I Am Out With Lanterns

by Emily Gale

‘Our school had a bad take on how girls should behave,’ says Juliet. ‘Last I heard, about a hundred girls were still outside the principal’s office, refusing to move.’

  ‘And Hari’s the leader,’ I say.

  ‘I bet she is.’ Luca raises his eyebrows, then gets an anxious look. ‘God, hope she’s okay.’

  ‘Are you worried she’ll get into trouble?’ asks Juliet. ‘She’s got loads of backup.’

  ‘It’s not that. She can take anything they throw at her. But her parents are really strict and conservative.’

  ‘No way,’ she says. ‘I imagined they’d be really cool and into social justice, like Hari is.’

  ‘Nope, she broke the mould. Hari … confuses them.’ Luca smiles again. ‘Anyway, you said I could do something useful?’

  ‘I had this idea,’ I start. ‘I’m ninety per cent sure the account came from someone at your school.’

  ‘This doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Well, you can help me in one of two ways, depending on what you’re more comfortable with. One: lend me your blazer and bag so I can enter the grounds in disguise, enabling me to get to the information I need.’

  ‘Let’s skip to the second option. There are guys in that place who’d have you in a giant wheelie bin quicker than you can say “we don’t tolerate bullying”.’

  ‘Okay. That option involves petty crime.’

  ‘How petty?’

  ‘By my calculations, no more than a week’s suspension, if caught.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ says Luca. ‘I just won’t get caught.’

  ‘Milo, are you sure you want to do this?’ Juliet asks me.

  We’ve walked back to our own school to get the information we need while it’s quiet.

  ‘I’m sure. Wait here. I’ll be fine.’

  I head for the IT manager’s office. The door’s shut but unlocked. I go in, turn over the router and memorise the numbers, then quickly leave.

  ‘Witkin?’

  Crap.

  ‘Mr Witheridge.’

  ‘You weren’t in class. We missed you.’

  ‘Good one, sir.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking, Witkin.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looks at me with an unreadable expression. ‘Um, can I go?’

  ‘We were doing poetry again. Dickinson. I got the impression you were quite keen.’

  ‘Quite keen. Yes.’

  ‘I see. And would you mind telling me what you were doing in the IT office just now?’

  I swallow. I am so bad at lying. Then I think of Juliet waiting outside, and I decide on something else. ‘Well, sir, you see, um … Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.’

  ‘Ah, quoting Dickinson now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good, Witkin, very good indeed. Off you go.’

  I run all the way to the front gate, to Juliet’s smile.

  Luca does even more than we’d asked for. He gets the IP address from the base of the router by sneaking into the IT office at The Hall. Then he sends messages to people he trusts in other schools and gets them to do the same. By 5 pm, he’s sent me a solid list. Juliet writes the words I’m going to use. I talk through my plan with Dan to see if he can find any flaws. He finds several, but we troubleshoot them and I’m nearly ready to get started. I have the sense of all these people helping me to make this happen.

  M: Reckon I can do it?

  D: I have every faith in you … as long as they haven’t all changed the original password they got with the new router. You know this scheme of yours requires a certain amount of stupidity on behalf of the schools, right?

  M: I have every faith in their stupidity. Anyway, a few of the kids who’ve helped out noted that a new username and password had been stuck onto the routers, and they’ve given me those.

  D: I can’t believe schools would give students a lecture on online safety and then leave themselves open to hacking.

  M: They probably won’t after our plan. I think I’ve got everything I need. It’s going to take a while.

  D: You could always let me do half.

  M: You serious?

  D: Of course. I mean, I’ve got a hot date, but I can cancel.

  I design the message I want to broadcast using Juliet’s words.

  The problem isn’t skirt length. The problem isn’t lipstick.

  The problem isn’t selfies. The problem isn’t new.

  The problem isn’t girls.

  Then, for each school we type in the IP address of the router modem that we’re hacking into. We enter the username and password. In the case of half of the schools on my list, the username is ‘admin’ and the password is ‘password’, which says to me that a lot of high-school IT people really hate their job. So, to give them something a bit more interesting to do when they eventually figure out what’s happened, we alter the username and password for every router we’re tampering with. That will also mean, with a bit of luck, that our changes will last longer.

  All we have to do is find the captive portal and make a small but brilliant adjustment.

  And wait.

  ‘That’s a cop car,’ says Nate, as we’re walking past the school car park on Wednesday.

  Jake laughs. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Trust me. Look, a light on the dashboard. Cheap rims. This’ll be about Flare.’ Nate stops dead and looks at each of us. ‘You’ve got my back, right?’

  ‘Course we have,’ I say. Then something else escapes. ‘But you shouldn’t have put that one of Sophie up there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Witkin’s sister. She’s in my brother’s class in primary school. She’s like eleven or something.’

  I don’t realise that Nate and the others have stopped walking until I’m a distance away.

  ‘You’re on that guy’s case night and day and you’re having a go at me?’ says Nate.

  ‘Whose case?’

  ‘That jerk Milo.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Jake, ‘she gave that video to my brother.’

  ‘So she’s an idiot,’ says Nate. ‘It’s not my fault.’ He scowls at me. ‘Acting like your shit doesn’t stink, Brearley.’

  ‘I’m not. Forget it.’

  Jake, Sam and I have a Maths lesson together first up. We sit on the same table and open our laptops. When I log on to the school system, a pop-up message appears and covers the entire screen. Bold, black writing: The problem isn’t skirt length. The problem isn’t lipstick. The problem isn’t selfies. The problem isn’t new. The problem isn’t girls.

  I can’t close it. By the looks on everyone else’s face, it’s not just my computer.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘I can’t get rid of it,’ says Sam, jabbing at his keyboard. Miss Evans comes in. ‘Miss, someone’s hacked into the system.’

  She opens her laptop and gets the same message. ‘Right, stay here. I’ll investigate.’ Miss Evans stops in the doorway. ‘I trust none of you have had anything to do with those videos.’

  ‘No way, Miss,’ says Jake, and sticks his middle finger up at her as she leaves.

  By recess, we’ve found out that nearly every school in a five-kay radius has the same pop-up message in their system. None of the IT people can get rid of it. But instead of trying to figure out who the hacker is, they’re questioning boys in the senior school about the Flare account – specifically, who started it. Nate’s name hasn’t come up. They’ll never get him; he’s too smart. Which means they’ll never get us, either.

  Straight after lunch, I get called to the headmaster’s office. This’ll be some routine bullshit. I’ve been through it before after other pranks we’ve pulled. Jake grabs my shirtsleeve as I’m heading off. He gives me a thin-lipped glare that I can’t decode. I yank my arm away. Everyone’s stressed, but it’ll be fine.

  The school secretary indicates the headmaster’s door as soon as she sees me. I pause for a moment, thinking she might say something reassuring. Not today, apparently. I straighten my tie and knock.
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  What? Dad’s here. He fills a chair in front of the headmaster’s desk and scowls when I walk in. Mum’s in the chair next to him. Her nose is red; she’s been crying. There’s a man and woman I’ve never seen before in the room and the headmaster, Mr Claremont, is standing. Shit, what is this? My guts churn.

  ‘Shut the door, Benjamin,’ says Claremont. ‘Detectives, may I?’

  The man nods once; the woman folds her arms and glares at me.

  ‘Benjamin, we have two separate sources who claim that some of the videos featured on the controversial site were appropriated by you. These detectives are investigating the origins of the account. I trust we will have your full cooperation. Needless to say, without it, there is no question that your time at The Hall will come to an abrupt end.’

  Dad’s head lowers and he closes his eyes.

  My mouth feels like sand. ‘Dad …’

  He turns his head slowly. ‘Did you do it, Ben? Just tell the truth. Did you?’

  ‘No, Dad. I don’t know whose account it is. Mum, you have to believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ she whispers, trying not to cry. She turns and says to the others, in a firm voice, ‘I believe my son.’

  But they don’t react.

  ‘If it isn’t yours, tell us who the account belongs to,’ says the female detective.

  I stare at the back of my dad’s head.

  ‘It wasn’t me, Dad.’ He won’t turn around. ‘Dad.’

  At ten o’clock on Wednesday, Dad and I walk to school together. We got a call from the principal this morning about the hacking job. Someone dobbed me in after seeing me leave the IT office. Mr Witheridge, I guess.

  We have to wait on the wooden bench outside Mr Graves’ office. Dad’s leg won’t stop jiggling, but for once I feel quite calm. I know what they’re going to ask and I know what I’m going to say. And whatever happens, it was worth it.

  A week’s suspension. I had to stop myself from saying that it was exactly the punishment I’d predicted.

  One good thing, though – it wasn’t Mr Witheridge who dobbed me in. Carole proudly said it was her just before she showed us in. I don’t know why that makes me feel better, but I really didn’t want it to be him.

  Of course, Mr Graves asked for the names of students from other schools who’d helped me get the information, but I told him I was a lone wolf. He didn’t once mention my ingeniousness at redirecting the landing pages of twenty schools, or the schools’ crap security, but I bet that deep, deep down that second point will haunt him for a while.

  We walk home along the high street. Dad’s so quiet. He’s hardly spoken since Monday morning, when it was all coming out about Sophie. I think he wants me to apologise for the hacking job, but I can’t. I’m not sorry.

  ‘I’m so sorry, mate,’ he says, as if the words were trapped inside.

  ‘You’re sorry? For what, Dad?’

  ‘God, everything. I’m livid with myself for not protecting Sophie – and you. And I’m mad as hell that Dave’s son has been bullying you. I’m going to put a stop to that.’

  ‘I don’t want you to lose your job, Dad.’

  ‘Is that why you never told me? Milo, mate, I’d lose a thousand jobs to stop you getting hurt. I feel like crap.’

  ‘But I’m okay, Dad.’

  ‘You’re bloody strong, mate.’

  He thinks I’m strong. I watch my feet going left-right-left and I don’t want this conversation to end yet because we’ve never had one like this. ‘Can I ask your advice, Dad?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘It’s about girls. One girl. Wren. I love her.’

  ‘Thought you might, son. And does she feel the same way about you?’

  I swallow. ‘I don’t think so. I think she likes someone else. The thing is, it’s hard to explain, but I feel like it’s a force that makes me love her, and forces always come in pairs.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Milo.’

  ‘It’s Newton’s Third Law, Dad. For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. And the force that makes me love Wren is really strong.’

  ‘So if she doesn’t love you back, you think you’ll lose her completely.’ He puts his arm around me to pull us close as we keep walking.

  ‘Wren has been everything. My daily ritual. But I can’t face being near her now, and I can’t let go either. I’m stuck.’

  ‘Oh, mate. Love is crap like that sometimes. But try to let go for now, trust me. Don’t torture yourself. Mend your heart first and then patch up your friendship. She’s a good kid. But someone out there will love you, Milo. Someone who can take that Newman’s Law thing –’

  ‘Newton’s Third Law.’

  ‘Yeah, that, and love you with the same force that you love them.’

  I let that sink in for a moment. ‘Pretty mushy, Dad.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s get a coffee.’

  I walk ahead of Mum and Dad, keen to get out of sight. It’s the last time I’ll walk out of this school. I didn’t tell them anything. They said they’d find out eventually, but I don’t care. Even if Dad doesn’t believe me now, he’ll see that I did the right thing. Dad would hate it if I dobbed on a mate. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s dobbers.

  ‘Ben, slow down,’ says Mum, and I do once we turn the corner. ‘Here’s my car. Do you want to come with me?’

  I spin to face her, hands in pockets, but keep taking slow steps backwards. In my guts I feel it, the desire to say yes. ‘I’m staying with Dad.’

  Mum goes around to the driver’s side. ‘Whatever you choose. I love you, Ben.’

  I listen to her start up the car as we keep going, wondering if she’ll call out my name again, but the sound of the engine gradually fades away.

  Dad reckons he’s too angry to drive, so we walk right past his car. It’s hot and home is a good two kay away. He steers us via the high street. Dad keeps clenching his fists, his jaw; I feel exposed, with all this bad static circling us as we pass people in the street.

  Out of nowhere, Mike and Milo walk out of a cafe, holding coffees.

  ‘Mikey!’ says Dad, all smiles. ‘Why aren’t you at work earning me the big bucks, hey?’

  ‘We’ve just come from Milo’s school,’ Mike says. He isn’t smiling.

  ‘Oh yeah? I’ve been at The Hall all morning.’

  A large group struggles to pass us, so we all move aside, next to a bin spilling over with stinking hot junk.

  ‘Milo’s got a short suspension for what I call a pretty good prank,’ says Mike.

  ‘Well, I’ve got one up on you, mate, because my firstborn son here has been expelled.’

  My face burns. I should walk away now.

  Mike looks upwards at Dad’s six-foot-three frame. ‘You’ve always had one up on me, haven’t you, Dave?’

  Dad laughs. ‘What’s up your nose?’

  Mike shakes his head.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ says Milo, walking out further into the road. Mike steps into the kerb, and our eyes briefly meet.

  So Milo was the hacker. I’m standing behind my dad now. All I see is the patch of sweat on the back of his shirt, so close I can smell last night’s beers.

  Dad is silent, but my head is roaring. I’ve shamed him. I’m an idiot. I’ve ruined his friendship with Mike. Because of me, he’s got to fork out for a new school and don’t I realise how much The Hall costs? And what it could have done for me? I’m a dickhead. I’m a disappointment. He doesn’t even know me any more. He’ll be thinking all of this and worse.

  When we get home, Noah’s sitting on the front steps.

  Dad ruffles his hair and gives him a hug. ‘Come to stay with the boys, have you?’ he says. ‘Good lad. Let’s go inside. We’ll have burgers, eh?’

  ‘I wanted to see Ben,’ says Noah.

  Dad’s smile vanishes. ‘Mum know you’re here?’

  ‘She thinks I’m at judo.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Dad walks heavily up the front steps, o
pens the door and walks in, leaving it wide open.

  ‘Ben, we’ve got a place. I’ve come to get you.’

  Mum’s been sending me messages every day, and I’ve deleted them all. But here’s my little brother, showing up like this. I’m supposed to be the one who looks after him.

  On Thursday I wake early, stumble blearily to the kitchen and fill a glass with water. From the window, as I drink, I can see down to the courtyard. Jean and Tracey are there. I haven’t been down since the big storm at the weekend.

  I stand at the top of the rickety stairs. The winds and heavy rain left many of Jean’s precious plants broken, and now the concrete ground is as green as the walls. Jean and Tracey stand in the middle of it in their slippers. There are still some small puddles where the rain has collected in uneven ground. The smell is fresh and intense as I walk down.

  They both turn and move apart to let me into the middle of them.

  ‘Morning, honey.’ Jean presses into me with the familiar warmth and shape of her body.

  Tracey smiles at me, and trails one blissfully cold finger down my cheek. We look down at our feet at the broken pieces – they’re a language, crossing and looping. And Jean looks like she’s trying to make sense of it.

  ‘What can we do?’ I say. ‘You’ve been growing these for years. It’s so unfair.’

  ‘It’s a mess now, but give me a few weeks. Some of these broken pieces can be planted – a few will take root, some never will, but that’s okay. It was a perfect microclimate down here, but now I need to create a new one – maybe try out some different plants I’ve never grown here before. It’s an opportunity.’

  ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘I’ll help by not touching a single plant,’ says Tracey, and we laugh at her and pull closer together.

  ‘Morning,’ says a little voice from up high.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply.

  That evening, when I take off my headphones after chatting to Dan, I pick up the sound of crying – more like sobbing, from the gut. Although I’ve never heard her make that sound before, I know it’s Mum.