Chapter 12
Chance
I look down at my Glad container filled with last night’s salmon and white rice with a little curry powder thrown on top, the kind in the tiny bottle from the grocery store that Americans think qualifies as Indian spices. But I don’t own a spice grinder, and if I did, I wouldn’t use it anyway. Half my life, I grew up in this country, so I’m well-acquainted with its subpar food. But I like my salmon. And according to the petition on the breakroom wall, at least ten people in this office do not.
“Fine, then. You don’t like my salmon, you don’t get my salmon.”
That sounded better in my head. I spin and walk out of the breakroom, chucking my Glad container in the trash along the way. A round of applause greets me. The whole room is gawking at me and clapping vigorously.
“All right. I got it,” I say, patting the air to try to quiet their enthusiasm. “You’re gonna miss it when it’s gone.”
“No we won’t,” Bruce bellows from four cubicles away.
A smile crimps the corner of my mouth. As I stride out of the office, the claps diminish and Juanita hollers, “Stinky-fish-man, you forgot your gum.”
I pat my pocket. Truth. My pack of gum is on my desk. Now how did Juanita know that? I glance up for a spy camera. Finding none, I meet eyes with Juanita. “Stop spying on me.”
She snickers and then turns back to her monitors.
Gum safely secured in pocket, I take the stairs down to the ground floor. Stinky-fish-man. Ha ha. I don’t mind them messing with me. It’s fine. I can take it.
Hot, humid air hits me when I leave Citizen’s Tower. I turn left and wander down the street, passing a seafood joint, a jewelry shop with a bunch of shell earrings lining the front window, and the law offices of Karen and Karen (I wouldn’t trust that place). At the corner is a sandwich shop called Chubb’s Sub and Grub with a chubby, cartoon dude on the front window stuffing a sub in his face. Chubb, I assume.
The scent of raw onions and bacon lures me inside. The restaurant is crowded, with a long line at the counter and patrons occupying most of the tables, but the first person I lay eyes on is Danni. She’s standing in line with her friends, her arms crossed and her lips pinched together in a line. She flips her shiny brown hair over her shoulder before looking in my direction, instantly finding my eyes. I just spent half an hour in a tiny conference room with her, yet meeting her eyes now makes my stomach feel like it’s sitting on a slippery fault line. I drop my eyes to the polished concrete floor and assess the damage. I was in an earthquake in Bengaluru once, just a tremor. It was nothing like this. This is more violent, and somehow much more unexpected. Can I even eat now? Also, am I going to ignore the fact that she just sneered at me?
Yes. Yes, I am. I lift my chin and plant my eyes squarely on the side of Danni’s head, claim my spot in line, and say, “Hey.”
Kayla and Morgan turn to look, offering waves and smiles. Danni does not. She’s staring at the menu, pretending to be so engrossed that she doesn’t notice me. I know how to read a room.
Danni is one of those programmers who becomes emotionally invested in their code. They take it personally when someone offers suggestions for improvement. Whereas, to me, it’s just code. All code can be improved and improvement should be everyone’s goal. Unfortunately, in my career, I’ve run into too many techies who can’t take a little objective criticism. She’s one of them.
Danni and her friends order their food and carry it out in to-go bags, leaving me behind to study the menu while Danni’s sneer replays in the idle parts of my mind. I’m not going easy on her just because she’s pretty. Her hair is shiny and she smells nice, which I’ve already established, but she’s my team lead. We’re coworkers. We throw ideas back and forth to see which stick, hopefully the best ones, and I’m not going easy on her just because she’s one of those coders who think they’re weaving masterpieces with loops of if-then-else logic. Speaking of loops. Danni likes her embedded loops. But Drew and I have been simplifying those.
I order Chubb’s Italian Cold Cut Conquest with oil and vinegar, carry it to an empty two-seater by the window and enjoy my sub much more than my salmon, so it all works out. When I’m done, I swipe the oil drops off the table with a napkin and toss everything into the trash because, contrary to Danni’s opinion, I know how to take care of my trash. Sometimes, I just choose not to. I should probably take yesterday’s trash down to the dumpster when I get home. This morning, it smelled like sweaty feet and rotten cantaloupe had a baby.
Back at the office, Danni is perched in front of her computer. She doesn’t acknowledge my entrance, but she lifts her hand to her cheek and presses on her ear like she’s Uhura from Star Trek. The subtle body language cue means “I don’t want him to know that I notice him noticing me” or “Hailing frequencies open, Captain.” I’m going with the former.
Drew’s at his desk, where I’m going to be in a few seconds, but I have an idea.
“Hey.”
Danni looks at me.
“Drew and I have been working on something. Wanna come see it?”
She eyes me cautiously, her head cocked and her lips redder than Cherry Starburst. She licks them and then shrugs. “Sure.”
I grab her chair and roll it over to Drew’s cube. My chair is already there, waiting for me. I plop down and motion for Danni to sit. She perches on the edge of her chair, looking uncertain.
“Show her what we got Drew,” I say with a backhanded slap to his arm.
He jumps in surprise and then frowns at my hand. “I did not notice you there.”
“You didn’t hear Danni’s chair rolling up behind you?”
Drew pushes back his floppy bangs, which are parted too far to the left, which make him look like he’s compensating for a receding hairline. I’ve worked with much weirder guys, like Bob Donner who wrote all his code in his head before typing it out and wore waders to work when it rained. Drew is normal compared to Bob, and he’s crazy smart.
“What do you want to show me,” Danni says.
The second she finishes, her cherry lips flatten into a thin line. Once we show her how much code we’ve dropped, that thin line is going to curl up into a half-moon, teeth and all.
“Me and Drew have been working on an R&D app.”
“I know,” Danni says. “It’s my app. I coded it from scratch.”
“Really?”
“You didn’t notice my name all over the code?”
Her tone sends me sliding to the left. “I saw it here and there.”
“That’s because it’s my app.”
“I thought it was Drew’s app.”
“It was Danni’s app and now it is my app,” Drew says without glancing away from the computer screen.
“I didn’t notice it everywhere,” I hedge, and then add, “Someone doesn’t always comment her code.” The corners of Danni’s lips are headed in the wrong direction, straight down.
“Show her what we got,” I say, a little less confidently this time.
Drew glances over his shoulder at Danni. “Can you see?”
“Good enough.”
Drew pulls up CompareMe and opens Danni’s project on one side, and his updated project on the right. He clicks the button to expand all the folders and begins scrolling. “We got rid of this. We got rid of these. All of these are gone. Not needed. Nope. Effectively erased.”
Danni’s lips maintain their downward curve.
“We genericized it,” I say. “We pared down the view layers and consolidated the controller into one object to get rid of those dupes you had. Like I was explaining in our meeting this morning.” I continue for a minute, explaining why the consolidated objects make the architecture more robust, less brittle. Her lips don’t budge, so she’s obviously not getting the gist.
“This application is in test,” she says finally, her plump, cherry lips gone, replaced by bloodless, twitchy things.
“This only took a week,” Drew says. He stretches his arms and swings them around, anchoring his hands on the back of his head as he gazes proudly at his improvements.
“Testing was ninety percent complete when I handed this over.” There’s a hard edge to Danni’s voice.
“It still is,” Drew says.
Danni’s knees extend reflexively, her heels sending her chair back a foot. “They have to do a full regression test now!”
Drew shrugs. “If they test one screen, the rest will work because it’s all the same backend.”
“With different validations,” Danni growls.
“We baked those in too.”
I glance between Drew, who’s still lounging back, and Danni, who’s leaning forward, hands clutching her seat cushion, her body as stiff as an Everclear cocktail. I’m actually siding with her on this one. A full regression test is necessary. I say as much.
“So basically, all that time I spent coding and all the time they spent testing was a waste of time and money.”
Drew lifts his hands off his head and says, “Uh, yeah.”
“No,” I counter. “We used your code. Or Drew did.” On second thought, I think I’ll let him take credit for this one. It was his idea. Mostly.
“You deleted half of it and rewrote the other quarter,” Danni counters.
“And now the code maintains itself so JetAero is saving money indefinitely. You are welcome.”
I inch away from Drew.
“Code does not maintain itself,” Danni snaps. “It doesn’t have a brain. And now all my design documents need to be rewritten.”
“I do not do documentation,” Drew says.
Danni throws up her hands and wheels herself backward with a big shove.
“I can look at them,” I offer. I don’t mind technical writing. I’d rather code, but whatever.
“No, you can’t. You’re on the benefits portal project with me,” Danni says, ending the conversation. She stands, grabs the back of her chair, and shoves it to her desk, somehow causing twice the ruckus I caused while rolling it over to Drew’s.
I slouch behind the cubicle partition, place my elbow on my knee, and rest my chin on my fist, determined to hide in Drew’s cube until Danni realizes we didn’t ruin her code, we improved it.