Boston—later that afternoon
“Nice bike.”
Borya looked across at a short black woman. She had her own bike, a Trek Silque with custom red fade paint on a gray frame.
“So’s yours,” Borya said, tightening the strap on her backpack. She tried to puzzle out who the woman was.
Not a mom; more an older-sister type.
“What are you doing?” asked the woman.
“Riding home.”
“Want some company?”
Weird.
“Free country. I guess.”
“I’m Chelsea. Chelsea Goodman.” The woman stuck out her hand.
“You a lesbian?” asked Borya.
“No.” Chelsea laughed. “Why?”
Borya shrugged.
“I have a question for you,” said Chelsea, sliding her bike parallel to Borya’s. “What do you know about ATMs?”
Borya stabbed at the bike pedal, launching into a sprint. She charged down the block, wind whipping back her hair. She sped across the intersection, barely dodging a turning car, then crossed back and turned the corner.
She looked up. Chelsea was pedaling alongside.
“Nice bike,” she said again. “You change gears a little too much. You can pedal a little longer before shifting for better speed.”
Borya put her head down and pedaled furiously. Her legs were starting to tire, and as she felt the burn growing in the top of her thighs, she realized she would never be able to outrun the woman, who was still alongside her.
You’re an old suck. You should be tired!
Borya dropped to her usual pace. She thought of leading the woman across the city but decided she’d have a hard time losing her. Besides, her father had given her strict orders to check in with him from the house phone when she got home.
She narrowed her eyes as she rode the last block and a half to the house, practicing the glare she would greet the woman’s inevitable questions with. She felt as if she was putting on a costume, becoming someone else—a superhero tough girl, impervious to attack.
Pedaling around to the back, Borya hopped off the bike as she glided toward the back porch. She picked up the bike in one motion and carried it up the steps without stopping. The front wheel was still spinning when she began wrapping the chain through the frame to secure it.
“You’re still here?” she said nonchalantly, as if noticing for the first time that Chelsea was parked at the base of the steps.
“You never answered my question,” said Chelsea. “What do you know about ATMs?”
“They give you money.”
Borya turned to go inside, deciding it would be easiest simply to avoid talking to the woman. But Chelsea was quick, and prepared: she hopped off her bike and was at the door in a flash, pushing it closed as Borya reached her hand in with the key.
“Are you a cop?” asked Borya.
“No. I’m not a cop.”
“Why are you here?”
“I know what you did. I’m interested,” added Chelsea.
“In what?”
“In how you do it. You’re good with computers. I’ll bet you’re great in math, too. And also bored in school.”
“Maybe.”
Borya sensed—knew—that the woman was just pretending to be nice so she could get what she wanted. Still, the attention was flattering.
“If you show me how you did it, I’ll show you some cool stuff,” offered Chelsea. “Computers, robots, and other cool stuff.”
“Yeah, right—like you’re going to offer me candy next,” snapped Borya. “You’re going to break the door.”
“I work for a pretty interesting company,” she said. “We need more smart people to work there. Women especially.”
“You’re hurting me.”
Borya faked tears. It was a lousy try, but it worked. The woman let go of the door.
“See ya,” said Borya, slipping in the key and unlocking the door. She expected Chelsea would try to stop her, but she didn’t. Borya squeezed past her and fled into the house.
Chelsea stood on the back porch for a moment, considering what to do. She sensed that she had aroused the girl’s curiosity but at the same time had somehow made a misstep, either coming on too strong or not being enticing enough.
I should have mentioned money. That’s probably what motivated her in the first place.
Money? Here? Unlikely.
Should have been clearer about not being a cop.
Threatened to turn her in if she didn’t come with me.
That’s kidnapping.
She stood on the porch for a few moments, until she was convinced that Borya wasn’t coming back out. Then she went down to her bike. But she wasn’t going home—she walked around to the front and went up on the stoop. She rang the bell. When there was no answer, she sat down on the steps.
One of the teachers had told her a little bit about Borya when she was waiting. Most of it she could have guessed: smart girl, somewhat rebellious, good at math.
The fact that she had lost her mother when she was young and that her father hadn’t remarried—that was unexpected. If not for that, the girl would have been very similar to her.
Maybe. Had Chelsea been that rebellious?
You were a handful, she heard her father say.
She laughed.
Maybe I was.
Borya locked the door and raced upstairs, checking to make sure she hadn’t missed her father’s call.
No calls.
She ran to her room and woke her computer from sleep mode. She checked Facebook and her e-mail, then looked quickly at her father’s account—if school or the police were trying to contact him, she wanted to know.
A lot of spam, nothing official.
She’d just backed out of the account when the phone rang. She grabbed it without looking at the caller ID, then belatedly realized it might be the police. She held it to her ear, listening.
“Borya, what are you doing?” demanded her father. “Talk.”
“I’m about to do my homework,” she said. “I just got home.”
“How much homework do you have?”
“Not much,” she answered without thinking. The truth was, she had done it all in school already, at least the homework that she cared to do. But an ambiguous answer gave her room to maneuver.
“I’m on my way home. Do we need milk?”
“Um . . . let me check.”
As she trotted down the stairs, she noticed the woman sitting on the steps at the front of the house.
That’s no good. How do I get rid of her?
“Yeah, I guess, um, we do need milk,” Chelsea told her father after picking up the downstairs phone.
“Anything else?”
“Wait . . .” Chelsea walked to the refrigerator and opened it. It was well stocked—and in fact there was a nearly full gallon of milk right in the front. “No, nothing. Snacks, maybe.”
“You don’t need any more potato chips. They’ll give you zits. I’ll be home in a bit.”
He hung up. Chelsea put the phone down and went back to the refrigerator for the milk. She drained the jug into the sink, leaving only a finger’s worth at the bottom, then ran the water to remove any trace.
The woman was still there. This was not going to do. Her father was already past the ATM situation. A question or two from this Chelsea, and she was back in trouble, big time.
The phone upstairs began playing a message that it was off the hook. Borya trotted up and turned it off, then traded her uniform skirt and blouse for jeans and a sweatshirt.
Still there. What happens when Dad comes home?
Borya had to get rid of her somehow. She stood at the top of the steps, hoping for an answer.
Nothing occurred to her.
There was something near the door. She slipped down quietly and picked up a business card.
Smart Metal
AI, Bots, et al
Chelsea Goodman
Chief AI engineer
Not a cop. OK. What was Smart Metal?
AI and Bots . . . artificial intelligence and robots?
Huh?
Borya put the card on the table, then paced back and forth, trying to decide what to do.
The doorbell rang. She turned. It was Chelsea.
Open it or not?
She undid the latch and yanked the door open.
“What do you want?” Borya demanded.
“I want you to come with me and see my lab. I want to give you a tour.”
“Then what?”
“Then nothing.”
“You’ll leave me alone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going in a car.”
“I don’t have a car.”
Borya peered out to the street. The woman was alone. “You’ll let me go home when we’re done?”
“Absolutely.”
“I have to be home because my dad will have a shit fit.”
“Of course.”
“You’re not lying. You’re not the cops?”
“I’m not the cops. I know what you did.” Chelsea’s voice became a little less sweet. “I’m interested in it. But I’m not turning you in. I would love to know how you did it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s fine. Come on, let’s go.”
“Wait. I need to tell my father where I’m going,” said Borya, who was already thinking of an excuse—the library or a friend’s, nothing related to this woman.
“I’ll wait out here.”