by Kiley Roache
Even when I’ve thought it might be better to just pay someone to get her across the border, they refused to hear it, worried that getting caught trying to cross could set her case back even further. They have so much faith in the system.
“I know you want to be together now,” my mom says. “But it is much better for your father to keep his job. To save this money, to get a lawyer. I’ve looked it up, and people online say it’s like night and day, if you have a lawyer. If I have one, I could be living with your father by Christmas next year. We just have to be patient.”
My father is silent, sipping his beer and listening to her talk. I wonder if he believes as much as she does.
“I know you are frustrated, mijo—”
“We’ve been at this for years, Mom.” I interrupt her, in my frustration doing something I normally would never dream of.
“Yes, so we should be able to make it a few more months,” she says. “Plus it doesn’t seem so bad when you consider that I am only forty-two and I want to live until ninety, and do that in the US.”
“Supongo que sí.” I pick at my food.
“It’s not that much time, mijo. Lo prometo. I will be there soon.” She shakes her head, as if she can dismiss any worries just like that, and smiles warmly. “Now tell me, how is school?”
I tell her about the project and how well the meeting went with Thatcher Bell. I avoid talking about Sara. Complaining about not being with the girl I have a crush on seems petty, if not cruel, when talking to people who can’t be with the one they married because of me.
It seems so crazy that an invisible line, almost arbitrarily drawn, could have this power to separate people who love each other for years at a time. It doesn’t seem fair or just.
We talk late into the night, and at the end of the call I wave goodbye to my mother, wishing more than anything that she was here so I could hug her and she could kiss me good-night on the forehead. I would tease her for needing to go on her tiptoes, since I’m taller than her now, and tell her it embarrasses me. But secretly, I’d be happy to have her fussing over me, ecstatically happy to have her back.
I fall asleep dreaming about money. About fancy lawyers who specialize in immigration. About plane tickets to Mexico. About a house for my parents in the suburbs.
I wake up and email Braden and Sara ten more schools where I think we might be able to launch the app.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Braden
I wave to Robbie and Sara through the crowd.
“Yes, that’s right,” I say into my cell phone. “I’m trying to inquire about the status of a bus I ordered—it should be heading from Warren to Berkeley. And no I will not hold. I’ve been on hold for the last fifteen minutes.”
I cover the receiver with my hand as Sara walks up. “This is ridiculous.”
Over her shoulder, a large black coach bus pulls up to the curb. “Just kidding, bye,” I yap into my phone before ending the call.
“What’s going on?” Robbie asks.
The doors open and the girls pile off, most of them in short skirts and tank tops, or football jerseys and short shorts, as I detailed in my email.
“Yeah, Braden,” Sara says. “What is going on?”
“I sent you guys an email about this, didn’t I?” I say. The first girl off the bus, a beautiful blonde with a Victoria’s Secret–type body, walks up and shows me her phone and Platinum status. I hand her a ticket to the game, a ticket to our tailgate and fifty dollars, as promised.
“The first seventy-five girls with Platinum status to RSVP get a free trip to the bowl game, an invite to our tailgate and a small payment.”
“I thought the point was to invite University of California students to the tailgate,” Sara says, “so they’ll join the app. What’s the point of inviting people who already use Perfect10?”
I keep handing out tickets and cash, not looking at Sara. “It shows the Berkeley people that the people on the app are hot.”
She scoffs. “You definitely did not email us about this.”
“Huh, must have forgot to send it,” I say. More like decided not to, thinking it would be easier to deal with her reaction in public, and when it was already too late to cancel. “A pleasant surprise then.” I smile as a Rihanna look-alike steps off the bus. “Happy New Year’s to us all,” I say.
Once all the girls are off the bus, we head to our tailgate. I rented out the nearby lot using my own money, like I am for this whole event, since we don’t have investment yet.
“This is awesome,” Robbie says as soon as we are in view.
There are large banners adverting Perfect10 as well as cute pop-up posters that say “Valentine’s Day is around the corner. Who wants to be your date?” and “No midnight kiss? No way that happens next year!” and a few football themed ones like “Score with Perfect10.” There is also a DJ stand, open bar and piles of free T-shirts, buttons and stickers with our logo. And, of course, a tent for Sara, Robbie and I to post up at, and try to pitch the app to as many suckers as possible.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Hmph,” Sara says.
My temporary employees are milling about, clinking longneck bottles of beer and wearing Perfect10 T-shirts a size too small. I must say, our logo stretched across their chests is a beautiful sight.
“Was this really necessary?” Sara asks. She doesn’t specify what, but she is staring daggers at two girls spraying bottles of cheap champagne at each other, so I can make a guess.
“It’s not like we’re the first brand to use models to sell our product.”
“They aren’t models—they’re Warren students.” We get to the founders tent and I walk around the back, but she doesn’t follow, instead standing in front of the folding table and staring me down.
“They’re here to be pretty—they’re models.”
She just looks at me.
“Hey.” I reach out and lift her chin with my finger. We texted nonstop all winter break, and I didn’t search for solid Wi-Fi all over the French Alps just to mess things up now. “You’re the most beautiful woman here. And you’re not a model, you’re a freaking founder.”
A smile curls edge of her lips. She walks around to my side of the table.
* * *
Our first potential customer is a Cal freshman boy who weighs about 110 pounds. He walks up to Sara immediately.
I sit down to let her take a stab at the business side for a change, and it turns out she isn’t half-bad. It doesn’t hurt that the freshman is half paying attention to what she is saying and half drooling over her.
She points to her phone, but he’s looking at her chest. “Well I have mine on demo mode, but it would normally be your own picture here...”
The boy nods, still in a trancelike state. I stifle a laugh.
“...do you wanna download it? Okay, great! Use this code to start at Silver! Bye!”
Sara turns to me as he walks away. “I think that went well!” she says.
“I’d say so.”
She wiggles her shoulders, sitting up a little taller. “I bet I get more people to download it today than you do.”
“I doubt it...” I say, but my attention is across the yard, where a Very Drunk Girl is trying to climb the DJ stand with a red cup in her hand, presumably to request a song. Jesus. Is this what The Chainsmokers have brought us to?
A phone starts to ring, and I look away from the girl. It’s odd to hear a phone on full sound nowadays.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” Robbie says. He takes a few steps behind the tent and starts speaking in Spanish.
I half listen, and am happy to know I am not too rusty. But then I get distracted once again by the girl, who I think has a Cal Bear temporary tattoo upside down on her face, as she verbally assaults our DJ. I’m debating getting up and saying something when she loses her balance a
nd spills her full beer on the DJ, or, more precisely, on his MacBook.
The music fades with a zapping sound.
“Oh shit!” I stand up.
“I’m on it!” Sara pops up and runs across the yard.
What the hell was I thinking, watching this build in slow motion—I should’ve kicked that chick out as soon as she stumbled into our area. Sara has reached the DJ stand and is talking with him. I don’t know what she’s saying, but there are a lot of hand motions involved.
“Sorry about that,” Robbie says, falling back into his chair. “What’s going on?”
His face is flushed, and I can’t help but think about the tidbit of information I learned at the beginning of his call. “Your mom lives in Mexico?” I ask. I peel the edge of a Perfect10 sticker off the plastic table with my thumbnail. When he doesn’t reply, I look up.
The color has drained from his face. “You speak Spanish?”
Across the yard the music starts back up.
“I speak three languages,” I say. “You guys think I’m dumb just because I’m bad with computers.”
“Just don’t tell anyone, please?” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I...I don’t want people to make a deal about it. Pretend you didn’t hear, okay?”
“Whatever, man. My parents barely live in this country either.”
“That’s different.” He glares at me.
I open my mouth to respond when Sara bounds up. “I had to give him my phone to play on, but we are back in action. I told him we would cover a new MacBook.”
“Awesome,” I say.
A few feet away from the table, a cluster of girls hover, holding Bud Light Lime-A-Ritas and eyeing us.
“I think they’re too shy.” I nod toward them.
“Mine!” Sara whispers. “I call them.” She continues this competition against only herself.
“Knock yourself out,” I say.
“Hey, guys!” She waves the girls over. “Do you wanna hear about the app?”
She reaches over and picks up my phone from the table.
Oh no. I reach forward, but she’s already holding it and turning back to them. I realize just a second too late what is about to happen.
“So it’s pretty easy to use, but I’ll show you,” she says. She is super bubbly and energetic, a great salesgirl. “Oh perfect, it’s even in the recently used.” She taps the phone. “So this version will look a bit different because...” She cringes and tilts her head away from the screen like she’s seen a ghost. She quickly recovers, flashing the girls a sweet smile, ever the professional.
“Actually it’s not in demo mode. How cool!” She smiles too big. “You guys will get to see the real thing.”
Fuuuuuuuuuck. This is not great. This is really, really not great.
She finishes the presentation and gets two of the three girls to download the app. “Make sure to grab a T-shirt, and tell your friends!” She waves after them.
When they’re just far enough away, she turns on her heels and stares me down. I’m surprised her glare doesn’t burn a hole in the ground below me. I’d fall straight through to the center of the earth.
“You have an account.”
“Yeah.” I lift my shoulder, attempting a natural shrug. “But like...from before we were a thing.” My voice is really high. Why is it so high?
“I can see your chats.” She holds up the phone. “You talked to someone two days ago.”
“About the business of the app. I was telling her about the event.”
She tilts her head, keeping her eyes on me. “Do you wanna read through the messages together and see if they’re professional?”
Beyond her, Robbie leans back as far in his chair as humanly possible, clearly not wanting to be around for this conversation. It reminds me of my reaction around my parents.
I sigh. “Okay, fine. Maybe I shouldn’t have still been flirting, but we never actually said we were exclusive.” I grab the phone from her before she spikes it at the ground, or worse, reads more. “But here, I will delete it.”
I hold up the phone, and show her that I really am deleting the app. “There.”
“So, then, are we now?” She puts her hands on her hips. “Exclusive?”
“Yeah,” I say. “If you want. Do you wanna be?”
“I do.” Her tone does not soften.
“Well then cool, I guess you’re my girlfriend.”
“I guess so.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You really know how to ruin even the nice moments.”
“I’m rough around the edges,” I say. “But that’s why you like me, right? You’re the one who redeems the bad boy.”
I hold my breath. She shakes her head again, but this time she’s smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sara
Greek Row looks strange in the daylight. I’m headed back from class and decided to take the long way around so that I can think. I’m not even sure what I need to think about. But something’s been making it hard to sleep, making my skin itch, and I can’t pinpoint what.
I take a deep breath. Calm down, Sara. It’s probably just new semester jitters.
I make my way down the sunny street. There are a few guys playing beer games on the lawns, unsurprising because it’s not like anyone has much homework yet, and a few sorority girls tanning themselves while reading large chemistry and math textbooks.
Ahead on the sidewalk, a couple is talking. It’s clearly not a pleasant conversation. There’s a lot of arm waving and tense body language. As I get closer, I can hear bits of what they’re saying. “It’s over—get it through your head,” the meathead, gelled-hair type guy yells. I wonder if it’s too late to cross the street and walk on the other side.
His new ex begins to cry. Poor girl.
She turns her head, and I recognize her. Oh no, poor girl that I know.
Colleen sobs as the guy walks away, gets in a Jeep Wrangler and peels away down the street, speakers blaring. She folds into herself and crumples down to the sidewalk. The Greek Row sidewalk, where people spill beer, vomit and pee each weekend.
No, no, no. This will not do.
“Hey there,” I say as I approach.
Colleen glances up before letting out another sob and hanging her head. She sounds like a small animal caught in a trap.
“Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” She raises her head, and there is fire in her eyes.
Uh, not really. “What happened?” I say instead.
“I was just dumped.” She gestures down the street. “What does it look like?”
“I’m sorry.” I squat down so I’m at her level.
“He was my most stable hookup, Sara.” She whips a hand across her now-red face. “And now he’s done with me.”
“There will be other guys,” I say.
“There will not be other nine point eights, Sara. Do you know how few of those exist?” Her gaze bears down on me. “I haven’t slept in two days, my status is slipping, and I’ve been up half the night on that dumb app, trying to get my score to stabilize.”
I recoil. I didn’t even know she was on Perfect10.
“You of all people know that the algorithm rewards you when a high-ranked person says yes to you. What do you think is going to happen when he logs in and unmatches with me?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
“This is going to cost me my Gold,” she says. “No one in my sorority is a Silver, Sara. My life is ruined.”
Oh gosh.
“Your life is not ruined,” I say, as nicely as possible. I reach out to pat her on the head.
She just lets out another sob in reply.
“Let’s get you up.” I take her hand, but she doesn’t budge. “Maybe we could get some coffee? Or I could walk you home?”
“
What’s the point?” She buries her face in her hands and continues to cry.
I look around, but no one else on the street has budged. Some girls are watching us from across the street, but don’t seem like they’re gonna help anytime soon.
A black Escalade stops at the curb in front of us. The back window rolls down and Braden peeks out. “Need a ride?” he asks.
* * *
I pause for a second. To be honest, I’m still kind of mad at him about the app thing. Since we became official boyfriend-girlfriend, we’ve barely talked.
I mean, I’ve barely talked. He texts me, and I send one-word replies. I just can’t get one of the messages I saw out of my head. A few days before the game, while I was home with my family and my mom was joking about how smitten I seemed with this boy I was texting, when I thought something real was forming between us, he was chatting with her. And he wrote, I heard that Smiths song again today, thought of you.
Like first of all, please. Braden doesn’t listen to The Smiths, he listens to Drake. Trying to be Fake Deep by saying he listens to old music—classic fuckboi.
And second... It was so emotional. I guess I would have expected something more purely physical. Knowing him, I would have guessed that before we were together, he’d been sending sleazy texts to girls. It’s seeing him send sweet things that hurts the most.
Also, he sent her a heart emoji. And not even the two small pink hearts that are more friendly. The red heart. The love heart.
From the sidewalk, Colleen lets out another sob.
“Yes.” I turn to Braden. “Yes, we would.”
Braden gets out to help get Colleen into the car and hands her a bottle of water. She cries during the entire ride, but we manage to get her back to the dorm and into her room.
“You should sleep,” Braden says.
Colleen sniffles and nods as she climbs into her twin extra long. Her room is neat, not as clean as mine, but good for a dorm. And she has all these prints of poems on her walls. I don’t know why I expected posters of pop songs or celebrities.
