Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

“Seriously? Are you a terrible driver or something?”


“I swear to God, if you give me that Asians are terrible drivers spiel at this moment, I am going to kick you out of this car so fast—”

“Tina, I’m asking if you’re a terrible driver because you’re driving twenty miles an hour and everyone is passing you. This is a thing that terrible drivers do.”

I don’t know if I can explain why I find this car so frightening. It’s powerful. It’s fast. I could go sixty and not even notice, and that’s the problem. I feel like I should notice having power like this. Like if I ever stop noticing, I’ll lose something important.

I grit my teeth and inch the speed up to twenty-four. “Satisfied?”

“Not really.”

I don’t look at him. “It’s terrifying. It’s all terrifying, okay? And you’re one to talk—you’re picking on my driving because you don’t want to answer my question. What is the deal with you and your dad right now?”

He sighs again. His fingers drum against the door. But after a long moment, very quietly, he speaks. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

I let that sink in, playing with it.

“Fernanda is your baby,” I finally say. “You had control, up to a point. So this is about your presenting your hard work to your father. Laying it at his feet for approval, so to speak. I can make that work.”

“Glad we got that figured out.” He smiles at me. “Then I can go back to being me. Or, rather, you.”

BLAKE

By the time Saturday comes around, it’s been a few days since I’ve signed into the Cyclone intranet. For one thing, the internet is slow enough here that many of the features bog down. For another, I know that as soon as I do, Dad is going to pounce on me, and I don’t know what to say to him. I haven’t seen a copy of Tina’s working draft of the launch script yet—she’ll be here in a few hours to go over that—and I don’t want to muddy the waters.

But this has been a good week. All my life, I’ve had things appear for me without my having to think of where they come from. Fruit magically appeared in bowls. I’ve had a personal chef who puts my favorite foods in single-serve portions in the fridge, so I can reheat them and stare at them for a while before tossing half of it in the garbage.

Now, I’ve had to go to the store. I’ve had to look at price tags, something I’ve never even thought about before. I’ve been too busy to run, and too tired to play half my food games. I’m trying not to feel hopeful; I’ve had good weeks before. But maybe, just maybe, this thing will solve itself.

Still, I sneak on the Cyclone intranet Saturday morning before Tina comes over to take a peek at some of the suggestions. I choose this time of day because I’m hoping that dad won’t be around. Unfortunately, it takes about thirty seconds before the chat icon blinks.

What the fuck, asshole, my father writes with his usual bluntness. Are you avoiding me?

I pull a blanket around my shoulders, but the goose bumps that pop up on my arms have little to do with the morning cold. Yes, I admit it. I’ve been avoiding my dad. For one, I haven’t exactly told him about the swap. That would lead to difficult questions, questions that I don’t want to answer.

I’ve also put off his attempts at video chatting, simply because I don’t want him to see my surroundings. It’s been five days since we’ve spoken, longer than we’ve ever gone before. From his point of view, it must feel like I disappeared off the face of the planet.

Possibly. I have some stuff on my plate. I need to disconnect a little, so I’ve been conserving my time to take care of the script.

The light indicates that he’s typing a response. It comes in piece by piece.

Disconnect?

What new fucking rancid bullshit is this? If you are blowing me off for some new-wave meditative retreat shit, I swear to God there will be a nuclear explosion down here.

People think that my dad is an asshole because he says shit like this all the time and they think he means it. He doesn’t. He’s not really an asshole. He’s just fluent in the language of asshole and likes using it.

Jesus, Dad. Mushroom clouds are 60s-era scare tactics. They’re not even frightening anymore. Get with the program. Dirty bombs are the new black.

He comes back with: I’ll compromise with weaponized anthrax, but that’s as modern as I can manage. You can’t teach an old dog new methods of mass destruction.

Ha. With you, it’s more like weaponized affection. There’s a pause after I send this. After staring blankly at the screen, I get up and make another mug of coffee with the remaining hot water. It’s tepid, and I only have instant—really terrible instant—but it’s bitter, it’s liquid, and it’s caffeine. I’ll take it.

When his reply comes, it’s matter of fact, down to earth—and I can tell from what he’s not saying, just a little hurt.