A flat-topped hat filled the top corner of the screen. Rungs saw it first.
“OMG,” Rungs said.
There in red plaid and skinny jeans was Inky’s hipster dude. Inky gasped. He’d been placed in the scene with the Amanda-like Megaland girl he’d first drawn, except that someone had retouched her outfit. Inky wondered if Woody had done it himself.
“No mistaking. That’s your work,” Rungs said. “Bingo. Mystery solved.”
Suddenly Inky didn’t want to see more. Even though he’d wanted to have his work used for a computer game, he didn’t feel happy like he thought he would. Seeing it under these circumstances made it feel wrong.
“Wait,” Rungs said, pointing to the corner of his screen. He put his arm out to keep Inky from getting up. “Check this out. They’re chatting.”
Inky moved closer, uncomfortably close to Rungs, in order to read the screen.
Justagirl: Ooh. I love eggnog.
Inky wondered how well they knew each other. Had they had as many conversations as he’d had with Woody? Was Amanda more a part of the game than he was?
Megaland: The holidays will be here sooner than you think.
“Doesn’t it creep you out, spying on them?” Inky asked.
“Nah. You should hear the things my dad gets on tape sometimes. You wouldn’t believe the things people say to each other.” Rungs poked Inky to turn his attention back to the computer screen.
Justagirl: Don’t remind me. I’m nowhere on presents for my brothers.
He nudged Rungs. “Do her brothers go to MDA?” Rungs shrugged.
Megaland: What do you want to give them?
Justagirl: Something that’ll remind them of me.
“Sounds like they’re not around,” Inky said.
Megaland: Like a picture?
“What’s ‘like a picture?’ A stick figure? ” Rungs said.
Justagirl: That’s brilliant.
Megaland: You said you liked your new haircut.
“Holy crap,” Inky said.
Justagirl: A photograph of the new me. That’s it. That’s genius. You’re a real pal, you know.
Megaland: Thank you. That means a lot to me. You have no idea how much.
Megaland: You know I have access to a studio. I can help you with your presents. We’ll take pictures for your brothers for Christmas. Would that be a good gift? They’ll see how much their baby sister has grown up.
Justagirl: Your artwork is so amazing. Makes sense you do photography. Bet you take great pictures, too.
Chapter 23
The Lines are Drawn
“I DON’T BELIEVE THIS,” Inky said, kicking at the leaves on the sidewalk.
“Gotta admit your drawing looked great all animated like that. You gotta get yourself into a hipper art program. You should do that stuff,” Rungs said.
Inky pictured a witch’s cauldron, stinky and steaming. He thought he might be physically sick from all the feelings simmering inside of him. He remembered the instructions from the grief therapy group: Breathe, first through your nose, then more deeply. Right after her mother died, Hawk had suffered from panic attacks, so the whole group learned some coping skills. Turned out she was handy after all.
Rungs was talking faster and louder than Inky had ever heard him talk, like something let loose. Inky couldn’t focus on the content. He kept seeing the orange type on the black screen and the words “your artwork is so amazing.” “That’s genius. You’re a real pal.” The words echoed in his head. He’d wished Amanda had said that to him. Who knew what other conversations she’d had with Woody on Megaland? Inky found the guy likeable enough; why shouldn’t she? He probably had great stories to tell about rock stars he’d met when he was in the music business. How could he compete with that?
On the other hand, Amanda did like his drawings, and that was something. Wasn’t his art the truest part of him? But then, did that mean she thought she was talking to him when she was chatting with Woody? A him that was not him.
He banged his palm on his forehead and tried to tune in to what Rungs was saying. “… something we need to investigate, to find out more.”
He did want to find out more about Amanda. He didn’t know much; just that he liked what she’d said in assembly about being a citizen of the world, liked how her face flushed and showed her shyness, liked that she was looking at him with fresh eyes. Then the emotions bubbled up again, and in Inky’s head the cauldron steam turned into hot orange faces with frightful, toothy sneers.
He’d best not think anymore about Amanda. Why should he care? He’d only get hurt. And he’d been hurt enough already.
As they turned down Lexington Avenue towards his building, Rungs was talking about Internet connections. Inky didn’t quite get what Rungs was saying. He was trying to concentrate, but it was like watching a video on the computer in the library—a little action, then a pause, buffering, buffering.
“We all leave digital fingerprints whether we know it or not,” Rungs said in what sounded like a conclusion.
Inky had an image of hands with computer keys, mice and flash drives for digits, but the image got stuck. His mental sketchpad was on overload.
“Wait a minute,” he said to Rungs. “Slow down. I missed something. I’m still freaked.”
As they walked past the neighborhood playground, Rungs tapped Inky’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “We gotta find out who this guy is and why he wants to take Amanda’s picture.”
“You make it sound like a conspiracy or something,” Inky said.
“Why would he take her picture? Why would he want to help her make gifts for her brothers? Did you ever think of that?” Rungs said.
“Because they’re friends?” Inky said. “As far as she’s concerned, they’re schoolmates.” He felt strange saying that; it was a little like when the adults in a room talk about you like you weren’t there. “After all, who made her a Green Goddess?”
Rungs rolled his eyes. “That’s her side of it. But what about him?”
Inky had to admit that he was too busy thinking about Amanda and how he felt about her to consider Woody’s intentions. It wasn’t something he really wanted to think about. He had so much else to turn over in his mind.
Not Rungs. He was calculating the possibilities, and clearly enjoying the challenge.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll go back to your place—my dad’s traveling anyway. You log on and talk to the game dude, and while you’re online, I’ll trace his IP address and check him out.”
“You can come over, but talk to him?” he said to Rungs, “What can I say to him? ‘I knew you’d use my stuff, but not this way. Not with a girl from my school.’ What are the odds of that? Of it being Amanda?” Inky stopped for a second. It felt funny saying her name out loud. Funny in a good way.
“It’s so frickin’ weird,” Inky continued. “What do I say to him? ‘Don’t give my drawings to any more girls? They’re mine, give them back? Give him back.’”
Inky heard himself say “give him back.” It had just slipped out. Rungs heard it, too.
“Give them back, I meant. Give them back.” He was shaking. He knew this was all about more than just the game.
They walked silently for half a block. “You got me into this,” Inky said to Rungs, breaking the awkwardness.
“Hey, I thought, you know, someone could see your drawings, maybe it would lead to something—get your mind off your dad.”
Inky thought back to when Rungs first told him about the game. He replayed it frame by frame in his mind. “That’s it. That’s how it happened. The first day of school. She was sitting behind us. We didn’t know her then, she was the new girl. Her notebook … you grabbed her notebook and wrote down the URL and access code.”
“The ink must’ve gone through,” Rungs said. “That’s how she found out about the game. So of course she thinks it’s you.”
Inky didn’t know if he should bless or curse his father’s leaky pen.
There was no way for them to sit side by side in front of the computer in his room; still, Inky hesitated before leading Rungs to his father’s study. As he opened the door, he felt like he was sharing a dark secret; it was scary, but it felt good. “We’ve gotta be done before my mom gets home,” Inky said. He didn’t want to give her a new reason to explode.
Inky sat at the big old wooden desk. Rungs plunked down on the beanbag chair under the window and fired up his computer. Inky turned on his father’s machine.
He gasped at the screensaver: a picture of himself when he’d just turned 12. His hair was sun-bleached, in a classic long shag. There was a gleam of happiness in his eyes. In the background he could see the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island. He remembered the afternoon. On a lark he and his father took the subway, screamed and screamed on the roller coaster, then walked to the Russian shops in Brighton Beach to buy babka and smoked fish. So much had changed in two years.
“You need help with that?” Rungs asked.
“I can guess the password.” He typed in “Picasso2B” and smiled as the computer connected. He missed being so special to someone.
“Can you get your email?” Rungs asked. “I just sent you something I want you to install. Click on the file and it’ll let me see and capture your session.”
While Inky installed the program and restarted the computer, Rungs explained, “Your IP, Internet Protocol, is like a street address for your computer. Every computer online has one. It’s used to route information. It’s a string of numbers. Too bad we don’t have his email address—that would make it easier. Once we have his IP info, I’ll try some tracing moves to see if we can get his info.”
Inky took a deep breath and signed on to Megaland. The welcome screen looked different on his father’s color-calibrated monitor. It took a few moments for the chat box to appear.
“He’s got a sign-on notification. Chat box always come up like that?” Rungs asked.
“Yup.” Inky nodded. “Figure it’s because he’s still building it.”
“That’s not gonna last past beta,” Rungs said.
Megaland: Welcome back, Picasso2B. What brings you to Megaland today?
Picasso2B: DK. bored I guess. How’s it going?
Megaland: The beta testing is going well. I animated some of your drawings – amazing program Blender is. It’s all testing very well.
Rungs said, “Tell him you want to see them. Keep him on line as long as possible. I have a ton of data strings and I have to figure out which one is his.”
Picasso2B: Can I see them?
Megaland: Now?
Picasso2B: My stuff has never been animated before. It’d be cool to see.
Megaland: Give me a couple of minutes to load it up.
The sentence lingered on the chat box. The cursor blinked. Rungs was busy reading and capturing the strings of numbers that filled his screen.
“I’m getting somewhere,” he said.
Inky looked around his father’s study. He stared at the bow and arrow on top of the bookshelf. It was a gift from one of the tribesmen his father had filmed in South America.
He looked away quickly to see that the chat box was filling with text.
Megaland: You there? Let me know when you’re ready.
How can I ever be ready for this? Inky thought, looking over at Rungs. But he was anxious to see his drawing come to life.
Picasso2B: Ready.
The screen filled with Inky’s drawings. He watched as the basketball dude strutted toward the front of the screen, and the figure he’d dubbed advertising guy pulled out a chair. Then he saw a gift box, which opened itself, leaving wrapping and ribbon on the floor. A strange, silent birthday party. Then the first figure he’d drawn, his Megaland girl based on Amanda, emerged from the box.
Inky was thrilled to see his work on his father’s big clear screen. He could see how the computer program had altered and enhanced his originals, and he was thinking what he’d have to do next time to compensate for those effects. The Megaland girl nodded yes and no, leaned forward and back and pointed to what seemed to be the back of a closet filled with shoes. Then the second box appeared, and from it, his Green Goddess.
“Wow,” he said, taking in the detail of the dress made of lettuce and spinach leaves.
Rungs got off his chair and stood behind Inky for a closer look. “Way cool,” he said.
“Did you get your address?” Inky asked.
“It looks like it’s redirecting. Could be something at the provider to manage demand. I’ll know when you chat some more.”
The Green Goddess stared out at Inky from the screen. He could see Amanda’s face in hers. He thought of Amanda that day in the cafeteria when Hawk dragged her away. What had she said to Amanda about him?
Megaland: What do you think?
Picasso2B: I love it. You did a great job, Woody.
Megaland: So did you, Picasso2B. We’re a great team.
Inky glanced over at Rungs. He felt a little self-conscious having Rungs see this conversation. But Rungs was more interested in the data than the content, he figured.
Picasso2B: Thanks. Have you shown it to anyone?
Megaland: Your work is having a lot of impact.
Picasso2B: Do you have a lot of testers or is it like one girl somewhere?
Megaland: Interesting question. Why do you ask?
“It’s still redirecting,” said Rungs. “Slow down between responses. The pauses are good.”
Inky typed more slowly, exaggerating his delay between keystrokes.
Picasso2B: Just want to know if I’m any good, I guess.
Megaland: You are very good.
Picasso2B: So like more than one person said so.
Megaland: Marketing research determines user appeal. Your work appeals.
Picasso2B: Cool.
Inky paused before he continued typing, both to appease Rungs and to take in the compliment.
“Bleeping machine.” Rungs said. “IP check says he’s using a proxy, and the next test I ran should’ve shown me a header that leads to the original IP. But I’m getting gibberish.” Rungs stood up and looked over Inky’s shoulder again.
Picasso2B: Any testers work more than the others?
Megaland: It’s all statistical, so responses can be weighted, but you don’t want to bias your results. I have a lot riding on this data. You don’t want the peccadilloes of one user to get in the way.
Picasso2B: The what? Peccadilloes? Sounds like a creature from the stone age.
Megaland: Lol. The stoned age is more like it – the Sixties. It was one of my favorite words in high school.
“You can wrap up if you want,” Rungs said, looking up from his laptop.
Picasso2B: So do you need more drawings from me?
Megaland: What you’ve given me is great. You’ve gotten the gist of the game. I’ll be working on the final frames next.
Picasso2B: I’ll look over my stuff and see if I can get you something soon.
Megaland: I’d like that Picasso2B. I’d like that.
“SMHID,” Rungs said after Inky signed off. “I’m totally scratching my head in disbelief. His IP address is scrambled. ”
“What does that mean?” Inky asked.
“Could be a couple of things. Some people use a proxy to get around Internet censorship—like people in China do to get on Facebook, or some countries where copyright stuff blocks Netflix. Sometimes NGOs or dissidents use Tor to keep the government out of their pants, but that’s crazy slow. Any reason to think he’s part of an international company?”
“No. He said he ran a recording studio in the City. I thought he owned it. He said it went broke.”
“Could be that someone else is tapping into his communications and they’ve got it redirected. Could even be that he’s being hacked. But most of time, in the stuff my father does, when someone’s address is scrambled, they’re hiding something or hiding from someone.”
“Maybe you
’re making too much of this. Maybe it’s none of that,” Inky said. “Maybe he just doesn’t want anyone to steal his ideas.”
“From what I saw of the game, there’s not too much to steal.”
Inky thought about defending the game and his work, but Rungs looked too serious.
Rungs closed his laptop and said, “IDK. But I’m gonna go home and see if I can figure it out.”
Inky sat in the beanbag chair after Rungs left, feeling drained, like the mushroom beige color of the chair. Rungs seemed to thrive on all the spying and subterfuge. It made Inky profoundly tired. His eyes closed, and soon he was dreaming. In his dream he saw an image of Amanda—not as Amanda, but as an Indian from one of the tribes his father had filmed. She wore the body paint of hunter-gatherers. In her hand she held a pot, no bigger than a coffee mug, but more squat. Her fingers lifted the fitted lid. When she peered inside, there was a small stick glowing orange and red in parts: embers that she took from home to home.
Inky woke up with a start. He knew absolutely what he would do for his core project. He fired up his father’s computer again and began to search for copies of his father’s emails about the Awa Indians he’d gone to film in Brazil.
Chapter 24
Peccadilloes
RUNGS NODDED TO THE HOUSEKEEPER and went straight to the workroom. The flashing lights of his father’s electronics beckoned, more appealing than any toy store.
He loved it when his father would tell him a bit, but never too much, about a case he was working on. He’d always longed for a case of his own, so when Inky presented him with the mystery of Amanda’s haircut and the game, he blew it up, stretching the “what ifs” into ominous truths. He’d never admit it, but at first he didn’t disagree when Inky said that maybe he was making all this into more than it was.
But then he discovered the rerouted Internet connection. It would be easy to blame it on the general lameness of a service provider, but that wasn’t it. So even if nothing nefarious was going on, it presented an intriguing puzzle, more interesting than his homework, and something to occupy him while his father was away. Rungs set to work.
Drawing Amanda Page 10
