Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

He comes out wearing jeans and…and… Nope, that’s it. Jeans.

I wad up an advertising circular that’s sitting on his desk and throw it at him. “Put on a shirt.”

“Am I distracting you?” He smiles, like he knows that he is.

“Yes. You’re going to catch a cold, idiot, and then where will you be?”

He turns to me, which does not help. Transitioning from hot shower to cold room has made his skin tighten all over, pebbling his flesh with goose bumps that cry out to be smoothed away.

“Hey, science genius,” he says, “germs don’t work like that.”

“Fine. Freeze. I don’t care.”

He turns away—alas, not to put on a shirt. Instead, he takes an apple from the kitchen counter and comes to lean against the desk near me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just passes the apple from hand to hand.

My imagined reconstruction of his chest, it turns out, isn’t as sexy as the real version. I forgot about his tattoo—that weirdly translucent circuitry tracing down his left arm. He’s looking me over frankly, his eyes traveling slowly down my body. It should make me feel uneasy. Out of place.

It doesn’t. I just feel warm.

“Here.” Instead of looking at him, I open my laptop—a brand-new lightweight Cyclone model in black matte metal. “This is what I have for the script so far.”

He picks it up and opens the file. He scrolls through the pages one by one. I hate feeling like I’m waiting for his approval. His face doesn’t change as he reads. He just keeps going. When he’s done, he looks up at me. And instead of telling me what he thinks, he asks his own question. “So, what do you think?”

“I think this part here—” I scroll through the file until I find it “—isn’t funny enough. We’re going from one serious part to another. We need to break that up.”

“I agree.”

“I think we need something way better to demonstrate the relatively smooth video tracking that Fernanda can manage. Something escalating—so at first, mild hand gestures. Then bigger ones.” I demonstrate. “Then something completely over the top—juggling, maybe? It has to be something that looks super-cool on screen but gives us stable video. We’ll need to do some experiments.”

“Sounds good.”

“And then there’s the Blake and Adam Show. It doesn’t feel quite right to me.”

He stiffens, not looking at me. “Yeah.” That comes out a little lower.

“So,” I say with a sigh, “I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”

“Hell, no.” He raises an eyebrow. “This is the part where we upload it to the team, give them the direction you just gave me, and have them brainstorm. They’ll do the testing. They’ll generate ideas. That’s what they’re there for.”

“So it’s okay?”

“It will be more than okay by the time everyone’s done with it.” He makes a few tiny alterations and then uploads the file.

“Congratulations,” he tells me dryly. “Now you’re going to start having to mediate arguments about whether a or the is the proper article to use.”

“Fine.” I reach for my purse. “That’s it, then. Next week, same time?”

He simply raises an eyebrow. “You can’t go yet. You’re holding out on me.”

“I am?”

“Yep. We spent this whole time talking about my life.” He takes a bite of the apple he’s holding. “Trade me: Why is your mom terrifying?”

I shake my head. “Trying to explain my parents is a futile endeavor.”

“Too bad. Rule one: your life is as important as mine. We just spent half an hour on the piddly details of my life. And here’s the thing: I’m working hard. I’m exhausted. I’ve never had this little money in my life. But I’m not terrified by your life. So what am I doing wrong?”

I thought he would never notice that he’s missing the bulk of my life. I hadn’t planned to press the issue, because what good could come of it?

But he’s looking at me now as if he expects some kind of explanation.

I let go of my purse and tilt my head back. “You’re never going to be terrified.” My voice is low. “Because if something goes seriously wrong—if you get sick, if the laptop stops working—you can always cheat. I can make you walk a tightrope, but yours is only a foot off the ground. If you work so hard you can’t keep up with your classes, you get Cs…and then what? It makes no difference. I would lose my entire future plans.”

“Okay.” He runs his hands slowly over his bare arms. “I get that. But you said your mom was terrifying. Not just your life. How does that play out?”

For a moment, I don’t know how to respond. My throat closes, trying to communicate everything. Instead, I open my laptop again and navigate to a familiar website. I motion him to sit down next to me.

It’s a mistake. He does. His legs brush mine; his shoulder is inches from me. When I look down, I see the circuitry of his tattoo.

Here we are, sitting on the bed together.

I take a deep breath and try to push away my awareness of him. It doesn’t work. He’s still there, so close. So warm.

I give my head a little shake and log on to the website.

My parents’ electricity bill comes up. I’ve been away from home for more than two years, and I’m still checking this website.

“See?” I say. “Terrifying.” I point to the amount due—$83.26—and the due date—which is two days from now. “It gets worse,” I tell him.

I get out my phone, find my mother’s number, set the call to speakerphone, and dial.

It takes a few moments for her to answer.

“Hi, Tina!” she says excitedly. “I just got home. Guess what happened today?”

“I don’t know.”

“The big boss-lady showed me something cool at work. I’m on the blog again!” She sounds absolutely delighted.

Since I immediately know exactly what she’s talking about, I put my head in my hands. “Oh, God. Mom. What did you do this time?”

“Just what the customer asked,” she says, far too innocently. “Go look. You’ll like it.”

“I’m bringing it up now.” I type in the URL for a blog that catalogs terrible professionally decorated cakes. I’m pretty sure that most cake decorators don’t consider it an accomplishment to have made the “worst of” lists for three years running, but my mother has a twisted sense of humor. She decorates cakes in the classical style known colloquially as OMG, what the hell happened here? with an occasional dash of WTF just for seasoning.

I bring up the day’s offerings and scroll down. I know—immediately—which one is hers.

“Mom. No.”

“Exactly what they asked for,” she insists.

The cake pictured is a large, white sheet cake, fringed in iced purple flowers. “Welcome back, Bonzo!” proclaims the main lettering.

That’s not the bad part. Little bits of encouragement have been added around the edge. Things like, “Way to go!” in the upper left, and “Here’s to good behavior time!”

“They said they were putting on encouragement for a man just out of jail,” my mother explains. “I just added the best advice.”

Sure enough, she has. It’s in the lower right. “Only talk to cops with a lawyer there.”

Blake, who is reading over my shoulder, puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Don’t know why the family was so mad,” my mother continues. “I gave them what they asked for. Encouragement to keep him out of jail. It’s better than ‘You can do it.’ You have to be careful what you say to the cops. Everyone knows that!” She tsks. “Even the blog comments agree with me. Read them.”

“Well,” I say dryly. “If the internet commenters agree with you, you couldn’t possibly be wrong.”

“Speaking of internet. I got an email from Zhen Liu. Why didn’t you tell me you have a boyfriend?”

Crap. I know Mr. Zhen because he owes my mom a favor. I should have known he’d talk to

her.

“Oh,” I say as breezily as I can, not daring to look at Blake. “He’s not a boyfriend. Just a friend who is a boy.”

“Not according to Zhen Liu,” my mother singsongs. “He says you came for him after work.”

Shit.

“Zhen Liu says he’s nice, for a white boy. He says he speaks Mandarin.”

“Yeah.” I frown at Blake. “Seriously, Mom. He’s not a boyfriend.”

“Is he rich?”

God. I blush fiercely and grab for the phone to take it off speaker, but Blake takes hold of my wrist and shakes his head.