Chapter 15. In Which I Have a Romantic Picnic With … My Enemy?
IN WHICH I HAVE A ROMANTIC PICNIC WITH … MY ENEMY?
Professor Abdel Moustafa of Stanford University is a short balding man with a thick goatee.
In a shapeless-suit-and-bow-tie combo that would make Winston Churchill foam at his gargantuan mouth, Professor Moustafa spends half of our first Audio Research Laboratory introducing pitch-registering karaoke software and vocal tract models that led to that holographic Japanese singer with the blue hair.
For the other half, he argues that Stanford’s CCRMA—Center for Computer Research in Music and Acoustics—is better than IRCAM—Institut de Recherche et de Coordination Acoustique/Musique—because IRCAM is French, and he hates the French.
For one minute at the end, he discusses two white women named Pauline Oliveros and Daphne Oram, who are “finally getting their flowers” for early experimentation in tape manipulation techniques and sonic awareness.
He claims these are the “grand feminist strides” in electroacoustic research, even though they are the babiest of all steps and both these women aren’t around to get the perks of recognition because they are extremely dead.
Overall, like this weak attempt at feminism, the lab is a miss for me.
Although I’ve decided not to tell my team.
Which I am conflicted about. We all technically need help. But I still haven’t decided if I want to go through with my whole sabotaging Luca idea.
According to Jameson’s last email, there will be one more test before we’re up directly against Gamma. It wouldn’t hurt to keep flirting with Luca a bit. Get in his good graces and set myself up for success in case I need to pull the emergency trigger.
To do that, I need to be with Luca alone.
Thankfully, after lab, Christiana storms off, with Jade following suit in the opposite direction.
And with Benedict acting weirder and more avoidant toward me than ever, he leaves without me, too.
The excuse I was preparing to explain to Luca why my cabinmates never showed up to our study session dies on my tongue.
They were never going to show up anyway. Not after what happened at today’s test.
On the way back to my cabin alone, I pass by an Applied Micro-Bioengineering Laboratory, a Flow Chemistry Laboratory, and a pond with seven robotic ducks spinning in inconsistent circles.
On a wooden pole nearby, a sign reads ROBO POND in dripping yellow paint.
Beneath it, another poster advertises an upcoming disco skate night at the ice arena this weekend.
Another camp-hosted event to distract us. One I won’t be falling for.
By the time I return to my cabin, our sheets are magically back on our beds. I assume I’ve officially cracked until I notice a sticky note from Felix on the study table.
Good news: We found new, clean bedsheets in the laundry room!
I sigh at the sticky note, then go sit on my freshly made bed. With my phone locked away, I haven’t been able to check in with Mom and Dad about how my video is impacting the company and whether it’s being forgotten or remembered. But with my brAIN-provided laptop, I could search the news.
So, I search Prince List.
The first results are what I expect: solely reports of the video’s existence from a week ago. One, though, was posted yesterday and mentions Jack Nelson, a top investor of ours for years. Who has apparently pulled out since, taking 10 percent of his shares with him.
Not forgotten, then.
Shame torrents through me as I shut the laptop and shove it across the floor. I searched the news. It’s my fault. But I still fight back tears pricking my eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, my plans to meet up with Luca at the Catenoid Meadow force me out of my lump-like state, which I’m strangely thankful for.
You should be studying instead, Rory. Just like every night and every morning. What’s gotten into you?
I shove Mom’s voice aside. This is a fake study date. I won’t fall behind.
I leave the cabin and make my way through the miniature metropolis once more, passing by the Canvasback Lake promenade and the Food Laboratory, stopping briefly to pick up some supplies, before reaching the recreational center.
Behind them, orange and yellow wildflowers stretch seemingly forever, the meadow appearing as massive as Central Park does from the Seventy-Second Street and Fifth Avenue main entrance.
I quickly make out Luca. He’s already claimed a spot at the center. Because what else would Luca be but the center of attention? Leaning his weight on an elbow, he watches the cirrostratus clouds high in the sky without a care.
Irresponsible. He should have his nose deep in this week’s lab notes.
As I approach, my shoes gently crush the clovers beneath me—trigger word, thanks to Luca’s “gift” to me before the first test.
Luca looks over, a grin spreading along his face. Despite the cooler sweater weather, the sun still peeks through the clouds, casting a subtle glow upon his round, tan cheeks. “Evening, Prince Charming.”
He’s too happy that I’m here.
Well, he’s witnessing me fall behind on the leaderboard while he soars to the top once again. In his eyes, I’m practically begging for his help.
The earthy, slightly sweet scent of the grass and flowers tickles my nose, and I sneeze. Not hot. Awesome. “I thought I told you to stop calling me that,” I say through a sniff.
“Why would I when you always make a hilarious face?”
“What face?”
Luca’s grin spreads wider. “I think some people would call it flustered.”
My cheeks heat to the temperature of a Wolf-Rayet star, the hottest known stars in the universe. “You only call me that sarcastically because I’m the opposite of Prince Charming, and you know it.”
His face slackens. “Why do you say that?”
“You saw it yourself. The smoothie. Your jacket.”
“I never said I found those moments not charming. That’s all you.”
My mouth opens to form a rebuttal, but I struggle to think of one. Technically, Luca is telling the truth. But who would find those mistakes charming?
Does that imply that he thinks I’m charming?
Not possible. He’s making fun of me. Again. Where does this guy get off?
I need to remember why I’m here. I’m on a mission.
I force my best fall-in-love-with-me smile. Although that nickname of his won’t stop rattling around my brain, accelerating my heart rate.
From my backpack, I pull out the brown-and-maroon-plaid picnic blanket I found beside Felix’s bed this morning, then the chocolate chip cookies and hot chocolate I put into a thermos at the Food Laboratory.
“I thought you and I could have a picnic,” I say.
“Isn’t the rest of your cabin coming?” Luca asks, curiously eyeing the blanket.
“They, um, bailed.”
“All of them?”
“Yep.”
“You still came?”
“I…” I bite the inside of my cheek to help force out the words. “I would appreciate your help regardless.”
Pride radiates off his face. Because he knows he’s saving me, and I was oh-so helpless without him.
Spreading out the picnic blanket unfortunately becomes more of a fiasco than I predicted.
Mostly because Luca is already sitting on the grass, and he doesn’t stand up.
Just tilts on his side, as if he expects me to slide the blanket underneath him.
When I try, I’m met with limited and painfully awkward success.
“You’re a bit close,” Luca mutters, watching my hand slide beneath him.
“Sorry, could you—” I gesture my other hand toward the sky. Up. Get up.
“I was just gonna move onto the blanket once you set it in a new spot?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have to.”
“No, no—”
“No?”
“No, I mean, yes. Don’t move.” Shifting a few paces away, I rush to set the blanket beside him, and he moves over.
The trauma finally ends.
God. How am I already messing up this badly?
The fabric of my corduroy slacks grazes his bare knee as I join him, embarrassment already clawing at my chest one minute in.
That’s when I realize how high Luca’s sweat shorts come up his thigh.
I’ve never once worn sweat shorts, sweatpants, or anything with sweat in the name in public.
According to my stylist, sweat evokes laziness.
A lack of care. But the great Luca Melendez can wear whatever he wants and still be seen as a genius.
I begrudgingly shift closer toward him, because that’s what someone who was in love with Luca would do, then tuck the hem of my cardigan properly underneath myself.
Luca eyes my waist. “Is the prince scared of looking unsightly?”
“No,” I snap. Yes, absolutely.
Not just because that’s how I’ve been trained.
Because it’s time to win over Luca, which means I have to look good.
I wore this shirt for last fiscal year’s spring informational pamphlet photo shoot.
The photographer said its subtle blue checkered pattern brought out my eyes against my concerningly pale complexion, which he edited in post.
“Even though your cabinmates aren’t here,” Luca starts, reaching into the Long Beach Marines–branded backpack at his side.
He pulls out a spiral notebook and flips through the pages, which are filled with the tiniest handwriting I’ve ever seen.
He’s someone who fits two lines of text within each college-ruled bar.
Just when I thought I couldn’t loathe him more.
“I can at least help you prepare for next week’s lab test.”
“How? We won’t be told it until the same day we show up.”
“Technically. But it’s easy to figure out based on today’s lecture. At least, by analyzing who Professor Moustafa is as a person.”
“I’m struggling to follow.”
Luca pulls out his laptop and searches Professor Moustafa’s name.
He points at the first result. “Look. Moustafa’s Stanford PhD thesis was ‘Identification of Control Parameters in an Articulatory Vocal Tract Model, with Applications to the Synthesis of Digital Vocal Tract Assistants.’ Based on how much he focused on digital voice fabrication and wouldn’t stop saying Stanford is the best, I have a feeling he never let go of college.
I’m positive our test will have to do with his own thesis. Specifically, virtual assistants.”
I would’ve never considered this angle. Academics should be about concrete answers. Right or wrong. Not reading people’s midlife crises. Does Luca always think outside the box?
More importantly, why would Luca share this with me? If he is telling the truth, then this ruins any chance of his team having an upper hand.
Is this an act of sabotage? Purposefully steering my team in the wrong direction?
I open my mouth to accuse him, but then I remember why I’m here—and it’s not to get real study help. And so far, this “date” is not romantic. At all.
Time to readjust the variable.
As I glance around the wildflowers, a glimpse of Lake River in the distance catches my eye. At the shore is a wooden dock. Jameson sits on a lifeguard chair, watching over campers who are paddling canoes in the river. A few unused canoes are also pulled up to the shore.
A canoe. That’s Venice-gondola adjacent. If I squint.
The pinnacle of romance.
“Canoe,” I say, rising abruptly to my feet.
Luca’s brow rises. “Pardon?”
I reach down and grab Luca’s hand, intending to pull him up in one quick motion. But my strength fails to lift him even slightly, and he just stands on his own. I try not to let that kill me internally. “Wouldn’t that be fun to do? Together?”
“While studying?”
“A change in environment can improve retention, right?”
Luca looks around unsurely. Probably because we just got to this environment, so the argument makes no sense. Or because he truly hoped to help my cabin but is now getting roped into spending time with me. And he sincerely does not want to.
I mean, it’s not like I want to deep down, either. He is my enemy.
“You know how to steer one?” Luca finally asks me.
No.
“Yes!” I say quickly before he changes his mind. “With our two brains, it’ll be a breeze.”