The Dating Game

by Kiley Roache

  “I don’t know.” Sara wrinkles her nose. “This sounds like an asshole thing to do. Rate humans like that. And it’s misogynistic to award one girl ‘platinum’ status over another because, what, more strangers think she’s hot?”

  “But the ratings don’t just apply to girls,” I counter, inserting myself into the conversation before Braden destroys all the work I’ve done so far. “You said yourself you hate that you can’t tell whether guys on these sites are creepy. With this system of girls rating guys back, none of the creeps who spam girls’ in-boxes will make it more than a few minutes without getting a rating so low they’re knocked out of the system.”

  “Hmmm.” She considers this.

  “It’s just like we talked about last night—the serial-killer-free dating site. It could be great.”

  “Plus...” Braden looks up from rooting through the doughnuts. “There’s a week until the presentation, and it’s the only idea we have.”

  * * *

  So we get to work. Posting up all week in Sara’s suite, we skip some of our less important classes and shower less often than we probably should. Fueled by coffee and takeout, we start to assemble the skeletal version of Perfect10.

  And by we, I very much mean me and Sara. Braden “big ideas” Hart does a lot of “supervising.”

  * * *

  “How have we been looking for the same bug for two hours?” Sara lets her head fall to the table. We are sitting in her tiny kitchen, staring at a screen full of code while a rerun of Jersey Shore blares in the background and Braden sits with his feet up on the coffee table, laughing along.

  I exhale. “I’m asking myself the same question.” I examine the code again.

  “You know what.” Sara’s head pops up. “We don’t have time for this. We have to start working on building the profiles tonight.” She pushes my computer away from her and stands up. “I’ll get my laptop from my room, and you and I will start on that.

  “Braden.” She turns toward the couch. “I need you to take Robbie’s computer and fix this bug.”

  I grimace, thinking back to the first day of class and realizing that when the people in that other group asked him how many coding languages he knew, Braden never really answered. I hope to God he at least knows some Swift.

  “Oh, I, uh...” Braden stretches his neck over the edge of the couch, but doesn’t sit up. “I can’t do that.”

  “I don’t care if you think it’s beneath you.” Sara looks exasperated. “We just need it done right now.”

  “It’s not that I think it’s beneath me.” He looks at the remote in his hands, turning it over to examine it more closely. “I just...don’t know how to do it.”

  “What do you mean?” Her tone is ominous.

  He sits up slowly. “I, uh, can’t code.”

  “You what?” Sara’s face goes red.

  I just laugh. Because, what else can I do?

  “What the hell do you mean you can’t code? We’re building an app.” She starts to move toward him, and I wonder if she’s going to hit him. I wouldn’t blame her, honestly. “Don’t you think you should’ve mentioned that sooner?”

  He shrugs. “You never asked.”

  “Are you fu—” Sara stops herself, almost shaking as she closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She continues more quietly but through gritted teeth. “Just leave.”

  “What?” He stands up quickly, and the remote clatters to the floor.

  “Just get out of my room. The grown-ups need to get some real work done.”

  “Fine.” He picks up his bag roughly. “Like I need any more reason to waste my time here.” He storms out and the door slams so hard that it shakes the wall.

  “Well then.” Sara plops down on the seat next to me. “Back to it, I guess.”

  “I mean...” I check the time. “Is it really that bad if the text doesn’t line up on such an obscure part of the settings page?”

  “Yes.” She seems shocked I would even ask.

  “The odds that Professor Thomas will trigger it when testing it out...”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She draws the computer closer to her. “It has to be perfect just because...” She shakes her head. “Because when I put my name on something, I want to know I did all I could to get it as perfect as possible.”

  I exhale loudly, but she just keeps typing.

  “It’s fine the way it is,” I say.

  “No, it’s not.” A little crease appears at the top of her nose as she studies the screen. “Wait!” Her eyes go wide. She clicks one button, testing the code, I assume. “Yes! Oh my, that’s it.” She hops out of her seat, the biggest smile on her face. She sorts of jumps up and down, giggling, she is so giddy.

  I lean over to see the screen and the perfectly lined-up sample text, and I can’t help but smile as well.

  That’s the weird thing about someone who is so overzealous about things that seem unimportant. Yes, a lot of times you find yourself shaking your head at how seriously they take the stupid shit. Annoyed at how on your ass they are about using a coaster even when your cup is foam, or scheduling when you will meet to pick the perfect font for your project.

  But then you find yourself getting excited along with them when things go right, when they align perfectly. It makes you more passionate. You start rooting for the little details, because you know it makes their heart soar, and the dumb stuff starts to make you happy too.

  * * *

  The next day, Sara lets Braden come back to work, if you can call it that, but forbids him from watching TV.

  He starts texting instead.

  Two hours into us coding, he looks up from his phone. “So how are we presenting this thing?”

  Sara doesn’t even look up from her computer. “We need to know what it is before we try to sell it.”

  “No, we don’t.” He sits up.

  “Uh, yes, we do,” she says.

  “I thought you might say that.” Braden grabs his backpack and saunters over to the counter. He unzips his bag and starts rooting through it.

  “Oh, he came prepared,” I say, without thinking. I’m sure he thinks I’m being sarcastic, but I’m genuinely shocked.

  Sara looks up. “What?”

  “Do either of you know what this is?” Braden puts a small piece of paper on the fridge with a magnet. It’s some sort of company logo, but he has replaced the name of the company with stylized text of the word logo.

  “Uh, no,” I say.

  Sara shakes her head.

  “This one?” He pins up another piece of paper, with another logo on it.

  We both shake our heads.

  “That’s what I thought.” He reaches into his bag again, this time pinning up the classic apple with one bite out of it.

  We both laugh.

  “Well, of course I know that one,” Sara says.

  “I mean, dude.” I gesture to the two open MacBooks sitting in front of us.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Most people don’t know what computer is the fastest or has the most storage or capability. Both of you are CS majors and neither of you even knew what company these were without the name—you surely couldn’t tell me if they make better computers.” He pauses, I’m assuming for effect. “Because what most people know isn’t the gritty details in the code and wiring of the thing they’re buying. They know which company had the 1984-themed commercial about beating The Man, or which one told them to Think Different in 1997. It’s a computer that’s advertised with sexy close-ups and displayed in stores with glowing counters like it’s a damn modern art gallery. It’s Justin Long, while these ones you don’t recognize are the old dude whose name you don’t remember.” He punches the Apple logo with his finger. “They know a simple logo for a simple concept—Mac is sleek, it’s smart, it’s free and it’s young. People remember that and they op
en their wallets for that. That’s what’s important.”

  “Nice speech.” Sara crosses her arms over her chest. “But we aren’t presenting to the ‘average person,’ unfortunately for you, Braden. We are presenting to an expert in tech, and he will know whether it’s the fastest, or whether, you know, it works at all, which is the risk we are facing right now. So, if you’ll excuse us, Robbie and I need to go back to coding.”

  “We are presenting to an expert in the tech business. He wants to know we can sell—it doesn’t matter what we’re selling.”

  Sara scoffs. “Says the guy who refused to work until we had an idea. Thanks, but I’m going to keep coding.”

  He sighs and joins us at the table. “Then at least put me in charge of the presentation.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to put you in charge of anything.” Sara makes a big show of turning back to her work.

  “I think we should let him,” I say.

  “What? Why?” She looks at me like I’m betraying her.

  “Because he just sold me on the idea of becoming a graphic design major for half a second, and I don’t actually want to do that at all. If he can talk like that about logos, I trust him to talk about our project well.”

  “Fine, whatever.” She grumbles. “Braden’s in charge of the presentation then.”

  “Great, thanks!” He throws his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go for a walk. Get the creative juices flowing.”

  “Do whatever you want,” Sara says.

  “Thanks, Mom.” He kisses the top of her head and is out the door in an instant.

  “Useless,” Sara sighs, scrubbing her head as if to get rid of his cooties. “I can’t believe he gets to put his name on this project too.”

  “I know.” I reach for my water and take a sip. “But hey, maybe we will get to fill out one of those things at the end.” I set back down my glass. “Group evaluations where we say who did what and how well, so we can set the record straight.”

  “Trust me,” she says. “I’ve been writing mine since day one.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sara

  “Dude, it’s time to go to sleep,” Braden says. He slides the cup of coffee, now cold, away from me.

  I hold up my hand to signal this is not an option, not taking my eyes off the screen. My fingers are poised above the keyboard, at the ready. “There has to be some way to make it better.”

  “Dude, it’s due at midnight, and it’s—” Braden checks his stupid diamond watch “—eleven-thirty. If you try to ‘fix’ something, you could ruin the whole damn thing. Just let it go.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me how close we are to the due date. I keep looking from the clock on my microwave to the clock on my computer, as if one might be different.

  Braden tilts back the chair he is sitting in and rests his feet against my kitchen table in a way that seems dangerous.

  I’d tell him to sit up, but I’m not sure I’d be sad if he fell. “But—”

  “Sara.” Robbie shakes his head.

  I slump into my chair. I expected negativity from Braden, but if Robbie is saying it, it might be right. “I just...” I turn the computer toward them. “It looks like a Myspace page or something.”

  “Well, yeah, it’s not pretty,” Braden says. “But I can BS that in the presentation. At least it works.”

  Robbie and I share a look.

  “What was that—?” Braden sits up, his chair making a loud noise as the two legs return to the floor. He narrows his eyes. “It does work, right?”

  I look toward the ceiling. “Well...”

  “Most of the time,” Robbie clarifies. “It just, well, it crashes very easily.”

  “How easily?” Braden is indignant.

  Robbie bites his lip. “When there’s more than five users.”

  “What?” Braden looks back and forth between us. “Don’t you think he’ll test for that kind of thing?”

  “Hey,” I say, my voice stern. “Those who don’t code do not get to complain.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Braden grabs his laptop and swiftly closes it, then slides it under his arm. “I need to go work on my presentation. It’s gonna be quite the task to pass this literal piece of shit off as gourmet chocolate.”

  He storms out. Robbie and I stare at each other as the sound of the slamming door rings in our ears.

  “That was a pretty gross metaphor,” I finally say, standing up to get a glass of water.

  “Yeah.”

  I lean against the sink and sip my water. “Are we totally screwed?” I ask.

  Robbie considers this. “Maybe he will reward us for the ambition of the project we took on.”

  I make a face. “He said he wanted to fail people. I don’t think he’s one to give points for trying.”

  “Yeah.” He examines the Chinese menu on the table in front of him.

  “Do you want to go with me tomorrow when we have to change majors?” I ask.

  “It’s a date,” he says.

  I smile. And I feel warmth in my heart, a sort of relief, that I can smile despite how screwed we are. That he can make me smile.

  * * *

  The next day, I file into the classroom along with the other students who arrived before the doors were unlocked. I pace for a while until I spot Robbie walking through the doors. I cross the aisles toward him.

  “Where would you like to sit?” I ask.

  “Wherever you want.”

  I point to three open seats in the fourth row. He nods and walks toward them. I look around. “Of course Braden isn’t here yet.”

  “Well, at least he’s consistent,” Robbie says as he sits down.

  I manage a small smile. “It’s tough to spin that boy positively.” I take the seat next to him and breathe deeply, trying to calm the nervousness running throughout my body. It feels like there are Pop Rocks in my blood. I set my bag down at my feet and adjust my skirt.

  I always try to dress extra nice for presentations and tests. Dress for success, as they say. Or in this case, I’m dolled up for my own funeral.

  Other groups file in, some carrying big signs and posters for their projects. Most are talking to each other quickly and loudly, the whole group eager and engaged, like a well-oiled machine. Few look worried.

  My phone buzzes.

  Yaz: Good luck today, superstar!

  I smile. I had mentioned how busy we were with the project, especially with midterms for other classes coming up. I start to type a reply to explain how bad things have gotten, then sigh and delete it. I decide on a simple Thanks we need it instead. Her typing bubble pops up right away, but I click my phone on airplane mode before she sends the reply. I can’t handle disappointing Yaz right now, on top of everything else.

  I will just text her after.

  “I think I may throw up,” I whisper to Robbie.

  “Really?” His eyes go wide.

  “Yeah.” I half laugh. “You might want to sit far away from me.”

  “Nah.” He smiles. “Just, you know, try not to.”

  My eyes flicker toward my lap, and he reaches for my hand.

  At his warm touch, my heart speeds up. A different kind of nervousness. The emotion is so overwhelming and unfamiliar that my initial thought is to pull my hand away. To use it to cover my now-red face. But something about the stakes of the day makes me bold. Instead of pulling my hand away, I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he says. “You’re brilliant, and you built something brilliant.”

  “We built it,” I correct. I look at his hand, woven in mine, and suddenly my nervousness starts to dissipate.

  “Yeah, let’s just hope Braden remembers to present it though,” he says. “There’s only five minutes until class starts.”

  Aaaaa
nd the nervousness is back. “I’m going to kill that boy.” I look back toward the door. “You may actually witness a murder.”

  “Witness? Who says I wouldn’t help you?”

  Seconds before class starts, the door in the back of the classroom swings open, and Braden saunters in, wearing a suit but no tie and holding a laptop under his arm.

  “Didn’t want to cut it a little bit closer?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “I like the suspense,” he says, shimmying into our row. He stares at our still-interlocked hands as he passes. “All right then.” He raises his eyebrows.

  The back of Robbie’s neck turns red and he pulls his hand from mine. My heart sinks. Is he embarrassed of me? I use that hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, hoping the stinging tears in my eyes aren’t visible.

  I can barely focus through the first few presentations. I keep glancing at Braden, hoping to see him studying slides or flipping through notecards like everyone else in the auditorium seems to be doing. But he just watches the other speakers, as calmly as if he were watching a TV show and not about to go up there himself.

  As the third presentation ends, I lean forward to see Professor Thomas’s reaction. His face remains blank and his arms stay folded across his chest, just as he was at the end of the other presentations. We are royally screwed.

  Eventually, our names are called and Braden saunters up to the front of the room. He takes his time setting up, fiddling with the adapter as he plugs his computer into the projector. He has no note cards.

  “There are seven billion people on Earth,” Braden begins. I hold my breath. He clicks a remote and a slide appears—a picture of the globe. “More than half of those people are women. You would think, with odds like that, I wouldn’t be single, and yet...” He opens his arms. “Believe it or not, ladies, I am.”

  Heat rises in my chest. What the hell is he doing? But to my surprise, a number of people laugh. I sit a little taller. And something magical happens. In this auditorium of upperclassmen and business school students, Braden’s smug, annoying demeanor comes off as confidence.