The window above the love seat gave her a direct line of sight across the overgrown side yard and into a window of the house next door, where blinds cascaded diagonally from a hitch in the support string. This was William’s bedroom. The two of them spent long nights clicking flashlights on and off, learning Morse code across the yard. If an apocalyptic event wiped out the power grid, they’d still be able to send messages.
“Brenzenschlussenfisch,” William said, setting his Coke down on a coaster. The bitten-down Twizzler poked up like a periscope.
Christina stowed the cleaning supplies in a cabinet next to the one that housed Kimberly and tossed the rag in a drawer. “So it has something to do with making weekend plans?”
He drummed on his knees. “No, the weekend plans make it what it is, but it’s its own thing.”
“You have to be able to explain it better than that for the Patent Office.”
“It’s like this: Thursday’s the best day because Friday hasn’t rolled around yet to screw up your hopefulness that it’s gonna be an awesome weekend. There’s a party every Friday, right?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“And on Thursday, it’s easy to be ridiculously excited about it, because enough time has passed that last Friday’s party has faded in your mind. On Thursday, the new party is still the greatest party ever because it hasn’t happened yet. You get this rush, you’re literally floating through school—”
“Five bucks!” Christina pointed to a glass jar next to her monitors labeled LITERAL PENALTY JAR.
William scratched the side of his nose with his middle finger. “You feel like you’re floating through school because the party hasn’t managed to screw itself up yet. Nobody puked all over Jen Yellen’s parents’ bed, nobody got shitfaced and sat on the stairs and slapped himself in the face and cried.” He gave her a knowing look. “Jon-Michael Waters.”
“I wish I didn’t know that.”
“It’s when everything’s still about to happen and nothing’s been messed up.”
His phone buzzed, rattling her desk. He spun halfway around and picked it up. “Whoa,” he said. “Daniel just sent me this thing. You know Driverless?”
“The car company?”
“Check it out.”
He handed her his phone. On the screen was a blog post about a contest that had just been announced: an endurance test called the Driverless Derby, to be held in the summer. Thirty semifinalists standing in a parking lot, pressing their hands against Autonomous, the newest Driverless prototype, until only one contestant remained. The winner would take home the car, and the car would take the winner and three friends on an all-expenses-paid cross-country road trip.
“Sounds miserable,” she said.
He snatched his phone back. “No, it sounds incredible.”
“I mean standing around in a parking lot.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Remember that contest in the Fremont Hills Square Mall? They parked a Hyundai in the middle of the food court, and five people sat in it for as long as they could, until the last one left won the car.”
“I remember somebody chucked a gordita at the windshield.”
“The lady who won only had to sit there for a day and a half! See, people think they’re gonna be good at something like this, but then they get there and it breaks their minds.”
Christina read the jittery excitement on his face, recognized it from the days she’d tagged along to the skate park and watched him attempt tricks that were far beyond his abilities, like he was a character in a Pro Shred game and not a mediocre skater made of flesh and blood and breakable bones. It was as if some Inner William were attempting to jump out of his skin.
“Well, it’s a moot point,” she said, “unless you suddenly joined the Driverless Chrome Club.”
He gave her a blank look.
“Read the last paragraph.”
“‘The contest’s only open to members of the Driverless Chrome Club, so unless you’ve got ten grand to spare, or you’re a serious influencer who can score an invite, you’ll be enjoying the Derby from the comfort of the livestream.’” He looked up from the screen. “What the hell’s an influencer?”
“You know, the Jessa Parks of the world. People with tons of followers, whose opinions mean something online, who’d be good publicity for a huge company. A.K.A. the opposite of you and me.”
“That’s bullshit,” he said.
“Well, it’s the way it is. Welcome to modern life.”
“Watch me influence this guy right here.” William slurped the Twizzler up out of the can and chewed it vehemently. “We should start a YouTube channel,” he said. “Live from the CB Lounge.”
Christina shuddered.
William gripped the edge of the desk and spun himself until friction halted the chair. The afternoon closed in while Christina pondered the Thursday Feeling. Maybe it was a vague sensation that lacked a true name, but she’d seen it light up William’s eyes when he read about the Driverless Derby. Unless she found a way to kick-start it again, the day would fizzle into its desultory, inevitable end, joining afternoons stacked like old Pokémon cards lost to time, Next-Door Neighbor Friends having accomplished nothing more than filling the listless pre-dinner hours with each other’s company. He would toss his soda can into the recycling bin and leave. She would microwave a cup of ramen noodles and eat in the glow of her screen.
“Get up for a second,” she said. He vacated the chair. She sat down and brought Dierdrax to life. The current iteration of the Slor browser, Christina’s dark web navigation tool, made the vast illicit market of anything-goes commerce look and operate like an actual marketplace. Strange geometries splashed across the void behind Dierdrax, vertical struts and swooping trusses. She leaned forward in her chair, right hand guiding her mouse, left hand working the keyboard. Dierdrax made her way through seedy flesh portals, drug bazaars, and back-alley avatar rippers. There were shadows within
