“We’re fired until we prove we’re not all just messing around.”
Theyaremessing around, and I love it—it’s so much more interesting than whatever lie-detection system they’re trying to build. I don’t say that to Max, obviously.
“I don’t know why Fay’s not embarrassed.”
“She’s proud,” I say. I can’t wait to find out what she did.
On our way out, Max has to do “one more thing.” He walks me down the hall to a room with a lot of warnings on the outside about high-powered magnets.DON’T WEAR YOUR WATCH OR BRING CELL PHONES IN, reads one sign, as if anyone has a watch these days. “I have a test subject in the fMRI,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to use this data, so I might as well let her go.”
I follow Max into the room after ditching my phone in a basket outside the door. In the center of the room, there’s a girl in an outfit that features a bolo tie and short shorts, wearing a very large metal helmet. It looks like a prototype of the first scuba diving gear and I’m grateful that her neck is strong enough to hold it up. Max points at a big computer screen displaying a picture of a brain.
“Hers?” I ask.
“Yep, I’m taking pictures of her brain while she’s lying.” He points out the amygdala on the screen. “You can tell this chick is a good liar because of all the extra white matter. Her brain is good at making connections quickly. You need to be pretty smart to be a good liar.”
“How much are you paying her?”
“Twenty bucks an hour. She’s been here for two already.”
I nod with approval. I’d totally tell some lies while wearing a helmet for forty bucks. Too bad his project is over. That sock-drawer money is going to run out soon.
“Thanks for your help, Clarice,” he says to the girl, handing her forty bucks in cash.
“I bet you got some good data today,” she says. “I spent the whole time creating a fake online profile for Bumble. Like, for real. I’m going to use it.”
I chew on that for a minute. “I don’t know,” I say, “is lying online even lying?”
Max looks shocked at that suggestion. “Of course it is.”
“I don’t know, exaggeration on dating websites is pretty much expected.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “That’s actually a good point. Exaggeration to impress a potential mate might not be lying exactly, but…I need a break.” He loses steam mid-thought, probably because he just remembered that he’s giving up on science and leaving this all behind. “Wanna get some tacos? And maybe a beer?”
I’m human so tacos sound amazing. “As long as they have a vegetarian option,” I say. JP might be bachelor of the year, but so far Brenda is the real love of my life.
“Got it. How was your morning?” he asks. “Any news?”
“Tons. Have you ever heard of a dating site called GoldRush?”
“This morning you said it was a documentary about mining in Alaska.” He gives me a suspicious look as he picks up some stuff from his desk and ushers me out of the lab.
“Turns out I was wrong. This chick at the art museum mentioned something about it being a dating app.”
Max doesn’t slam the door to the lab on the way out but he lets it close loudly, which is pretty much slamming for him. When we get to the parking lot, he says, “Mia, you parked in a handicap spot. That could be like a $200 fine!”
“Oops, I didn’t notice.” Max doesn’t need to know that I’m discovering my true self by following all my impulses, which, on second thought, might not be the best idea. If I follow my impulses will I just find myself at the bottom of a Cheetos bag?
“Max, do you think we are basically just an amalgam of all of our bad habits?”
“Um…only if you don’t engage in any other behaviors or aspire to more.”
A guy behind the wheel of a Kia at the stoplight next to us is side-eyeing me. I’ve only been driving a Ferrari (at least that I can remember) for a couple of hours, but every dude who wants to speed down the Pacific Coast Highway has come out of the woodwork to rev his engine and challenge me to a race right through the middle of LA. I don’t have enough testosterone for that, so I let him burn rubber down Vermont alone.
“This car feels more like an asshole magnet than a chick magnet,” Max notes drily.
What does that say about JP? Does he spend all day zooming around in his penis-complex car while I: 1) wear a sundress and file my nails, 2) go to work at a fulfilling job, or 3) resent him because I’ve sacrificed my own hopes and dreams to ride his coattails?
I think I’m the girl behind door number one. That would be fine, as long as we’re racing to a getaway in Baja or something along those lines. I’d even take a nice lunch on a patio. I want to live#TheGoodLife, just like my boat says.
