The Circle (29 page)

Mae saw that Gina was reading the message, too, making no pretense of doing otherwise.

“Go ahead,” Gina said. “That looks important.”

Mae reached over Gina, to her keyboard, and typed the lie she knew, moments after
leaving the bathroom, she would tell Annie.
Yes. I know all
.

Immediately Annie’s reply arrived:
And his name
is?

Gina looked at this message. “That must be so crazy, to just get messages from Annie
Allerton.”

“I guess so,” Mae said, and typed
Can’t tell
.

Gina read Mae’s message and seemed less interested in the content of it than the fact
that this back-and-forth was actually happening in front of her. “You guys just message
each other like it’s no big deal?” she asked.

Mae softened the impact. “Not all day.”

“Not all day?” Gina’s face came alive with a tentative smile.

Annie burst through.
You’re actually not telling me? Tell me now
.

“Sorry,” Mae said. “Almost done.” She typed
No. You’ll hassle him
.

Send me a picture
, Annie wrote.

No. But I have one
, Mae typed, executing the second lie she knew was necessary. She did have a photo
of him, and once she realized she did, and that she could tell Annie this, and be
telling the truth without telling all of it, and that this photo, along with the white
lie of knowing his actual last name, would allow her to continue with this man, Kalden,
who very well might be a danger to the Circle, she knew she would use this second
lie with Annie, and it would buy her more time—more time to rise and fall on Kalden,
while trying to ascertain exactly who he was and what he wanted from her.

An action shot
, she typed.
I did a facial-rec and it all connects
.

Thank god
, Annie wrote.
But you’re a bitch
.

Gina, who had read the message, was visibly flustered. “Maybe we should do this later?”
she said, her forehead suddenly glistening.

“No, sorry,” Mae said. “Go on. I’ll turn the screen away.”

Another message appeared from Annie. While turning the screen
away, Mae glanced at it.
Did you hear the fracturing of any bones while sitting on him? Older men have bird
bones, and pressure like you’re talking about could be fatal
.

“Okay,” Gina said, swallowing hard, “for years lesser companies had been tracking,
and trying to influence, the connection between online mentions, reviews, comments,
ratings, and actual purchases. Circle developers have figured out a way to measure
the impact of these factors, of your participation, really, and articulate it with
the Conversion Rate.”

Another message appeared, but Mae ignored it, and Gina forged on, thrilled to have
been deemed more important than Annie, even for a moment.

“So every purchase initiated or prompted by a recommendation you make raises your
Conversion Rate. If your purchase or recommendation spurs fifty others to take the
same action, then your CR is x50. There are Circlers with a conversion rate of x1,200.
That means an average of 1,200 people buy whatever they buy. They’ve accumulated enough
credibility that their followers trust their recommendations implicitly, and are deeply
thankful for the surety in their shopping. Annie, of course, has one of the highest
CRs in the Circle.”

Just then, another droplet sounded. Gina blinked as if she’d been slapped, but continued.

“Okay, so your average Conversion Rate so far has been x119. Not bad. But on a scale
of 1 to 1,000, there’s a lot of room for improvement. Below the Conversion Rate is
your Retail Raw, the total gross purchase price of recommended products. So let’s
say you recommend a certain keychain, and 1,000 people take your recommendation, then
those 1,000 keychains, priced at $4 each, bring your Retail Raw to
$4,000. It’s just the gross retail price of the commerce you’ve stoked. Fun, right?”

Mae nodded. She loved the notion of actually being able to track the effect of her
tastes and endorsements.

Another droplet sounded. Gina seemed to be blinking back tears. She stood up.

“Okay. I feel like I’m invading your lunch and your friendship. So that’s the Conversion
Rate and Retail Raw. I know you understand it. There’ll be a new screen by the end
of the day to measure these scores.”

Gina tried to smile, but couldn’t seem to lift the sides of her mouth enough to seem
convincing. “Oh, and the minimum expectation for high-functioning Circlers is a conversion
rate of x250, and a weekly Retail Raw of $45,000, both of which are modest goals that
most Circlers far exceed. And if you have questions, well,” she stopped, her eyes
fragile. “I’m sure you can ask Annie.”

She turned and left.

A few nights later, on a cloudless Thursday, Mae drove home, her first time since
her father’s Circle insurance had taken effect. She knew her father had been feeling
far better, and she was looking forward to seeing him in person, hoping, ridiculously,
for some miraculous change, but knowing she would see only minor improvements. Still,
her parents’ voices, on the phone and in texts, had been ebullient. “Everything’s
different now,” they’d been saying for weeks, and had been asking to have her come
celebrate. And so, looking forward to the imminent gratitude, she drove east and south
and when she arrived,
her father greeted her at the door, looking far stronger and, more importantly, more
confident, more like a man—the man he once was. He held out his wrist monitor and
arranged it parallel to Mae’s. “Look at us. We match. You want some vino?”

Inside, the three of them arranged themselves as they always had, along the kitchen
counter, and they diced, and breaded, and they talked about the various ways the health
of Mae’s father had improved. Now he had his choice of doctors. Now he had no limitations
on the medicines he could take; they were all covered, and there was no copay. Mae
noticed, as they narrated the story of his recent health, that her mother was brighter,
more buoyant. She was wearing short-shorts.

“The best thing about it,” her father said, “is that now your mother has whole swaths
of extra time. It’s all so simple. I see the doctor and the Circle takes care of the
rest. No middleman. No discussion.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Mae said. Over the dining room table, there was a silver
chandelier, though upon closer inspection it seemed like one of Mercer’s. The silver
arms were actually painted antlers. Mae had been only passingly enthusiastic about
any of his work—when they were dating, she labored for kind things to say—but this
one she genuinely liked.

“It is,” her mother said.

“Not bad,” Mae said.

“Not bad?” her father said. “It’s his best work, and you know it. This thing would
go for five grand in one of those San Francisco boutiques. He gave it to us for free.”

Mae was impressed. “Why for free?”

“Why for free?” her mother asked. “Because he’s our friend. Because he’s a nice young
man. And wait before you roll your eyes or come back with some witty comment.”

Mae did wait, and after she’d passed on a half-dozen unkind things she could say about
Mercer and had chosen silence, she found herself feeling generous toward him. Because
she no longer needed him, because she was now a crucial and measurable driver of world
commerce, and because she had two men at the Circle to choose from—one of them a volcanic,
calligraphic enigma who climbed walls to take her from behind—she could afford to
be generous toward poor Mercer, his shaggy head and grotesque fatty back.

“It’s really nice,” Mae said.

“Glad you think so,” her mother said. “You can tell him yourself in a few minutes.
He’s coming for dinner.”

“No,” Mae said. “Please no.”

“Mae,” her father said firmly, “he’s coming, okay?”

And she knew she couldn’t argue. Instead, she poured herself a glass of red wine and,
while setting the table, she downed half of it. By the time Mercer knocked and let
himself in, her face was half-numb and her thoughts were vague.

“Hey Mae,” he said, and gave her a tentative hug.

“Your chandelier thing is really great,” she said, and even while saying the words,
she saw their effect on him, so she went further. “It’s really beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said. He looked around to Mae’s parents, as if confirming they had heard
the same thing. Mae poured herself more wine.

“It really is,” Mae continued. “I mean, I know you do good work.”
And when she said this, Mae made sure not to look at him, knowing his eyes would doubt
her. “But this is the best one you’ve done yet. I’m so happy that you put this much
into … I’m just happy that my favorite piece of yours is in my parents’ dining room.”

Mae took out her camera and took a picture.

“What’re you doing?” Mercer said, though he seemed pleased that she’d deem it worthy
of a photograph.

“I just wanted to take a picture. Look,” she said, and showed him.

Now her parents had disappeared, no doubt thinking she wanted time alone with Mercer.
They were hilarious and insane.

“It looks good,” he said, staring at the photo a bit longer than Mae had expected.
He was not, evidently, above taking pleasure, and pride, in his own work.

“It looks in
cred
ible,” she said. The wine had sent her aloft. “That was very nice of you. And I know
it means a lot to them, especially now. It adds something very important here.” Mae
was euphoric, and it wasn’t just the wine. It was release. Her family had been released.
“This place has been so dark,” she said.

And for a brief moment, she and Mercer seemed to find their former footing. Mae, who
for years had thought about Mercer with a disappointment bordering on pity, remembered
now that he was capable of great work. She knew he was compassionate, and very kind,
even though his limited horizons had been exasperating. But now, seeing this—could
she call it artwork? It was something like art—and the effect it had on the house,
her faith in him was rekindled.

That gave Mae an idea. Under the pretense that she was going to her room to change,
she excused herself and hurried upstairs. But instead, sitting on her old bed, in
three minutes she’d posted her
photo of the chandelier in two dozen design and home design feeds, linking to Mercer’s
website—which featured just his phone number and a few pictures; he hadn’t updated
it in years—and his email address. If he wasn’t smart enough to get business for himself,
she would be happy to do it for him.

When she was finished, Mercer was sitting with her parents at the kitchen table, which
was crowded with salad and stir-fried chicken and vegetables. Their eyes followed
her down the stairs. “I called up there,” her father said.

“We like to eat when it’s hot,” her mother added.

Mae hadn’t heard them. “Sorry. I was just—Wow, this looks good. Dad, don’t you think
Mercer’s chandelier is awesome?”

“I do. And I told you, and him, as much. We’ve been asking for one of his creations
for a year now.”

“I just needed the right antlers,” Mercer said. “I hadn’t gotten any really great
ones in a while.” He went on to explain his sourcing, how he bought antlers only from
trusted collaborators, people he knew hadn’t hunted the deer, or if they had, had
been instructed to do so by Fish and Game to curb overcrowding.

“That is fascinating,” her mother said. “Before I forget, I want to raise a toast … What’s
that?”

Mae’s phone had beeped. “Nothing,” she said. “But in a second I think I’ll have some
good news to announce. Go on, Mom.”

“I was just saying that I wanted to toast having us—”

Now it was Mercer’s phone ringing.

“Sorry,” he said, and maneuverered his hand outside his pants, finding the off button.

“Everyone done?” her mother asked.

“Sorry Mrs. Holland,” Mercer said. “Go on.”

But at that moment, Mae’s phone buzzed loudly again, and when Mae looked to its screen,
she saw that there were thirty-seven new zings and messages.

“Something you have to attend to?” her father said.

“No, not yet,” Mae said, though she was almost too excited to wait. She was proud
of Mercer, and soon she’d be able to show him something about the audience he might
have outside Longfield. If there were thirty-seven messages in the first few minutes,
in twenty minutes there would be a hundred.

Her mother continued. “I was going to thank you, Mae, for all you’ve done to improve
your father’s health, and my own sanity. And I wanted to toast Mercer, too, as part
of our family, and to thank him for his beautiful work.” She paused, as if expecting
a buzz to sound any moment. “Well, I’m just glad I got through that. Let’s eat. The
food’s getting cold.”

And they began to eat, but after a few minutes, Mae had heard so many dings, and she’d
seen her phone screen update so many times, that she couldn’t wait.

“Okay, I can’t stand it anymore. I posted that photo I took of your chandelier, Mercer,
and people love it!” She beamed, and raised her glass. “That’s what we should toast.”

Mercer didn’t look amused. “Wait. You posted them where?”

“That’s great, Mercer,” her father said, and raised his own glass.

Mercer’s glass was not raised. “Where’d you post them, Mae?”

“Everywhere relevant,” she said, “and the comments are amazing.” She searched her
screen. “Just let me read the first one. And I quote:
Wow, that is gorgeous
. That’s from a pretty well-known industrial designer in Stockholm. Here’s another
one:
Very cool. Reminds me of something I saw in Barcelona last year
. That was from a designer in Santa Fe who has her own shop. She gave your thing three
out of four stars, and had some suggestions about how you might improve it. I bet
you could sell them there if you wanted to. So here’s another—”

Mercer had his palms on the table. “Stop. Please.”

“Why? You haven’t even heard the best part. On DesignMind, you already have 122 smiles.
That’s an incredible amount to get so quickly. And they have a ranking there, and
you’re in the top fifty for today. Actually, I know how you could raise that—” At
the same time, it occurred to Mae that this kind of activity would surely get her
PartiRank into the 1,800s. And if she could get enough of these people to buy the
work, it would mean solid Conversion and Retail Raw numbers—