To Zuckerberg or Not to Zuckerberg? Day 13

I couldn’t skip another day of classes, so I went to my 8AM Math 101 directly after relaunching the App. My counselor had called it foundational and suggested I get it out the way first semester, but I liked math. I found it comforting that numbers were dependable in ways that writing wasn’t. The subjectivity of poetry or prose frustrated me at times. Even the art of debate depended solely on the audience, but numbers didn’t. They were either right or wrong, no half-assing it. After the whirlwind with Flavor of Harvard, I needed a diversion with a solid group of left brained people talking about something concrete for an hour and fifteen minutes.

I arrived early to snag a back row seat and immediately began prepping my workspace. When the class started, the teacher breezed through the door. He looked to be in his sixties and energetic like he’d just chugged a carafe of coffee.

“Morning, everyone,” he said staring blankly at the class of about fifty students. When no one replied, he repeated. “Morning, everyone!”

“Morning,” I said along with about two others.

Most of my classmates’ faces were buried in their phones. It clicked immediately. I wasn’t escaping Flavor of Harvard by going to my math class at all. I’d just stepped into the den of the App’s users instead of developers.  

“Put your phones away, all of you, right now,” the professor said.

In response, staggered sighs made waves through the large classroom, and the professor leaned on the desk seemingly amused.

“I taught here in 2006, you know?” he said grinning. “This feels a lot like that era of newness and innovation. Excitement. Tell me, you, young lady,” he said pointing to a brunette on the front row. “There is a fresh, new application going around campus, yes?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. “Unlike anything else, yes.”

“In 2006,” he said beginning to walk the aisles. “When a young Mark Zuckerberg began conceptualizing what would become his empire, he was in one of my classes, not unlike this one actually.”

Another wave went through the class, this time astonishment. “Really?” someone from the middle clump asked.

“Really,” the professor replied. “Unassuming young man who went on to change the world. Interesting to get an opportunity to feel that energy again.”

“For the good?” I asked.

“What do you mean, young lady in the back?” he asked me quizzically.

“You said he changed the world,” I started. “In your opinion, do you think it was for the good or not?”

“Ah,” he held his chin with his hand as he leaned further back. “You must understand, Madame, I am a math man. I cannot answer shivery questions that may not have concrete answers, but I will say this – before Facebook, the students went to the basements of their dorms to listen to Johnny Cash’s greatest hits and dance together on Friday nights.”

Many in the class laughed, but he did not. “It sounds strange now, I realize. Maybe it is, but it was also a wonder to witness eighteen-year-olds discovering beautiful music together. Now, forgive me for saying this, but you seem to be discovering everything on your own with noise cancelling earbuds in. I cannot blame Facebook for this, or young Mark who simply filled a niche. To answer your question though, I lean heavily toward his creation aiding in an uncomfortable isolation. Will this App… What is it called again?”

Everyone in the class except for me said. “Flavor of Harvard.”

He chuckled. “Clever, yes, will this App do something similar? That remains to be seen.”

The professor packed his leather satchel and headed toward the exit.

“Wait,” said the same brunette in the front. “Don’t we have class?”

“I told you all, I’ve seen this before. And with that knowledge and experience, I know there is no use trying to teach you this morning. Your young brains are in a scramble to get back to your App and I will not stand in your way. This is your hail, Mary.” He stood in the doorway. “Your assignment today is to stay in this class until it officially ends. If you are to obsess over this thing, please do it in the company of other humans doing the same thing. Not alone. See you next week and be prepared to do math.”

After he disappeared, the class erupted into cheers, and no one left their seats. One after another, Iris’s tell-tale color pops shown on their phones, and they began scrolling through nominations. I watched them swipe through with such care, reading and considering who should be our leading guy. Our Flav.

“Brave of them to do this,” said someone to the far right on my row. “I’d be embarrassed to put myself out there like this.”

“I thought they were nominated by others,” said someone else.

“This is Harvard,” a voice said from another end. “These guys nominated themselves for sure.”

“What difference does it make?” asked the beautiful blonde, Rachel, from Logic. “This is fucking fun. And my Golden Cowboy’s in the lead. By a lot, too. A Kennedy is second and then one of the Bush’s.”

“He can’t be this hot in person,” someone said. “He looks like he was carved from the feminine gaze.”

“Damn right.”

“Phew yes.”

“I’ll upvote him right now.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Same.”

I was the only one without any tech opened. I, instead, took out a basic spiral notebook and began writing stream-of-consciousness. It was such a strange hour. An enlightening one, too. The professor walking out of his own class to allow space for an App that I’d created. The students audibly discussing it with genuine excitement. It was surreal and slightly terrifying.

“Who created this thing?” someone asked finally. “I heard they’re doing this in Pennypacker.”

I slid down in my chair grateful I’d chosen a back row seat.

“Pretty sure I know who it is,” said a guy I’d never seen in my life. “Very few people can pull this off and this level of intellect, even here. Definitely not Pennypacker though. Upperclassman for sure.”

“Well spit it out then, if you’re so smart.”

“Yeah!” someone added. “It’ll come out soon enough, spill it.”

He leaned in as if telling a secret. “I think it’s Ryan Martin in Eliot House. He’s likely getting the Rhodes next year. He’s a legend in the campus computer spaces.”

Many nodded and some shook their heads. “Ryan wouldn’t know shit about Flavor Flav though. He’s a genius programmer. Flavor of Harvard? No way.”

I grinned and shielded my eyes.

“This App,” the girl from my Logic class held up her phone. “Was designed by a woman. I’d bet my inheritance on it.”

Most of the class agreed before resuming concentration of the nominations.

When we had about fifteen-minutes left in the class, I reopened my laptop to reread the anonymous email. It was signed Z, and of course, my initial thought was Mark Zuckerberg himself. But no one that smart would be dumb enough to send such an email without consulting with their legal team first. It was more likely someone pretending to be Mark rather than Mark himself.

It also could’ve been a prank. Someone trying to gather intel or freak me out. I knew Deacon could track the IP easily, but I wanted to keep this close before telling them. If I were being honest with myself, I was still considering taking Z up on their offer. Financial struggle is all-consuming. And I could see the pain in my mother’s eyes when she couldn’t afford to give us something we’d selfishly wanted. She shielded it beautifully and with poise, but I saw through all of that. I could fix it all. Right then by sending a simple yes to this mystery emailer. I clicked the reply arrow and let my fingers hover for a few moments.

Then, the clock ticked to 9:15 and everyone scurried out. All except the dark-haired girl wearing all black from creative writing seminar. She’d certainly heard Deacon and I in the hallway a few days before. She’d listened to the entire discussion debating my identity in math class, too, and did not out me as the developer.

Slowly, she walked over and stood next to my desk. She spoke softly and with her head tilted down. “I’m just a poet. Not a very good one either. I hope it’s okay to say this – stop me if it’s too much -- they will never guess it’s you because they’re imagining a skinny white boy. Eventually, everyone will find out because the seminar knows and it’s spreading through Pennypacker. I want to be the first to tell you that you’re a badass. I’ve never seen anything like you. Ever. And when you decide to share yourself with the world, you’ll break shit wide open. I hope you do. Bye.”

She gathered her things and left.

Then, I typed the word no to Z, whoever the fuck that was, and headed to Pennypacker before Wes’s interview. In that moment, I decided we were both going on Talk of Boston, not just him.