Lie for Me

by Romily Bernard

  My breath hitches. It’s Wick. So she was blowing me off. Honestly . . . I’m not really used to that. It’s not like I’m a model or anything, but girls like me. I sigh, shake my head. It would be easier to want a girl who wants me back, but there’s something about this girl. . . .

  It’s aggravating and inconvenient. Carson wants answers and I’m going to get them.

  I laugh. I’m an effing liar if I tell myself that’s the reason I dig the toe of my sneaker into the tree trunk and grab a low-slung branch. I kick myself higher, moving from branch to branch and praying that nothing breaks.

  There’s a scrape above me, like a chair’s being pushed. Someone’s there. Wick again? Crap, if she’s going downstairs—I hustle up the last three branches as a shadow crosses above me. It’s definitely Wick. She’s all pale again, wide-eyed. She’s—she’s about to shut the window!

  I smack one hand onto her window ledge, pop into the light.

  “Sorry.” I twist my legs around a branch, feel it start to buckle. I am nanoseconds from a broken clavicle and I’m grinning at her like a damn idiot. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Wick’s pale eyes narrow. “If you weren’t trying to scare me, then why the hell are you climbing a tree outside my window?”

  I hover. Hmmm. This could go really bad, really quick. “I wanted to see you.”

  “What the frick for?”

  “You never answered me.”

  She blinks and those weird eyes go even lighter, brighter. “Why do you care? It’s not like we talk that much.”

  “Yeah, I think we should fix that.” I stick my head inside, look around. Good. She’s alone. Her bedroom’s twice the size of our kitchen, done up with painted white furniture that doesn’t seem anything like Wick. “So can I come in?”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  No way. I grin. “Great!” I kick against the tree trunk and start to pull myself in. Stop. Our faces are suddenly inches from each other. We’ve never been this close and she’s not moving.

  I raise one eyebrow. “Um, a little space?”

  “Oh!” The tips of her ears go bright pink and it hits me low in the gut. She’s embarrassed? Wick? I would never have guessed she had it in her. I nearly laugh—until she scrambles backward. Did I scare her?

  Possibly. Probably. I did just climb a tree to talk to her in the middle of the night. I grit my teeth and hoist myself over the window ledge and land in her bedroom, still grinning. “Didn’t think you’d actually agree.”

  Wick retreats to desk chair, sits on her hands. The embarrassed girl is gone and the prickly one I know from school is back. She’s gone hooded again. Shuttered. I can’t tell what Wick sees when she looks at me, but I really want to know.

  I also want to know who thought Wick would like that bed. It’s white with tall, curlicue posts, completely girly-girl.

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  I shrug, look around like I don’t know what I’m doing. Which is kind of true and kind of not. Wick goes red and embarrassed like the other girls I know, but she also goes dark and pointed like no one I know. Which is the real girl?

  “I always wanted to see where you lived now,” I say.

  “Why? Were you expecting a coffin or something?”

  “Of course not. You sleep hanging upside down, right?”

  She glares at me—no, tries to glare at me. There’s a smile fighting the corners of her mouth and I can’t stop my grin. She’s not immune to me.

  Well, not entirely.

  Wick chews her lower lip. “Why are you being so . . . so . . .”

  Flirty? Pushy? Whatever it is, she won’t say it. There’s something under Wick’s words, like she’s biting down all the things she wants to say. Maybe I am too.

  “Because I wanted to the moment I saw you, but mostly because Matthew Bradford threw your lunch into the school fountain last week, so you let the air out of his car tires.”

  Her shoulders go rigid. “Tire. I only did one.”

  “Yeah, I know. I did the other.”

  “How did you . . .”

  “Know you were there?” I stand and, for the first time ever, I feel her eyes follow me. Everywhere they touch I go hot, tight. I’m used to girls watching me, but I’m not used to reacting like this. “I was one car over, hiding out instead of going to lunch. You’re the first girl I’ve ever met who’s smart and never plays stupid. You’re small, but you don’t back down.”

  It sounds like a line but it’s probably the most honest thing I’ve ever said. I’m glad we’re not facing each other. If she’s rolling her eyes, I’d rather not know. I study Wick’s bookshelves instead, touching the spines of her paperbacks with one finger. Stephen King, Jodi Picoult, Courtney Summers, and . . . is that Eat Pray Love? I pull it off the shelf. “So is that a good enough answer?”

  Wick’s mouth moves like it might very well be, but then her computer chirps and her eyes go hard. Flat. She spins the chair around, hands already reaching for the keyboard.

  “What is it?” I ask, watching her . . . watching the computer. I take a couple of steps toward her and she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are pinned to the screen. “Something going on?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Yes, something. Whatever she’s seeing has her breath coming fast, shallow. She’s freaked. Why?

  I edge closer and peek over her shoulder. It’s the usual computer home screen: Microsoft Office icons . . . Mozilla icon . . . There’s nothing special until I notice the pop-up message at the corner of her screen. The writing’s too small to see what it says, but I recognize the symbol on the left-hand side of the notification: a bone-white skull with a crooked crown on a red-and-black background. That’s the Pandora Code symbol.

  It’s a virus. I’ve seen the icon but, thankfully, never been infected. I’ve heard about it though. There was that credit card scam last year . . . but it doesn’t look like Wick’s infected with the virus.

  She’s running it.

  My stomach falls three inches. Carson was right. Or, at least, partially right. If Wick’s using the virus, she’s involved in some kind of hacking.

  She’s not who I thought she was . . . so where’s my disgust?

  “What are you doing?” I ask softly.

  Wick jerks to her feet, blocking the computer screen with her body. “You have to go now.”

  I cock my head, smile at her like I’m confused. It’s not exactly a stretch. I need a reason to stay. “But I just got here.”

  “You have to go.”

  I glance at the computer, barely visible beyond her shoulder, and then to Wick. Her mouth has a hard set. She’s not going to budge. This isn’t ending like it was supposed to.

  “Okay, fine, but close the window after me.” I grin at her and straddle the windowsill. Definitely not the way this was supposed to go.

  Then again, now I have a reason to keep coming around.

  My grin widens. “You never know who might climb up that tree again, Wicked.”

  8

  I nearly break my damn ankles hitting the ground. Wick slams the window above me, but she lingers for a beat. Is she looking down at me? The blinds snap shut and I scowl.

  Christ, of all the effing jobs I could’ve gotten.

  Sighing, I turn for the street, crossing Wick’s front yard and heading for the sidewalk. I’m almost to the nearest streetlamp when I hear it. Crunching. Like dead leaves underfoot.

  Great. I start to jog. I don’t belong around here and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor calling the cops, but then the leaves crackle again—right next to me—and I stop. Listen.

  I’m face-to-face with an ancient magnolia tree, its overloaded branches dipping toward the dirt.

  Could’ve been an animal. I stare into the darkness beyond the leaves, willing something besides shadows to take shape. Awfully heavy for an animal.

  I stand a little straighter, rolling my hands into fists. “Who’s there?”

  Nothing. Maybe I imagined it. I
swing my head side to side. Still nothing. Somehow though . . . I don’t think I imagined it and I don’t think it’s someone’s dog or cat. I slowly pivot, scanning the deserted street until I’m looking up at Wick’s house again. You can see her bedroom window perfectly from here.

  I turn back to the magnolia tree and my skin crawls. I feel like someone’s looking at me. Farther up the street, a car slows, turning into a nearby driveway. From the corner of my eye, I watch it pause. The driver’s noticed me. I need to get going.

  I take one step, another. No one lunges out of the dark and nothing moves. I turn on my heel, hustling along the sidewalk until I reach one of the paths near the woods. This time of night I’m pretty much alone except for a stray golf cart or two that pass me.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Milo Gray’s latest number. We talk enough that I should have him programmed into my contacts, but the guy gets twitchy about leaving any paper trail. I’m pretty sure he works exclusively from burner phones. If I were to get caught, Milo would be so gone. He’s a little paranoid until you get to know him, but he’s the best computer builder I’ve ever met.

  He also knows it.

  “Hey,” I say when the call connects.

  “Hey yourself.” On the other end, someone giggles and Milo sucks in a breath. “I’m kind of busy, Griffin.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Seriously?” He sounds half strangled.

  “Seriously.”

  Milo swears and there’s a rustling sound as he leans away from the phone. “Sweetheart,” he says to whoever’s still giggling, “can you give me a minute? I gotta take this call.”

  There’s a low murmuring followed by a sharp retort. I can’t understand the words, but I get the tone—female, petulant. When it comes to Milo, everything that hangs around him is female and petulant.

  It’s sort of how we met. One of Milo’s hookups happened to be a longtime customer of Paul’s. While the two of them argued weed pricing, Milo and I started talking. He ended up doing my last computer for me, and the way things are going, that sucker better stay running because I won’t be able to afford another one.

  “This better be good,” Milo says flatly, returning to me as, somewhere on his end, a door slams. “What kind of help do you need?”

  “I’m not sure.” I tuck the phone between my jaw and shoulder, casting a look behind me. The path’s deserted. No one’s following me, but I still feel watched. “You have any experience with the Pandora Code?”

  “The virus? Hell no.”

  “What do you know about Red Queen?”

  “I know you better keep that system I built you away from him. I am not cleaning up the mess he’ll make of it. You’ll be down for weeks, and that’s if you get it up again.”

  The path forks and I go left. “How do you know Red Queen’s a he?”

  “I don’t, but really, how many girls you know who can do that sort of work?”

  “None.” Maybe. The path widens and the trees thin, revealing the massive houses—all yellow-lit—behind them.

  “What if that’s your fault?” I ask, studying an empty living room as I go by. There’s an enormous portrait of the family hung on the closest wall and everyone’s smiling. It tugs something inside me and I turn away. “Maybe if you hung around girls who loved something more than their clothes—”

  “I do hang around girls who love something more than their clothes. They love me. There’s a big difference, and I still don’t think Red Queen is a girl.”

  “Even with that name?”

  “So the dude has mommy issues. Whatever.”

  Still walking, I turn around, checking behind me. The path is empty, but the hairs on my neck are prickling.

  “You ever seen his work up close?” I ask.

  Milo pauses, and when he finally speaks, his tone’s turned guarded. “I’ve been following along for a couple years now. I’m kind of a fan.”

  “Does he do a signature or something?” I already know the answer, but I’m hoping I’m wrong.

  Milo yawns. “Not usually. When he does leave one, it’s just that symbol—the skull with the red background.”

  And crooked crown. If Wick’s Red Queen, she’s more than just a sometimes bitchy, multicolored-haired high school girl. She’s dangerous, and Carson could very well be right about Wick being instrumental in her father’s crimes. She’s smart, lethal, and embarrassingly better with computers than I am.

  That should not be sexy as hell.

  Milo sighs. “I probably don’t want to know, but why’re you asking?”

  “You’re right. You don’t want to know.” This time, I completely stop and turn around. Light from the houses illuminates patches of grass and pavement, but there are still heavy pockets of shadows. “I gotta go, Mi.”

  “See ya.” He disconnects and I pocket the phone, still scanning the dark. Nothing’s there. I’m alone.

  So why doesn’t it feel like it?

  A buzz. My phone again. I check the screen. It’s a text message from my uncle.

  Meet the Man tomorrow. 4:30. Don’t b late.

  I take another long look at the path behind me. Don’t worry, Paul, I have no intentions of letting that opportunity pass.

  9

  Joe Bender lives in one of our neighborhood’s few houses, a leftover from when the developer thought Twin Creeks was going to be more than trailer rentals and clay orange lawns. There are always four to five cars parked in the front, but I’ve only ever seen Joe drive the faded-red Accord. It’s probably the only one that runs.

  I weave around the cars, watching how the stained curtain in the front window briefly flutters. I’ve been spotted. I hop up the porch stairs and ring the doorbell. No sound. Typical. I knock twice and wait.

  There’s a shuffling on the other side before two dead bolts turn. I have just enough time to wonder who would be stupid enough to break into Bender’s house before the door cracks open, accommodating Joe’s considerable gut, but no more. He looks at me. I look at him.

  “Girl Scout Cookie time already?” Joe asks finally.

  “Nah, Jenny Craig subscriptions.” I dip my eyes to the guy’s stomach. His belly button is pushing through his T-shirt. “Thought you could use it.”

  “Boy.” Joe opens the door and lumbers onto the porch. He’s a big dude, no doubt. The boards whine and pop underneath his steel-toed boots. “After I’m done with you, you’ll be nothing more than a smear on the carpet.”

  Bullshit. He’d have to catch me first. I shrug. “But then who’d do your firewall work?”

  Joe sucks his teeth for a beat. “So Paul was serious—you want work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come in then.” He bumps the door open so I can pass, and honestly, there’s something about having Joe Bender behind me that makes my skin crawl.

  “You as good as Paul says?” Joe asks.

  I hesitate. My uncle Paul says computers are modern magic and, because I can fix his, I’m a magician. Uncle Paul smokes a lot of weed. “I have a few specialties—security, firewalls.”

  “Good. I can use that. I already have someone who does the coding for the virus. She can handle that stuff and you can field the firewall problems.”

  She? My attention pricks. “What’re you paying?”

  “Cut of the proceeds. One percent.”

  If I were actually accepting the money, that would be total bs. One percent means the profits’ll be run through Joe and he can pay me whatever because I have no way of verifying exactly how much we’ve made.

  “You don’t like it,” Joe continues, “you can go blow and I’ll find someone else.”

  I shrug. “Fine. I need the work.”

  “Good man. Always nice to teach a younger generation a craft.” Joe walks into the dining room—or what used to be a dining room. The lights are low, but I can still see two low tables are covered in computers, their cords snaking to the floor and disappearing into holes in the carpet. They must be sto
ring the servers in the basement to keep them cool.

  “You have your own gear?” Joe asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Even better.” Joe takes a cell from the nearest table and shuffles back to me. “What’s your number?”

  I tell him, and seconds later, a text comes through on my phone.

  “There,” Joe says. “Now you have mine. We should be meeting soon.”

  I store it as he motions to the door with one meaty paw, ready to dismiss me. “I’ll contact you with a time. Show up, do the work, and we won’t have any problems.”

  Fair enough, but the guy’s smile says he’s kinda hoping for problems, like he’s already thinking of ways to take me apart. “Who does your coding?” I ask.

  “You’ll meet her soon enough.”

  I swallow. I need a reason to stay, to ask more questions, and I’m not going to get it. The door’s already open.

  I nod. “Looking forward to hearing from you.”

  “No doubt.” Joe slams the door behind me, the locks clicking into place.

  I walk home, thinking about whether I should contact Carson. I don’t want to . . . and I can’t decide why that is. I’ve got the job. I should feel better about this. In the end, I settle on a text:

  Got job. Pay up.

  A moment later, my phone buzzes.

  “That’s good news,” Carson says. He’s somewhere busy. I can barely hear him over the surrounding voices. “I’m glad to hear you’re making progress. I did wonder if you were worth my investment.”

  “Yeah, well, speaking of investments, I should get paid for this.”

  “You haven’t brought me anything yet.”

  “I could testify I was recruited for a credit card scam.”

  “Would you?”

  “If you needed me to.” Which is a long way of saying no. It’s one thing to narc on Tate in secret. It’s a very different thing to come into the open. Carson can’t protect me from that sort of backlash. I have to live with these people. My mom, Emily, Paul have to live with them too.

  I reach my driveway and turn toward our trailer, feeling like someone let all the air out of me. I want so much more than this. It feels like it’s going to drive me crazy sometimes. Or crush me. The jobs, my mom, school . . . it’s like a boulder on my chest. Every day it gets heavier and running from it seems easier. Better.