If You, Then Me

by Yvonne Woon

  “You’re still here,” he said inexplicably.

  Was I imagining him or had he really said that?

  Had it been any other party, I might have said something witty to assure him that everything was fine. I might have felt self-conscious about the chunk of hair on the left side of my head that was noticeably shorter than the rest, and tried to tuck it behind my ear, but all I could manage to do was cry.

  “Let’s get you home,” he said.

  He called a car and gave me his coat, which I ended up hugging to my chest as he helped me into the back seat. His coat smelled so good, like a wooden cabin surrounded by meadows.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

  “Looking for you.”

  I didn’t understand. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “You told me. In your message.”

  I looked at him and felt all of the fragmented memories of the last two years align. “It was you?” I whispered.

  Mike gazed at me with a mixture of apology and longing.

  “But during Truth or Dare you said you never saw 2001: A Space Odyssey.”

  “I liked listening to the soundtrack. I never told you I’d seen the actual movie.”

  My mind was racing then, so much so that I felt dizzy. “You were at the theater that night.”

  “Kate got suspicious after the Dare Me game and was checking my messages without me knowing. She read your message before I knew it came in and saw that you’d asked to meet at the Stanford Theatre. She deleted it before I could see it and suggested we go to the movies. When we saw you, I didn’t know you were waiting for me. I thought you were just there on your own.

  “I found out later, when you asked me why I didn’t show up, that Kate had been reading our messages in secret. We got into a huge argument and she told me that I had to choose her or you. We ended up breaking up. That’s when she posted your messages online.”

  I hugged his coat to my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “After everything that happened this year—the drone, AJ’s welcome dinner stunt, the picture of him kissing you at the party, which I saw Kate take and said nothing, and then her posting your messages online—I was embarrassed. I didn’t think you’d be happy if you found out it was me.”

  It was too much information; I didn’t know what to do with it all. The car pulled up in front of the girls’ dormitory and we reluctantly slipped outside into the brisk California night. There was nothing to do but go back to our respective rooms, but neither of us moved.

  “Did you ever think I was here?” I asked him.

  “There were a few times where I wondered if you were at the Foundry, but I figured it was too big of a stretch and didn’t want to get my hopes up,” Mike said. He stared at me with the same look he’d given me at the party when Kate had asked him who else he wanted to kiss, and I felt my legs grow weak.

  “Are you happy it’s me?” he ventured.

  His eyes were soft and pleading, and for the first time I felt like I was gazing at the culmination of every word and thought and hope that had been sent through the unknown into my screen. Of course I was happy it was him. I was finally looking at ObjectPermanence, whose face I had never known, but now made so much sense—who was wholly new and familiar, a collection of magnificent pixels that I’d been studying, trying to piece together, at long last cohering.

  “I am,” I whispered. “Are you happy it’s me?”

  His hand found mine in the dark and drew the letter O on my wrist, sending a shiver up my arm. He leaned in and kissed me, his lips soft and warm, a perfect fit, just as I’d imagined.

  Then footsteps on the walk.

  I turned to see Mast walking down the path toward the boys’ dormitory. He stopped when he saw us and froze in place. For reasons I couldn’t articulate, I pulled away from Mike.

  Why? I was finally with ObjectPermanence, the boy I’d dreamed about meeting for almost two years, and he’d turned out to be just as beautiful and complex as I’d imagined. And yet.

  Mast studied me as though he was looking at me for the last time, then retreated across the lawn. And though we’d broken up months ago and I was still angry with him, I couldn’t help but feel like a part of me had walked away, too.

  Mike glanced between us. “Is everything okay?”

  “I . . . um . . .” The truth was, I didn’t know what to say. “No. I just—”

  “You’re not sure about me,” he said, completing the thought that I couldn’t bring myself to say.

  I swallowed, wishing it weren’t true. How could I not be sure about him, when I had been so certain that he was the only person who could ever understand me?

  “I’m not sure about anything,” I said. “I just . . . need some time to think.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I can give you that.”

  I handed him his coat and he lingered on me for a moment, his face closing itself off, folding back into the way it was before I’d known he was ObjectPermanence, and suddenly he was just Mike again. A kind but distant stranger. “Good night, Xia.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  Twenty-Nine

  They simplify everyone’s story. They tell you that if you have a good idea and work hard you’ll achieve success. They say that when you meet the right person, you’ll know. They promise that true love solves everything.

  They’re lying. The truth is, there are no roadmaps or right choices, no perfect mentors or saviors. The paths your idols took closed behind them and you’ll have to grope around in the weeds, trying to cut your own way through. The truth is, there is no one right person, no soul mate. You can meet two people and love both at the same time, for different reasons. You can be confused and make the wrong decisions, and even if you get everything you wanted, you can lose it in an instant.

  I wasn’t prepared.

  The problem with the physical world is that you can’t just delete your mistakes and start over. What would I even delete? And where would I start?

  I’d always thought that meeting ObjectPermanence would be the best moment of my life. I didn’t know what was coming. I didn’t know that I would meet a boy named Mast, who would see the best version of what I could be. I didn’t know that searching for ObjectPermanence would chip away at me, making me question if what I had was really what I wanted.

  “Wiser,” I said, opening my phone and telling her about what had happened. “What should I do?”

  “Have you tried distracting yourself?” Wiser said.

  “Sort of. Not really. Nothing’s working.”

  “Perhaps immersing yourself in schoolwork would be beneficial during this time.”

  Though I knew she was right, school was the last thing I wanted to focus on. Reminding myself of how derelict I’d been wasn’t going to make me feel better. “I guess so.”

  “If all else fails, have you considered treating yourself to a decadent night in? Hoster’s Take-and-Bake Brownies can turn any evening into a celebration.”

  I rolled my eyes. The worst part was that brownies weren’t a terrible idea. If I’d had more money, I might have bought some.

  “Can’t afford it.”

  “How about streaming this season’s biggest hit, Darrius Hulk, Tomb Hunter, now available in HD 4K? Entertainment Weekly gave it four stars and called it the movie of the year—”

  I closed Wiser mid-sentence. I had ruined her, too.

  Despite my irritation with her advice, I ended up going to class. It was remarkable how the world continued to go on even when my personal universe had fallen apart. In a way, nothing had changed. I couldn’t fix my ill-timed haircut, so I pinned the chunk of hair back so no one could see it. The excitement over my leaked messages died down as everyone got ready for the end-of-the-year Venture Capital Showcase. AJ still snickered in the back with his friends. Mike was as beautiful as ever, leaning on one fist while he took notes like he was a living Renaissance sculpture. He met my eye as I walked in, his expressi
on both warm and sad. We didn’t need to talk; we knew each other so well that all he had to do was look at me to tell me he was still there. I could feel his presence behind me, a question that needed answering. Amina still sat up front, taking diligent notes, and Kate and Seema looked prim and perfect while they chatted in between classes. And of course, there was Mast, whose gravity pulled me toward him despite my best efforts to look away. He was just a boy in a faded T-shirt and beat-up sneakers, typing into a computer—so why did everything always seem to return to him?

  And then the news broke.

  I was in fifth period when my phone exploded with notifications. Around me, the quiet shuffle of people surreptitiously checking their phones filled the room. Kate and Seema glanced in my direction, as did Amina, who gave me what I could only read as a concerned look. I opened Façade. Dozens of strangers had tagged me in repostings of news articles, all with a variation of the same headline: “Daggertype Founder Mitzy Erst Arrested, Charged with Embezzlement and Fraud.”

  Time slowed. The air rippled around Ms. Perez’s finger, which she held in the air, pointing at a graph on the whiteboard.

  I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. I stared at the headline and the accompanying photo of Mitzy, a corporate headshot that smoothed her over and made her much plainer than she was.

  It had to be a joke. Another one of Mitzy’s publicity stunts. She couldn’t be arrested; she was untouchable, celestial in both her weaknesses and strengths, delineated from everyone else with a golden thread. Didn’t they know that?

  I clicked on all of the articles, desperate for more information, but they were surprisingly thin. After being tipped off by former business partner, Darren Olstaff, federal investigators have arrested Mitzy Erst for embezzling money from corporations with whom she had been contracted to work in an advisory capacity, and for committing fraud while purportedly assisting in securing funding for young start-ups.

  The sentence reverberated inside of me like a thunderclap. I had spent so long wondering what had gone wrong between Mitzy and I, wondering if I hadn’t been grateful enough, if I had taken her for granted. But now I understood. All of the fragments of conversation that didn’t make sense, the strange behavior and unexplained absences were coming together. The article was no stunt.

  It wasn’t until class ended that I realized everyone was looking at me, wondering how I would react. I refused to give them the pleasure. I excused myself and retreated to my room to figure out what to do, when I found a dozen reporters waiting outside the girls’ dormitory with microphones and cameras.

  They must have recognized me because they rushed in my direction, cameras low, microphones out, the din of their voices so loud they drowned out my ability to think.

  I didn’t have anywhere else to go but through, so I shielded my face and pushed past them into the dormitory, where I leaned against the doors and relished the quiet.

  I ran to the bathroom and flushed my face with water. I was sweating and out of breath and felt that if I didn’t look at myself in the mirror, I might not know who I was anymore.

  How had it come to this?

  When I left, I ran into Amina in the hallway.

  “Hey,” she said. They were the first words she had said to me in months. “Are you okay?”

  I could have cried right there. “Yeah,” I managed to say. “Thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her concern, though appreciated, made me feel even worse. All this time, Amina had been right. I couldn’t say that no one had warned me about Mitzy, because Amina had, and I’d fought with her about it because I hadn’t wanted to listen.

  “I’m sure,” I said and slipped past her, unable to look her in the eye.

  I’d barely closed my door when the call came in. I didn’t recognize the number; all I knew was that it was from California. Reluctantly, I picked up.

  “Xia?” a woman’s voice said. It was hearty and warm and strangely familiar.

  “Ella Eisner here. I wanted to call and touch base.”

  I steadied myself on my desk, wondering why Ella Eisner would be calling me at a time like this. Was she calling to gloat? To ask me if I regretted turning her down? To inquire how my relationship with Mitzy was going now that I had chosen her over Vilbo?

  “I heard the news. How are you holding up?”

  I should have lied and told her that I was doing fine. I should have put on a good face. But I couldn’t. “Not great,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “It’s a lot, what you’re going through now. And at such a young age.”

  I began to cry then. I’d been so starved of compassion that her acknowledgement meant a lot.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to get out. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s okay.” Her voice was soothing. “I had a bad experience working with Mitzy Erst years ago. She’s very bright and very charming, but can’t be trusted. When I saw that she was working with you, I’d hoped she’d changed, but I guess she hasn’t.”

  Did everyone know about Mitzy but me?

  “Look, I’ve been through my share of public humiliations and know how it feels to be suffocated by the press. Whatever you’re experiencing now is only going to get worse before it gets better. You’re going to need a lawyer and a place where you can lie low. I can help you with both.”

  The mention of a lawyer made the blood drain from my face. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not if you get a lawyer.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  Ella read me an address, which I scribbled down on a piece of paper.

  “It’s a vacation cabin, stocked with food and anything else you might need. You can gather your bearings without people bothering you and think about your next move. The important part is to not tell anyone where you are. Even friends could let it slip, and then you’ll wake up to reporters at the window, taking photos of you in your pajamas.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You can stay there for as long as you need.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Recover,” she said. “And create something wonderful. I expect to see you on the funding circuit again within two years. Okay?”

  I let out a laugh through my tears. “Okay.”

  That night I packed a bag. My laptop was at the bottom of Mitzy’s pool so I had to use the spare one I’d bought while tripping at the Karlsson Barrow party.

  Outside, the reporters had retreated to the front gate, but even from my window, I could see that they’d multiplied in number. I didn’t know how I would get past them. I knew there were other ways to leave campus but I’d never looked for them. Thinking quickly, I took out my phone and opened Squirrel.

  A quick search of maps showed three potential escapes. I chose the one that looked like it led to a quiet side street, then threw my bag over my shoulder and set out into the dusk.

  I followed the map out the back of the dormitory, through the garden and the meadow beyond. It led me to the edge of campus, where the gate surrounding the Foundry grounds was nestled into climbing vines. An old fig tree hung over it, its branches heavy with fruit. The map ended there.

  I walked around the tree, wondering what I was supposed to do, when I saw little rungs nailed into the side of the trunk to make steps. I climbed up them, dropped my bag over the gate, and jumped down. Then I called a car.

  The cabin was off a long winding road shaded by redwoods. It was a plain shingled house surrounded by trees, so inconspicuous and modestly decorated that it felt too normal for a woman like Ella Eisner to own.

  The investigators called. My hand trembled as they told me who they were and that they wanted to meet and talk about my relationship with Mitzy. They sounded terrifyingly formal, so much so that I wondered if they were actors, paid to play the part, and this was all a big ploy by Mitzy to test me. I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help myself. This whole year had been unbelievable in so many ways that a staged catastrophi
c FBI ending didn’t seem beyond reason. Channeling all of the police shows I’d seen, I’d told them that I’d be happy to talk with the assistance of my lawyer, and took down their number. When the call was over, I threw the phone onto the couch and collapsed into the cushions, depleted.

  I barely ate or slept in the days that followed. I wandered the cabin, getting to know all of its crevices: the musty quilts and lace curtains, the circular stain on the floor by the bathroom, the rust on the corner of the stove. Eventually I performed the humiliating task of calling my mother and asking her to transfer money into my account. I was too ashamed to tell her the real reason why, so I lied and told her it was just temporary. My school account had been compromised, and I needed a little extra to hold me over while it was reset.

  She didn’t understand why I needed money in the first place—wasn’t the school providing all of my meals for me?—but agreed to transfer it anyway. Before we hung up, she asked me if everything was okay.

  I wanted to tell her, but was so scared to hear her reaction that I didn’t know what to say.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m just really busy.”

  “Are your classes okay?”

  I swallowed. “They’re fine.”

  “And you’re eating vegetables?”

  “I’m eating really well,” I said, gazing at the boxes of cereal that I’d pilfered from Ella’s pantry. They were stale and expired, but I didn’t care. “The food here is top-notch. They have their own chefs, remember?” My voice caught, revealing itself, and I broke down crying.

  “Xia?” my mother said, her voice softening. “What’s going on?”

  I told her everything. She listened quietly and when I was finished she said firmly but lovingly, “Xia, listen to me. Everything is going to be okay, but you have to call the lawyer now. No more putting it off.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer,” I said. “What if they say I’m in trouble?”

  “You won’t be in trouble because you didn’t do anything wrong. And don’t worry about the money. We’ll figure it out.” Her use of the word we made me feel guilty and grateful all over again.