by Lisa Bunker
The tunnel had train tracks down the middle and was lit by the same naked-glare lightbulb over and over. She walked a path she knew, headed for a control hub. Scattered around the tunnel system were stations where a savvy person could work out how to do all sorts of things. One thing she had figured out so far: how to access lists of all the user IDs of players currently playing.
What had that insufferable Robert’s friends called him? Chopper. Zen made a contemptuous sound. Screen name. Had to be.
In the control room she pulled down the virtual logbook and leafed through to the Cs. And there it was. Well, not exactly. But what were the chances Chopper789 was anyone else? And anyway, it didn’t matter. Cyberlandium was a cruel place. A place of random Justice. And sometimes, when the mood was on her, Zen felt herself to be the Angel of Justice.
She entered invisibly into the game realm in which Chopper789 was playing. Sword and sorcery, what a shock. Another contemptuous sound. She examined the contents of his satchel. A Vorpal Sword? No way he had acquired that through straight gameplay. Bought it, probably. It would do for a start.
Zen practiced her art.
THIRTEEN
ON MONDAY, HAVING emerged the victor in a weekend wrangle about buying versus packing lunch, Zen halted on a patch of floor by the food court exit, where decades of pausing feet had worn through the tiles. The orphan misfit table had strangers sitting at it. What? Where was everyone? She scanned the room. No Arli, no Clem. There was Dyna, but she was sitting with other black kids, and Zen didn’t feel up to trying to make a comfortable entrance at that table. So, where was she going to sit now?
What decided her was curiosity about whether she had guessed right about the identity of Chopper789. She swept her eyes past the gamer table. Robert was not there. Wire-Frame Glasses was, though, and, disconcertingly, seemed to be looking back at her. Or maybe not—his gaze skittered away. Zen shook the moment off. Robert had shown up late before, so maybe he would again.
She headed for a table one leapfrog away from the gamers. Only one other person was sitting there: a shy-looking boy of, apparently, Asian descent. He sat at the very corner, folded into himself. Without asking, Zen sat down at the diagonally opposite corner. The boy kept his eyes down. He looked vaguely familiar. Was he maybe in Mr. Walker’s class? Zen couldn’t remember for sure.
She was halfway through her delightfully not green goop burger when Robert exited the food court. And, a couple of steps behind him, Melissa, who saw her looking and took it as an invitation. She came over and put her tray on the table. Robert meanwhile peeled off to the gamers, who welcomed him loudly. Zen answered Melissa’s greeting with a distracted non-word. But Robert didn’t immediately start talking about Lukematon, so after a bit she was able to connect with what was happening at her own table.
Which was Melissa trying to engage with the shy boy. “Hi,” she had just said.
“Hi,” the kid answered, not much above a whisper.
“I’ve seen you around, haven’t I? Don’t we have English together?”
“I don’t know? Maybe?”
“What’s your name?”
“Elijah.”
Zen flashed back to the first day with Arli and said, “No way! What’s your last name?”
The boy flinched. “My last name?”
“Yes.”
“Um . . . Tuck.”
“So how do you spell your whole name?”
Elijah Tuck spelled his name.
“Ten letters and no repeats,” said Zen.
Melissa and Elijah both goggled at her. “What . . . ?” said Melissa. Looking distressed, Elijah picked up his tray and left.
“You scared him away,” said Melissa.
“I don’t see how.”
“It was weird, what you said. What were you talking about?”
“The letters of his name being all different from each other. It’s a thing Arli cares about—you know Arli, right? So now I’ve started noticing it too. That’s all.”
“Arli is weird.”
“I think Arli’s response to that might be, ‘You’re not wrong.’”
Melissa shrugged and started eating mac and cheese. Zen picked up her burger again, then froze. Someone had just said the word dragon. She did her best to turn her whole back into a giant ear. It was Robert speaking. Melissa took a breath to say something, and Zen whispered, “Shh! I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“Just shh, please? Okay?”
Melissa looked annoyed, but stayed quiet. Robert was saying, “. . . the strangest thing. My sword was gone.”
Zen made a silent face of fierce joy. Yes! It had been him.
“And then this dragon appeared. And all I had was this stupid wooden stick that somehow my sword had turned into.”
“Dude, no way,” someone said.
“But that’s not the strangest thing,” Robert went on. His voice was shaking a little. Zen cupped a hand over her mouth. “So this dragon, I’ve seen screenshots, it’s, like, the big payoff boss dragon, right? From the very highest level, end of the quest. And you have to have all this flame protection built up to face it, which I didn’t have, so I figured I was toast. But then it opened its mouth, and what do you think came out?”
“Fire!” said one voice. “What?” said a couple of others.
“Not fire.” A pause, but not for dramatic effect. From his breathing, he was seriously upset. “Mice.”
There was a silence. “Say what now?” said a voice.
“Mice. The dragon opened its mouth, and this, like, waterfall of mice came out onto me. I was completely buried in falling mice.”
Zen had both hands over her mouth now and was making little crying noises.
“Are you okay?” asked Melissa.
Zen nodded. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing through her nose. She absolutely positively could not laugh.
“What’s the matter? Do you have a toothache?”
It was as good an explanation as any. She nodded again. “I get that too,” Melissa said. “When I eat cold things, sometimes. Ice cream. Stuff like that.”
Zen nodded one more time, feeling her breathing settle back toward normal. At the gamer table, someone said, “Did you get your sword back?”
“Yeah,” Robert said. “I logged out and logged back in again, and everything was back to normal.” True. The mouse-breathing dragon accomplished, Zen had felt satisfied with the exploit and relented. It had been so much fun, though. No denying the old thrill.
Melissa’s mind had gone on to something else. “May I ask you something?” she said.
Zen couldn’t read Melissa’s expression. Had she been found out? Was she about to be outed? Adrenaline surge. Not trusting speech, she did her best to prepare herself.
“Um . . . would you like to come over to my house this weekend?”
There was nothing in Melissa’s face but kindness, with a touch of bashful. False alarm. Zen took a moment to ride down the shakes. This girl. She was just really nice. And she wanted to be friends. “Okay,” she said.
“We do games sometimes on Sunday afternoon.”
“Okay.”
“Me and my family.”
Zen remembered manners. “Thank you very much for the invitation. I would be honored to be your guest.”
Melissa smiled. She had a pretty smile, in a wholesome toothpaste-ad sort of way. “Okay, good,” she said.
FOURTEEN
Where were you today?
Oh, hello.
Hello. Where were you?
I’m doing all right. Thanks for asking.
Are you being sarcastic?
*rolls eyes* What do you think?
Um, are you sick?
I wasn’t feeling well.
Oh. OK, I’m sorry.
I didn’t realize.
And I didn’t mean to sound cross.
“Cross.” What a great word.
Are you there?
My mom used to say it.
You were quiet for a minute. Your mom?
Are you there?
She passed away a long time ago.
When I was little.
Tear on cheek face. I’m sorry to hear that.
I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.
*sighs* It’s OK.
But you remember her saying “cross.”
Yes.
So it can’t have been when you were a baby.
No. I was five.
What about the rest of your family?
If that’s not also a painful subject.
Well, I don’t really have one.
Anymore.
?
I’ve never seen you not use words.
Because I’m astonished.
How can you not have a family?
Not no family.
There’s Aunt Lucy, of course.
And Grandma Gail.
But, um, let’s just say, we’re not all that close.
No siblings?
No. Only child.
What about your other parent?
My dad? He died. Too.
Jesus!
My mom wouldn’t have liked that.
Liked what?
Taking the Lord’s name in vain like that.
She was religious?
Yes. Very. My dad too.
Especially after my mom died.
What happened to him?
If you don’t mind me asking.
I don’t mean to pry, but I am curious.
Hunting accident.
J . . . Um, Oh My Goodness! When?
In April.
April of this year?
Yes.
Oh.
My.
Goodness.
Crying face.
I’m so sorry.
Are you there?
Yes, I’m here. Thinking.
Because, I’ve never cried.
Of course I miss him.
And of course it’s terrible what happened.
And I did love him.
I mean, you have to love your parents, right?
But, he was so mean to me, and he didn’t
He didn’t . . . what?
Something I can’t say.
But it was so hard. Living with him.
OK. And now you live with your aunt?
My two aunts. Aunt Lucy and Aunt Phil.
I have GOT to meet these people.
Puzzled face. Why?
Because they sound so cool.
Are they married?
Yes.
You have to invite me over.
Jeezum, you’re bossy.
I’m telling! You took the Lord’s name in vain!
“Jeezum” doesn’t count.
Yes, it does. It has “Jeez” in it.
No, trust me, it doesn’t. My mom said so.
That’s where I got it from.
OK, if you say so.
So?
So, what?
So, are you going to invite me over?
Why don’t you invite ME over?
That would be the polite thing to do.
*puts hands on hips*
Well, excuse me, Miss Manners.
You don’t have to be sarcastic.
I care about that stuff. I was raised that way.
What way?
The polite way.
Oh. Well, that’s fine then.
But I can’t ask you over.
Why not?
I mean, it’s not that I can’t, in the sense that it’s impossible. It’s just complicated.
Complicated how?
Could you just take my word for it, please?
OK.
Thank you.
So . . .
So what.
So, if you’re taking my word for it, then there’s only one other way for us to get together.
*rolls eyes* OK, fine.
Would you like to come over sometime?
Yes, thank you, I would.
I mean, I have to ask.
But I think they’ll say yes.
Thumbs-up hand.
And I hope you’re feeling better.
Yes, I am, thanks.
OK. Talk to you soon.
Bye for now.
Bye for now.
FIFTEEN
WEDNESDAY MORNING THE second week of school, Zen was sipping orange juice at the kitchen table and Aunt Phil was cooking a scramble at the stove when Aunt Lucy came in, holding her phone. “There’s been an incident at Monarch Middle,” she said. “I just got an email.”
Aunt Phil turned, spatula in hand. “What happened?”
“It’s from your principal, Zenobia,” Aunt Lucy said. She put on a reading voice. “‘Dear parents and guardians. Please be advised that early this morning the Monarch Middle School website was defaced. The perpetrator or perpetrators breached security and gained access by unknown means in order to post images disrespectful to people of the Muslim faith. As soon as the act was discovered, the images were removed.’ Dah dah dah . . . ‘We are treating this episode seriously’—well, I should certainly hope so—‘and when we discover by whom this hateful act was perpetrated, that person or those persons will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Monarch Middle School reaffirms its commitment to diversity and to celebrating the inherent worth and dignity of all of its students regardless of . . .’ et cetera, et cetera.”
“Well, that’s just a shame,” said Aunt Phil, shaking her head. She turned back to the sputtering eggs.
“It’s an outrage, is what it is,” said Aunt Lucy. “These times we live in. It never seems to end.”
“Poor Dyna,” Zen said. “I wonder if she knows yet.”
“Who’s Dyna?” asked Aunt Lucy.
“A friend of mine. She wears one of those head scarves . . . you know.”
“You’ve made a Muslim friend? That’s wonderful! How did you meet?”
“Um, could I tell you later? There’s something I need to do.” Professional curiosity, so to speak, definitely in play. “May I be excused?”
“Of course,” said Aunt Lucy. “You don’t have to ask.”
Into her room to pull up the school’s website. Yep, it was already fixed, just like the principal’s email had said. The most recent news entry was for a date last week, so they had probably restored from the last backup. The site was primitive—common platform, stock design. Unlikely there was any extra security beyond the easily hackable default stuff. Her fingers itched to get at the server this ran from. Were there traces? How sophisticated had the attack been?
Aunt Phil called out that breakfast was ready, and Zen reluctantly pulled herself away. She would ask Mr. Walker about it, though, for sure. Maybe they would let her help.
During breakfast Aunt Lucy said, “Zenobia, I wanted to mention, I looked into some of those treatment options we talked about.” Zen held her breath, in instant suspense. This was the continuation of a discussion she could hardly
believe was happening. As impossible as it seemed, after there having been no hope of any such thing for so long, the Aunties seemed willing to maybe help her with the medical part. Aunt Lucy went on: “I called the clinic in Boston, and I got us an appointment. They have a wait, I’m afraid, but we’re on their calendar now. November.”
The Aunties, never having been parents before, had been so clunky in some ways. The weird stuff in the fridge that did not look, smell, or taste like actual food. The raucous late nights. The casual conversations about subjects Zen had never heard discussed out loud before, that once or twice had caused her to flee to her room.
