by Liza Palmer
“So, I guess I just wanted to let you know that I am absolutely positive you are not, in fact, here on some undercover reporting gig, but that you do indeed need that entry-level position at my company after all.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” I say.
“It is.”
Chris and I stand in silence for what feels like an eternity, until he gives me a final nod and an attempt at a smile. I respond with what I hope is a breezy smile and turn around. I set my travel mug on top of the beam, shove my workbag back behind me, fall to my knees, and once again crawl under the beam as Chris looks on.
“Do you need some help?” Chris asks from behind me.
“Nope, I got it.” I hoist myself up as effortlessly as I can.
“Most people just hop over it,” he adds.
I walk down the hallway. The rage inside me is building. I need to scream. I need to punch something. I need to scream and punch something. I look into the Fortress of Solitude. It’s empty. I check the tablet and see that the next meeting doesn’t take place until 10 A.M. I look back at Chris’s office and see that he’s back behind his desk, bending down to gather his things for whatever flight he’s supposed to be catching. I slip inside the Fortress of Solitude and close the door behind me.
I ball up my fists, tighten my entire body, open my mouth, and let out an explosive silent scream that lasts until I am gasping. I bend over and put my hands on my knees, close my eyes, and focus on catching my breath. Minutes pass and finally I’m able to stand, my breathing normalized. I straighten my workbag, tighten my grip around my travel mug, and reach for the door. Before I turn the latch, I whisper to myself, “I’m going to bring that motherfucker down.”
I pull open the door, walk past Snoopy, down the stairs, through the main area, up the stairs, and plop down at my desk, my workbag still slung across my chest and my travel mug still clutched in my barely caffeinated fingers. Thornton and Hani both look up. I set down my coffee, pull out the pad of paper from my workbag, tamp down my swirling emotions, flip the pages until I find the list of names. I cross out Jason Chu and Jon Tyner. I focus on the name Meera Rao.
“Who is Meera Rao?” I mutter to myself.
Thornton stands up and walks over.
“Is this the next step?” he asks, holding out his hand for my pad of paper. But once he takes a look at the coded writing he pulls his hand back.
“Wait, is this what you guys were talking about yesterday at Field?” Hani asks. I look at Thornton. Trusting one person is hard enough, but I don’t know if Hani can stand to keep anything to herself if her life depended on it. I also know that Hani has a degree in computer science from UCLA. She would know how to decipher any code or whatever it is that I’d need if I wanted to understand anything about the computer part of this very tech-heavy path I’m headed down.
“How good are you at keeping secrets?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m terrible at it. Phew, I’ve just been on the other end of it too many times, you know? People keeping secrets from me and then when I finally get a line on a live one, I just … I just feel bad for the person who doesn’t know, you know?” Thornton and I are quiet. “Was that the wrong answer?”
“Do you remember Elise? From yesterday?” I ask.
“You mean the most beautiful woman in the world?” Hani asks. Thornton and I both can’t help but smile. “I’m sorry, but she is. She just is! She lights up a room. Sunshine. Pure sunshine. I don’t know if she … you know, likes girls? But, I mean we could be just friends, too, it would … I mean, maybe it would be enough? I just want to be around her, you know? Getting ahead of yourself, Hani! First off, we’ve got to see if Mrs. Pennybaker likes her. Then we’ll cross all those other bridges.”
“Do you know where she sits?” I ask.
“I can find anyone. You want me to see if she’s free?”
“That would be awesome,” I say. Hani leaps up and is immediately jerked back by her headphones. Laughs hysterically, takes the headphones off, sets them next to her computer, and hurries toward the stairs. She stops and turns around.
“And then bring her back here?” Hani asks. Thornton lets his head fall into his hands.
“Yes, please,” I say. Hani gives me a huge thumbs-up and bounds down the stairs.
“She means well,” Thornton says, rolling Hani’s chair over and sitting down.
“I know, but I am definitely wary of letting her in on all this,” I say, twisting open the lid on my travel mug and finally, finally taking a long sip. It is delicious.
“So, who’s Meera Rao?” Thornton asks in a whisper. The graphics department is huddled around in their daily morning check-in. From the balloons and the cupcakes, it looks like today is one of their birthdays. The raucous noise is actually perfect to obscure our conversation.
“She was in Chris and Asher’s Caltech class. They were on the same team for their Senior Ditch Day. Their team was Chris, Asher, Jason Chu, Jon Tyner, and this Meera Rao. Jason and Jon are pretty well documented. Entrepreneurs, start-ups, supermodel girlfriends, thoughtful interviews talking about how down-to-earth they are … the whole nine. When I mentioned them in my little 9:30 meeting, they didn’t flinch.” My voice is as quiet as his. We continue to speak in barely audible hushed tones. I don’t tell Thornton about what Chris said to me when it was just the two of us. I haven’t figured out if I’m not sharing what he said because it’s not pertinent, or because I’m ashamed of how much it got to me.
“But she was different?” he asks.
“She’s got no social media presence. She’s mentioned in one article in The California Tech, which is Caltech’s little newspaper. And it’s just that she, Asher, and Chris built the best go-kart and won this goofy race. But the picture … they looked like friends.” The realization takes my breath away. “Oh my god.” I open up my computer.
“What?” I sign in and retrace my research steps from last night. But then … I stop. I pull my hands back from the keyboard.
“This is a Bloom computer.”
“Yeah.”
“They’ve gotta track where you visit,” I say.
“Oh, definitely,” Thornton says.
“Shit,” I say, quickly closing all of my windows.
“What’s going on?”
“It was there the whole time. Right in front of us,” I say, pulling out my phone from my pocket. I remember the research breadcrumbs from last night, finally sniffing my way back to the California Tech article with Asher, Chris, and Meera smiling wide in front of their ramshackle homemade go-kart. I show the photo to Thornton. He reads the caption.
“Holy shit,” he says.
“Chris. Asher. Meera,” I whisper, my finger pointing to each initial.
“C. A. M.” His voice is barely audible.
“CAM.”
12
Blood Oath?
“You guys will never guess it, not in a million years,” Hani says, breathless from her run up the stairs. I instinctively flip my phone over on my desk. “I said, you guys will never guess it, not in a million years.” Elise walks up the stairs behind Hani, a tad out of breath. A look over to me. These kids and their boundless energy, the look says. Oh, I know. I know.
“Can you give us a hint?” Elise says, plopping down in Hani’s chair. I see Hani notice that Elise is sitting in her chair and her face flushes. When she speaks, her voice cracks.
“Yes! Okay! Now, that’s the kind of audience interaction I’m looking for,” Hani says, slightly losing her train of thought. We wait as she gazes at Elise. I clear my throat. “Right! It’s something at work!” Hani lunges down into a “ta-da” position, throwing her hands up into the air.
I want to yell out, “Is it that this whole company is built on a lie?”
“Is this about the ball pit?” Thornton asks.
That’s perfect.
“Yes!” Hani says, jumping up into the air. “Isn’t it wonderful!? Caspian is taking photos and there’s even a slushy machine!” Ha
ni ambles around the loft. “This is the best day of my life.” Thornton, Elise, and I all react in similarly lukewarm ways. “What? What … could possibly be more important than a ball pit?” Thornton looks over at me.
“So, I need your help,” I say.
“Wait. Wait. Is this a secret, you know I’m bad with secrets. Please don’t entrust them to me. I wasn’t supposed to even tell anyone about the ball pit, but I told Caspian I’d keep it a secret and I literally ran up here and couldn’t tell you fast enough. I played the guessing game, but we all know I was going to maybe go another … what? Two rounds and then just blurt it out. Couldn’t wait. Thornton already knew, but he always knows stuff. All of your reactions were a bit disappointing, TBH, but…”
As Hani paces and monologues about the unrivaled majesty of a ball pit, I ask myself why I’m even talking about this with them at all. The overconfident voice inside me yells out something about thinking these three people are super temporary and insignificant, so might as well use them for what I can. Another, far more guarded, cautious voice, warns me off them completely. You can go it alone, Joan. Don’t risk it. You’ll be fine. You always have been. You’ll figure it out. They’ll screw it up. A third tells me that I shouldn’t drag them into this mess. They could be fired, they could be blackballed, they could be hurt. They’re at the beginning of their careers, do I really want to give them a black mark on their work history so early?
But, bursting up through the cracks brought on by lovely self-reflection that I’m, you know, I guess, thankful for, there’s a new voice in the arena now. One that I envision standing in between all the other voices with its arms outstretched, keeping them from killing one another. This new voice speaks of a gray area and leaving my comfort zone and maybe not playing everything safe. Maybe try to trust Thornton, Elise, and Hani, as long as they earn it. To give myself the chance to be thoughtful and discerning and not be the overly grateful workhorse who does whatever it is you ask her as quickly as possible. To take my time and understand that I’m capable enough and confident enough to weather any growing pains, all while recognizing the benefits of having a team of people with different skills. That the unease I’m experiencing isn’t about Thornton, Elise, and Hani. It’s that sneaking feeling that keeping this story to myself, in the end, will only shine a light on my limitations.
Elise is a computer genius, Hani can find anyone anywhere, and Thornton has been at Bloom since the beginning. This means he knows the ins and outs of the company, and would be able to finesse any networking with other employees we might need. Meaning, Mackenzie won’t give me access to Chris’s or Asher’s offices or calendars, but she would definitely let Thornton do whatever he wanted.
Looking at it on a logistical level, the story will be far better researched and more thorough with their involvement. They can give me expert advice on the ground so I can navigate the momentum of the story as it’s happening. I’ll ask smarter questions and get more in-depth answers. Not only will they know what a server farm is, they’ll know what to do besides stand outside one and say, “Yep, that’s a server farm.”
I’ve researched everything from the Russian mob’s tattoos to the ins and outs of local zone permitting, plus the secret methods used to bribe a small-town councilwoman. But this story is something else entirely. Chris and Asher have hidden the perfect crime at Bloom inside an inexperienced workforce hopped up on ball pits and expensive beer. What actual tech there is at the core of the company is known by only a handful of overworked and siloed thirtysomething social outcasts who’ve been put in positions where they don’t interact. Not even with the other thirtysomething social outcasts. No one sees the whole thing. No one knows where all the bodies are buried. That’s how this ongoing scam has been hidden (almost) in plain sight.
Plus, I like hanging around Thornton, Hani, and Elise. Isn’t there a place for community in all this? Or should I—with this fun, newfound, crippling introspection—look at why I’m on the cusp of befriending the Millennial 2.0 version of my actual, age-appropriate friends when I’ve just been not-so-gently reminded that I need to work on my communication and intimacy skills?
Jesus, maybe the question I should be asking is why they should trust me.
In the past, this is right where I would drop off the grid for as long as it took until the story was finished. I’d roll out my old whiteboard, turn my whole house into one of those murder walls—index cards, crime scene photos—and survive off of Cheerios and tea, shambling around my house in stained shirts and yoga pants that hadn’t seen an actual yoga class in months* (*years). The people in my life would govern themselves accordingly, they’d check in now and again with a text that they’d see me when I “came out of the cave.”
But what I never allowed myself to see was that this arrangement wasn’t working for the people in my life. For me. For anyone.
How have I existed on so little for so long? But I guess that’s what all of this is about. How I do one thing is how I do everything. I only asked for the lunch drinks of friendships. I only asked for the lunch drinks of family bonding. I only asked for the lunch drinks of stories. I only asked for the lunch drinks of my own talent and skill. I only asked for the lunch drinks of dreams and goals. And I only asked for the lunch drinks of myself.
“It’s not a secret. It’s more of a puzzle,” I say.
“A puzzle?” Elise asks.
“A secret puzzle?” Hani adds.
“Nope, just a puzzle puzzle,” I say. Thornton closely watches the back and forth.
The thing is, Hani could yell from the rooftops that “that lady who can’t work the coffee machine” thinks CAM doesn’t work and literally not one person would believe her or care. While I may adore Hani, I’ve noticed that she’s not the most popular of kids here at Bloom. Her open-hearted exuberance is often met with disdain in this social gladiator’s arena where the top champion is the one who acts like they care the least.
The thing that we all have in common is that our unpopularity (minus Thornton, of course) gives us the ability to work utterly in secret simply because no one gives a shit about us or what we do or say.
If you want to keep a secret, tell it to the unpopular kids.
“I like puzzle puzzles,” Hani says, almost to herself.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be a part of a crime-solving band of misfits?” I ask.
“What did you just say?” Hani asks.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be a part of a crime-solving band of misfits?” I repeat.
“I swear to god if you are joking me right now—”
“I am not joking you right now.” Thornton puts his hand over his mouth, hiding what is most certainly a growing smile. He stands, walks back over to his computer, and clicks and taps as we talk.
“Crime-solving?” Elise asks. “Please expand.”
“I’ve checked out the Fortress of Solitude conference room. Shall we continue the discussion over there?” Thornton asks, gesturing toward the stairs. Hani runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Thornton, Elise, and I are careful and quiet as we follow her.
Just as I previously noted, the Fortress of Solitude conference room is only big enough for two chairs. When the rest of us arrive, Hani is standing in the corner.
“I want to be the one who cracks all the jokes.” We all look over at her. “There’s always a wisenheimer in a crime-solving band of misfits. I’m just saying, I would like that to be me.”
“I think we can arrange that,” I say. Hani pumps her fist. Thornton closes the door behind us and leans against it. Elise and I sit in the two seats.
“This is the only conference room with no shared walls, no cameras, and no teleconference hookups. It’s as close as we’re going to get to the most secure option,” Thornton says, turning the lock on the door.
“This is so cool,” Hani mutters to herself. Elise crosses her arms across her chest. She’s waiting for me to explain what the hell is going on here.
“Back in the day I worked as a journalist. I’m telling you this so you know not only what I bring to the table, but also that I intend to write a story about all this—if it does turn out to be true.”
“If what turns out to be true?” Elise asks.
“I am not good at trust.” I sneak a quick look at Thornton. A smile. “So, before I tell, may I ask that, if you don’t want to be involved in this, you simply opt out and keep what we’ve talked about here confidential.” Elise nods that she agrees to those terms.
“Blood oath?” Hani asks, pulling a small, pink Swiss Army knife from her pocket.
“No, I think a simple nod or yes will suffice,” I say. Hani nods. “Thank you.”
“You’re making me nervous,” Elise says. Hani thinks Elise’s words are about her and quickly pockets the Swiss Army knife.
“I know. I have that effect on people,” I say. They laugh. The room gets quiet. “I believe that the CAM algorithm doesn’t work.” Elise uncrosses her arms. Hani is quiet. Too quiet.
“Joan has a couple of leads, one of which is a woman named Meera Rao. She believes that Meera is the M in CAM,” Thornton says.
“I’ve never heard of her,” Elise says.
“But CAM stands for ‘Contains All Materials,’” Hani says.
“What if it doesn’t?” I ask.
“What if it does?” Hani asks.
“Okay, we can … I think they made that up after Meera distanced herself from the company. Probably because she realized that the algorithm didn’t work and wasn’t super cool with being part of a company that was built on a lie.”
“Why do you think CAM doesn’t work?” Elise asks, keeping us focused.
“All of the breadcrumbs I have right now don’t really add up to much. I just want to find Meera. Ask her some questions. If it’s a dead end, then this is over. If it’s something? Then…”
“What if we get caught?” Hani asks. Her voice is quiet and serious. Thornton and Elise look from Hani to me.
I want to blurt out a thousand reassurances about how nothing we’re doing is technically worthy of firing. We’re just asking some questions. But I realize now that I’m splitting hairs and making excuses. Hani has worked her whole life to do well in school and get a job exactly like the one she has now. And I’m asking her to put all of that in jeopardy because I have a “hunch.” She deserves an answer worthy of all that she’s risking. As I’m about to speak, Thornton beats me to it.
