Putting It To The Test. Lori Borrill
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was, in a way, a gift to both Jodi and their mother, Jodi having dreamed of going all year, and their mother needing a break between working full-time, taking night courses at the JC and raising a daughter alone. As she’d had to scrape together the cost, Carly had just made the payment under the wire, so it was a relief to get the printed confirmation of Jodi’s enrollment.
“Yeah, and she’s thrilled. She’s making you a special thank-you present for when you come over Friday.”
Carly smiled. “That’s sweet.”
“But I was wondering if you could do me one more favor.” Her mother sighed. “The strap on Jodi’s backpack broke and there’s no way to fix it.”
“Does she need a new pack?”
“I remembered you’d said you were going to the outlet mall. Could you look for a purple backpack? I checked Deal-Mart but they didn’t have purple, and I don’t have the time to run around town looking for one.”
“Sure, I can look around,” Carly said.
“Would you do that for me? There’s no rush. She can do with her old one for a while, but I’ve got finals—”
“Mom, it’s no problem. I’ll find Jodi a purple backpack.”
“You’re my saving grace, sweetheart. Listen, I’ve got to get dinner going before her practice, but we’ll see you for Jodi’s game Friday, right?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Love you, hon,” her mother said before the phone went dead.
Carly pressed the off button, then placed the phone on its cradle and sighed. A purple backpack at the end of the school season. No problem.
Moving back to the entryway to fetch her dinner, she now wished she’d skipped the burrito and made something at home. She could use her seven dollars back. Not that she didn’t make a good living at Hall Technologies. It was just that she had steep goals for her finances.
Carly insisted ten percent of her income went into a retirement fund. Add to that the two-bedroom bungalow she’d purchased last year, payments on her student loans, an unexpected transmission overhaul on her 2001 Grand Prix, and it was no wonder at the end of each pay period she was down to her last dollar. It didn’t help that her mother and sister were barely scraping by thanks to a father who considered child support optional.
It was a constant struggle for Carly, trying to help her family on one hand yet still protect herself from ending up like her mother—unskilled, unsupported and still in love with a man who’d never learned to care for anyone but himself.
Not as hungry as she’d been a moment ago, she picked up the paper sack and carried it into her pale pink kitchen. If things kept going the way they were, she’d have to live with the previous owner’s decor longer than she’d hoped—a fact that could likely cause her to go insane.
Though the house had come with a good-size yard and solid bones, cosmetically it was like living inside a giant bottle of Pepto Bismol. To say the former owners liked pink was an understatement. Every room had been painted, floored and tiled in some various shade of fuchsia, and though Carly had made progress in some rooms, ripping up carpet and priming walls, the kitchen and lone bathroom still thrived in their pristine bubblegum state. Only one corner of her eat-in kitchen had seen the threat of demolition, and that was where Bev had tried to tear off a loose corner of wallpaper, only to discover that beyond that four-inch square, the cheery pink teapots with the pale violet flowers were virtually cemented to the drywall, destined to rival the ancient pyramids in their time-tested strength.
But that was okay. Carly owned the home, and that was all that mattered. She’d qualified for the mortgage with her salary alone and, in the process, bought a slice of land in an old but desirable Marin County neighborhood. It was the security she’d never had growing up, and once she doubled the value with her pink-extinguishing transformation, it would be the bank account she’d never had, as well.
She unrolled the burrito from the foil paper and plopped it on a plate. The rustling in the kitchen was like a dinner bell for her cat, Mr. Doodles, who didn’t waste time jumping up on the counter to see what she’d prepared.
Carly pushed the cat to the floor and spat, “Bad kitty!” but her efforts to train the cat had long become futile. Mr. Doodles—the name given the gray tabby by her little sister Jodi—was a horribly ill-behaved cat who roamed the house as if he owned it and did as he pleased. Carly had no idea how to correct his behavior, none of the advice she’d been given making any lasting progress. So she’d begun to accept the fact that Mr. Doodles wouldn’t change and she’d have to love him despite his faults.
Moving to the fridge to fetch him his own dinner, her phone rang again, and Carly assumed her mother had forgotten to mention something else.
“Hello?” she asked, crinkling the foil in one hand and dropping it in the wastebasket.
“I’m in.”
She paused for a moment, not immediately recognizing the voice.
“Brian?”
“I amaze even myself sometimes.”
Yes! she thought. She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up even though Brian had assured her he could get to the Singles Inc. database where they’d input their answers. With his frat-boy immaturity, she sometimes suspected Brian overstated his abilities.
“You’ve got Matt’s answers to the survey?”
“I’ve got everyone’s answers to the survey. They’ve used a special code to isolate ours from the main population.”
Her excitement was tempered by a flush of heat to her cheeks. It hadn’t occurred to her that by asking Brian to get Matt’s survey answers he’d end up privy to all of them—including hers.
Oh, to heck with it. If Brian wanted a thrill over her answers, he could have it. Getting on this project was worth whatever he might end up thinking about her and her sexual outlook.
“There’s just one problem.”
“Problem?”
“Do you have Matt’s code name?”
“Code name?”
“Remember the code names Hall gave us to protect our privacy? That’s the only identifying information attached to each person’s survey. I couldn’t decipher individual workstation IDs—which is actually impressive. Singles Inc. has some pretty decent security considering they designed this in-house. I don’t usually see homegrown applications this good.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means unless you know what code name Matt was given, we can only guess which one is his.”
Carly’s mind raced in search of a solution. There had to be a way to figure out which survey was Matt’s.
“How many people have filled out the survey so far?”
“Sixteen, which is two short of the people we have on staff. I’m guessing that’s Holly and Paul.”
The number didn’t surprise her. She’d asked around this afternoon, and though the survey had been optional, everyone had decided to fill it out, curious to be included in the results. Even though a few weren’t terribly interested in the project, everyone wanted to know who they most closely matched at Hall Technologies, if just for the fun of it.
“Now, we could eliminate some through logic,” Brian added. “I know mine, you know yours, and I can obviously separate the men and women based on the code names.” Since Carly was given the code name Gidget, she guessed Brian was right. “But that’s still leaving you with almost ten men. You’ll have to find a way to get his name without raising suspicion.”
She stared at her pink linoleum floor, disappointed but not defeated. Though she had no idea how, sometime between now and Thursday she’d