Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(33)

“You’ll see,” he responded.

But the best part was when he got to the Tempest reveal. As Adam started showing off the smartphone features, Blake started texting.

It was one of the funniest things in a launch ever—Blake sending pictures of his teacher, taken with perfect comic timing. He sent a video near the end of the teacher in charge of detention looking up, frowning, and starting down the aisle.

Finally, a single text appeared on Adam’s screen.

This is Mr. Whitesend. What is this thing?

Everyone online initially assumed it had to be staged. But the other students at Blake’s high school insisted that it had really happened—that he had gotten detention, that he’d argued. Two students had even been in detention with him as it all happened, and they swore it really went down that way. The internet is still arguing, eight years later, over whether it was real or not.

I have access to the scripts, and I get to find out the truth. Yes, it was scripted. All of it. Both the principal and Mr. Whitesend were in on it, with signed releases and everything. Mr. Whitesend apparently got paid a mountain of money in exchange for looking like the bad guy.

There are years of launches, hours of Blake and Adam shows. And once I start diving into the edited scripts, I only get more confused.

“We’re selling family,” Adam wrote in an earlier comment as he crossed off someone else’s suggestion. “We make people want to be part of the Cyclone family. This doesn’t do that.”

But when someone else suggested a truly heartwarming scenario three years ago, Blake nixed it.

“Cute,” he says, “but can you see Dad and me doing that? It has to be a true construction.”

Those are the words I see over and over, in every launch script over the last ten years: True construction. The Blake and Adam show may be scripted, but it’s also something real. It has to be something that could happen, something, perhaps, that even did happen. It’s fake, but it’s based on good source material. The launches chronicle their growing relationship from father and son to friends. They’re sweet. They’re endearing. They’re authentic. And—I remind myself—they’re putting all of this on display for the purpose of selling more products, which is completely f*cked up.

There’s only one launch I can find in the entire twenty-year period that isn’t completely scripted. It happened a year ago, when one of the key presenters passed away two nights before. Without any explanation that I can find, Blake and Adam axed the entire goofy script they’d put together.

There was nothing written to fill the space, just a short interchange between Blake and his dad. Blake deleted the idea that had come before. He added two lines in its place.

Announce moment of silence.

Stage direction: don’t cry.

His father, in turn, deleted the second line with a comment of his own. Irrelevant. I don’t cry.

Blake added the line back in. That’s for me, *.

It takes me three days to understand what Blake has asked me to do. He was right; I can manage most of the launch. There’s an entire team that is involved with the script. They’ve been doing this as long as Blake has, and they’ve already sent in suggestions that I will only have to modify.

Blake doesn’t need me to write a product launch, not really. He needs a true construction. He wants me to write the next chapter in his relationship with his father, the man he loves so much that it hurts.

And I don’t have the truth.

I don’t like being taken by surprise. I especially don’t like discovering that I’ve landed in the middle of a morass.

After a few moments’ contemplation, I head south to meet Blake after work.

I had the responsibility of finding Blake a suitable job—and trust me, that wasn’t as easy as it might seem. His name is recognizable enough that he’d draw notice almost everywhere. His resumé is glowing—so glowing that for an entry-level job, it’s practically radioactive. Imagine applying for a job in fast food with Vice President of Interfaces, Cyclone Systems as your last position.

Luckily, I know someone who owes my mom a favor.

It’s ten at night when I open the doors to the restaurant where he’s working.

“Closed!” sings out Mr. Zhen from the back as I slip inside. The walls are paneled in faux-rosewood scenes that are supposed to give off an indeterminately Chinese vibe. At least they would if I didn’t know that the chop in the corner translates to something like “Turgid Mutton.”

“We’re closed,” Mr. Zhen insists, bustling through the kitchen door. But he stops when he sees me and a smile spreads over his face. He takes off his hairnet, revealing approximately three strands of hair.

“Tina!” He switches to Mandarin. “I’m glad you came. Nice boy you sent to me. I’m really happy.”

“He’s going to work out?” I have to admit I’m a little surprised. Not that I thought Blake would be unwilling to work; he’s too competitive to not try his best. I just kind of assumed he would suck at manual labor.

Mr. Zhen waves a hand. “A little slow, but he’ll speed up. We just have to break in his soft hands.” He laughs. “But I see why you sent him my way. It’s nice to have someone back there who speaks Mandarin for a change. My last dishwasher was Mexican and we could never talk about anything.”