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  "That's right."

  "Why? I mean, if he wanted to test me—and only me—it means he'd already studied my proposal. Already knew about my project. One way or another, he'd already made up his mind, right?"

  Malcolm smiles, and I meet his eyes, which are locked on mine with a slight look of concern. "He has."

  3

  An hour later, my face is washed, my makeup done with the touch-up kit I keep in my purse, and my hair tied up in a messy bun, a few stray curls dangling down to frame my round, freckled cheeks. I'm full of excitement, but as I walk into the party, I realize that I've misunderstood the western theme.

  The hall is decked out in what I think of as traditional western items, but it also has a darker, dystopian feel. The walls are covered with wooden wagon wheels and even a few cowboy hats, but also old logic boards and antique keyboards. A mechanical bull sits in the center of the room, surrounded by a pit of foam balls. The bull itself is bright purple, modern-looking, and etched with the Colton Industries logo. To my right, hay bales surround a large bar area and emit a subtle blue glow, like they have tiny LED lights in them.

  I expected music, but there is none. All I hear is the whizzing of the electronic bull and the chatter of a hundred people, most standing in small groups. A large group surrounds the bull, watching with rapt attention. Every so often, a shout of joy or terror fills the room as a rider flies off and lands in the ball pit. Then everyone turns at once, stares for a moment, and returns to their conversations.

  I don't see Malcolm, but it turns out he was right about the outfits. Around twenty percent of the people are wearing jeans and t-shirts or other informal workplace attire. The rest are decked out in all manner of costume.

  One man wears a tuxedo and a giant cowboy hat that appears to be made from wearable computer screen material. As he walks past me, it lights up and black lettering appears as it would in a word processing program: Hello, my name is Benjamin Singh. Can I buy you a drink?

  The message isn't for me, but for the two women to my left. One is dressed in a black leather mini skirt with fringe made from earbud ends and a belt made of old cellphones hinged together end to end. The other wears what looks like a standard Sexy Cowgirl Halloween costume, complete with a suede vest, knee-high suede boots, and a fake gun in her holster.

  I shuffle past them toward the bar and see that it's not a fake gun, but a toy laser gun. She pulls it out and points it at me as I pass. "Pew, pew," she says, ignoring Benjamin Singh, who now stands about ten feet away.

  I put my hands up in the universal sign of surrender and smile. "You got me."

  Before I can ask her where to find Peter Colton, Ms. Cellphone Belt says, "I like your outfit."

  "Thanks," I say. In addition to the cellphone belt, she's wearing a stenciled western shirt that—miraculously—matches the cellphones. "I like yours, too. Are you sure I didn't take the 'western' thing a bit too literally? You guys look fantastic."

  "Nah," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says. "This is a come-as-you-are-or-imagine-yourself-to-be kind of party. But we do like to incorporate a bit of a techy, post-apocalyptic vibe into all our events."

  A dozen other costumes confirm this. "Very cool. Can you tell me where Peter Colton is? I mean, do you know if he's here yet?"

  Ms. Cellphone Belt looks around the room casually. "Haven't seen him. He usually comes late."

  I nod toward Benjamin Singh, whose sign now reads: If you won't let me buy you a drink, at least let me fix your laptop. "What's his deal?"

  The two women exchange glances.

  "You wanna take this one?" Ms. Cellphone Belt says.

  Ms. Sexy Cowgirl laughs. "He's a bit odd, but a genius, and basically harmless."

  As we stare at him, his hat-screen runs through a series of increasingly-bad pickup lines.

  Your name must be Google, because you have everything I've been searching for.

  Your curves are like Windows Vista. They've got me feeling so unstable.

  Is your name Server Maintenance? Because I'm not doing you, but I probably should be.

  "Yuck," I say, turning my back to him.

  Ms. Sexy Cowgirl pulls out her fake laser, points it at Benjamin, and scowls. He staggers back, pretending to be hit, then disappears into the crowd.

  "I think you're new here," she says, placing the laser gun back in her holster. "I mean because I don't recognize you. Want a bit of free advice?"

  "Sure."

  "Benjamin's actually alright. One of Peter's top web architecture guys. He just plays a creepy stalker at parties. Around Silicon Valley, day-to-day sexism gets shrugged at, and creeps usually get away with a lot more than they should."

  "As long as they're geniuses," Ms. Cellphone Belt adds.

  "Right," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says. "Benjamin doesn't talk much, and sometimes has a tough time discerning where the line is. But on the scale of Silicon Valley genius scumbags, he's like a two."

  I offer up a weak smile. "On that note, I think I need a drink. Thanks for the tips."

  "No problem," Ms. Sexy Cowgirl says.

  "Have a good night," Ms. Cellphone Belt adds.

  Across the room, I step into the hay bale bar and order the specialty cocktail, The Blade Runner Cowboy, watching in disbelief as the bartender pours a shot of top shelf tequila into a blue-tinted champagne flute, adds a splash of orange liqueur, then fills the glass with original Coors beer. He garnishes with orange rind and fresh mint, then hands it to me.

  "What makes this drink Blade Runnery?" I ask.

  "The glass," he says before turning to make a drink for someone behind me.

  I sip the cocktail, which is a lot better than I expected, and scan the room. Dozens of interesting-looking people mill about, most in their twenties and thirties, some dressed up, some not. I'm about to take a seat on a blue-tinted hay bale and settle in for some serious people watching when Peter Colton walks through the door.

  It's almost as though the crowd parts for him, too, because he moves easily from the door to the center of the hall, pauses at the mechanical bull, then glances at me as though he knew I'd be standing awkwardly near the hay bales.

  Seconds later, he's at my side, his shoulder-length black hair parted in the center and tucked behind his ears. "Nice to see you again," he says.

  Though he looks like he might have a captivating Spanish accent, he doesn't. He was born and raised in the U.S., and he speaks quickly and without as much charm as you might expect.

  I take in his outfit, a vintage tuxedo the color of bone, embroidered with elaborate brown stitching down the lapels. "You're late to your own party."

  "Thanks for coming."

  "Thanks for the dress."

  "Love the boots."

  "Thanks." I sip my drink and look around the room, trying to think of something else to say, and I feel his eyes following me. To break the awkward silence, I say, "Do you want one?"

  He smiles at me with that same quizzical smile he had plastered across his face for most of my presentation. "I don't drink."

  I expect him to continue speaking, to explain why I'm here, why he didn't say anything during my presentation, and maybe even why he had Malcolm lie about the canceled PowerPoint. But he doesn't.

  We're both quiet, staring at each other as shouts near the mechanical bull fill the room. The look lasts long enough to be odd, but not long enough for my cheeks to get red, as they sometimes do when I'm out of my element. I can't tell whether he's trying to make this awkward, or if he just has an odd manner.

  I can't take it anymore. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

  Without answering, he takes my hand and pulls me gently toward the back of the hall to a raised platform covered in straw and surrounded by a worn wooden fence. The four tables on the platform are unoccupied, lit from above by the same blue and silver light that pervades the space, and covered in large artificial candles, their LED flames somehow flickering realistically. We take the table in the corner, sitting side by side and looking out
so we can survey the room.

  I talk a lot when I'm nervous, and right now my stomach is doing somersaults. "Is this the VIP area?" I ask, half-joking.

  "Actually, yes."

  "You didn't say anything at my presentation."

  "No."

  "And you told Malcolm to lie to me about canceling the PowerPoint?"

  "Yes."

  "And now…here we are."

  "Yes."

  He still wears that damn smile, and I sip my Blade Runner Cowboy to keep my annoyance from showing, the flavor of the cocktail growing on me as its contents take effect. "Why am I here?"

  "I'll tell you, but first, tell me why you started Ameritocracy? And I don't mean the rehearsed answer for the board of directors at the presentation. Tell me about the moment the idea struck."

  As he says the word "struck," he claps his hands together, shaking free a lock of hair from behind his ear. He tucks it back and smiles, more like a person this time.

  As I contemplate my answer, I finish my drink and Peter gets the attention of a waiter standing in the corner of the VIP section, who I hadn't even noticed when we sat. "Another drink for Ms. Rhodes, and I'd like a Red Bull with lime."

  "Right away, Peter," the waiter says.

  Peter smiles at him, then turns back to me. "So, tell me."

  "Your employees call you Peter?"

  "Most of them, but let's not make this about me."

  "Fine, fine." I'm not a big drinker, so the cocktail has me feeling loose enough to press through my insecurities. "The idea came to me about three years ago. Just a tiny kernel of a whiff of a notion during the 2016 election cycle. I was disgusted by the whole process. The negativity, the superficiality. I was already thinking about what I could do to change things. Then we got the result, and I kicked into high gear. The morning after the election, I pulled out a blank yellow legal pad and wrote a manifesto."

  "What was the first thing you wrote?"

  "It's embarrassing."

  He shrugs. "Tell me anyway."

  "I wrote, 'America perfected the reality show, then became one.'"

  He leans in, the light from the LED candles dancing on his face. "Well, America does love slogans. And how'd you come up with the word Ameritocracy?"

  "I did what people do in the twenty-first century. I hopped online and started looking at URLs. I considered Third Party, America 2020, and a million others."

  "Tell me some of the others."

  "Some of them are pretty corny."

  "Try me."

  "President Freedom dot U.S., which I considered mostly because the domain name was available. Then there was…wait lemme think…there was The 2020 Election Show, Pick 2020, Democracy 2.0, Democracy: The Website and, my personal favorite: Democracy: The Game Show."

  "Why didn't you go with that?"

  "Too on the nose. And anyway, most of the URLs were taken. I needed something jazzier, something catchier. I liked the idea of implying America plus meritocracy. So I settled on Ameritocracy." I say the last word with a flourish, moving my hand through the air like Vanna White unveiling a new puzzle, a move I learned from my mom, who never misses an episode of Wheel of Fortune. "I thought Ameritocracy could be like 'Google.' A word no one knew before the search engine came along, and now it's a household word."

  "It is catchy," Peter says as the drinks arrive. He squeezes a lime wedge into a champagne flute of Red Bull. "Tell me about the moment. Not just what you did, but how you felt. You wake up on Wednesday, November 9, 2016, and what do you feel?"

  His smile is gone now, and I'm starting to feel the particular nature of his charm. It's an intensity of interest, a desire to know, and an impatience with superficialities. I consider myself a no-BS kind of person, so the moment I see this about him, I relax fully. And answer honestly.

  "I cried. I'd been obsessed with the election for a year, following it on Twitter, listening to podcasts, occasionally checking in on cable news. By the end of it, I was emotionally worn out, then the big twist ending was like a kick in the stomach. I wouldn't have been thrilled with any outcome. The whole process was so screwed up and depressing, but riveting at the same time. It's the cliché of the car crash you can't look away from."

  "And the car crash is America itself."

  "Exactly. So I wake up Wednesday morning, check Twitter and CNN to make sure I hadn't dreamed it, then cried for thirty minutes. I wasn't just sad about what had happened. I was overwhelmed by the whole process. But mostly I was disappointed with how I'd handled it. I got wrapped up in the spectacle, in the horse race aspect of it. I felt like I hadn't done anything."

  The lights dim throughout the hall, shifting from silver-blue to deep maroon. I look up, but Peter catches my eye. "Please continue."

  "In those first moments, I hated the country. Hated the hypocrisy of generations of politicians. I wanted to firebomb the White House and the cable news stations and The New York Times and The Washington Post and all the podcasts and local papers and lying politicians and every goddamn congressman on earth, not to mention the lobbyists who line their pockets. The only person I hated more than all of them was myself. For my gullibility. For quitting. For taking the road of cynicism and defeat and hopelessness."

  "What do you mean, quitting? It sounds like you followed the election closely."

  We are getting too close to a subject I'd rather avoid, so I gesture toward the center of the room, where the mechanical bull is being wheeled out. "Is something happening? I mean, in the room?"

  Peter studies the room, then looks back at me. "Dancing starts soon."

  "Oh, is Malcolm gonna play his stuff?"

  "Not sure. I don't get into the details of the parties."

  "Okay," I say, a little disappointed.

  Peter takes my hand softly, then waits until I look up. "Please," he says, "I just want to understand. What did you mean by 'quitting'? You have a full-time job, and I'd bet that you know more about politics than anyone in the room. You—"

  "I didn't vote," I say, emptying my second drink and studying him for a reaction.

  "That's not what I was expecting."

  "Well, everyone knew who was going to win Washington State. So it wasn't going to affect anything, at least not in the presidential race."

  "True enough."

  "I don't know. I followed the presidential race so closely that I stopped paying attention to local politics, to ballot measures, my congressional rep. Everything else fell away. I became a spectator. A spectator at a car crash."

  "That's understandable."

  "Understandable, but not forgivable."

  I hope he'll tell me, "It is forgivable," but he doesn't.

  "The voting part is just symbolic," I say. "And I would have voted if I'd been in a swing state. I guess the reason I cried was that I hadn't acted. I'd consumed more news than anyone I knew, and I hadn't turned it into action. Not nationally, not in my community, not even filling out a damn ballot. Nothing."

  "So Ameritocracy is your way of atoning?"

  "It's not just that, but yeah. Too many people didn't do enough in 2016. I want to do my part to make 2020 different. Better. And if not 2020, then 2024, 2028. I'm still angry, still disappointed. I have been for years. But I'm not willing to let others make these decisions without putting up a fight. Not anymore."

  He stares at me for a long time, and his curious smile is back. "The reason I asked, the reason I was so insistent, is that I wondered if it had anything to do with your father."

  I pull my hand away and lean back, throwing him a look that's half surprise, half angry glare. "We don't talk about my father."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just—"

  "No," I say firmly, waving at the waiter, who bolts to get me another drink.

  Before the presentation, I assumed the Project X committee would look into my background, but now I know Peter has created a neat little theory about me. About how my father lost the 1988 Democratic nomination for president because of a tabloid scandal
. About how the scandal erupted after his affair with my mother became public. And about how the affair never would have been public if I hadn't been born. Maybe Peter even knows that I don't have a relationship with my father, and assumes that Ameritocracy is some kind of Electra-complex payback.

  I don't say any of this.

  When Peter finally catches my eye, I just repeat, "Yeah. We don't talk about my father."

  "I'm sorry I upset you," Peter says timidly after my new drink arrives. "Did Malcolm tell you why I wanted to see you?"

  "Not exactly."

  "He can keep a secret. That's important in an assistant. Would it surprise you to hear that you won Project X?"

  In an instant, my agitation turns to excitement. I sit up a little. "Yes."

  "Then this is gonna shock you." He pauses, clearing his throat. "Project X would like to donate five million dollars to Ameritocracy. We'd like to offer you technological help, office space, and connections with the people you need to turn your site into a major force in the 2020 election."

  I study his face as the realization that he's serious spreads through my whole body. It's a tingling sensation, like my cells are infused with good champagne, but the feeling is immediately pushed to the side by a wave of trepidation.

  My first thought is that he's just saying this so he can sleep with me. But that makes no sense. His life over the last ten years has been a parade of beautiful girlfriends, most of them richer and more successful than me, with an average height of five-foot-ten.

  "What's the catch?" My tone is more accusatory than I intended. "I mean, thank you, of course. Oh my God, thank you. But—"

  "But what's the catch?"

  "Yeah, I guess I just don't…I mean…did you say five million dollars?"

  He takes a small sip of Red Bull. "I did."

  Like I mentioned, Peter Colton is known for giving away a lot of his money, so it isn't the money that has my head spinning. Well, obviously it is the money, but there's something else. It's…I don't know.

  Something I can't place.

  I'm thinking of how to respond when a slow and steady bass line fills the room, the opening notes of "I Walk the Line," followed by Johnny Cash's deep voice. Just as I start to get into the song, it changes, the word "line" playing on repeat like a broken record, faster and faster, higher and higher until it becomes a single screeching note like the high range of a police siren.