“Dumb, I know.”
“I was going to say dangerous. You have no idea who this person is. You think it’s a she? What if it’s some fifty-year-old pedophile you’re sharing your secrets with? You remember this is all their fault, sí?”
“Of course.”
Though what if some of it was mine, too?
“Promise me you won’t txt them anymore.”
Mac took his arm away from me and turned me so I was looking at him.
“Sure, okay. Promise. Look, Macky. I think we’re here.”
The ConnectBook headquarters looked like an oasis on the High Line. As opposed to all the red and gray brick buildings around it, the CB offices were entirely fitted with reflective solar-paneled windows that were a rainbow assortment of shiny blues, greens, and pinks. Just visible from the ground were the long grasses that made up the roof garden and the building’s huge water-filtration system. When it was first built, the ConnectBook HQ was lauded, and then deplored, by the energy companies for being the first building in Manhattan that functioned entirely off the grid.
Coming in and out of the building were people walking their dogs, toting their bikes and skateboards, and otherwise enjoying this sunny, brisk late-December day. It felt more like a college campus than the headquarters of one of the most influential companies in the world.
“This isn’t David versus Goliath,” I muttered. “It’s David versus all the geek gods inside one giant Cronus.”
“Geek gods. Good one.” Mac stared up at the building in awe. “Don’t forget. David won.”
We didn’t get past reception.
There were two receptionists—one male and one female—who sat in plush chairs behind an empty glass table. I nudged Mac toward the male receptionist because he gave us a bright smile when we entered while the female receptionist kept staring straight ahead, her eyeballs moving in minute flicks. Every few clicks, she said, “Hello, ConnectBook. How may I connect you? One moment.” Even though we heard no ringing.
“Hi there,” the male receptionist said when we approached. “Welcome to ConnectBook. How may I help you?”
“Hi there,” I said. “Someone’s posted malicious content about me. I was hoping I could talk to a tech.”
“All right, I see you’re having a malicious content problem. If you go to your ConnectBook account and click Flag Post, ConnectBook security will investigate the complaint.”
If I’d had my Doc, I’d have txted Creepy to Mac. Instead I tried to convey the emotion with my eyes and mouth. Mac raised an eyebrow, like, huh? Behind us, the front doors slid open. A kid in a slate-colored hoodie, not much taller than Audra, wandered in and waited for an elevator. Did they have day care here, too?
“Oh, it’s not one post, it’s like hundreds of thousands, but the thing I need help with is—”
“I understand. If you go to your account and click Flag Links, ConnectBook security will investigate the complaint. But what I am hearing you say, ma’am, is that there are many links you’d like removed, and I should remind you that as a ConnectBook user, you have signed a terms-of-service agreement that allows all ConnectBook information to be public. You can find this information right online under your My Account Info.”
My eyes flicked to Mac, and under my breath I said, “Txt Mac: Bot?”
Mac’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes glued to the receptionist. “Not sure.”
I glanced longingly at the bank of elevators behind us. I imagined grabbing that kid—who’d put his hood up and was clearly eavesdropping—as a hostage, making a mad dash for any upwards locale and cornering the first tech person we saw.
“But we’re here and I don’t want to wait for”—I didn’t mean to mimic a robot when I said it, but I did—“ConnectBook security to launch an investigation. I don’t want you guys to remove any links. I was hoping to speak with someone about accessing closed user accounts so I could remove the links myself.”
The smile didn’t leave the receptionist’s lips, but it tightened. Thank goodness. He was human.
“Yeah,” Mac said.
“Please,” I added, to make up for using the robot voice.
The female receptionist tapped a tiny square piece of metal next to her eye, then spoke directly to me. Mac and I jumped.
“What I am hearing you say is that you would like to access another user’s private account information. At ConnectBook we take the privacy of our users very seriously. Account tampering is a serious offense. May I have your username, please?”
“But he just said all ConnectBook information was public—”
“Posts are public and protected by freedom of speech. Identities are private and protected by CB. May I have your username, please?”
The smile now genuinely widened on the male receptionist’s boyish features.
“No. Why do you need my username? I’m not trying to account tamper. I’m not even online right now. But I’m pretty sure someone has accessed ConnectBook Woofer footage of me and other girls my age and then turned that footage into fake and highly damaging videos of us doing stuff with our teachers. If a user is allowed to do that within CB’s guidelines, I should be able to find out who that user is.”
The female receptionist tapped the metal square again and resumed staring at her retina screen. “Hello, ConnectBook,” she said. “How may I connect you? One moment.”
I didn’t want to sound like Mom or anything, but cutting-edge tech was getting weird. The kid in the slate hoodie now stood a few feet behind us. He was even leaning in to hear us better.
“This is garbage,” Mac said.
“If you have a complaint about the service you received today”—this now from the smiling male receptionist—“you can put it in writing and mail it to our customer service division. You can find the address online under our contact information. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“But you haven’t helped me. You’re telling me—ConnectBook is telling me—to write a letter?”
“That’s correct. Thank you for contacting ConnectBook. Have a connected New Year.”
It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I wasn’t supposed to be stopped at the gates by a tooth-model clone with an unhelpful script. Next to me I could feel Mac tense, like he was ready to coil up and spring on the guy. Grabbing the crook of his arm, I pulled him toward the exit. The doors didn’t automatically slide apart. I jammed my finger against the manual door-open button. When that didn’t work, Mac pressed the button again and again.
“I think those are supposed to work on a push-once basis.”
The kid in the hoodie was hovering behind us, except he wasn’t a kid. He was just short. And extremely pale. He looked like he’d been kept in a closet his whole life.