LIV: SPRING BREAK 2.0
I watch Sam on my computer screen open the cabinet. The light turns on. Breck looks toward the door. It’s nearly a replay of what I saw it in my dream.
Anxious fingers dig into my palms. This is it. This is the breakthrough.
Breck walks a quiet handful of steps to the door.
My pulse feels audible.
Sam places his palm flush against the cabinet.
Breck pauses, staring inquisitively at the illuminated door. I watch him as though I can see through him, as the puzzle pieces slowly rotate into connection.
Do it!
Breck then reaches for the knob, just as Sam returns the oatmeal to the shelf and sweeps his hand across the handle of the cabinet.
The cabinet shuts fractions of a second before Breck twists the now unilluminated knob.
“It is still locked,” Breck says.
I could scream.
My eyes fall on the Jessica Anders picture on the wall between my desk and bed. Lana gave it to me last year, both as a gift and as a suggestion to decorate. Jessica is the closest thing I have to an idol, though I’m far from her only fan. Besides heading DoRC, she’s a programming legend. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone more admired. Below the portrait is a quote:
“Success is a destination. Failure is the only path to get there.”
I’ve failed for thirty-five days in a row. I’m not the most emotional critter in the house, or maybe even the neighborhood. But that much consistent sucking can take its toll. I linger on Jessica’s words, giving them a chance to settle in.
Eventually they do. And my growling stomach forces me to take a helpful break from the screen.
As I step out of my room into the clutter of the hallway, I’m greeted by a charred whiff of something burning.
“Again?!” My mom yells downstairs.
I consider returning, but my stomach grumbles once more. I start down the upstairs hallway, dark and Tetrised with boxes, bags, and assorted things that don’t fit well into either boxes or bags. I step around an ironing board and over a humidifier where my bare foot finds the end of its plug, digging one prong into my arch. I silently curse.
If you want to see the difference between me and my mom, a great place to start would be to step from my bedroom into this hallway—clean and lean versus this. The entire house isn’t this packrat-like, but it leans in that general direction. Mom loves the past.
Not me. I’m focused on the future; I’m a minimalist.
“I forgot. I’m sorry.” Todd apologizes in the distance.
“There’s a dial for it. You don’t put it on ten. How hard is that?”
“The dial doesn’t work. There are two settings. Too light and too dark.”
“So, put it on too light twice,” my mom barks.
I hide in the hallway as Mom and her boyfriend continue to argue.
“It’s two pieces of bread and they’re burned. And it’s my breakfast,” Todd says.
“The house smells like the curtains are on fire.”
“I didn’t realize the curtains are whole grain,” Todd lobs back.
Silence.
I pause. Todd’s witty zingers don’t usually end this cleanly.
Donk! Pause. Donk!
I can’t see it, but I’m pretty sure that’s the sound of two blackened pieces of toast crashing into the kitchen sink.
The door slams and the silence returns.
“Hey Liv.” Todd’s voice is casual and inviting as I enter the kitchen, as though no toast is in the sink, nor any discussion of it only seconds prior. “How’d-ya-sleep?” he asks, like it were one long, connected word.
His bulky frame makes the mug in his hand look small. He’s not overweight, but broad, everywhere—face, neck, chest, legs, arms—as though he were a photo dragged slightly outward, making him as solid as a tank and as thick as his drawl. Houston proper has little accent, but that changes quickly as you move outward. Todd is from outward.
“Good. You?”
He responds in kind. I grab a bagel from the refrigerator and drop it the toaster. A spattering of black crumbs surrounds the appliance. I sweep them up with my hand and toss them into the sink where they land among larger charred fragments.
I glance back at Todd and he’s pointing a gentle finger to a Post-It Note on one of the cabinets. It’s in my mother’s handwriting.
I cautiously pull it free.
Liv, I need help at the store and you need to leave your room. Plan to start tomorrow.
Six months ago, Mom quit her job to take over my late grandfather’s legacy—a toy store. Good for her, but this isn’t my legacy. My legacy is Breck.
And he’s so close! The way he studied the front door of the room; something seemed different. I need every minute of these next five days. That’s all I want from this week—the time to prove I can do this. I can win.
“It’s never just about toast, Liv,” Todd says, drawing his hands away from his coffee and placing his complete attention on me.
Beyond his bedhead and tired eyes, I have a clear view into the living room, where an array of slept-in blankets stretch across the sofa. I don’t understand why someone with their own apartment would come here to sleep on our couch. But that’s not the question I’m focused on.
Breathe and think. Every problem has a root cause. Every root cause has a solution, and there are usually more than one. What is the core issue here?
“What does she want me to help with?” The toaster dings and I press the handle down once again—too light twice.
“Work?” His tone suggests he can’t give me a better answer.
“Is it still reopening tomorrow?” The store has been closed for the last two weeks for a remodel.
“Yup. She’s doing some final stuff today.”
“Doesn’t she already have people helping her?”
“She did.”
“What happened to them?”
“You’d have to ask your mom.”
“Can’t she find other people?”
“Yup. You’re it. She wants you,” he says with a sympathetic shrug.
For a mom’s boyfriend I got pretty lucky with Todd. Most of the time it feels like we’re more compatible than they are. He’s never tried to be my father, who I never knew anyway, and he’s another pragmatic voice in the house, which helps to offset Mom. Sometimes I actually feel sorry for him as he’s the one who takes the brunt of her.
“Is this about money?” I ask. “Because if it is, I can make a lot more money doing a few hours of programming work online every day. Maybe even fifty an hour.”
“Hot damn. That’s more than I make.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He raises his hands dismissively. “Don’t. This isn’t about the cosmic injustice of mechanics and code jockeys.” He pauses, waiting for my reaction.
“Grease monkeys and code jockeys.”
“Exactly.” He smiles, settling into the playful and familiar role of riding the fine line between being a voice of counsel and not throwing my mother under the bus. He plays it well.
I sit at the table, setting a glass of orange juice next to his coffee. The two vessels linger like chess pieces between us.
“It’s not about the money, Liv.” He reaches for his mug once more, spinning it in a pensive rotation, pondering his move. “Or at least not all about the money. Look, it’s not my call. But if you’re asking me, it’s not an unreasonable request. Kids get jobs.” He speaks more into the mug than toward me.
“Not during spring break. It’s one week, and it’s a break. Did she forget about the contest?”
He shakes his head as if I’m missing something obvious.
“Liv, the contest is why she wants you to do this.”
“What?” I am lit. This is ridiculous. She has no idea how important this is.
“Not the contest exactly, but the effect it has on you. You’re in your room all day. You don’t do anything with other people.”
“I do things with plenty of other people.”
“In the real world, Liv. Not online.”
“What about Lana?”
“With anyone not within sight of your window. Look, I could spend all day under the hood of a car. I could spend a month building an engine without noticing anything else around me. But that doesn’t mean I should. We have that in common. It’s a gift, but you can lean into it a little too hard.” He runs his meaty fingers through his graying hair, further mussing his pillow-sculpted hairdo.
“I’m so close. This isn’t some science fair contest. It can literally change my future.”
“So do both. That’s what you’ve done for the last few months, right? And it will give you two some time to spend together.”
Despite my protests, we both know this outcome has already been determined.
I drop my head, defeated.
He stands. “I’ve got to take a shower and get to work.” He gently bumps a husky fist on the top of my bowed head a few times. “Make the most of today, kid.”
“Todd,” I say, as he walks out of the kitchen.
“Yeah?” He turns.
“Why do you shower before you go to work, when you’re just going to get dirty?”
He smiles. “Atta girl. Keep asking good questions and get Brick working.”
“Breck.” I correct.
“Brock, Bruck, Brack.” He continues, his voice trailing off as he moves further away from the kitchen.
I grab my bagel, fold Mom’s note into my pajama pockets, and walk my breakfast back into my bedroom, ready to follow Todd’s advice and make the most of my last full day.
The monitor fires back up and I’m once more staring at Breck as he tackles his own day. I can only watch for so long before I’m back in the code and tinkering again.
I’m missing something. I scan the chat boards with other contest participants. Since their characters are all in their own virtual worlds tackling the challenges independently, this is the only glimpse I have into how they’re doing. I suppose that’s why it’s set up this way—to eliminate influence. This group is far too protective to give away anything directly, but they also like to brag and sometimes they give away a little too much. It could give me some new ideas. Fifteen minutes of digging only reveals that another person’s Breck, whom they aptly nicknamed Primer, has left the room in his virtual world, soaring onward to some kind of labyrinth of a city that follows. I know I’m among the great majority reading this with envy, but it still reminds me of my location on the path to success.
My phone buzzes.
Curtains, please, Lana texts.
I swing them open. The sunshine slams against me faster than my pupils were prepared for. Lana’s hands are planted on her windowsill with her hoodied torso leaning outward, basking in the overhanging rays. She moves one hand upward, requesting I open my window as well.
I open but keep my body on the inside along with my squinting eyes.
“Happy birthday!” she yelps.
It is March 8, and not my birthday.
I shake my head. “I forgot. And you didn’t, which isn’t surprising. Thank you.”
My actual birthday isn’t until September. Today is my half-birthday, which only Lana celebrates. Lana’s birthday is on Christmas. Years ago, she informed everyone she was moving her celebration to June. It worked. She also celebrates this for me out of fairness.
“What are you up to, other than toying with Breck’s brain?”
“Enjoying my last free day of spring break. I was voluntold for a job.”
A wave of soft wrinkles form across the freckles on her forehead as her brows jump. A tilt of her head accentuates everything—it’s the cherry on top. She’s the most expressive person I know. Her reactions could easily be read at twice the distance of our windows.
“No! You’re slinging toys?”
“Something like that,” I start, then I pick up the phone, hit speaker and call. Our windows are just far enough apart that it feels like we’re yelling.
She answers nearly before it rings. “Continue,” she whispers.
“Mom thinks I spend too much time in my room. She wants me to go touch grass. And I’m cheap labor. Want to be my coworker?”
“No, I will be staying here and winning for once.” She answers so quickly it’s as though she’s finishing my sentence. We have a bet as to who can stay in their house for the longest during spring break, as in not taking one step outside. It started as a joke. I half-suspected the invite to walk last night was a trick. “How is the store?” she asks.
“The grand reopening is tomorrow. Believe me, you’ll get a detailed report.”
She surveys me for a moment, then pulls a curled and pensive index finger to her chin. “And how are you feeling about this?” She is her father’s daughter.
“I’ll be fine, Doctor O. I just wanted to spend more time this week on the contest.”
Her eyes narrow and she draws in a contemplative breath. “It must feel . . . distressing.”
My arms fold across my chest. As much as Lana wears her emotions on her sleeve, I do not. “The store is what it is. This conversation is now distressing. Want to hear about what I did with Breck?”
She grins with the satisfaction of someone who has pushed my buttons enough to get the reaction she wanted. “Fair enough. How’s B?”
“I woke up in middle of the night and changed some code.”
“Which is the least surprising thing I’ll hear today.” She gestures for me to continue.
I explain my revelation about sleep.
“Interesting. Very interesting.” Her curled finger returns to her chin, though more authentically this time. “So, how is that any different from rebooting?”
“He’s not shutting down. It’s sleep, like we do. Neural repair, purging, reprocessing, dreams. All that stuff.”
“You programmed that?”
“Yup.”
“How?”
“Would it be ironic that it came to me in a dream?” I ask.
“Nope, not ironic. But it is oddly appropriate and freaking amazing.” Her chin drops to her palm to punctuate her last word.
“It was. Anyway, if sleep is a third of our day, then we were missing a third of the equation,” I add.
She nods in thought, still absorbing the idea. “I like it, Liv. I think you’re onto something, young lady.”
“Maybe. But he doesn’t seem any different. He’s doing the same things.”
“Has he slept yet?”
“Fair point. No. I finished this morning.”
“So, let’s give it some time. No need to get distressed yet,” she says, to which I roll my eyes. “What’s your plan for the day?”
“Tinkering. Yours?”
“Reading. Glorious reading,” she says, as she reaches behind her, placing her hand on top of two stacked paperbacks. “And on that note, I’m going to get back into it for a while, so you can close the curtains again. Let me know if Breck does something exciting, like take a nap. Let’s do something later for your birthday. How’s five? We’ll leave the house and call it a tie.”
“Sounds good.”
BRECK: SIMULATION #35.1
There it is again. An idea. But it is only there for a moment, then it disappears.
The other person in the room with me looks in this direction. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the door that won’t open. With his back against the door, they look like two holes through his head.
He then steps onto a chair and unscrews a light bulb next to the door. His fingers burn and he yanks his hand away. His fingers are red from previous burnings.
Again, the idea appears, then fades. It is not possible to hold onto this thought.
LIV: SPRING BREAK 2.1
My eyes are red. I don’t need a mirror to know this. I can feel them. Finding the zone is my everyday superpower, and with today’s race against my dwindling time, I set a new personal concentration record.
I’ve scanned all current and legacy chat boards I can find in search of any new nuggets.
I’ve read a half-dozen scholarly articles on programming algorithms related to AI.
I’ve combed every line of Breck’s code, tweaking and retweaking.
And somewhere in there, I believe I ate a burrito. My mind was elsewhere.
I’m tapped.
I check my phone and discover that the battery is dead. When I plug it in, a flurry of texts arrive. Fourteen total, all from Lana, culminating with, It’s dark. I know you’re there. I can see your light through your curtains. Answer your f’n texts.
Ugh. It’s well past 5 p.m.
Sorry. Was in the zone. I text back.
Pulsing response dots appear immediately.
No problem. Moot point now. I’m not home. I’m at a massive party with hundreds of people having the time of my life. I wasn’t up for celebrating your birthday anyway.
I peel back the curtain. She’s perched on her windowsill, legs hanging out and feet dangling below with her arms anchored behind her on the inside walls.
I open my window. “Awesome party,” I say. “And you’re nuts. It’s a twelve-foot drop.”
“I wanted some fresh air, and I can’t lose our bet,” she answers. “Were you trying to get me to go outside and ring your doorbell?”
“Nope. I was—” I start to say before she interrupts.
“No. You weren’t in the zone. You were the zone. And if you say that makes no grammatical sense, I will send you a virus that turns Breck into a donkey.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she again cuts me off again.
“And if you say that’s not possible, I will remind you that I have spent most of today reading fantasy. Don’t tell me what’s not possible.”
I laugh. She’s looking for it. “I’m sorry.”
“It would have been nice to spend at least some of my best friend’s birthday WITH MY BEST FRIEND.”
It’s difficult to get upset with someone whose only goal is to celebrate you, even if it’s not technically your birthday.
“You’re right. I ghosted you. It wasn’t intentional. I apologize. It was my last full day to program, but I was being a selfish asshole.”
Lana rocks, largely defused and pondering my response. Temptation lurks, and I give in.
I wrap my index finger around the tip of my chin. “How did that make you feel?”
“Now you’re being an asshole.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Did you at least get to watch Breck take a good nap?”
“No.” I wish I could give a different answer. “He’s still awake and still a dolt. I don’t think he even knows Sam’s name. He never uses it. Right now, he’s just staring at walls.”
“That sounds familiar. We’re about to have dinner now, but we’re watching a movie after. You want to join?”
“I’ve been up since before four. I’m fried,” I say.
“Come on. What are you, seventeen going on eighty?”
“Tomorrow. After the store. We’ll do whatever you want. And you’ll have won the bet.”
“I don’t care about the bet.”
“I know. Tomorrow. I promise.”
Lana exhales deeply. She knows me too well to waste further breath.
BRECK: SIMULATION #36
Where am I?
I blink several times. The ceiling moves in and out of focus. My head turns to scan the room. From the table, the other person is staring in this direction.
“What time is it?”
“Nine thirty-five A.M.,” he says.
“Did you start at eight?”
“Yes.”
“What have I been doing since then?”
“Lying there.”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“Perhaps dead.”
“I’m not dead.”
He nods.
“Was I doing anything?”
“Nothing.”
It did not seem like nothing. It seemed like much more. I remember the blast last night, the same as other days in this room. But after, between then and now, I was somewhere else.
Is that possible? Where? I try to recall, but my memory is not clear.
“Did the room explode?” I ask.
“Yesterday.”
“What about today?”
“No, it is still early,” the other person says.
I face the ceiling again and close my eyes. I think I was swimming, but that is not possible. I feel my clothes. They are dry. They should be wet. The memory becomes clearer. I was swimming. How did I get back in here?
“I left the room,” I say.
“No one left the room,” he responds.
“Did you watch me the whole time?” I ask.
“No.”
“So I could have left the room,” I say, sitting up.
“No one left the room,” he answers again.
“Maybe when you weren’t watching?”
“No.”
He nods once more. I shut my eyes again. I remember swimming. But how can I recall something I was not doing? I cannot. I concentrate on it. I remember the cool water on my skin. And I was not alone. I was with someone. Or something.
Penguins? This cannot be right.
“Did you see the penguins?” I ask.
“There are no penguins here,” the other person responds.
But there were. I remember seeing them. I was with them. They surrounded me on all sides. I was trapped. They would not let me go anywhere. I was trying to escape.
This makes no sense. My head hurts. I press my hands to my eyes.
I think about what happened between yesterday and now. I know I saw them. Penguins. I could describe them. I touched one. His smooth belly slid against me.
The other person walks away to inspect the kitchen.
I peer around the room once more. There is no water. There are no penguins. I have no explanation for this, so I stand to join him. It is time to move forward.
As he opens one of the cabinets, a light shines by the door. I have noticed this before. We both have. But as I look toward it, I think of a question I have never before asked about this. Why?
LIV: SPRING BREAK 3.0
Come on. You can do this!
Breck’s hand is on his forehead as he stares at the light bulb. Something is happening. It’s not a posture I’ve ever seen him take. His other palm joins, and both press firmly into his hairline, like he’s trying to work out a problem that is almost within reach.
It’s a relatable expression.
There’s a knock at my door. I’m so focused on the screen in front of me, I barely hear it. And I don’t acknowledge it.
The door opens behind me.
“I’ve been knocking, Liv,” my mom says.
Breck walks toward the door, pausing beneath the light. The bulb over his head beams in the most suggestive of ways.
Please. Please!
“Liv!” My mom belts.
I swing my head around, my body unwilling to pivot away from what’s unfolding in front of me. My mother is marching toward me. Before I have a chance to answer, she reaches around and turns the monitor off.
“Now, do I have your attention?”
“Mom!”
“I’m trying to talk to you. All you do is sit in front of that computer. You don’t even hear me!”
“Breck is about to—”
“Who?”
“Breck, the . . . never mind.” If it didn’t stick the first half-dozen times, it doesn’t seem worth re-explaining. I skip to my larger point. “Something important is happening right now in the contest.”
“Well, something important is happening in your room right now too. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” she says, hovering before me in capris, a floral print T-shirt, and sneakers, looking more ready to hike than go to work.
“But—”
“No buts. We’re leaving. I wanted to take you with me yesterday, but your buddy Todd talked me out of it. I didn’t even see you yesterday. All you do is sit in front of this box. I’m not going to have you spend your entire week in this room. And I could use help.” She drops a hand onto the desk, propping herself up, looming nearly overhead as I sit below her in the computer chair.
“You were gone all day!” I protest.
“No. I didn’t see you before I left, then I came home for lunch, but you were in here. I opened the door, but you didn’t notice. So, I decided to give you the whole day. I was there until nine last night all by myself making sure everything was set to re-open today.”
“It’s not like I’ve been playing. I’m working too. Toward something important to me. Winning this summer internship is all I have ever wanted. Do you know how many doors this could open?”
“Why do you think I’ve let you park in this room for every waking minute outside of school for the last five weeks? We haven’t had a family dinner in a month. I’ve done almost all of the setup for this store by myself. Now it’s opening and I need you. I’m not asking for every minute, only the time you would have had when you were at school. You can do as much now as you had any other week.”
The tips of her hair nip at her shoulders. Her eyes, wide and coffee brown, look to me for a response.
“Can I just check something?” I ask, still consumed with the cliffhanger waiting on my blank monitor.
“Later.” She takes several demonstrative steps toward the middle of the room, letting me know that our debate is over.
This is crushing me. Breck could already be through the door! Time for plan B.
“I need some time to get ready.”
“That’s why I came in now, instead of fifteen minutes from now. Brush your teeth, put on some clothes, and throw your hair in a ponytail. There’s a bagel made. You can eat it in the car.”
I stand and move to my closet, making a nonchalant pass by the bed where I snag my cell phone. It was more overt than intended. Mom’s head drops and she peers at me with incredulous eyes.
“No phone. I’m not going to have you sit at the store and do the same thing you do here. We’re peeling the Band-Aid off today, Liv. It’s going to hurt. I get it. But I want all of you today. It’ll do you some good to step away from this thing.”
“Fine.” I toss the phone back on the bed. I’m not going to win this one.