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As much as I want this job, as much as I believe that I can do it, my instinct is to demur and make myself small and unnoticeable.

There’s a permanent seat on the sidelines with my name on it.

But I’m choosing not to sit down. I’m standing up.

Speaking out. Rosie believes I’m enough.

Of course, she also mentioned once that she’s a terrible underachiever because she hadn’t dropped out of Stanford to launch a billion-dollar business in her parents’ garage.

She’s bold. Beautiful. Boldly beautiful? Her bleached-blond hair has orange streaks today, and she’s painted pink daisies on her thumbnails. She changes them once a week to match the flowers she brings for her desk. She spends more time painting her nails than I do sleeping.

I want to be her when I grow up. I make a note to share my admiration at a suitable point in the future while I launch into my conclusion. “The new algorithm will find your perfect travel friend. You’ll never have to adventure alone.”

“And the data for the matches comes from questionnaires?” Pantsuit Lady is flipping through the printout of my slides. Rosie put them into binders.

“Yes. The algorithm predicts your travel personality based on your answers.”

We review the number of entries we have already, which is less than I would like but more than I need to be statistically significant.

I’ve had the entire team standing in front of grocery stores, bars, the local REI with their tablets.

We’ve used a service that pays starving students to fill out online surveys.

We’ve begged our friends and families. Ozzy begged his.

“We’re just getting started,” I promise. “And we already have ten thousand profiles.”

“A good start,” Bob says absently. He’s flipping through the questionnaire on one of the tablets Rosie handed out. It makes a sad click when he sets it down. “Show us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Run it. Find your match.” Bob doesn’t volunteer. I bet the last time he took a vacation was when he was twelve.

Since no one else is volunteering, I run the algorithm and wait for it to spit out my results.

We only have the wireframe mockup that Rosie made this morning.

It’s not sophisticated. Or beta tested. There’s a cheesy counter that increments through the ten thousand or so entries that we have.

I’m fully expecting it to make a farting sound and declare me unmatchable when a cute kitten releases a bunch of colored balloons.

TAA-DAAAAAAA is spelled out in eighty-point neon pink font. I glare at Rosie. She giggles.

Match found!

Everyone leans forward. My photo flashes up on the left side of the screen. On the right side is…Ozzy.

What. The. Fuck.

Our dream itinerary is equally suspect. A map of—I squint—Tijuana pops up on the screen.

A long, red, snake-like ribbon spools south from Mexico’s most infamous border town to the tip of the Baja California peninsula.

Not only have I been condemned to spending time with Ozzy, but I’m being asked to do it in a desert.

On a road trip . I’m sure my ideal trip starts with one of those first-class airline suites with gold-plated showers and luxury chef service.

“There’s a bug in my code,” I hiss to Rosie as the room explodes in conversation. Life-changing sex aside, I can’t stand him. We can’t travel together.

“Roll with it,” Rosie hisses back. “The show must go on.”

I keep my panicked thoughts to myself as the executive team loudly embraces the idea of Ozzy as their first-ever match. He’s a celebrity! He’s fun! Sending a plain-Jane engineer on a trip with him would be awesome publicity!

My (admittedly quiet) protests are ignored. The marketing team rhapsodizes about the value of a highly publicized, glamorous road trip with a charismatic celebrity. It’s perfect. Who wouldn’t want to match with a celebrity?

Me.

I slam my laptop closed and canvas the room for support. “I don’t have time to go on a road trip!”

Unfortunately, Bob is fully on board with the idea. “Make time.”

I gather my thoughts and counter-propose: “Let’s match everyone in the room. We’ll do someone else.”

There’s a token vote.

I lose.

No one thinks I should stay happily ever after in San Francisco.

Everyone thinks I should go on a Mexican road trip with the world’s favorite surfer.

I don’t remember telling them that I know him.

I suppose they assume that if we have his data, we have a connection.

It hasn’t occurred to them that I am not BFFs with each of our ten thousand respondents.

Rosie squeals happily beside me. She would take my place in a heartbeat.

Bob marches up to me while everyone else files out of the conference room, enthusing about how viral a social media campaign starring Ozzy will go. “Andromeda, I feel that you’re not entirely on board with the idea of field-testing the algorithm.”

You think?

Also, my name is Pandora.

He’s already barreling ahead, though, so I wait.

“But this is important. Mission critical.” He tosses in some other phrases he’s likely memorized during his overpriced evening MBA program.

“Jeanne tells me you’d like to be considered for the chief play officer opening, and a successful candidate would make this road trip happen.

She’d get Ozzy Wylder on board, and then she’d knock the ball out of the park. ”

He smiles patronizingly at me. He’s forgotten our last conversation, where he assured me that if I made this software launch happen, I’d absolutely, for sure, most definitely be his new chief play officer. Apparently, I need a contract written in blood.

I grit my teeth.

And nod. Very, very reluctantly.

I refrain from stabbing him to supply myself with said blood for our contract.

Oblivious to my rage, Bob flashes me a thumbs-up. “Make this happen, and I’ll make things happen for you. Give me a successful social media campaign. Pictures. A story.”

I nod again. Decide to believe him. Again.

“Good talk.” He gives me another smile and wanders out, presumably to book me and Ozzy a camper van. I’m not sure why they think I’ll be able to convince him to go.

Oh God.

I have to convince him to go.

“Ozzy Wylder. You. A confined space. We should sell the movie rights. Can I come as tech team?” Rosie’s eyes are starry.

She thinks I’ve just been given an all-expenses-paid vacation.

This is going to be the road trip from hell.

“We’re gonna bust out of our boring nine-to-five!

Van life will be amazing! This is the best internship ever! ”

Mmm-hmm. I have always (not) wanted to sleep in my vehicle. To drive for hours and hours when a plane could get me there so much faster. To poop in the wilderness.

Of course, Rosie wants to bring the rest of the engineering team in on my amazing “opportunity,” and I have to field their questions, including the how-do-you-know-Ozzy-Wylder explanation. They are impressed. Moderately interested on a unipolar scale.

I only hope Ozzy feels the same way.