But a girl from Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury, a school with a grand total of EIGHT students in the tenth grade, this little
maideleh
Gabby Freidman (complete with a glass eye), was selected to give the closing student remarks. And we were all
“really happy for her.”
“Since then,” I tell Mac, “Emily and I run into each other here and there. And it started out friendly—at least
surface
-friendly. But near the end of junior year, like right after we got our first SAT scores, Emily stopped trying to even hide her contempt. Now she just straight-up loathes me. Hence, my natural-born frienemy. And I’m sure it’s killing her—
killing
her—that I’m here. I totally saw the look on her face when she spotted us last night. That,
I thought I was the only one who’d think to volunteer for the hurricane relief effort
face. Well, newsflash, E.K. You got some compet-ish. And you. Are goin’ down!”
I get kind of swept away during the last part of my rant. When I look down at Mac he seems frightened and impressed at the same time. Might not be a bad thing.
“Cool,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s really laid back, really stupid, or some kind of evil genius using us all to his advantage. “Better get back to work before the rain starts. Weather-dot-com says we might get showers as early as this afternoon.”
The mocking voice comes from behind the tall hedges in the side yard. Mac and I turn to see a skinny Latino boy with thick rim glasses emerge from around the corner. He’s wearing an “OBEY” T-shirt with pegged jeans and suspenders, along with an iPad that’s tied into some contraption around his neck allowing him to be hands-free. So while he’s typing with one hand, he’s finishing off a 5-hour ENERGY shot with the other. “Weather-dot-com,” he says authoritatively, “is the MySpace of meteorology. It’s for grandmas and morons.”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Are you saying there’s not even gonna be a hurricane?”
“Not here. Lady C’s gonna miss to the east by over a hundred miles. Hardly hit land at
all.
I mean, don’t even take into account the indicators I’m picking up—or the European models that say the high pressure coming in from Canada might push her offline—or the
Clipper
model which says she’ll get shoved out to
sea
. The only storms that do any
real
damage have
real
names. Names people actually
go
by. Andrew, Katrina, Sandy. Those babies packed a punch. But who the frack is named Calliope? Sounds like a saggy Greek stripper. Unh-unh. No one goes by that name anymore. Means this storm will be DOA.”
“We’re not gonna get hit at all?” Mac asks.
“Are wrong. Those things are so outdated, we’re lucky to know when
sun
rise is gonna be each day. The way to predict the weather isn’t about
guessing
. It’s about
knowing
.” He gestures to the iPad strapped around his neck. “Exhibit A.”
“What, like social media—with Twitter and Facebook?” I ask.
“Can’t meteorologists do that too?” I offer.
“What? Who’s Gordo?” I ask.
“Sorry,” the kid says. “I was talk-texting with my glasses.”
“No way!” Mac stands, excited. “Are those Google Glasses?”
“Just a prototype,” the kid says casually. “Got a buddy who worked with Sergey out on the left coast.” He lifts off the glasses for Mac, who accepts them gingerly, like he’s holding a bird with a clipped wing.
“What are Google glasses?” I ask, already afraid of the answer.
“Augmented reality eyewear,” Mac gushes, inspecting them closely. “Do these have the virtual retinal display?”
“Yeah—takes a while to get used to. And they’re still working out the kinks. But in five years, those babies’ll be more popular than cell phones.”
“These are totally badass,” Mac says.
“I know.” The kid takes the glasses, blows a bit of unseen dust off a lens, and delicately puts them back on.
“I’m James MacKenzie, by the way. People call me Mac. And this is my friend Robert.”
Not that it means anything, but I note that when introducing me this time, Mac called me
his friend.
“Gentlemen,” the new guy says, formally shaking our hands. “Duncan Rodriguez. Amateur weather enthusiast and Twitter sensation.”
“Really. A
sensation
?” I ask, dubious.
“It’s ample,” Duncan says, looking around for more interesting people to brag to. “I’m certainly on my way.”
“So… you want to be a famous weatherman or something?” I ask.
“Nah. I just want to be
famous
. I don’t care what
for
. Tracking weather was something that happened kind of by accident. I consider myself a renaissance man of the twenty-first century. A techno-philosopher. Part Timothy Leary, part Neo from the
Matrix
trilogy, and part Javier Bardem—not so much who he is as a
person
, but more his onscreen persona and general badass-ness. I’m like a curator of inspiration, ya know. Gave a TedX talk last month down in Costa Rica about counterculture technology. I post stream-of-conscious video blogs about the ever-changing landscape of scientific advancement. No long-term game plan. I do what I feel like, ya know, let it take me where it takes me. Long as it gets me famous.” His iPhone 6 buzzes and chirps. Duncan takes a peek at the screen. “Uhp. My shit’s blowing up on the Inter-webs. Gotta bolt. Later haters.”
And quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. After a moment, Mac busts out laughing. “Who was
that
?”
I watch Duncan walking away, a phone to his ear in one hand while he types on the iPad around his neck with the other. “That,” I say to Mac, “is the next generation.”
EMILY
“I can’t
believe
that stupid Robert.”
Rani and I are just outside of town at the Lennox River levee. We’re taking turns filling sandbags (I shovel, she holds the bag open; she shovels, I hold the bag open). I was kind of hoping to drive the machinery, but apparently you need a special license to operate this kind of equipment, so we’re relegated to the real grunt work.
A dozen volunteers are here at our “station.” After we load each twenty-five pound bag with sand, we stack it on a big pile. Then a guy on a mini-bulldozer looking thing (someone called it a “skid steer” but that sounds made up… and gross) comes by every fifteen minutes and moves a bunch of our bags further upriver to reinforce the levee. Rani and I have been here for two hours, since lunch, and have only finished a dozen bags. This is harder than I thought. But I don’t let on that it’s getting to me. I keep talking about stupid things to distract me from the backaches and the blisters and the heat.
“How’d that little snot talk his way into Richard’s B&B? Once again,
my
thing… becomes
everyone’s
thing. I’m so sick of it.”
“Let’s take a break,” Rani suggests, and I readily agree. I drop my shovel where I’m standing and we move into the shade by a big Gatorade cooler filled with ice water, where we gulp mightily on the godly nectar of H2O. After three triangle paper cups each, Rani says, “We should probably have a plan for tomorrow morning’s presentation, right?”
“Oh!” I say, trying to catch my breath after drinking so fast. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you yet. I’ve totally got the best idea ever. It came to me last night in the shower. A ‘Loan Your Guesthouse’ social networking site.”
“Sounds promising,” Rani says. “What is it, exactly?”
“So—remember that thing I was showing you on the drive up, about how after Hurricane Sandy, Facebook got rid of the middleman and made giving directly to needy families so much easier? Like someone would post, ‘My sister-in-law in Red Hook needs food and baby clothes for her nine month old,’ and then dozens of people would share that status until someone in the area with food and baby clothes to give saw it and replied, ‘I can do that!’ then drove the supplies right to the person in need?”
“It’s okay to breathe once in a while when you talk,” Rani says, patting my arm.
“I know. I’m just super excited about this. Okay. So our idea would piggyback on that concept. People with guesthouses in non-flooded areas can log onto a secure website—which we’ll create, like, a beta version of for tomorrow, maybe, if we have time—and they can post the details: location of their guesthouse, number of bedrooms, bathrooms, whether or not meals with their family will be provided, whatever. Then those locations are matched to families in need of temporary housing. And this doesn’t have to end with Calliope. We can develop a free app version for the charity-minded Connecticuter-on-the-go, and any family in need can be linked up to families with spare bedrooms, spare clothes, or extra furniture. Instead of just giving randomly to Goodwill or the Red Cross, you’re helping out your fellow neighbors and residents of the Nutmeg State. Whaddaya think?”
“I like it. What’s it called? The site.”
“I don’t know. I thought Loan Your Guesthouse-dot-com.”
“Mm. We need something flashier,” Rani says, standing up and pacing. This is what I hoped would happen, that Rani’s long-dormant creative and competitive juices would start flowing. Together we’ll be unstoppable. “Something with pop culture appeal that still stands on its own and represents what we’re offering.”
“Crash On My Couch-dot-com?” I suggest.
“No,” Rani says, “not quite. Let’s think: We’ve got rich people with an extra room… who want to give of themselves. Want to give back. Want someone to benefit from what they have. And feel good about helping others. So what do they have to give?”
“A guesthouse?”
“Right. They have a spare bed, a spare room. An empty room. For people in need.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s close. Uh… Oh, I got it.
Friday Night Lights
!”
“That name’s already taken, Ran.”
“No, like what Coach Taylor says. ‘Clear eyes, full hearts…?’ But we change it…
Empty Rooms, Full Hearts.
Boom!”
“Holy shitballs, you’re a friggin’ genius.”
“Enh. Beginners luck.”
“No, I’m serious, Rani. That was like some Don Draper Jedi-mind shit. You should go into advertising or marketing or something.”
“…Maybe.”
Rani takes another sip of water and sits, lost in thought again. Any competitive instincts that almost woke up seem to have left the building. She’s been different this whole trip. More reserved and distant. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed. But I’m not one to sit around and hypothesize. I like to get down to it.
“You okay?” I ask, easing in.
“Yeah,” she says. “Kinda tired. Shoveling dirt is no joke.”
“Right? But, I don’t know. You seem more than just… tired.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like, kind of… distant. Like you don’t want to be here?”
“I want to be here.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We’re best friends.”
“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t be doing this for
me
. Cuz you’re my
friend
. You should be doing this because you
want
to. Because you want to help out or… write a killer essay or meet new people or… meet new
guys
.”
“Whoa. Meet new
guys
? What does
that
mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Who was that guy that geeked out on Richard Gains earlier? He seemed to know
you
pretty well.”
“Not at all. We
just
met.”
“When?”
“Excuse me?”
“
When
did you meet him? I’ve been with you like every second of this trip. And that was the first time I laid eyes on him.”
“What is this, the friggin’ Inquisition?”
“I’m just trying to figure out the deal with this guy that’s suddenly in your life. Or maybe you’ve known him for a long time. A secret boyfriend or something—”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”
“It would make more sense than what I used to think.”
“Which is…?”
“That maybe you’re a lesbian.”
Rani sort of chokes on air and can’t even speak. But I press on, unsure where this tirade is coming from. Lack of sleep and raging hormones, maybe? (I got my stupid period last night—it’s why I bolted into the shower once we got to our room.) But no matter what my motivation or emotional reasoning behind this line of questioning, I blindly press on anyway.
“Think about it, Ran. You never really liked
any
of the guys from Saint G’s.”
“Because Saint Geoffrey’s is nothing but tools and douchebags.”
“Granted. But you could at least hook up with a tool once in a while. Or use one of the DB’s as, like, arm candy for the spring formal. But nothing. The closest thing was that double date with me and the Grover twins last summer.”
“Exactly. Who would want to date any of those guys from that dorky school when their idea of dinner and a movie was the Crusty Knot’s all-you-can-eat-pizza bar and
Thor
?!”
“You’re not answering my questions.”
“That’s because I don’t know what they
are
.”
“
When
did you meet that guy and
are
you a lesbian?!”
“Is
who
a lesbian?”
I turn to see the governor’s chief of staff, Teddy Hutchins, about twenty yards away near the side of the road, two black stretch town cars silently idling behind him. He’s waving as he walks toward us along the muddy path marked by loose hay.
“I’m just kidding,” he says once he’s closer. “Wondering if you ladies wouldn’t mind posing for a photograph with the governor.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I say, with a little shrug toward Rani. She nods at Mr. Hutchins who says, “Great!” and then turns and waves back toward the road. The governor, a photographer, and three other people hop out of the town cars. Teddy takes a few steps back toward the road to meet them halfway, and I pull Rani close. “That’s Teddy Hutchins. You gotta introduce yourself.”
“I’m not telling him who my dad is.”
“Why
not
?”
“I told you yesterday. It’s dorky and lame.”
“What’s the point of doing
any
of this if not to make connections and get ahead?”
“Shh.”
Governor Watson and his mini-entourage are here. The photographer asks Rani and me to hold a shovel and a sandbag while he instructs the governor to circle behind us and stand in the middle. This is so surreal.
“Thank you, girls, for all your hard work,” the governor says to us, offering his hand. “Charles Watson.”
“Emily Kim,” I say, giving him a firm handshake. “We sort of spoke the other night.”
“Oh yes—the young lady who made all this happen,” he says, breaking into a very charming smile. “Teddy, did you know this was the young lady from the press conference?”
“Right, of course,” Mr. Hutchins says. “Exactly what we were thinking too.”
Is he serious? He had no
idea
who I was when he first came over. Whatever. A photo with the governor of Connecticut isn’t exactly Brad-Pitt-in-NOLA territory, but it’ll look good in a college application. (And it will totally drive the Fairwich Academy girls bananas when I post it on Facebook!)
“Forgive me,” the governor says offering a hand to Rani. “Very nice meeting you, too, young lady.”
“Thank you, Governor. Rani Caldwell.” She gives Teddy Hutchins a furtive glance, perhaps hoping he’ll recognize her last name, but he’s talking intensely to the photographer and I’m sure he doesn’t hear her at all. I look at her and mouth the words,
tell them who your father is,
but Rani shakes me off.
“Okay everyone eyes on me here we go please,” the photographer shouts rapidly without a breath. “In three two one perfect. One more annnnd… Got it very nice moving on thank you girls.”
And before we know it, Hutchins and his crew are walking back to their cars. But the governor sort of hovers, not wanting to be completely rude. “So. How’s everything going? You ladies enjoying yourselves?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” I lie. “Loads of fun.”
“Well,” he says, nodding at nothing, “we’re looking forward to hearing your proposal tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.” He gives me a reassuring/condescending pat on the shoulder and turns to go.
“Thank you, sir,” I say as they all make their way back to the road. But the only female in the entourage stops (a sort of younger and shorter Amanda Peet). And she’s totally staring at Rani. Just when it gets awkward, I turn to Rani and ask, without moving my lips, “Um. Why is that hot girl staring at you?”
“Maybe she thinks I’m a lesbian,” Rani mutters.
“Well, we’re about to find out, here she comes.”
Mini-Peet says a quick word to Mr. Hutchins and then trots over to us.
“Hey,” she says, her voice a little raspy, “sorry, this might be totally out of left field—and now as I’m running it in my head, maybe a touch racist, but—are you by any chance related to
Morgan
Caldwell?”
“Yeah,” Rani says, surprised, “that’s my sister.”
The girl looks relieved, “Okay, cool. So I’m not racial profiling, I swear. I was Morgan’s RA. At Princeton? And you look
so
much like her and then when you said your last name, I thought…”
“Not a lot of brown girls named Caldwell?” I finish.
Mini-Peet isn’t sure if I’m being funny or not, but once Rani laughs, she does too.
“Right, right,” she says to me. “Good one.
Any
way. I’m A.J. A.J. Gould. I should get back, but please say ‘hi’ to Morgan for me when you see her, okay?”
“Might be a while,” Rani says. “She’s in South Africa on her Fulbright.”
“Oh, wow,” A.J. gushes. “Good for her! I knew she’d do well no matter
what
she ended up doing. Always so smart and driven.”
Rani doesn’t respond, just jabs at the dirt absently with her shovel.
“And by the way,” A.J. says, unfazed, touching my arm in a slightly too familiar way, “I
loved
what you said at the press conference last night. Exactly what the governor needed—a good swift kick in the pants.” She laughs a throaty laugh and I smile awkwardly. “Okay. Thanks, you guys. Hope to see you later.”
She hustles back to the governor’s car as quickly as the muddy path will allow while Rani and I stand there, befuddled.
“So…
that
happened.”
“Let’s win this thing,” Rani declares.
“What?”
“Fuck Morgan and her overachieving Fulbright ass. I’m just as driven as she is. And smarter, too.”
“Yeah, you are,” I say, stoking the fire. “
Way
smarter.”
“And you were right. I
was
sort of distracted and… not really into this and phoning it in. But now I’m ready. You and me? We’re gonna crush this hurricane.”
That’s
the Rani I know and love. But I don’t say that because it would be super weird. Instead I say, “Damn right, we’re gonna crush it.” We smile and look at the dirt pile behind us, not really wanting to get back to work.
“And hey,” I say, trying to clear the air, “sorry for being so chafey and saying you might be a lesbian.” I instantly realize that was equally weird, but Rani lets it slide.
“Yeah, that was unexpected.”
“I know… I’m
tired
. And that
lunch
was super lame.”
“
Ser
iously lame, I mean I know we’re here voluntarily but can’t they spring for some decent eats?”
“Totally.” We’re both laughing as we get back to work, things quickly returning to normal. Rani holds open a sand bag and I grab the shovel. After five digs in silence, though, I can’t help myself.