Meet Cute

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  At that point, nothing, not even subway trouble, was going to stop me from getting that poster. If I couldn’t meet Demetrius von Snufflemuffin, I was sure as hell getting an A on this project. I squeezed on between two large men (who didn’t take their backpacks off to make room for me or anyone else). The doors closed and I held my breath and we headed back to Brooklyn.

  As we made our way across the bridge this time, the sun was bright and the morning haze had dissolved into the air. Everything looked sharper and clearer. I couldn’t help feeling stupid about what a big deal I’d made over this mystery boy. People passed each other all the time in New York. Lives intersected and then diverged and went on their way. Once in a blue moon, maybe, an encounter would leave a person’s life changed. But most of the time it didn’t. And that was the beauty of New York.

  Everyone was living out their own stories.

  A backpack shoved into me as someone turned around, jolting me, literally, out of my thoughts. No—not a backpack.

  An instrument case.

  “Sorry,” a voice said. “I need to be by the window—”

  And then we both looked up, and our eyes met.

  It was him. My mystery boy. Demetrius von Snufflemuffin, right there in front of me in all his blue-hoodie splendor. He smiled. I smiled. And suddenly, I got it. I got what all the fuss was about. I got why people took unlikely chances and believed in fate and hoped for things against all odds.

  I didn’t need the numbers to prove me right. The feeling was the proof.

  Because I was looking at this boy and all I could think was, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I’d planned everything out. I’d done the math. And the good ol’ universe did what it wanted to do anyway. I guess the world is bigger than that. There were mysteries yet to be solved. And this was one of them. The day our stories finally led us to meet face-to-face was the day nothing at all went according to plan. The day we met was an anomaly.

  And he could have been a murderer, or only looked good in blue hoodies and nothing else, or his name really could have been Demetrius von Snufflemuffin. But he could also have been a really nice person who looked great in all the colors of the rainbow and have been the kind of guy who isn’t intimidated that I plan to win a Nobel Prize before I’m thirty (they don’t award them yet for mathematics, but they’ll make an exception for me). I’d never know unless I stopped imagining what he was like and actually talked to him. This was my one chance. And I wanted to. I really wanted to.

  I opened my mouth to say the most clever thing I could think of.

  “Hi,” I said. “So, how many blue hoodies do you own?”

  He laughed. And his entire face lit up. Okay, so it wasn’t my finest moment. But we were talking. And that was a start.

  PART V: CONCLUSION

  Statistics has taught me a lot about life. But I guess the most important thing I’ve learned is that there’s still room for error, and there’s a chance things won’t go the way you want them to, unless, of course, they do.

  His name, it turned out, was Dev. He took the train all the way home to Ditmas Park with me, even though it meant he would be late for school. And since I was going to be late too (thanks, MTA!), I FaceTimed Matt Bloom and gave the presentation of a lifetime from my living room. The entire class cheered when I swung the camera around so Dev could smile and wave, and I didn’t even get any points deducted for presenting absentee because, I suspected, I was Mr. Graffs favorite, and also because I wrote this conclusion and handed it in later that day with my most recent findings.

  It turns out Dev lives in Manhattan but goes to a specialized arts school in Brooklyn, which was why we passed each other on the train so often. He composes music and can play the scores to all the original Classic Nintendo games. He owns three navy-blue hoodies, but he also owns a gray one and a black one, as well as several other non-hoodie items of clothing in various colors.

  But for the entire month of May, he wore the blue ones. Know why?

  It was so I’d recognize him.

  So I guess in the end, that probably skewed my data. But like I said before, you can’t plan for everything.

  259 Million Miles

  — — — — — —

  KASS MORGAN

  I PAUSE OUTSIDE the glass door and take a deep breath. You can do this, I tell myself. This isn’t like school. No one’s going to recognize you. Or if they do, they won’t care. These people have bigger things to think about. I place my hand against the wall and take another breath. It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

  I straighten my tie then check that my shirt’s still tucked in, trying to smooth the awkward wrinkles. I bought four different shirts for these interviews, and none of them fit me right. Either the sleeves are too short, or the collar is too tight, or the seams look funny. All I want is to get through this final round, because if all goes well, I’ll never have to choose another outfit again. I’ll never have to make any stupid choices again.

  I wave the temporary pass the security bot gave me over the sensor, and the door slides open. There’s only one other applicant in the reception area, which seems like a good sign. I don’t recognize her from any of the earlier rounds, and she doesn’t actually look dressed for an interview. She’s wearing a plaid shirt and black jeans, and is sitting with one of her studded boots tucked underneath her, clearly unconcerned about leaving a mark on the cream-colored couch.

  Actually, now that I think about it, maybe she’s not an applicant. Maybe she’s someone’s friend. Or sister. I always assume that the applicants are only children, for obvious reasons, but that’s probably not the case.

  I check in with the cheerful receptionist bot at the front desk, then turn around and freeze, unsure where to go. The first cluster of armchairs is way too near the couch. It’d be creepy to sit that close to the girl. But the other cluster is too far away. It would seem like I’m purposefully avoiding her.

  I shift my weight from side to side. I have to make a decision. Just standing here like this is even weirder. Quickly, I lower myself into the farthest of the closer chairs, then pull out my tablet so the girl knows I’m not going to try to make conversation.

  She doesn’t look up, and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s fine. I’m fine.

  I unlock my tablet and make a halfhearted attempt to start my physics homework. If this thing works out, no one’s going to ask me to hand in my assignments before I leave. But I know it’s dangerous to think that way. They started with nearly twenty thousand applicants. It’s a much smaller pool now, but it’s filled with the strongest candidates. This guy I met last time is seventeen like me, but he’s finishing up a PhD in engineering at MIT.

  There’s a thick hardcover book open in the girl’s lap. A library book, I realize, catching a glimpse of the plastic wrap on the front. Her eyes don’t leave the page as she absently twirls her hair, bleached blond with dark roots. Her focus makes me feel a little guilty, actually, and I’m just about to tackle my first problem set when a flash of movement startles me. Peering over the top of my tablet, I see the girl lower her face to the book and inhale deeply. Like you’d do with a freshly baked cake, or your grandmother’s pot roast. Not some moldy library book that’s probably been in a hundred strangers’ bathrooms.

  “You jealous?” the girl says suddenly.

  I flinch, as though she’s just poured ice water down my back instead of asking a simple, albeit strange, question. She’s staring at me with one eyebrow raised, and I feel my throat close up. This has been happening a lot since the incident. It’s like my body’s way of saying, Oh hell no, we are not going through that again.

  After waiting an appropriate amount of time for an answer that’s never coming, the girl tries again. “This is one of my favorite smells in the world. Here, want to take a whiff?” She shoves her book toward me. Startled, I lean all the way back in my seat. “Wow, okay. I get that people think real books are old-fashioned, but it’s not poisonous.” She laughs,
and I stiffen, bracing for the rush of warm, prickly shame that’s become so familiar. But it doesn’t come. The girl’s laugh is playful but not mocking, and I relax slightly.

  “Sorry, I’m not going to let you peer-pressure me into huffing library books,” I say, surprising myself. Since the incident, I don’t speak without running through the options first, weighing all the potential effects. And, had I thought about it, I never would’ve said anything like this. Too many possibilities for negative outcomes. She could be offended. Or feel awkward and uncomfortable. Then I’d have to sit here, watching her as she waits for her friend so she can jump out of her seat and whisper about what just happened. And then maybe tweet about it.

  But instead of furrowing her brow, or worse, taking out her phone and ignoring me completely, the girl smiles. “‘Huff library books’?” she repeats. “I love that. I would totally huff books if I could.”

  “I saw you do it about ten seconds ago.” Right? Right.

  “I inhaled the sweet, sweet scent of aged paper, glue, and library dust. I didn’t huff the book itself. That would be amazing, though. Imagine stories going straight into your brain!”

  I pause to consider this. “I’d rather be able to remove stories from my brain.”

  “Even now? With everything that’s going on?” She gestures around the reception area. “Don’t you want to remember as much as possible, in case you’re chosen?”

  “Like library books full of germs?”

  She smiles. “Among other things.”

  A voice calls from behind us. “Blythe Cohen?” I glance over my shoulder to see the receptionist bot standing next to the door. It’s a newer model, one that uses the right inflection to ask questions.

  To my surprise, the girl unfolds her legs and stands up. So she is a candidate, I realize, feeling foolish. I almost stutter an apology for misjudging her, but stop myself just in time. She doesn’t know I’d written her off as a friend or a sibling. Though sometimes, I feel like the people around me can read my thoughts, like my awkwardness is written right across my face. It was certainly clear enough in the video.

  The girl picks a bag up off the floor and slings it over shoulder. “Good luck,” she says with a smile.

  “Yeah, thanks. You, too.”

  The girl walks toward the bot, which has glided from the desk to the door. “Blythe? Right this way, please.”

  Blythe Cohen. Why does that name sound familiar? I do a search for it and my eyes widen as they land on the results. Right. She’s the girl who invented that pioneering technique for cleaning up oil spills. When she was twelve years old. She was on all these talk shows, and even got to meet the president. I guess in that light, her casual demeanor makes sense. She’s pretty much guaranteed a spot on this thing, if she wants it. But why would she want it? Why would a girl with the opportunity to make Earth a better place be willing to leave it all behind?

  I have to wait for another ten minutes before the receptionist bot calls my name and leads me into the conference room. Ten people are already seated at the long table, although I only recognize a few of them. There’s Lauren, the program director. Tessa, the psychologist who evaluated me. And Cheung, the engineer who oversaw some of my tests, including the one where I had to put an engine together underwater.

  “Philip, good to see you. Please take a seat.” Lauren smiles warmly and gestures toward one of the empty chairs. I nod and try to sit without doing anything too awkward.

  “Thanks for joining us for the final round of evaluations,” she says, glancing down at her tablet.

  “I’m happy to be here.” For the first time, I don’t fight the tingle of excitement spreading through my body. This could really happen. In a few months, I could be leaving all this behind. I won’t have to finish that useless history term paper. I don’t have to make up excuses for why I’m not going to graduation or—my stomach twists—prom. Instead of spending the summer earning money for college and exchanging e-mails with a randomly assigned roommate who wants to bring his therapy iguana with him, I’ll be preparing for the greatest adventure in history.

  “As you know,” Lauren continues, “you’ve been monitored extensively throughout this process. We’re not just interested in your scientific aptitude, though that’s certainly an important element.”

  A blond woman leans forward in her chair. “That device you designed for collecting water is very impressive. Particularly since you had no time to prepare.”

  I nod. “Thank you.” There’s no reason to tell them that I’ve spent most of life learning how to survive in extreme situations. In the jungle after a plane crash. In an urban wasteland after the zombie apocalypse. When I was younger, it was a way to cope with my anxiety. I guess I thought that if I was smart and prepared, nothing could hurt me. But recently, it’s become more fantasy than nightmare. I want to use the skills I’ve developed. And not just to save my life, but to create a brand-new one. I’m ready to start over, to devote myself to something that matters instead of staying here, floundering in a world that fits me as badly as my new shirts.

  Lauren continues, “It’s also essential that your personality complements the other members of your team.” She glances back down at her tablet. “You scored a ninety-one in empathy, which is good, but suggests that you might have a difficult time sacrificing an individual for the good of the group, if necessary.”

  My stomach lurches at the word sacrifice. I remember some of the terrible questions the psychologist asked me. What would I do if we started to run out of oxygen during the trip? What if none of the seeds we brought were viable? How much medicine would we give to someone who was close to death?

  “Your overall leadership score is only sixty-eight, though that’s not a huge concern, as long as we balance the team properly. And . . . let’s see . . . problem solving: ninety-one. Patience: fifty-seven. That one could be a problem. But certainly not a deal breaker. Flexibility: eighty-two . . .” She goes down the list, and I do my best to maintain a neutral expression. It’s not the most fun thing in the world, being analyzed like this, but it’s got nothing on the 534,656 comments on VidHub.

  Lauren places her tablet on the table, then turns to look straight at me. “After this, you’ll complete your last evaluation, and then the committee will meet to make their final selections. So, Philip, I’m going to ask you one more time. You’re sure you’re ready for a oneway mission to Mars?”

  Images flash through my head. Saying a tearful good-bye to my parents. Joking with the reporters at the launch, knowing that it doesn’t matter what awkward things I say because I won’t be around to see people making fun of me online afterward. Climbing those stairs, strapping into my seat, and feeling the violent rumble of the rockets. Watching Earth fall away and the sky fade as the windows fill with stars. Knowing that the next time I set foot on solid ground, it’ll be in a world without oxygen, but also one without VidHub followers. Where only intelligence and bravery will matter.

  “I’m absolutely sure.”

  — — — —

  I meet with a different psychologist this time. James. He’s a cheerful youngish guy with dreadlocks, wearing a tie and the kind of immaculately pressed shirt I’m pretty sure you only get from having a team of house elves dress you every morning. “As we explained during your previous briefing, the final evaluation is a test to see how well you deal with isolation and boredom, and how you get along with others in close quarters.” He lets out a small laugh. “The shuttle is going to feel pretty small during the six-month journey.”

  “I’ll be sure to pack deodorant,” I say, wincing slightly when James gives me what I refer to as a “courtesy smile.”

  “Okay then, follow me.”

  He guides me down a series of hallways, the last of which leads to a set of frosted glass doors with the words Isolation Chamber etched onto them.

  “Did you guys build this just for this mission?” I ask, trying not to let any hint of apprehension creep into my voice. Being stu
ck in a small space is one thing. Being alone with my thoughts for twenty-four hours is another.

  James shakes his head. “We use this to evaluate all members of the space program. Though it’s a little different this time. We’re putting you guys in there two at a time, to see how you interact during a stressful situation.”

  “What’s stressful about sitting in a room for twenty-four hours?”

  “When was the last time you sat in a room doing nothing for one hour? No phone. No computer. No TV.”

  “I think you’re underestimating teenagers. We might be addicted to technology, but we’re also lazy. This sounds like a vacation to me.” It sounds like a dream, actually. I’ve spent the past few weeks staring at my phone like it’s a bomb that’s about to explode. Or rather, a bomb that’s already exploded and will continue to do so indefinitely.

  James raises an eyebrow. “I’m not speaking from my experience with teenagers. I’m speaking from my experience with human beings.”

  “Everyone all set?” a cheery voice calls. It’s Tessa, the other psychologist. When I see who she’s walking with, my stomach lurches. It’s the blond girl from the reception area. “Philip, this is Blythe, one of the other finalists. You’re going to spend twenty-four hours in the isolation chamber together so we can see how you work together as a team.”

  “We’ve met,” Blythe says, grinning at me. “He accused me of pushing drugs.”

  “What? No,” I sputter, blushing as I catch James giving me a strange look. “That’s not what happened.”