An image of the two of them kissing passionately on the bed in Molly’s room popped into my head. “Are you still seeing her?”
“Yes.”
I managed a nod. “I’m going to go.”
“Okay. I really am sorry.”
I got out of there as quickly as I could.
Molly wasn’t my girlfriend. Basquiat wasn’t fooling around with my girlfriend behind my back, and Molly wasn’t cheating on me. But it sure felt like they were.
As I headed down Basquiat’s driveway, I spotted Molly standing by the big white birch on his front lawn.
“I’m so angry at you,” she said without turning.
I stopped in my tracks. “You’re angry at me?”
She turned to face me. “You talked about me behind my back. I’m used to people thinking what I believe is stupid, but I never thought you’d say mean things about me behind my back.”
“It wasn’t mean. I just said that I—” I caught myself. No, it had been mean. Not hateful, but snide and petty. I’d said I couldn’t understand how someone who understands science could live in a fantasy world filled with mind readers and flying saucers. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Molly looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “You know why I think it hurt so much? It used to be us talking behind other people’s backs.” She laughed. “You know?”
“Yeah.” I smiled, remembering those late-night phone conversations. Sometimes we’d both be doing other things, not even talking, but the silence was never awkward. Once Molly started seeing Blaze sophomore year, the conversations stopped. For some reason they didn’t start up again after she broke up with him.
“Can you talk to Basquiat the way we used to talk?” I knew it was the wrong thing to ask, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just curious.”
“That’s not really your business.”
I folded my arms, turned toward the street. “Fine.”
Molly rolled her head back and stared up into the tree. “I don’t want to argue with you. I know what you’re asking me, and in the spirit of the truth machine I’ll give you an honest answer. But you might not like what you hear. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you, back when we were having those marathon phone calls. A few times I came close to telling you I’d changed my mind about us.”
That revelation left me a little stunned. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re sweet and easy to talk to, and I love your energy and the way you can get so excited about something. But you’re a boy. Basquiat is a man.”
The words stung. They sank into me like acid. “Just because I don’t have hair bulging from my armpits doesn’t mean I’m not a man. Basquiat looks like a man, but he acts as much like a boy as I do. We have the same sense of humor, a lot of the same interests. We’re best friends. We used to be, anyway.”
Molly grasped my elbow, stopping me. “Let’s not do this, okay?” She squinted at me, pleading with her eyes. “You’re my friend. I miss talking to you every day. I was hoping we could get back to being like that, now that we’re working together. Now that my father isn’t living at home, I could really use a friendly voice, you know?”
“Things rough at home?” Molly had always been close to her dad. Her mom suffered from migraines and mood swings, and didn’t have much energy for Molly. Her dad had moved out six months ago, after her mom discovered he was having an affair.
“She’s worse since my dad moved out. Always has a headache, or claims to, spends most of the time in bed.” Molly’s nose was bent slightly to one side. More than slightly, actually, although I’d never really noticed before. It might account for the hint of nasal in her voice, as if she was always fighting a cold. “So it’s settled? You’re my best friend again?”
“I’d love that. Any time you need me, day or night, I’m here.” The “boy” comment still stung, and it would be hard to be friends with her, knowing Basquiat was her boyfriend, but I’d do anything for Molly.
“Do you want to keep working on this project, after all this?” Molly asked.
“I do. Don’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“We were supposed to have the garage sale tomorrow afternoon so we could buy the parts to start miniaturizing.”
“Maybe things will calm down by then.” She pressed one palm over her eyes, shook her head. “I can’t believe I embarrassed Rebe like that. It’s just, she was taking such joy in embarrassing us.”
“She definitely has issues.”
Molly laughed through her nose. “Unlike the rest of us.”
We hugged; then I headed home, still thinking about what Molly had said. What did that mean, exactly, that I was a boy? Would I be a man when I was twenty? I didn’t think that was what she meant. I think in her eyes I’d still be a boy when I was thirty. I had trouble imagining what a “mature” me would look like. Would I stop joking around? Stop liking comic books and indie music? Would I become interested in mutual funds and patio furniture? I mean, I was the driving force behind inventing a new technology. How was that boyish?
I suspected a lot of it had to do with how I looked. When I reached puberty and people, relatives especially, still talked about how cute I was, I knew I had a problem. The combination of a baby face and a five-foot-five-inch frame is not ideal.
When I rode up the next morning, Theo was standing in Rebe’s driveway, a bulging paper bag tucked under one arm.
He nodded a greeting, his expression grim, his mouth a tight line. “It’s locked. I was going to call you, but I figured you’d be here any minute.”
“Have you knocked on the front door?”
“No.”
Of course he hadn’t. Theo did not do confrontation.
“Why don’t we give that a try?”
Theo followed me up the small strip of concrete with weeds on one side and overgrown shrubs on the other.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
“I baked a loaf of sourdough bread last night. I thought it might help everyone.”
The guy who hadn’t uttered a harsh word to anyone baked a loaf of bread to smooth things over. And it would be awesome bread—Theo was as serious about baking as he was about microelectronics.
Basquiat rolled up as we reached the stoop, so we waited for him before knocking. Strength in numbers.
Rebe answered, a coffee cup in one hand. “Find somewhere else to work. I’m out.”
“Come on, Rebe, don’t be that way.” Basquiat had this singsong Caribbean accent he used when he wanted something, and he used it now.
Rebe held up one hand. “I can’t work with Molly and Boob.” She looked at me, her eyes half-lidded. “I can barely work with you.”
“I understand you’re angry, but this is business.” Basquiat gestured toward me. “Look at Sam. He’s so angry at me he can’t even look at me. You don’t see him bailing.”
Rebe’s eyes were smoldering. “Sam can do what he wants.”
Basquiat pressed his palms together. “Can we please use your garage, at least? That way if you change your mind, we’ll be right here, and if you don’t, we’ll pay you rent once we have cash coming in.”
Rebe made a sour face. “I don’t want to see their faces every day.”
“Just for a week,” Basquiat pleaded. “Until we can find somewhere else.”
Rebe closed her eyes. “Fine. Just leave me alone.”
“Who’s going to get us time on quantum computers if she’s out?” Theo asked as we headed around to the garage.
Steal us time on quantum computers, he meant, but I got his point. “I don’t know.” We’d have to bring someone to replace Molly.
“What if the others don’t
show?” Theo checked the time. “They’re twelve minutes late already.”
“Molly said she’d come.”
“What about Boob?” Theo asked.
“What else is he going to do? It’s not like he can get a summer job.” No one under eighteen was allowed to work—whatever jobs existed were for those who had families to support, or so the logic went. The law was pointless anyway. Who was going to hire a seventeen-year-old when fifty people with experience were waiting in line?
“I hope he’s looking at it that way,” Theo said.
Molly’s mom’s car pulled up, and Molly stepped out. As the car pulled away from the curb I waved to Mrs. Burroughs, but she was looking straight ahead and didn’t notice, or pretended not to. I didn’t take it personally—Mrs. Burroughs kept her distance from everyone. I’d actually talked to her maybe twice at most.
We filled Molly in on the latest drama before getting to work.
After last night I wasn’t as enthusiastic about unleashing the truth machine on the world, but I still needed the money. The only reason the bank hadn’t foreclosed on our house was because no one would buy it from them anyway. Maybe that was a crass way to look at it, but I couldn’t afford to be all philosophical about the truth machine. Not that Theo could either, really.
Boob showed up a half hour later.
At a little after eleven, the inside door swung open and Rebe stepped out. She went to work without a word.
Theo and I exchanged a smile.
We worked in silence, only speaking when it had to do with the project. At noon I took a break for lunch, cutting off a slice of Theo’s bread before reaching for one of the energy drinks lined up on the table. Someone had replenished our supply, but neglected to peel off the labels. Dozens of President Vitniks smiled at me with that wide, plastic grin that didn’t reach her eyes. Without a word, I peeled off all the labels.
Her face was everywhere. There were Vitnik steaks and Vitnik champagne, Vitnik resorts, Vitnik bubble gum. All her products were tax-free. Most people had no problem with that. Mom said before the war—before parts of Manhattan and Boston were leveled, and Russian troops controlled the West Coast for almost a year—people questioned their leaders more. It got worse only ten years later, when the Russians got revenge on us for winning the war by tanking our economy by hacking brokerage accounts in huge banks and making intentionally awful financial transactions in the banks’ names.
I let the silence stretch on for an hour before finally breaking it.
“Are we doing this garage sale or not?”
No one answered.
Rebe finally noticed I was looking at her. She shrugged. “I told you I would. You have to spend money to make money, and I’m doing this for the money.”
She wasn’t doing it for the company, in other words.
I put my hands on my hips. “Why are you mad at me? I didn’t say anything to you. If anything, I should be mad at you.”
“I’m not mad at you.” Right. Rebe could barely look at me, but she wasn’t mad at me.
I looked at Boob. “Are you in?”
“Yeah,” he huffed.
I didn’t ask Basquiat. I still didn’t want to speak to him.
Boob agreed to transport the stuff to the shopping center parking lot across from the courthouse, where we figured we’d have the best luck. Mom said the reason garage sales were called that was because people used to have them in their driveways, and people would drive to the sale. Back then, even people who were looking to buy someone else’s old clothes had a car. Hard to believe.
A familiar beat-up Ford Shockley pulled into Rebe’s driveway. I hurried to greet Mr. Chambliss as he stepped out, but Molly beat me to him, hugging him fiercely.
“Whoa! Down, girl.” Mr. Chambliss patted Molly’s back, looking supremely uncomfortable, until she let him go. The rest of us left it at a handshake.
Mr. Chambliss squinted at us. “Do I detect a little tension in the air? Usually I can’t get a word in because of all the banter.”
You couldn’t get anything past Mr. Chambliss.
“Artistic differences,” Rebe said.
“Yeah, well, cut it out. You’re making me uncomfortable.” Mr. Chambliss looked into the garage. “So this is where it’s happening—the double-top-secret project.”
“Once we’re finished, you’ll be the first person we show it to,” Theo promised.
Mr. Chambliss went on peering into the garage, as if seeking clues to what we were working on. “It’s a nice setup, but it’s missing something.”
He stepped to his car, popped the trunk, and lifted out a blocky piece of machinery.
“A 3-D printer.” Theo rushed forward as if he was going to hug the printer as hard as Molly had hugged Mr. Chambliss, but he pulled up at the last minute and caressed it with his good hand instead. “Fan-tastic.”
“I was using it in the lab at school, but it’s actually mine. I figured you could use a 3-D printer no matter what you’re working on.”
Theo turned to us. “He gets a share. Mr. Chambliss gets a share.”
Boob made a choking sound. “A full share, for a 3-D printer?”
“And an MRI?” I reminded him.
Mr. Chambliss pressed one finger to his chin. “Well, technically that wasn’t mine to give….” Not that anyone would miss it, now that the Science and Technology Scholars program was no more. It was amazing it had lasted as long as it did, with President Vitnik’s administration canceling every public education program in sight. Maybe it was because the program had the word technology in it, and anything technology was good.
“Won’t you need the 3-D printer for school in the fall?” Molly asked.
“Nah. I got canned.”
“They fired you?” Rebe shouted.
Mr. Chambliss shrugged. “With your program canceled, I’m expendable.”
“You can live off your share of the company,” Theo said.
“I appreciate the gesture, but that’s okay. You can just name the thing, whatever it is, after me: the Chamblometer.”
He had no idea. I could see it in his face—he thought we were working on some silly little variation, some slight improvement on the existing MRI. “Well, if you change your mind, the offer’s always good.”
Mr. Chambliss nodded thanks. All we needed now was to raise enough money to buy a SQUID.
A guy with a bushy beard was trying on my dress shoes. I felt a little sick. Seeing people handle my things, stash them in backpacks, and walk away was much harder than putting them in the “sell” pile had been. I was going to be down to the bare minimum, able to carry everything I owned on my back like the people in the homeless camps.
This better work. We’d better be able to shrink something the size of a car battery to the size of a ring. We’d better be able to track a moving head, and shield the weak signal from interference from people’s phones and microwaves. There were still so many obstacles in the way.
“Afternoon, ladies. Welcome to our science project sale.” Basquiat smiled at two women in badly worn clothes, probably a mother and daughter from the town plaza homeless camp, which was just down Main. He and Molly were in charge of public relations; Rebe negotiated prices. The rest of us were working security, making sure no one stole anything.
“Did you see Congress passed legislation in the middle of the night making it a felony to ridicule a federally elected official?” Theo asked. “Now you can be jailed for calling Vitnik names.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t see that. I try to avoid the news as much as possible. Following this stuff just makes me miserable.”
Theo pointed at me. “But that’s exactly what they want! They want you to not pay attention.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t paying attention.” I laughed at my own joke. Theo just shook his head sadly.<
br />
I put a hand on his shoulder. “If we can’t laugh once in a while, they really have won.”
“I’ll laugh when Vitnik is in prison.”
Boob joined us, probably wondering what I was grinning about.
“We need to decide on a name,” I said.
“I thought we’d settled on ‘the truth machine,’ ” Boob said.
I made a sour face. “That sounds so lame. What about ‘the truth app’?”
“But it’s not an app,” Theo said. “You can’t download it—it comes with hardware. How about ‘the truth engine’?”
“ ‘The bullshit detector,’ ” Boob said, which got me and Theo laughing. He lowered his voice so the others couldn’t hear. “I’m still rattled by last night. I didn’t sleep.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m not sure I could take having people point those things at me all day long.”
“It might be good, once we get used to it,” I said. “Either that, or it would be complete hell.”
That got a laugh.
“Can someone get us more water?” Basquiat called.
“I’ll do it.” It was the first thing I’d said directly to Basquiat since last night. I was still angry, but it hurt to be angry at him. Sometimes it felt good to be angry at someone—it felt right, and filled me with a hot energy, like fire feeding a steam engine. Being mad at Basquiat felt like the fire was burning me.
I grabbed the big thermos and headed for the water station near the homeless camp.
If the rest of us didn’t quite fit the stereotype of smart kids (with the possible exception of Theo), Basquiat was the anti-stereotype. He was on the football team. He was good-looking and charming. He could have claimed his place at the lunch table of the social elite of Clarkstown High long ago. Instead, he stuck with us.
When Eddie Reich started spreading a rumor that Rebe stuffed her bra with toilet paper, Basquiat pinned him against a locker and promised to pound him to jelly if he didn’t apologize to Rebe. Even though I had arms like pipe cleaners, I’d never been bullied in school, and I was pretty sure that was because Miller Basquiat was my best friend. On top of all that, the poor guy had lost his little sister when he was eight, when she fell off their deck. It was tough to stay mad at him. He deserved a mile of slack. But Molly…How could he hook up with Molly behind my back?
The Future Will Be BS Free Page 4
