He raises his arms in a gesture of innocence. “What are you saying?”
“Don’t try to deny it! You’ve got a tell. When you’re covering up something sleazy, you blink too fast. It’s a dead giveaway.”
He looks stricken at being called out—which only makes the blinking speed up. His eyelids flutter like butterfly wings.
“Actually,” he confesses, “some of us might still be a little bit plugged.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts and gives us just a glimpse of a sleek glassy object.
“A phone?” I howl. “There are no phones here!”
“Well, there’s at least one,” Tyrell points out.
Suddenly, Jett looks away from us and focuses on his sandwich, chomping and chewing. At the same time, he grabs a handful of meat from the platter and crams it into the side of his mouth. I’m trying to figure out what to do when there are footsteps on the path behind me and a man’s voice says, “Where did all this stuff come from?”
We step away to let Matt in through the front door. His attention snaps from the merchandise outside to the sight of his charge stuffing his face with contraband barbecue.
I have no respect for Jett, but even I have to be impressed at how quickly he manages to swallow down that enormous mouthful of food and come up smiling. “Oh, hi, Matt. Hope you’re hungry.”
Matt is almost as disgusted as I am. “You’re like a toddler, incapable of thinking five seconds into the future. What do you think your father will say when he finds out about this?”
Jett shrugs. “Vlad’s dream is a connected world where anybody can order anything delivered anywhere. Presto! His vision is a reality—and it’s delicious.”
Matt reaches down and plucks the phone out of Jett’s pocket, muttering, “And how’s he supposed to feel about the fact that his son’s a thief now, instead of just a rotten kid.”
“You can’t steal what’s already yours,” Jett defends himself.
“You’re not supposed to have this and you know it. You’re also not supposed to have barbecued meat, and that goes double for Jet Skis and giant arcade games. It’s all going back—and the food is going . . . in the garbage.”
Matt seems a little less certain when he’s saying the last part. Both he and Tyrell can’t stop staring at the meat platter. Even though I’m vegetarian, I kind of understand. Guys can be such carnivores. That’s the main reason Dad stays home with Benito every summer instead of coming to the Oasis with Mom and me.
“Nutrition is the most important of the three pillars,” I offer, quoting Magnus. “No one needs to survive by eating our fellow creatures. The most human thing we can do is surrender our position at the top of the food chain.”
I have to admit it sounds better when Magnus explains it. Anyway, I doubt they even hear me. Tyrell is practically drooling, and Matt’s resistance seems to be wavering.
I get away from there fast. If I stick around to see what happens next, I’ll be honor-bound to report it to Magnus. And I’m no tattletale.
As I round the corner of the cluster of cottages, I see Brooklynne on the far side of the meditation center, looking on with interest.
6
Matt Louganis
I graduated third in my class at Stanford. Of the man and woman who finished ahead of me, one already has a Nobel Prize; the other a MacArthur “Genius Grant.” When I left college, I had job offers from Apple, Google, Amazon, Facebook, and every tech startup in the world.
I turned them all down to work for Vladimir Baranov. He’s the biggest rock star in Silicon Valley. And his company, Fuego, dominates hardware, software, mobile, internet, cryptocurrency, cybersecurity, and at least a dozen fields nobody has even heard of yet. When the next big thing comes along, Fuego will be right there on the cutting edge. And as one of their top young executives, I’ll have my finger on the pulse of an interconnected planet.
Except I don’t. I’m not rolling out new apps and products to take the world by storm. I’m not dreaming up the next innovation people don’t yet realize they can’t live without. My job, essentially, is babysitting Vladimir Baranov’s son.
What’s that like? 1) Picture being jailer to Harry Houdini; 2) multiply by five hundred.
“Jett’s twelve,” Ivory says dismissively. “Don’t be overdramatic. If you weren’t such a heavy sleeper, you would have caught him before he ever got out of the cottage.”
I’m standing outside the welcome center with Magnus Fellini and Ivory Novis, his number two. We’re supervising the loading of the Dance Dance Revolution machine onto the truck that’s come to take it away. Ivory helps. She’s stronger than both shippers put together. The Jet Ski and the ATV are all already aboard, along with the drum set and the 3D printer that arrived earlier today.
“So what you’re saying,” I tell her, shamefaced, “is that this is my fault.”
“Fault is not a word we use at the Oasis,” Magnus interjects in his quiet voice. “Blame helps no one in our quest to become whole. No one is at fault unless we are all at fault. Collectively, we find solutions and we move on.”
Magnus talks a good game. But there’s nothing collective about cleaning up the mess Jett made. I’m the one who had to cancel everything he ordered, which wasn’t easy because he used several different accounts, so I was never quite sure I’d gotten it all. I’m the one who had to arrange with Fuego to pay the cost of the shipping and restocking, and to explain to the boss that his son broke into the welcome center, repossessed his phone, and went on a shopping spree.
At first, Magnus wouldn’t even let me go online to undo the damage because internet use is against Oasis policy. But then people started tripping over all the packages and crates. Eventually, Ivory argued that I’m not technically a guest, because I’m only here to be the keeper of Jett. So Magnus gave in.
At last, the shippers finish tying down the Dance Dance Revolution machine and the truck starts away. It isn’t even out of sight when a delivery van passes it in the southbound lane, groaning under the weight of something heavy. I’m not ashamed to admit that I run after the departing truck, waving my arms and shouting.
“Hey, wait! Come back! We’ve got one more thing!”
They never even slow down. Oh well, there wasn’t that much room in the truck anyway.
I slink back to the welcome center just in time to hear the driver call to Magnus and Ivory, “Which one of you two ordered the hovercraft?”
Obviously, they refuse delivery and the van departs.
Magnus regards me in concern. “You don’t look well. You’re panting and sweating. Your face is red. You ate some of the meat, didn’t you?”
I’m too flabbergasted to reply. Of course my condition has nothing to do with trying to outrun a transport truck in ninety-five-degree heat. It must come from a few mouthfuls of unauthorized brisket.
But for some reason, the founder’s open, honest expression breaks me down. “A little,” I confess. “It was right there in the cottage. It seemed a shame to waste it.”
“Weakness is nothing to be ashamed of,” Magnus assures me. “Only shame is. You should meditate on this as soon as possible. Schedule a private session with Ivory.”