the air.
“It makes me want to give up,” the voice-over begins. He sounds young and afraid. “I’ve been playing forever. I mean, really forever—but if there’s no future in it, what’s the point?”
I glance at Hoda, but if she’s confused, she doesn’t let on. Miller reaches his hand out for mine, and I grab on for dear life. My heart’s pounding so hard I feel like it’s shaking my body, like I’m rocking forward and back on the couch with every single beat.
The video’s already on Leila when I finally glance over my shoulder at the stage entrance. Jazz is there, whispering angrily at Felix, her arms waving around. But he’s got her by the wrist, holding her back. I can’t make out what they’re saying—just thesharp shake of his head, one word on his lips.No.
And then, behind them, just rounding the corner: Evelyn and my mother. I whip around in my seat, and the video is still wrapping up—Maren’s carefully chosen outro music—but I start talking because I know I don’t have much time.
“Hoda, this is never what I intended.” She turns to me, her mouth just parted. I point to the screen. “These people, this is just scratching the surface. Ever since theNew York Timesbroke that story, Miller and I have been following this discussion all across the internet.” I swallow, trying to keep myself calm. Miller’s hand is still clenched in mine. “What we found is too big to ignore. MASH is hurting people. It’s taking away their hope, and their joy, and it’s making them stop believing in the things about themselves that they’ve always believed. Nothing is worth that.”
Hoda’s mouth closes, then opens again. “Are you—”
Behind me, I hear a commotion of voices. When I glance over my shoulder, Felix is trying to keep Evelyn from storming onto the stage.
“XLR8 wants me to tell you that this app predicts the future,” I say, as quickly and clearly as I can. “And I’m here to tell you that it does—but only one version of it.”
“What does that mean?” Hoda asks, leaning closer. “That there are multiple versions of our futures?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding furiously. I probably look like a bobblehead, but I don’t have time to care. “The survey isn’t foolproof, because human behavior isn’t.”
I break the cardinal rule of this whole game, turning directly to the camera guy and staring straight into his lens.
“I can’t end MASH now,” I say. “It’s bigger than me. I’m barely in charge of half of it. But you can stop using it. You can use your voice to get it off the market. Delete it from your phone, right now. Please.” I glance over my shoulder, and Felix’s eyes find mine. He’s got one hand on Evelyn’s elbow, and her face is fiery red. I think of Vera, who knew the truth all along, who isn’t here to see this burning down. I think of what she’d want me to say, and then I look back at the camera and I say it.
“I made MASH because I wanted my life to make sense. I wanted to map it out like a math problem, like something I could solve. I wanted to understand why my mom left, and if I’d make it where I wanted to go, and if—” I glance at Miller, and he squeezes my hand, hard. “If my mistakes were forgivable. I thought that if I could predict the future, life would feel less scary.”
My throat goes tight, and I have to scrape out the words. “But it doesn’t. I thought MASH would make all our lives easier by telling us what’s coming next, but it only captures what could be coming from thisonemoment. And even in that moment, it’s only ninety-three percent accurate. I know now that everything that matters—everything we feel and the chances we take and all our mistakes and successes—they’re in the seven percent left over. We exist in that gray area.” I draw a steadying breath. “Listen to me: The human brain isn’t set. It’s malleable. It changes as you grow. Your answers to the MASH questions will change, and so will your path. That’s the whole, entire point of being alive.”
“CUT!” Evelyn’s voice comes shrieking from backstage, and the camera I’ve been staring into swivels down to the floor. There’s a rush of commotion as Hoda looks to her producers for direction,as Evelyn breaks from Felix’s grip, as Miller tugs me toward him on the couch and wraps his arm around me.
“You did it,” he whispers, right into my ear. I hold on to that, the soft rush of his voice, as Evelyn grabs my elbow and pulls me away from him.
“What are you doing?” she demands, her fingertips digging into my arm so hard it hurts. Her eyes are wide and wild. “What have you done?”
“Let me go,” I say, yanking out of her grip. When I stand, Miller comes with me. Evelyn’s chest rises and falls dramatically; she’s out of breath with her anger. She opens her mouth to speak but I don’t wait for it—I just sidestep her and make for the edge of the stage.
It’s clear no one knows quite what to do: Hoda is still talking to a producer, and the camera crew is huddled together on the other side of the room. Evelyn stays there, paralyzed, as we walk away. When we reach Felix his eyes are glassy with tears, and he just nods at us. Jazz won’t look at me. My mother stands in the hallway, waiting for us with her arms crossed.
