Trade Me (10 page)

He looks me square in the eyes. “It’s a statement of intent.”

Fuck. I can feel a tension winding in me, curling tighter and tighter.

“I got her out to meet you under false pretenses,” Blake says. “She doesn’t know how serious I am. In fact, I bet she doesn’t believe me now. She’s coming up with a reason why I’d say this to you.”

True. I have to keep reminding myself of that reason. He wants to do the swap; he thinks I should have the prototypes. Ergo, he must pretend to be serious about me.

“One of these days, though,” Blake tells his father, “she’s going to realize that I think the sun rises on her smile.”

I inhale slowly. It’s almost cruel of him to be such a good actor. If we were in any kind of relationship—if we’d so much as kissed before—I would have been completely snowed.

Mr. Reynolds simply nods, as if Blake makes announcements like this about girls all the time. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll start over. I can be polite. Hi, Tina. It’s nice to meet you. What are you studying?”

“Chemistry and computer science.”

He doesn’t look impressed by this, which is unusual. He snorts instead. “And what are you planning on doing with that mouthful of letters?”

This, apparently, is his version of polite. He managed about two seconds.

“I want to be a doctor.”

He blows out his breath. “Golly gee fucking willikers. At least that’s one of the few things that you actually need a university education to do. It’s a shit-stupid thing, of course. Being a doctor is like being a fast food worker, except with less sleep and more money. But at least it’s a thing.” He looks at me dubiously. “You want to help people and save lives?”

“On my med school applications? Yes. That’s all I care about. In reality? I just want to make enough money that my parents don’t have to worry ever again.”

He considers this. “The computer science degree seems superfluous to that goal.”

“Yeah, well. If it were just chemistry, my application wouldn’t stand out. I’m not going to be able to go volunteer with Doctors Without Borders in Ghana for a semester like half the other med school applicants. I wanted to do something different.”

“Different means playing the fucking flute or raising show llamas,” he says. “Computer science is just masochism. You’re lying. Nobody would get a CS degree without wanting to use it. What’s your deal?”

It’s kind of scary that he’s right. “Nothing that’s going to happen.” I don’t drop his gaze. “Maybe I just want a fallback plan in case med school doesn’t pan out.”

He considers me. “Nah. You told
me
to go to hell. I don’t think you’re the kind of person who worries about Plan B. You’re the kind of person who would make Plan A happen. What do you really want to do?”

I swallow. I can see how he came to be one of the most powerful men in the country. He’s an asshole—but he’s looking right through me, his gaze like a knife.

And so I tell him something I’ve never told anyone else before. “Maybe there’s part of me that plays with the idea of going into medical research.”

“What kind of medical research?”

I inhale. “Making tiny medical robots.”

“Pipe dream.” He waves a hand dismissively. “That will never happen.”

“It has to happen,” I reply. “Every year, more bacterial strains become resistant to more antibiotics, and we find fewer and fewer effective ones. Think what will happen when we can’t perform open heart surgery or biopsies without risking serious infection.”

He taps his fingers together. “So you’re going to make tiny medical robots to do heart surgeries without risking infection. Huh.”

I let out a breath. “No.” The timeline is all wrong. I need to be making money by the time Mabel starts college, even if it’s just the bare-bones salary of a medical resident. “I’m going to be a doctor. Someone
else
is going to make tiny medical robots.”

But he’s already looking off into the distance. “Actually, it’s kind of an interesting project. What kind of venture funding will you need to get off the ground?”

“None, since I’m not going to do it.” I take a deep breath. “That sounds horrifying. Running a company is the last thing I want to do. That just means worrying about new and larger amounts of money all the time. I’m not going to go through fifteen years of higher education just so I can worry about money more.”

Adam Reynolds leans in. “In this world, you’re either playing the game or you’re a pawn on the board.”

I shrug. “Okay. Then I’m a pawn. Pick me up and move me any time you want to wave your checkbook in my direction. But there’s one thing I can do that you can’t.”

“What is that?”

“I imagine that running a massive corporation is like getting on a merry-go-round. It may not be going fast when you first start, but the harder you push, the faster it spins. At some point, you can’t just get off the way you got on. Stay on long enough, and you get the impression the world goes in circles. I can get off, Mr. Reynolds. You can’t. I want to keep it that way.”

His face doesn’t change, not one iota. But for a second, his fingers tighten on his water glass. “Touché,” he says quietly. “Two-fucking-shay.” He blows out his breath.

For a moment, none of us say anything. Then Mr. Reynolds shakes his head. “You want Fernanda,” he says. “Do you even know what Fernanda is?”

“I didn’t even know there
was
a project named Fernanda.”

“Hey,” Blake says at his father’s raised eyebrow. “You know I don’t talk about this shit. Not even with her.”

“Fernanda,” Adam Reynolds says, “is your ticket onto the merry-go-round. Welcome aboard.”

7.

BLAKE

I follow my dad to the Cyclone campus. The ride is short—not even fifteen minutes. Just long enough for Tina and I to stew in uncomfortable silence. She’s no doubt replaying every word I said in the restaurant.

I’m doing the same thing.

Funny. I knew I was into her. My body responds to hers, and sitting so close to her in the restaurant, sitting a mere eighteen inches from her now, has given my body some really interesting ideas. Now, in the car, she’s twirling a strand of hair around one finger, playing with it.

I should tell her that I lied to my father, that everything’s cool. Instead, I feel like I just tipped my hand. To myself. Not that I’m hoping for anything as specific as what I told him. It’s just… I
want
. Watching her go toe-to-toe with my dad was a thing of beauty. I haven’t seen anyone take him down so effectively since Peter passed away. I want someone as directed as her to want me back.

But that’s straight-up fantasyland, right up there with the stupid idea my body has right now. Which, no, that wouldn’t work, because there is no room for me between her knees in this car, not unless we folded the seats down. But then, male hormones have never really cared about the limits of physics.

“You know,” she says, “it’s a good thing we aren’t actually dating, because if we were, I would break up with you right now.”

That’s right. There’s fantasy, and then there’s reality. The reality is that we’re not dating. The reality is that in three months, we won’t even be friends.

“Understandable,” I say. “I threw you to the wolves. In my defense, I know the wolf pretty well and my money was on you. My dad can come off as a little bit of a dick at first, but you just need to stand up to him and he backs down.”

“Oh.” There’s a dubious quality to her voice. “He’s just a little bit of a dick. Sure.”

“Really. He’s not that bad. Unless he wants to be.”

She gives me a sidelong look of deep suspicion. But I’m coming up to the Cyclone security gate, and that brings up a whole host of other memories. The sun is out today; it shines brilliantly in my eyes as the guard hands me a visitor’s badge for Tina. The gate arm rises and I drive in.

She lets out a sigh. “A little warning would have been nice. You’re a frighteningly good liar. Media training again?”

“Media training,” I agree, even though that’s a lie. “You’d be astonished how well I can lie. The only question is if you can keep up with me for another hour.”

I turn into the garage and find my spot.

She sighs. “So what’s the story? Did we argue in the car on the ride over? We would totally have argued, if this were real. Your dad has probably realized I’m not the ‘shut up and simper’ type by now.”

“Sure.” I glance over at her. “We argued. But I brought you around. I always bring you around. I’m good at that.”

The half-height garage walls don’t quite shield a wide green sun-drenched lawn on the other side.

She still seems a little out of sorts. “So we’re going to play it like we’re still good?”

“We kind of have to. If you fake-break-up with me, there will be no prototypes, and then this whole thing will be wasted effort. Do you think you can manage a little flirting?”

“I suppose.” She shrugs. “But I’ve never had any media training
.
I can’t guarantee the results.”

“That’s okay. I can lie well enough for both of us.”

She casts me another look—this one a little darker—as if I’ve said something wrong.

But she doesn’t understand the truth. I open the car door and step out into the cool air of the garage. She doesn’t understand how much I’m going to have to lie.

My dad built this campus when I was twelve, and in some ways, it feels more like home than the house where I grew up. The sun is out, spilling over a lush green lawn where a handful of engineers are out playing a game of Ultimate. The buildings gleam, pristine white stone contrasting with smoke-dark windows. I could join the Frisbee game. I could walk into any building, any room, and find something I’ve worked on. This place is a part of me. It almost feels like my bones and veins extend into the surroundings. I’m rooted here.

It feels like a trap built of sunshine and nostalgia. Every muscle in my body itches. I want to move, to run. But no matter how fast I go, I’ll always take it with me.

Tina,
I could say,
I have a problem.
That would be the truth.

Instead, my smile is a falsehood, denying those roots that run deep here. “If you think I was bad in the restaurant, you haven’t really seen me lie at all.”

It’s weird having her here, almost like I’m afraid that my memories will infect her. I straighten beside my car, and I make myself find that smile I need to wear. I try to erase every unfortunate memory I have. Watching Dad and Peter tromp over this land when it was nothing but weeds and aging strip malls. Pointing, sketching out the place it would be when their joint imagination gave rise to concrete and glass.

I push away the time when Dad told me that Asiv in interfaces was fucking with my design. I rushed over to that building, there, on the other side of the lawn, heart in my mouth, to find half the Cyclone campus lying in wait with Peter and a massive cake for my eighteenth birthday. I delete my memories of Peter altogether, one by one, until these are just buildings and I’m just here on an errand.

No matter how I try, he’s present, lodged under my skin like unshed tears.

I inhale and smile harder. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go in and I’ll show you Fernanda.”

She takes my hand in hers. Here’s one thing that’s not a lie: Touching her makes me feel better. My smile comes a little more easily.

“Hey, Blake!” someone calls from the field as we pass.

I wave, smiling. “Looks like you’re getting creamed again, Steve.”

“What? We’re only down by two.”

“For now,” I call back with fake cheer.

Any further reply is lost in indistinct trash-talk. We walk to the main building side by side, and I can pretend that this is nothing more than a nice, sunny afternoon.

On my way to my dad’s office, I stop at every occupied cubicle. I smile. I greet. It’s been weeks since I last stopped by.

“When are you coming back?” everyone asks. Half of them add, with conspicuous glances down the hall in my dad’s direction, “It’s not the same without you.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I introduce Tina.

The door to my dad’s office is open by the time I get there.

“Hey.” He glances up at me and slides a stack of papers as thick as his thumb across the table. “Legal sent these over. Walk her through this, will you?”

“Sure thing.” I give him a cocky smile.

Maybe too cocky. Dad raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get frisky, kids,” he growls.

I’m not sure what he imagines we will get up to signing NDAs. But Tina smiles at him. “That’s what disinfectant spray is for,” she says.

Dad chokes. My imagination jumps instantly to all the many ways that might work out. Dad stares at her for a moment in disbelief, and then realizes that she’s joking. He bursts into laughter. “Get out of here. And no, Blake, don’t you
dare.
There are interior windows. I can see into your office. There are some things I don’t ever want to know.
Ever.”

We go three doors down to my office. Someone must come in here to clean regularly. There’s no dust on the glassed picture on my desk. The plants are lush and green, newly watered. There are fresh pens in the holder.

I don’t close the door. I can see my father across the way, and even though his attention has wandered elsewhere, I still feel like I’m on display.