The Boyfriend App (28 page)

Bates crossed one black-stockinged leg over the other. She was the one I couldn’t read, and she was the one I cared about. Her expression gave away nothing—it was as if I’d been telling a story about a boring weekend trip to U.P. Mall to pick out a cardigan.

I stared at her, waiting for her to say something, to tell me everything was going to be okay. When she smiled, there was a faraway look in her eyes, like her thoughts were somewhere else.

“We need to talk with Janie Callaghan,” she finally said.

She couldn’t be serious. “Jane Callaghan?” I said. “As in the CEO of Infinitum?” Maybe they’d gone to grad school together and worked with each other in the eighties, but it was three decades later. “Why would she give a crap about one of your students?” I asked, too out-of-sorts to watch my language.

“I’m not sure you’re grasping what a big deal this is, Audrey,” Bates said. “Jane Callaghan is Alec Callaghan is Alec Pierce’s biggest rival. Of course she’ll care about this.” Then she smiled, and I saw that faraway look again. Dr. Gurung and Mrs. Condor were staring at me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Bates. She gazed wistfully at the wall like she was looking through a window instead of 1970s wood paneling. “And Janie and I were once much more than friends,” she said. “We were lovers.”

I clutched the side of my chair. If every day at school were this interesting, no one would drop out.

“If you’re willing, I propose we drive to Infinitum’s offices in New York City,” Bates said.

My heart raced. Mrs. Condor’s usually unbiased lips curved into a smile.

“It’s the only way to fight back,” Ms. Bates said. “Jane will know what to do.” She leaned forward. “Meet with Jane. Let Infinitum see your talent.”

My body had the fiery feeling for the first time since California.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

chapter thirty-one

H
ours later, we sped along I-90 while Danny Beaton crowed through the radio on a station that called itself “Cleveland’s Hottest Hits.” The Good & Plenty candies Ms. Bates had brought stained my fingertips white and purple.

My mom was in the backseat with me, alternating between being worried about me and pissed at what I’d done.

Dr. Gurung drove. Ms. Bates sang along to Danny Beaton with a unique technique that involved repeating Danny’s lyrics a split second after he did, like an echo. It gave me a headache, but it was Bates, so I didn’t mind.

In Syracuse, we slept in a Motel Six with pea-colored curtains and yellow flowered bedspreads. And by
slept
, I mean:
tossed.
And
turned
. I alternately obsessed over Aidan and Infinitum, practicing what I needed to say to both to save myself. The next morning I unzipped my suitcase on the sidewalk so the motel’s pet-store smell wouldn’t soak into my clothes.

Dr. Gurung’s Lincoln Navigator earned its name when we crossed the George Washington Bridge into New York City and darted between cars and taxis on a highway along the water. When we turned onto 14th Street, the car bounced over uneven pavement mixed with cobblestones. “The Meatpacking District has experienced a transformation,” Dr. Gurung said as we narrowly avoided a mom wearing stilettos, pushing a baby carriage.

I didn’t see any meat or packing, so I figured he was right.

On Washington Street, I snapped a photo of an Asian guy with long hair taking pictures of a six-foot-tall girl wearing platforms and slouchy green trousers. I sent it to Lindsay with the caption:
fashion shoot?
The girl was contorting her body into uncomfortable-looking positions I’d only seen on
America’s Next Top Model
reruns at Lindsay’s. If there were one thing that would cheer my cousin up, it was a photo she could upload to
FBM
. She hadn’t answered her phone since yesterday and it felt weird doing this without her.

We passed a restaurant with picture windows looking in on people drinking wine (at lunch) and parked the car in a garage that cost three times more per hour than I made babysitting.

No one spoke as we followed Dr. Gurung along the street with his map. A cold gust of wind carried a napkin marked
THANK YOU FOR COMING
. It came to rest against a milk crate. A lady stood on top of the crate and sang a gospel song into a microphone that didn’t work. I took in the delis next to glass-front boutiques and a store that served cocktails while they blew your hair dry. The scent of honey-roasted peanuts and hot dogs wafted from an elderly man’s cartlike station, where he cooked and sold food. Another man opened a cloth drape filled with glossy fake designer bags. “Louis. Gucci. Chanel,” he said, hushing his voice like we were in on a secret.

A taxi honked and two girls carrying big leather bags slipped inside. Another girl with bangs and sunglasses rode a bicycle with a dog in a pink wicker basket. A canvas satchel that read
WHOLE FOODS
draped over her back with a baguette sticking out.

I loved it here.

I forgot to be nervous until Dr. Gurung held open sleek glass doors marked
INFINITUM
. I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

At least the building was a rectangle. I smoothed a hand over the jeans Ms. Bates assured me were
perfectly fine attire for a budding innovator
.

At the reception desk, we paused before a guy and a girl dressed in head-to-toe black. The girl pursed her glossy lips and made short, quick movements like an exotic bird. “Smile for the camera,” the guy said, snapping pictures of us for security purposes and inspecting our licenses.

I’d never seen my mom look so nervous. And Bates was wearing mascara, in addition to her trademark red lipstick. Only Dr. Gurung looked like himself—unshaven and sleepless.

An elevator took us to another lobby with shiny black leather couches.

“Can I get you some mint tea infused with flower essence?” a man with a goatee asked.

We all declined.

“Jane’s expecting you,” he said. “Right this way.”

The man opened the door into a room with a long wooden table, where a dozen people sat in front of Infinitum laptops. They didn’t smile.

I glanced at Ms. Bates. I thought we were only meeting with Jane Callaghan. All these people staring at me made me feel like I might throw up.

The woman I recognized as Jane Callaghan strode across the room. I felt like I should bow to her or something, but instead I smiled like this was normal. Like Tuesday was the day I always spent in New York City convening with geniuses.

“Welcome to Infinitum,” Jane said, shaking our hands. “You must be Audrey.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “And you must be Mom,” she said, like we were at the pediatrician. She turned to Nigit’s dad. “Dr. Gurung, I presume. And Hannah,” she said to Ms. Bates, shaking her head just slightly. “How are you?” she asked, but the question was entirely different than the way you always hear it. It was weighted with something I didn’t understand.

Citrine stones covered the skin at Jane’s collarbone and matched her light yellow hair. Her charcoal-gray suit fit her frame perfectly, like she bought a new one every time she gained or lost three pounds. Wrinkles etched the corners of her eyes, and when she smiled at me I felt like she meant it. “We’re ready whenever you are,” she said, gesturing for us sit.

We sat. “Why don’t you go ahead, Audrey,” Bates said, her voice soft. My mom squeezed my hand under the table.

Blank faces stared. “Well, it sort of happened by accident,” I blurted. “I threw my buyPhone into a car battery at this psychic Madame Bernese’s house . . .”

A girl in a purple scarf raised an eyebrow. A guy with clear black skin wearing silver eyeliner looked annoyed.

Stay on track, trog.

I cleared my throat. “And after I noticed a strange buzzing sound coming from my phone, I disassembled it and uncovered secret software called BuyWare that Public had installed on their phones—software that released an ultrasonic chord progression to stimulate feel-good hormones like oxytocin and dopamine in the user’s brain that simulated falling in love whenever the user was in the vicinity of Public stores or downloading music from buyJams. Public targeted teenagers, who are more susceptible to neurotransmitters triggered in the amygdala, creating a reward pathway in the brain that made the teenager want more music, more Public products,
more, more, more
.”

No one looked bored anymore. So I stood up and paced the room, like I’d seen on TV. “Once I realized the software was in place to induce the hormones, I programmed a mobile application that triggered the ultrasonic chord progression—thereby triggering the hormones—when the users pointed their phones at intended targets and pressed a button to activate the software. I also upped the dosage of hormones triggered far past that which Public utilized. I did this by altering the program so that instead of the buyPhones emitting the ultrasonic chord progression in one-second bursts every thirty seconds, they would now emit one continuous progression that would assault the user and render them helplessly in love until the app user pressed a second button, deactivating the software.”

Now a few mouths were open.

Dr. Gurung passed around copies of the research Public had originally funded that backed up everything I was explaining. I circled the table while I prattled on, and only tripped once—on some guy’s shiny Infinitum laptop case, for which he profusely apologized. At one point, I gestured to Dr. Gurung. “And then they blackmailed this pillar of our community into keeping quiet.” It was a direct quote from a
General Hospital
episode I’d watched with Lindsay, but I felt it was appropriate. When I finished, I sank into my seat.

Jane started the applause. The girl in the purple scarf let out a “Woohoo!” and everyone around the table clapped and cheered. I got caught up in the moment and cheered, too—pumping my fist in the air and yelling, “Power to the people!” which maybe wasn’t appropriate, but I got carried away.

“This is all incredibly impressive, Audrey,” Jane said once everyone quieted. “I haven’t seen programming talent like this in someone so young in years.” Her eyes flicked to Ms. Bates, and then back to me. “I won’t let it go to waste.” She gave me the same unwavering stare I’d seen her give to interviewers on
60 Minutes.
“Hannah has made her primary concern clear: With Public’s slander against you, you’ll be handicapped for life. I’ve seen your grades and test scores: They’re strong enough to get you into any university in the country,” she went on, her voice determined. “You could have gotten there on your own if it hadn’t been for Public. I ask that you let me make a phone call to the university of your choice. Infinitum is powerful, too, Audrey. I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

I felt like gymnasts were performing floor routines on my stomach. Jane Callaghan was going to call a college for me? And get me in? Is that what she meant? I glanced at my mother. I didn’t want to embarrass her, but I had to tell Jane the truth. “My mom just lost her job,” I said. Lindsay’s words echoed in my mind:
Chin up, Audrey.
I straightened. “I can’t afford to go to the college of my choice.”

Jane’s face was impassive. She poured herself a glass of water from a crystal decanter. “I’d like to propose a contract with Infinitum,” she said. Her gold charm bracelet jingled as she brought the glass to her lips. “Fifteen hours of programming work per week, completed remotely from whatever university you choose. No excuses. I don’t care if you have a busy week with midterms, or your boyfriend or girlfriend dumps you”—she looked at Bates again before returning her glance to me—“or you come down with some nasty stomach bug going around your dorm.” She sipped her water. “When you graduate, Infinitum has first option on being your place of employ. In exchange, Infinitum will pay for your college tuition and school-related expenses.”

My mother burst into tears. Then she threw her arms around my shoulders. I held my breath. I couldn’t take my eyes from Jane.

Jane set her glass on a blue ceramic coaster with a
clink
. “So where do you want to go to college, Audrey?” she asked.

The glossy images of students picnicking on the grass quad at Brown in Aidan’s brochure flashed through my mind. I thought of MIT, with its reputation for trogs. Stanford was too close to Public’s headquarters, but UCLA was far enough away and still close to Brad Pitt. My imagination played scenes of me studying in an ivy-covered library on the East Coast. Or going to a basketball game at Duke. (Then I remembered I hated basketball.)

My mind spun until it suddenly went quiet.

I thought about lighting candles with my dad in the darkness. His fingers laced through mine watching plays in the theater. The warmth of him next to me when we said our prayers at the Basilica.

I squeezed my mother’s hand.

“I want to go to Notre Dame.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

.....................................................................

chapter thirty-two

I
t was late when we got back to South Bend and Dr. Gurung dropped us at our apartment. I watched his SUV back away and mouthed,
Thank you
to Ms. Bates through the glass. It was dark but I hoped she saw me. I hoped she knew.

My mom and I were giddy and delirious walking up the sidewalk. “There’s just one more thing I need to do,” I told her. “I’ll be back before ten, okay?”

She looked like she was going to protest, but then thought better of it. “Ten at the latest,” she said. She kissed my forehead and went inside.

I started walking the old, familiar route. Rain drizzled, and red streaks darkened the sky until I felt like I was walking through drops of merlot.