If You, Then Me Page 4

  The week before I left, Gina and her family threw a small party for me at her family’s restaurant. It was a homey Italian place, the kind with checkered tablecloths and wine bottles hanging on the walls and waiters wearing white collared shirts and black waist aprons. They served pasta on huge platters and salad dripping with dressing and warm bread in cloth-covered baskets. My mother had acted indifferently toward the party while we were getting ready, but ended up wearing her fancy clothes, which meant that it was an important affair. She sat next to me and chatted with our neighbors, smiling and laughing occasionally while eating spaghetti. Gina’s mom made a toast while Gina and her brothers whooped and cheered in the background, saying how proud she was and how much she’d miss me. My mother listened, her eyes glistening in the light, and without looking at me, she reached over and held my hand. When dinner was over, she handed me a box wrapped in gift paper that read Happy Birthday! Inside was a laptop, brand new, top of the line. I stared at it in awe.

  “You’ll need it in California,” she said.

  I swallowed and squeezed her hand. It was her note to me, telling me that she believed in me.

  Four

  California first appeared as a beam of light on the horizon. I watched it take shape through the little oval window by my seat: parched, golden mountains flexing up beneath the clouds. Then streets etched into the hills, stretching all the way to the silver rim of the ocean. Buildings rising through the fog. Then the white, faded sun of San Francisco.

  The Foundry had taken care of all my travel arrangements, even reserving a driver who was waiting curbside in a black SUV with my name written on a little sign in the windshield. It was the nicest car I’d ever been in: six leather seats all for me, a flat screen, and a minifridge stocked with energy drinks. The windows were tinted, and through them I watched the city stretch into lazy, sprawling suburbs lined with trees. They swayed in the wind, looking like a frame from a black-and-white movie through the tint.

  I felt excited but nervous, and checked my phone out of habit. It was the one familiar thing I had left. I messaged my mom, telling her that I’d gotten in fine, then opened BitBop. The night before, I’d told ObjectPermanence I was leaving, despite the fact that it didn’t change anything because our friendship was situated outside the realm of geography.

  SENT MESSAGE FROM U/ARRAYOFLIGHT:

  I’m writing to say goodbye. Well, not really. Ironically, you’re the only person I don’t have to say goodbye to since you basically reside in my pocket. I’m moving and transferring to a new school. It’s a boarding school, but not in the traditional sense. I’ve wanted to go there my entire life, but now that I’m about to leave, I’m scared. It feels like I’m starting my life over again. I have to make new friends and figure out a new place all on my own. But mostly, I’m worried that I won’t be good enough. This school is really hard to get into and is going to be filled with smart people. What if they made a mistake letting me in? What if I can’t keep up? I know I’m smart, but when I look at the real tech geniuses of the world, I know I’m not on their level. I guess what I’m saying is, wish me luck.

  NEW MESSAGE FROM U/OBJECTPERMANENCE:

  You do realize that those tech geniuses have at least twenty years on you. (That is, unless you’re secretly forty years old.) Seriously though, everyone’s a no one before they’re a someone. Honestly, I bet everyone going feels the way you do.

  I’m switching schools this year, too, so I know what you’re going through. It’s just across town so it’s not like I’m moving away from my family and friends like you are, but I’m still nervous. I can’t tell anyone that, though. I’m supposed to pretend like I’m not scared, not show any emotion because it would be perceived as weakness. Maybe we’re all just pretending to be the people we want to be. If we’re pretending all the time, is there really a difference? What I’m trying to say is, good luck, though I don’t think you’ll need it.

  PS—It’s comfortable here in your pocket.

  I blushed. I’m switching schools this year, too. Was it possible? I read his message again, looking for clues that might signal that he was going to the Foundry, too, but stopped myself. Lots of people switched schools. It didn’t mean that he was going to my school. Besides, he’d said that his wasn’t a boarding school; it was just across town. He could have grown up in Silicon Valley, which would make the Foundry a school across town, but it seemed much more likely that he was just switching schools in his neighborhood.

  Outside, we passed a sign that said Welcome to Palo Alto. I rolled down the window and tried to stop thinking about ObjectPermanence.

  Palo Alto was just as I’d dreamed it: lush and breezy, with colors so vivid they looked enhanced. Tangles of flowers cascaded over houses and pergolas. Water from sprinklers undulated in the lawns, creating a halo of light in their spray. Cars gleamed in their driveways, reflecting the sky in their windshields.

  We pulled up to a gated property draped in thick, blushing flowers. Nestled into the vines was a glass sign: The Foundry.

  The gate opened to a manicured estate studded with orange and lemon trees. A stucco mansion stood at the end of the driveway. It had a terracotta roof and breezeways lined with fanning palms. It looked more like a resort than an incubator, and I suddenly felt nervous. It was easy to imagine wealthy people walking around in white robes and expensive sandals, sleeping with cucumbers over their eyes, and eating exotic fruit with toothpicks. If my mother were here, she wouldn’t be intimidated. She wasn’t scared of anything, and I wished that she’d told me what her secret was.

  “Wiser,” I said, waking my phone. “I don’t think I belong here.”

  “Belonging is a social construct,” Wiser said.

  I frowned, unsure of what she meant. “Some people do belong though.”

  “Only because we believe they do.”

  A cheerful man in a gray T-shirt bearing the Foundry’s logo was standing in the driveway, greeting people. He looked into the car and smiled at me. “Welcome,” he said, and directed us down the driveway.

  The girls’ and boys’ dormitories stood across the lawn from each other, both stucco houses covered in climbing vines. They were bustling with families unpacking cars and carrying luggage inside.

  The driver unloaded my suitcase from the trunk, and I stood at the curb while other people’s parents marveled at the campus. I suddenly felt aware that I was alone, that my turtleneck was too heavy for the warm weather and looked dingy in the sunlight, that my mom would never have a car as nice as the ones lined up in front of me, and that even if she were here to help me move in, I still wouldn’t fit in.

  “Wiser, I need a pep talk.”

  “If you put your mind to it, you can do anything,” she said.

  “A better pep talk. Something to calm my nerves.”

  “You can’t have courage without fear.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t I program you to be a little more specific?”

  “The bravest people aren’t those who have never been scared. They’re people who keep pressing forward in the face of danger, humiliation, and hardship.”

  Danger, humiliation, and hardship. I shoved her in my pocket. “Great. Thanks for the reminder.”

  A family pushed past me up the steps, carrying a large trunk. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and followed them inside.

  The inside of the dormitory looked like a living room out of a real estate photo. Found your best start-up in this updated modern dream house! Complete with a gas fireplace and custom cream couches, engineered to repel stains. Enjoy an energy drink while looking out onto a one-of-a-kind view, a self-manicuring lawn, the very first in existence!

  A girl was checking everyone in at a folding table. She looked like a character in a video game with her nose ring and dyed red hair, and, like an avatar, she didn’t seem pleased at the prospect of sitting at a table making small talk.

  “Welcome to the Foundry,” she said in a perfunctory tone. “I’m Kit, your reside
nt advisor. I live in room one. I’m here to provide support during the program.”

  Kit. Before coming I’d studied all of the previous fellows from the last twenty years. Her name sounded familiar.

  “I recognize you. You were one of the fellows from a few years ago, right?”

  “2014. Didn’t win,” she said without looking up. “Name?”

  “Xia Chan,” I said, blushing. “Sorry. I bet your idea was really good though.”

  “You don’t have to try and make me feel better,” she grumbled while she typed something into her computer. “I’m working on a security start-up. I just do this for the free housing.”

  “I only meant that—” I began to say when she interrupted me.

  “Room six,” she said, and handed me an envelope.

  “Thanks.”

  I dragged my luggage up the stairs and stole glimpses of the other rooms in passing. They were all filled with families hanging posters and rearranging furniture, further emphasizing that I was by myself.

  My room was on the second floor at the end of the hall. It had slanted ceilings, a nook for my desk, and two big windows that overlooked the lawn. Sun stretched across the floor, warming the wood. Though it wasn’t filled with people, it felt perfect.

  Through the walls, I could hear the other families laughing and chatting. With no one to talk to, I opened Wiser and asked her questions to keep me company while I unpacked. It was a habit of mine.

  I didn’t have much in the way of belongings. A few of the newspaper clippings of Mitzy Erst from my room, which I taped over my bed, and two drawers of clothes, which I tucked into my dresser. When I was finished, I sat on the bed and opened the envelope Kit had given me.

  Dear Xia,

  Welcome to the Foundry. As one of the brightest minds of your generation, you represent the future. At our incubator, we strive to provide everything you need to achieve your highest potential. Our objective here is to change the world for the better. We hope you’ll start today.

  We believe that the best things in life require no instructions. Likewise, you will receive no instructions here. Enclosed is your Vault, which contains everything you’ll need. Don’t lose it. If you need anything in the meantime, just ask. You’ll know how.

  Warmly,

  Lars Lang

  No instructions. Adults always wanted to tell me what to do, so the idea of a school explicitly stating that they weren’t going to was jarring.

  At the bottom of the envelope lay what looked like a business card. My name was printed on it: Xia Chan, Foundry Fellow. It looked like it was made of heavy paper stock, but when I picked it up it felt firm and cool, like metal. I turned it in my hand. The surface rippled ever so slightly.

  Could it be? I pinched the corner of the card and watched as the paper undulated beneath my touch as though I were pressing on plasma. It was a screen.

  I ran my hand over my name and the letters dissolved. New words appeared in their place.

  Welcome, Xia. Hold your finger to the center of the Vault.

  Beneath it, an oval appeared. I did as it instructed.

  Fingerprint installed.

  The text dissolved again and was replaced with five icons: a tree, a door, a coin, an arrow, and a lock. One by one, I touched them.

  The tree was the Foundry’s logo, and took me to my student portal, where I could access my grades and assignments. The door transformed my Vault into a key. One end gave me access to my dorm room; the other end said Universal Foundry, which I assumed gave me access to any door in the Foundry.

  I touched the coin and a balance appeared.

  Xia M. Chan

  $150,000.00

  Beneath it, a sixteen-digit number appeared, along with a magnetic band and chip, turning it into a credit card.

  I blinked at the number. It had to be an example of how the device worked; that couldn’t actually be the balance on the card. Could it? And yet, there was my name, written above it as though it were mine.

  My stomach fluttered. It was an unfathomable number, as much as my mother made in four and a half years as a professor. I did some quick math. 13.8 years of rent. 58.6 years of groceries. 72.3 used 2005 Toyota Corollas. 166.6 new phones. It couldn’t be mine. Who would give someone like me that much money?

  I was about to click on the arrow icon when I heard an odd humming outside my window. It was too mechanical to be a bird and too loud to be an insect, unless I was vastly underestimating the size of the insects in California, which made me shudder. I slipped the Vault into my pocket and approached the sill.

  The window was cracked open and a gentle breeze blew into the room, making the branches of the tree sway. I peered through them when something flew into the glass.

  I jumped back, startled. It was a drone, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. It had two electric nodes for eyes, and four propellers whirring like a strange bug. It hovered for a moment, staring at me, then dipped away. How long had it been there?

  I hurried into the hallway, following the direction it was going in, when a girl opened the door two down from mine.

  “Did you see it, too?” she asked. She was short and bookish, with tightly curled black hair cropped close to her head and big, horn-rimmed glasses that made her look like she was dressed up like an adult.

  “It flew right up to my window,” I said. “I think it had a camera. Did you see its eyes?”

  “That can’t be allowed. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

  I stole a glimpse into her room. It was mostly empty, just like mine, except for a poster of a map that hung over her desk. I tried to make out what the map was of when I saw the drone dip back past her window.

  “There!” I said.

  We ran into her room and watched it tap the glass. A group of boys were standing on the lawn below, smirking, while one of them controlled it with a remote.

  “They’re spying on us,” she said, staring down at them with disgust. “They think it’s funny.”

  “Hold on,” I said and opened her window. I pulled the elastic out of my hair and stretched it back, aiming at the drone. I let go and watched with satisfaction as the band hit the drone and got tangled in one of the propellers, making it tilt precariously to one side before it faltered and dropped, crashing to the ground below.

  My neighbor stared down at its mangled parts in awe. “Good shot,” she said.

  The boys stopped laughing and ran over to the drone. “She broke it,” one of them said and looked up at us. He was tall and preppy, like a young heir. He looked like he was used to getting what he wanted in life. “Do you know how much this thing cost?”

  “If you wanted to keep it, you shouldn’t have flown it in my window.”

  “You crashed it. You’re paying for the replacement.”

  “I’m not paying for anything,” I shouted, feeling my throat tighten. How dare he blame me? “You’re lucky I’m not reporting you for invading our privacy and being general perverts.”

  One of his friends whispered something in his ear, and my neighbor took the opportunity to shut the window, quieting their voices.

  “Well, they seemed nice,” she said, cracking a smile. “I’m Amina.”

  I took a breath to compose myself. “Xia.” I noticed then that her room was notably empty of parents. “Are you alone, too?” I asked.

  She looked relieved at my question. “Yeah. My parents had to work, so I flew in by myself.”

  “Me too.”

  “From where?” she asked.

  “Massachusetts,” I said.

  “New York,” Amina said with a smile, as though we were from the same place. Being so far from the East Coast made it feel like we were. “Can you believe this place?” she said. “On the way in I picked a plum from a tree and ate it. An actual plum tree. I thought it was fake, like those decorative trees they have at the mall, but it was real. And it was the best plum I’ve ever had. The kind of plum that makes you realize that every plum you’ve had in the past wasn�
��t really a plum, you know?”

  “I don’t even know what a plum tree looks like.”

  “I didn’t either. I had to look it up to make sure.”

  A warm breeze drifted past us from the other window, perfuming the air with the sweet aroma of fruit. “Do you smell that?” she said incredulously. “Do you know what the air smells like in New York? Like garbage. Garbage and dog doo.”

  “In Worcester, it’s car fumes and burnt rubber.”

  “On a good day, cooking meat.”

  “Freshly laid pavement. You know how it smells kind of sweet?”

  Amina laughed. She told me she grew up in a big Nigerian family without a lot of supervision and spent most of her time exploring New York on her own, getting lost in unmapped places. She’d always wished she’d had a way to trace her steps, so she made one. She’d always wanted to start her own company, but she’d never been interested in California like I’d been. It was too pretty there, too perfect. Why weren’t there any bugs? Why wasn’t the grass itchy? It was suspicious. She didn’t trust people from California. They were too tan, too happy, always talking about the weather like it was some kind of achievement, like they had personally discovered the sun. And what was even more annoying was that they were right. It was beautiful.

  I told her I didn’t trust people with perfect teeth, which made her laugh. Then I nodded to the map over her desk, which looked like an ancient map of the world, surrounded by drawings of the sky and angels. “What is that?”

  “It’s from Joan Blaeu’s Atlas Maior.” She pushed up her glasses. “He was a cartographer. He drew what I think of as the first three-dimensional map, with the sun and the sky and the earth all in one drawing.”