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Authors: Simon Rich
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garlic and a hatred of mushrooms. They were physically attracted to each other, and even though Sam was predisposed to baldness, Laura found that trait endearing. They even liked different flavors of Life Savers, so if they ever bought a pack at a movie theater, there would be no quarreling or resentment. The only thing keeping them from a perfect score was Sam’s deviated septum: Laura was a light sleeper, and his snoring was sure to wake her up occasionally. But that could be corrected someday, with minor surgery.
“How did they meet?” Eliza asked.
“I’ll show you,” Craig said.
He typed “Sam Katz AND Laura Potts” into the Server and clicked on the earliest link.
EARTH—SEPTEMBER 4, 2007
Laura Potts read about the protest on the activities board. The flyer was red and enormous.
Every two hours, a Bangladeshi child is murdered in a factory for no reason.
Do something about it.
Saturday at noon.
14 th Street and Broadway.
She questioned the flyer’s accuracy (that statistic added up to twelve murdered children each day). But she couldn’t stomach another day of solitude, another day of eating granola bars from the vending machine and debating whether to call her mother. She had skipped the Sigma Nu party and slept through the Statue of Liberty trip. It was the last day of freshman orientation, and this protest was her last chance to make friends, possibly ever.
So far college had been a disaster. She shared a six-person suite with five recruited field hockey players, monstrous, horselike women who hogged the shower and wielded sticks wherever they went. She’d tried to talk to them, but they were always rushing off to the gym or the dining hall, and they never seemed to hear her. She was constantly repeating herself, over and over again, in every conversation.
“Hey, I’m Laura from Athens, Georgia.”
“What?”
“Athens!”
“What?”
“The South!”
“Oh.”
These exchanges worried her. Was her accent so unusual? Was her voice so faint?
Her two closest friends had gone to the University of Georgia. She wanted to call them but was afraid she would start to cry over the phone. Instead, she sent them short, controlled e-mails that she wrote in the style of a New York City guidebook. “There are so many amazing restaurants,” her last one raved. “You could eat at a different one each night for your entire life and still not try them all!” In truth, she had been to only one restaurant, a shockingly expensive Japanese place with ridiculous tin menus. She went on her second night at school with a large group of freshmen. The waiter made her repeat her order six times and eventually asked her to write it down on a piece of paper. She sat across from a boy from Los Angeles and a girl from Connecticut who talked about books she hadn’t heard of. During the first minute of the conversation, Laura lied about having read Siddhartha and spent the rest of the meal visualizing what would happen if she got caught. By the time dessert came, the boy and girl were talking about politics and their ankles were entwined beneath the table. Laura sat in silence, praying someone would speak to her. After ten mute minutes, a nervous boy tapped her on the shoulder. She swiveled toward him, smiling brightly.
“Hey!” she said. “What’s up?”
“If you had sake,” he mumbled, “then it’s seventy-eight dollars.”
On the morning of the protest, Laura got up early and put in her contact lenses. She was determined to socialize, even if it meant joining the Bangladeshi cause. She put on her most “alternative” sweatshirt, a brown hemp hoodie, and on the short walk to Fourteenth Street, she resolved to make at least one friend.
Laura knew she’d made a mistake when she saw the protest leader. She was standing on an upturned
“How did they meet?” Eliza asked.
“I’ll show you,” Craig said.
He typed “Sam Katz AND Laura Potts” into the Server and clicked on the earliest link.
EARTH—SEPTEMBER 4, 2007
Laura Potts read about the protest on the activities board. The flyer was red and enormous.
Every two hours, a Bangladeshi child is murdered in a factory for no reason.
Do something about it.
Saturday at noon.
14 th Street and Broadway.
She questioned the flyer’s accuracy (that statistic added up to twelve murdered children each day). But she couldn’t stomach another day of solitude, another day of eating granola bars from the vending machine and debating whether to call her mother. She had skipped the Sigma Nu party and slept through the Statue of Liberty trip. It was the last day of freshman orientation, and this protest was her last chance to make friends, possibly ever.
So far college had been a disaster. She shared a six-person suite with five recruited field hockey players, monstrous, horselike women who hogged the shower and wielded sticks wherever they went. She’d tried to talk to them, but they were always rushing off to the gym or the dining hall, and they never seemed to hear her. She was constantly repeating herself, over and over again, in every conversation.
“Hey, I’m Laura from Athens, Georgia.”
“What?”
“Athens!”
“What?”
“The South!”
“Oh.”
These exchanges worried her. Was her accent so unusual? Was her voice so faint?
Her two closest friends had gone to the University of Georgia. She wanted to call them but was afraid she would start to cry over the phone. Instead, she sent them short, controlled e-mails that she wrote in the style of a New York City guidebook. “There are so many amazing restaurants,” her last one raved. “You could eat at a different one each night for your entire life and still not try them all!” In truth, she had been to only one restaurant, a shockingly expensive Japanese place with ridiculous tin menus. She went on her second night at school with a large group of freshmen. The waiter made her repeat her order six times and eventually asked her to write it down on a piece of paper. She sat across from a boy from Los Angeles and a girl from Connecticut who talked about books she hadn’t heard of. During the first minute of the conversation, Laura lied about having read Siddhartha and spent the rest of the meal visualizing what would happen if she got caught. By the time dessert came, the boy and girl were talking about politics and their ankles were entwined beneath the table. Laura sat in silence, praying someone would speak to her. After ten mute minutes, a nervous boy tapped her on the shoulder. She swiveled toward him, smiling brightly.
“Hey!” she said. “What’s up?”
“If you had sake,” he mumbled, “then it’s seventy-eight dollars.”
On the morning of the protest, Laura got up early and put in her contact lenses. She was determined to socialize, even if it meant joining the Bangladeshi cause. She put on her most “alternative” sweatshirt, a brown hemp hoodie, and on the short walk to Fourteenth Street, she resolved to make at least one friend.
Laura knew she’d made a mistake when she saw the protest leader. She was standing on an upturned
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