Seventeen
My dad’s distracted and irritable when we drive into work the next day, so he’s having a hard time reining in his NASCAR tendencies.
“What’s up, Dad? You’re usually a morning person.”
He frowns, then runs a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Hmph.” He shoots me a curious look. “You spend a lot of time on Twitter, right?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
He practically growls as a car cuts him off, then slows down. Dad roars around him and I wonder what our odds are of getting a speeding ticket today.
“Some jerk tweeted about Jiang’s promotion yesterday and it wasn’t a compliment. I hope it’s just a fluke, but I’m concerned it might be coming from inside the company.”
“What? Nobody at Emergent would say anything bad about her.” Would they? I pull my phone out of my messenger bag and open the Twitter app.
“Who tweeted?”
Dad grimaces. “Somebody going by @PRTruth.”
I search for the account. Whoever it is only has about four hundred followers and hasn’t been tweeting for long. The profile picture is a question mark.
“#Fail @Emergent. Promoting an unqualified chick over a qualified dude? Way to be PC @KristoffRhett. Enjoy your lucky break @Jiang93.”
Omigod. The tweet has over two hundred likes, and a lot of comments from chauvinist idiots making rude comments about tokenism and the hazards of being male in today’s world. Trish will flip when she sees this.
“This is awful.”
“Agreed.” Dad’s jaw tightens with anger.
“Maybe it’s someone outside the company, like a competitor.” I can’t believe anyone who works for my dad would do this.
“I wish, but I don’t think so.” His hands clutch the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white.
I scroll the other @PRTruth tweets, which are mostly critical take-downs of bigtime marketing campaigns. When I read the tweets criticizing Apple, I laugh.
“This guy’s an idiot, whoever he is.” Everyone likes the Apple commercials.
Dad nods. “Whoever it is has an axe to grind. With me in particular.”
Goose bumps make me shiver, followed by a rush of adrenaline that makes me feel overheated. I’ve seen Twitstorms destroy some of my favorite celebrities. I can’t watch that happen to my dad.
“We have to find out who it is.”
“No, we don’t. This isn’t your issue, Laurel. Tom and I will track down whoever this is.”
I don’t have much faith in the Manicotti as a social media sleuth. And my dad shouldn’t have to waste his time on this. A jolt of excitement makes me sit up straight. Maybe I can figure it out.
“What if I—”
Dad cuts me off. “Stay out of this, Laurel. You’ve got enough on your plate helping the interns.”
“Okay,” I lie. A recent text from Lexi floats to mind: it’s better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.
…
Once at my desk, I open my drawer and retrieve the Star Wars trinity from my drawer, placing Leia, Chewie, and Han on my desk where they belong. I’ve decided not to hide my dorkiness. Plus, it seems appropriate, since I’m determined to figure out who’s trying to take down Dad Vader and his empire.
Before I start my sleuthing, I need to check in with all the interns to ask if they need help today. I start with Elijah.
“Yo, Special K.” He grins as I approach. “What’s up?”
“You tell me. How can I help with your project today?”
He blinks, surprise lighting his features. “You mean it?”
“Of course I do. That’s why I’m here.”
“Sweet. Except I don’t have a plan yet.” He picks up a pen and taps it on his desk. “I have a meeting later today with my project mentors, so I’ll check in with you after that, cool?”
I nod and he reaches out for a fist-bump. One down, four to go. I take a breath and walk to Ashley’s desk. She looks up, all bright-eyed and glossy-lipped.
“Hi!” Her entire face beams like a tiny sun.
I wonder if she wakes up like that, or if she chugs energy drinks to generate that type of buzz.
“Hi.” I tuck an errant curl behind my ear. “I wanted to, uh, offer my services.” Whoa. That sounds weird. Almost dirty. At least I didn’t say it to one of the guys. I cough and start over. “What can I do to help you with the art gallery project?”
“Oh! That’s so sweet of you.” Ashley swirls her hair in a fluid move. I wonder if her mom taught her how and I try not to cringe. “So, do you know much about art?”
That’s a broad question, but I’m happy to answer. “My mom is an artist. A fiber artist.”
Ashley tilts her head. “She knits?”
“Yes. And crochets and hand weaves and dyes her own yarn and sews and—”
“Wow.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I never thought about crafts as art.”
I power up an imaginary lightsaber, but keep it sheathed because I want to make friends with Ashley. My mom has fought this battle her whole life.
“Women’s art is always diminished, Laurel,” she’s told me a hundred times. “Especially when it’s also functional.”
To my surprise, Trish pipes up from her desk. “I remember your mom’s loom,” she says. “That thing’s wicked cool.”
Ashley and I turn to her. Trish must’ve seen the loom at a company holiday party, back when she attended them and ignored me. My mom has a beautiful studio lit by huge windows and skylights, and Dad loves to show it off because he’s so proud of her. He probably took everyone on a tour during the party.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It is.”
“You ever try it out?” Trish asks. She’s curious, not hostile. I like this new and improved Trish. Also, I want to tell her about @PRTruth, but I need to do that in private.
“I’ve tried it. It’s fun, but tough to get the rhythm down. I do better with knitting needles since they’re easier to control. Plus they remind me of swords.” I sweep my hand in the air, brandishing an imaginary weapon.
“You’re such a dork.” Trish’s mouth pulls up into a grin.
“You’re just now figuring that out?” A bubble of hope blooms inside of me. Maybe friendship isn’t an impossibility. I turn back to Ashley. “You should check out my mom’s website. I’ll send you the link. Her work has won a lot of awards.”
“Women have coded secret messages in textiles forever,” Trish tells Ashley. “It’s traditional and subversive. That’s why it’s awesome.” She studies me, curiosity lighting up her dark eyes. “Does your mom put secret messages in any of her work?”
I’m embarrassed that I don’t know the answer. “She might. I’ll ask her and let you know.”
Ashley nods, then stands up quickly. “I need caffeine. Anybody else want anything?”
Trish and I decline. As soon as Ashley is gone, Trish fixes her determined gaze on me.
“Yes, you can help me. I’m going to visit my nonprofit projects later this week. Come with me. Bring your camera.” She grabs a post-it and scribbles on it. “Here’s the nonprofits. Do some Googling, like Encyclopedia Brown over there.” She tilts her chin toward Carlos, and I embarrass myself by giggling, which earns me an eye roll, but also another quick grin.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “Sounds great.”
Next, I force myself to approach Carlos’s desk, where he waits, arms crossed over his chest, watching me in his intense way. Slowly, he opens a desk drawer and retrieves something. He unfolds it and I recognize his fraternization list from our lunch. My carefully rehearsed offer to help with his project flies right out of my brain.
“Let’s see where helping me on my project falls on this list.” He picks up a pen and clicks it, eyeing me from underneath ridiculously long lashes.
Cautiously, I take a tiny step toward his desk so I can read the list.
“Number three.” I point to the napkin. “Teamwork.”
He nods and underlines the word. I notice he’s added numbers six through ten. Nothing is written next to those numbers, except for ten, next to which he’s drawn a smiley face.
“What’s that for?” I point to the smiley face. He leans back in his desk chair and grins up at me.
“Not sure yet.”
My heart throbs in my chest and my imagination is off and running, fantasizing about number ten.
Carlos points to number five: nicknames. “I think this is where we left off at lunch.” He clicks his pen repeatedly and I resist the urge to snatch it out of his hand. “I’d prefer not to be nicknamed for a pasta, but I gave you a cereal nickname, so…” He shrugs but keeps his eyes on mine.
“I…pasta…what?” He’s not making sense.
He bites his bottom lip, and I have no trouble picturing what will make me “smiley face” if we ever make it to number ten. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s a mind reader because his gaze drifts down to my lips, then back up to my eyes.
“The Manicotti. Who is it?” He glances across the room. “Elijah? He can be sort of cheesy.”
My mind analyzes his words, sliding them around like one of those puzzles where you have to move a string through twisted metal. And then it clicks.
“You read my notebook! You’re the one who—” Panic zings through me as I remember what I wrote about him, Carlos is trouble, and his editorial comment. True. Is Carlos adorable?
Apparently I’m not the only spy around here.
“Why’d you pick this desk?” I’m desperate to change the subject.
“I like the view.”
“But it’s better by the windows.”
“Depends on which view we’re talking about.” He gives me a cryptic smile, one that makes my stomach dip. “Anyway, I saved your notebook. You’re lucky no one else read your notes.”
Mortified and defiant, I cross my arms over my chest. “You didn’t have to read it. You could’ve just returned it.”
“I was just checking to make sure you’d listed all of Mr. Mantoni’s rules.”
“Uh huh.”
Across the room, Elijah stands up and stretches. He glances at us, an amused smirk twisting his lips like he knows something I don’t.
Carlos writes on the napkin again. Number six: healthy disagreement.
“You’re kidding, right?” Isn’t that what Trish called our “catfight”?
His responding grin packs more heat than it should.
“I think we’ve gone offtrack.” I’m proud of how calm I sound, even though my nerve endings are exploding like firecrackers. “We’re supposed to talk about how I can assist on your project.”
Carlos’s grin vanishes, and he rolls his chair away from me. The micro-climate surrounding us plummets from blazing to freezing.
“My project…it’s…” He tugs at his hair and stares out the windows. “It’s almost more important than the scholarship. I’d already started researching restaurant expansion before I even got this gig.” He blows out a breath and turns back to me, his eyes cloudy instead of warm and melty. “My family owns a restaurant. The food is fantastic. We’ve got a loyal local following. But I think we can do more—should do more. There’s a ton of crappy restaurants doing better than ours, and it drives me nuts. My family deserves more success.”
He frowns down at his desk, clicking his pen.
“Encantado,” I say so quietly I’m not sure he’s heard me.
His head snaps up. “How did you—”
“Research. It’s part of my job to know everyone’s background. So that I’m, uh, a more helpful assistant.” It’s not exactly a lie.
He taps his pen on the napkin, but his eyes have a distant, faraway look. Funny, flirty Carlos is gone, replaced by someone much more serious. I debate whether to tell him about my idea to revamp his family’s website, but before I can work up the nerve, he opens his desk drawer and tosses the napkin inside, then slams it shut.
“We should get back to work.” His voice is clipped and his eyes are on his computer screen. “I’m sure the other interns will keep you busy, so don’t worry about helping me.” His eyes cut toward me, then back to his screen. He may as well have shut me in the drawer, too.
Reeling, I attempt to decipher his sudden mood change. “So you’re saying you don’t need my help. Or anyone’s.”
“No, that’s not…” He sighs and glances across the room at Elijah, whose shoulders lift in a shrug.
Carlos drums his fingers on his desk, watching me through hooded eyes. “Look, I’ll think about it, okay? I’m not saying I don’t want your help, but—”
“It’s okay. I’ll work with everyone else.” My gaze slides to Elijah’s empty desk then back to Carlos. “You’re in a league of your own, anyway. Definitely un-helpable.” I can’t believe I said that out loud, but my feelings are hurt so I let my inner ten-year-old take over.
He blinks in surprise. “What?”
“Never mind.” I scurry back to my desk like the big chicken I am. Leia and Rey would be disgusted with me, and they’d be right.
…
After my weird interaction with Carlos, I spend my lunch at the Sixteenth Street Mall, a pedestrian-friendly street lined with shops and restaurants. The only vehicles allowed are the electric hybrid shuttle buses that transport people from one end of the mall to the other and the occasional police motorcycle. Small water fountains spurt out of the ground at periodic intervals, so I take photos of laughing children and one over-excited dog running in and out of the water.
As I head back to the office, I spy Lewis and Brian engaged in a heated exchange on a street corner. They look angry, their hands flying around while they speak. I hope their argument doesn’t devolve into a physical fight. My stomach twists and I wonder if I should mention it to my dad.
But wouldn’t that make me a spy? Exactly what I don’t want to be? Anyway, maybe they’re arguing about baseball or a girl or something not work-related at all. I duck across the street so they won’t see me and almost crash into Trish.
“Running away from something, princess?” She surveys me curiously, then takes a slurp from her Big Gulp cup.
Reflexively, my gaze darts to the arguing guys, then back to her. She follows my gaze and frowns.
“Weird.” She glances at me, and I can tell she’s debating whether or not to say something. “Lewis hates my dad.” Her shoulders stiffen defensively. “I mean, obviously my dad’s not Mr. Popular like yours, but Lewis sort of…takes it to another level.”
I’m so surprised she confided in me I’m not sure how to respond. “Wow. That sucks.” I tug at my camera strap. “What did he do?”
She shrugs and I swear I see an actual chip materialize on her shoulder. “I’ve overheard him talking a lot of crap.” She darts me a wary glance, then appears to remember we’re not enemies anymore and her face relaxes. “Anyway. We should get back.”
As we walk toward Emergent, dodging lunchtime office workers and dawdling tourists, I decide to tell her about @PRTruth.
“So my dad told me some jerk is tweeting anti-Emergent stuff. He thinks it’s coming from the inside.”
“Seriously?” She stops to stare at me, then resumes her quick stride. “What did they tweet?”
“Stupid stuff about Jiang’s promotion. The tweeter is a guy, and a sexist pig.”
Her mouth twists in disgust and her shoulders hunch. “I’ll check it out.”
“I can’t imagine it coming from anyone on the inside.” I come to a halt in front of our building. “Except maybe…”
“Lewis,” we say in unison.
Trish tugs at her Smurf hair. “Let’s talk after I check out the tweets.”
I feel relieved and energized. Having an inside ally will make it easier to track down the troll. If we catch the guy, my dad will be so proud. I hope.
When we enter Emergent’s lobby, Carlos and Elijah are engaged in their own intense convo as they wait for the elevator.
“What’s with all the dude drama today?” Trish jokes, and my responding laugh echoes across the lobby.
Both guys glance at us, then away. Elijah shoots a mocking smirk at Carlos. I hope those two aren’t arguing, too, because I think their bromance is adorable.
“Wanna catch the elevator with the—”
“No.” I bite the word out and Trish cocks an eyebrow.
“Trouble in geekville?”
“No trouble.” I cross the lobby quickly, ignoring Elijah holding the elevator door for us. Trish follows me up the stairs.
“Anyway, Carlos isn’t a geek,” I mutter and Trish snorts next to me.
“Sure he is. In his own way. We’re all geeks about something.”
We pause at the second floor landing to size each other up.
“Don’t forget to research my nonprofits.”
“I won’t. And don’t forget to check out Twitter.”
We head up the second flight of stairs and I’m seized by a crazy urge to ask Trish for advice. Maybe I have sunstroke from taking pictures under the blazing sun. Or maybe it’s because she’s offered to help me find the troll.
“Can I ask you something?” I hesitate at the doorway. At least I know she won’t sugarcoat her answer.
“Hit me.” She slurps noisily from her Big Gulp.
I blow out a breath. “Okay, so, I’m supposed to assist you guys, right? But Carlos blew me off. And I think you’d agree he’s been nicer to me than anyone, except maybe Elijah. But Carlos doesn’t want my help.”
I’ve just revealed my biggest vulnerability to the person who was my mortal enemy just last week. Qa’hr and Leia would be appalled, but I’m going to trust our new alliance.
Trish’s eyes turn flinty, assessing me like a hardcore detective. “What happened before he blew you off?”
“Nothing.” I glance at a framed photo of my dad on the wall rather than look her in the eye. “I mean, we were sort of…joking around…and then he said his internship was more important than the scholarship, that he needs to help his family—”
She puts up a hand. “The ‘joking around’ part. By that I assume you mean flirting?” Her eyes narrow to slits. “Be straight with me, princess. I can’t help you if you lie.”
“Uh…”
Her eyes pop wide open, so that she can roll them skyward. “Okay, so there was flirting, then he backed off. Got all serious about his job.” She shakes her head. “Your cluelessness is astounding, but anyway—if you want to help him, come up with something special. Don’t just offer to make copies or whatever, because that’s lame. And it’s easy for him to say no.”
“I…wow.” This isn’t the type of girl talk I’m used to with Lexi or my sister. Trish isn’t pulling any punches.
“Got any ideas to help his project?” She slurps her drink again, then quirks her lips when a passing employee shoots her a disapproving scowl. “Bad habit. I do it to annoy my dad.”
I do have an idea—a great one. I just need to act on it.
“Yeah.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Well then, Jedi, fire up your X-wing starfighter and go save your Boy Scout.”
And with that she turns on her heel and leaves me standing alone in the hallway, speechless.