Page 10 of The Beta Test

80085 [Me]: Of course they are desirable. For foods that are coated in a hard candy shell, it’s expected that they would have a sheen to them. There are also other foods that are shiny and pleasant to the palate such as apples, which have a naturally occurring wax layer to prevent fungi. But who wants to eat something that has been manufactured to look (and taste) like actual candle wax? No thanks.

31415: You’re very passionate about your snacks. What’s your favorite M&M flavor?

I pause. I’m pleased to see Mr. Pie knows the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’ and has used the appropriate word in the correct places. Maybe he’s not a total simpleton. Granted, he’s probably not nearly as smart as Braden, as few people are.

Braden. The blue shirt comes off and I slip on my nightgown that’s on the end of my bed. I chuck the blue shirt into the darkness of my room in the general direction of my laundry basket, not caring if it lands inside it or not. Then I slip under the covers and refocus on my tablet.

80085 [Me]: I make no apologies for knowing what I do and don’t like. As for M&Ms: milk chocolate. Can you go wrong with a classic? It’s universally loved and universally available. All the other flavors come and go. Milk chocolate is forever.

80085 [Me]: What about you?

31415: Whatever is the most outrageous flavor available at the store. S’mores, pretzel, fudge brownie, caramel cold brew. I like to live on the edge.

My nose wrinkles. That’s insanity! Specialty flavors aren’t always great, and the worst part is realizing you paid for disappointment when the classic would’ve made you perfectly happy.

80085 [Me]: Well, if we ever meet and happen to be buying M&Ms together, don’t come crying to me and ask for some of mine when you buy a wild flavor and absolutely hate it because it’s disgusting. I know what I like, but I’m also protective of my snacks.

31415: Noted. And we will meet one day.

Oh, no. No, thanks—that makes my skin crawl. But why? It’s not like this person can force me to reveal my identity or to meet up. The app can be closed and forgotten at any point in time.

That’s enough distraction for today. I shut it down, then set it on my side table. Without the light of the screen or the dinging of the messages, the room is black and silent.

By the time I’m settled with my pillows just so, my phone lights up on the side table right next to the tablet: a text.

Braden: Sorry, babe! Some idiot microwaved metal and started a fire in the dorms. We all had to wait outside for the fire department to come and I left my phone in the building. Next time. Miss you <3

I ‘heart’ his text then put the phone face down.

It makes sense, right? Braden wouldn’t skip out on our scheduled date for no reason. Still… it hurts. He’s across the country without me, and the distance is starting to feel like a wall. Lately it feels like I have no idea what’s happening in his life, even though he hasn’t been gone that long.

But doesn’t that make sense? He literally lived in the house behind mine, and we saw each other daily at school. Growing pains with our current arrangement are only natural. He’s three thousand miles away and in a different time zone. It’d be silly to think there wouldn’t be any hiccups, even with careful planning.

We can come back from this. We just have to work out the kinks in our plan. I'm sure of it.

The next morning, I call Braden after morning swim class. The phone feels heavy in my hand while I walk across the dewy grass. The phone rings. And rings. The morning air feels unpleasantly sharp in my lungs after the humid warmth of the aquatic center, but the sun is bright so I tip my face upward, enjoying the feel of it on my skin.

Voicemail. Disappointment hits me once again, but I shove it aside—today has to be better.

First period goes by quickly, then it’s time for AP Lit. I force a lightness into my step as I claim my seat and prepare for class. The ambient sounds of chairs scraping against linoleum flooring and backpacks being unzipped feel soothingly routine. At least until I spot her. Somehow overnight I’d erased the detail that Analiese Price is in my literature class.

My eyes are drawn to her as I pull out a chocolate truffle and pop it in my mouth before the teacher arrives. Analiese’s glossy, midnight black hair is in a low ponytail, and her almond-shaped eyes are a little puffy. She looks tired—less smug. I hate that a part of me enjoys noticing. What does that say about me? Probably nothing good.

My tablet pings. Oops, I forgot to put it on silent! When I look down to turn down the audio, there’s an alert:

You have a new connection!

Again? I glance up from my tablet and see that the teacher still hasn’t started class, so I swipe on the notification to open the chat window with my connection.

80085 [Me]: Hey.

Same opening as last time. It worked, right? Why reinvent the wheel? There’s no grade for creativity on this thing.

55378: Hey. Your number spells boobs. You would think they’d remove some numbers from the coding when running a beta with high school students. They aren’t known for being mature.

80085 [Me]: I know! Thank you. Someone with sense. Now I’m stuck with this number because you can’t change it.

55378: Personally, I think this entire thing is a terrible idea. Did they not consider the drama and distraction this is going to cause?