“This motherfucker tried to steal my phone! Probably broke it!”
Cady spoke up. “These guys were filming my brother, he asked them to stop, and they wouldn’t.”
“Miss, a lot of people take pictures on their cellphones, that’s not against the law.”
“My brother is disabled. They were making fun of him.”
The cop’s expression changed. He looked at Eric, then turned to the boys, “You got your phone?”
They muttered acknowledgment.
“Then nobody stole it. Get outta here, stop making trouble.” The cop shooed the boys away, then turned back to Cady and gave Eric an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that. You have a nice holiday, young man.”
Cady thanked him and steered Eric the opposite direction. Walking away, she noticed all the shoppers who had stopped to watch the altercation and continued to stare at them. She wondered if Eric noticed too, but he was silent beside her, rubbing his arm, eyes downcast. “Are you okay?” she asked.
He still wasn’t looking at her, but she could see his lips were drawn with hurt. “Why did you say I was disabled?”
She didn’t know why she’d lied, it seemed easier than explaining, but the shame made her defensive. “I was trying to keep you from getting arrested.”
“Did you see how that cop looked at me? I’d rather be in jail than have people look at me like that.”
“He was trying to be nice, he took our side.”
“You don’t get it.”
Someone banged on the other side of the bathroom door, startling Cady.
“Just a minute,” she called out. She finished drying her hands and gave her face one last check in the mirror. She was about to unlock the door when she glimpsed her bloodied paper towel at the top of the trash heap. Cady flashed on the blond girl whom she’d frightened, the concerned man in the tortoiseshell glasses and the pitying woman with him, the startled classmate who’d let her use the bathroom first, and all the other unknown faces that had shot her an identical look.
She had wanted to come to Harvard to know how Eric felt.
She “got it” now.
31
Cady was supposed to be writing her poetry paper for Professor Hines, due tomorrow at two o’clock and not a minute late, and she had so far only written one page of a required five to seven. But it was impossible to focus on Keats and his Grecian urn after what Whit had shaken loose in her brain—that Eric’s scribblings weren’t gibberish, but code. She had Eric’s blue notebook open on top of her Norton Anthology of Poetry, and several Internet browser windows open on top of her Word document, searching for something, anything, that might help her break it.
Eric had made a list of three numbered sections with three separate dates and times, but the notes below them were incomprehensible.
1. 10/15/18 8:36pm
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE FEV JZO QVIF EZEV—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV JZO VZXYK WFLI QVIF✓
2. 10/31/18 11:10pm
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JZO EZEV JVMVE JZO WFLI—JVMVEKP FEV FEV KNF WZMV WFLI EZEV JVMVE✓
3. 11/20/18 9:07am
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE KYIVV KYIVV WFLI WZMV—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV VZXYK VZXYK VZXYK EZEV✓
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE WZMV QVIF KYIVV VZXYK—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV EZEV WZMV KYIVV FEV
She thought back to the way he used to do it when they were kids. She hadn’t known the term for it that Whit had used, but it had been as he described, the alphabet shifted a certain number of letters forward. But she remembered Eric using all numbers, and he usually told her what the base number was, didn’t he? No, a few times he made her guess, but it was easy to guess. Why was it so easy for her to guess back then? She closed her eyes and envisioned herself as a little girl, bouncing on the balls of her feet in front of her older brother, excited to play his game.
Aha!—she guessed easily because she usually guessed her age first, Eric knew that, and so he always made the number key her age. She was eight years old when they did their Mantis Mommy Revenge mission, and she remembered now, writing out the entire alphabet and counting to eight over and over again.
Eric had turned twenty years old last spring, but that was too long to count out by hand. She needed some assistance. She googled the terms Whit had used, “Caesar cipher” and “decoder,” and found “to decode something, subtract the encryption N from 26.” She found an encoder/decoder translation tool on another site, filled in the fields on the decoder tool with the copied lines under number one, and entered 20 as the “shift” number.
More gibberish.
She looked again at the dates above the gibberish. At the time Eric had been writing these down, she was seventeen. She tried 17 as the shift number.
She gasped. The decoder yielded recognizable words: FORTY TWO THREE SEVEN ONE SIX ZERO NINE—SEVENTY ONE ONE ONE SIX EIGHT FOUR ZERO
Her heart swelled. It was as though he expected her to be the one to crack the code. Encouraged, she quickly copied and pasted in the other four lines, jotting down the translations below Eric’s notes:
1. 10/15/18 8:36pm
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE FEV JZO QVIF EZEV—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV JZO VZXYK WFLI QVIF✓
forty two three seven one six zero nine—seventy one one six eight four zero
2. 10/31/18 11:10pm
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JZO EZEV JVMVE JZO WFLI—JVMVEKP FEV FEV KNF WZMV WFLI EZEV JVMVE✓
forty two three six nine seven six four—seventy one one two five four nine seven
3. 11/20/18 9:07am
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE KYIVV KYIVV WFLI WZMV—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV VZXYK VZXYK VZXYK EZEV✓
forty two three seven three three four five—seventy one one one eight eight eight nine
WFIKP KNF KYIVV JVMVE WZMV QVIF KYIVV VZXYK—JVMVEKP FEV FEV FEV EZEV WZMV KYIVV FEV
forty two three seven five zero three eight—seventy one one one nine five three one
Electrified as she was to have broken the code, her next thought was—now what? She had broken one code to yield another. She wrote out the numbers in numeral form:
1. 42 371609—71 116840
2. 42 369764—71 125497
3. 42 373345—71 118889
42 375038—71 119531
What were these numbers? Passwords to something? Phone, credit card, or bank routing numbers? The formatting didn’t seem to fit, but maybe she had that wrong. What on earth had Eric been up to?
Her cellphone rang, annoying her with the distraction, until she saw who it was. “Mom, hi.”
They remained tentative with each other, making small talk as they warmed to the conversation. Cady felt doubly anxious wondering whether she should ask her mother about her father’s moving out or wait for her to tell her. Cady wanted to be there for her mother, to tell her she was on her side. But she hadn’t felt on her mom’s side in a long time. Finally she mustered, “So, Dad called me.”
“He did,” her mother said. Cady didn’t know if it was a question or an acknowledgment.
“About using his cell to reach him instead of the home phone?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course. I’m fine. We’ll figure it out.”
They both let the line go quiet. Cady and her mother had never been the best at communicating, but they had become pretty adept at navigating the unsaid.
“I want to talk about you. How are you? You sound down.”
“I have a lot going on.”
“Are you happy there?”
The direct question surprised Cady; she had become accustomed to roundabout, surface-skimming conversation with her mom, so this was an unexpected opening. She wanted to tell her no, she wasn’t happy, she was exhausted and overwhelmed and scared. She wanted to tell her about the voices, and how at first she was afraid she was getting sick like Eric. She wanted
to explain why she thought the ghosts were real, whatever that meant—how they were helping her figure out Eric and feel less alone—how she might even like talking to them—and how that frightened her most of all. She wanted to tell her about Lee and Professor Prokop and Teddy and everything. She wanted to cry to her mommy and receive that comfort that she remembered as a kid, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything. Not after defying her mother’s wishes by going to this school, certainly not now, knowing everything going on in her parents’ marriage. At this moment more than ever, her mother needed her to be okay. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
Cady bit her lip to keep from crying.
“Do you need me to bring you anything from home on Parents’ Weekend?” her mother asked.
“You’re coming?”
“You don’t want me to.”
“No, I do, I really do.” She was shocked but elated. It felt like a lifeline—if her mother was coming, she could make it through the week.
“I know Dad can’t, and I want to see you. I want to make sure you’re okay. That’s my job as a parent. It’s not your job to take care of me, you’re my kid.” Suddenly her mother’s resolve faltered, and her voice broke. “I messed up before, when you got in, and last weekend at Grampa’s. I’ve been wrong a lot before, but I want to make it right.”
“Mom, are you crying?” It was the admission she’d wanted to hear from her mother, and yet now that it came with muffled tears over a phone line, it brought no satisfaction.
“I love you, you know that, right?” her mother managed to squeak out.
“I know. I love you too. Don’t cry, really, I’m fine. I’m excited to see you.”
They said their goodbyes and Cady hung up the phone. All of her hope and happiness at seeing her mother instantly dissipated, with regret and dread taking their place. She had just asked her grieving and fragile mother to return to the site of her son’s suicide, alone. Cady felt sick at the prospect of seeing the living proof of the pain that she was causing her mother. Just because she had some morbid impulse to retrace Eric’s final steps didn’t give her the right to force her parents to relive it with her.
She looked back down at the notebook in her lap and the numbers she had deciphered.
Unless these steps were leading her to an answer.
Cady heard a knock on their suite door. She waited for someone else to answer it—she was pretty sure Andrea was home, Cady had ceded the common room to her as part of her penitence—but the knock sounded again. Cady pushed herself up from the desk and went to answer it. She opened the door to a young man with a swish of brown bangs over his brow, wearing a powder-blue polo shirt and khakis and holding several plastic bags. He was good-looking, and a little out of breath.
“I have a delivery for”—he glanced down at a scrap of paper—“Cadence Archer? Chinese food from the Kong, still hot.”
“I didn’t order Chinese.”
“My name is Zach, I’m a sophomore, I’m punching the Phoenix, so I pretty much have to do whatever they say. Tonight, Nikos said to bring this to you.” Zach thrust forward three bags.
“This is all for me?”
“He told me to get every vegetarian entrée they have.”
“Oh my God.” Cady covered her grin with her hand.
“Will you tell him it’s hot? That was one of the requirements. I ran here.”
Cady told him yes and thanked him. She placed the bags on the coffee table and opened the first one, releasing the delicious aromas of curry, black bean sauce, and lo mein noodles. Her mouth watered. But before she dug in, she had an idea.
She knocked on Andrea’s bedroom door.
“Yeah?” her small voice called from inside.
“Hey, I just wanted to see if you’re hungry.”
Andrea opened the door a crack. “You got food?”
“Chinese. And I have plenty for both of us, three times over. Please, have some.”
She padded out in her purple robe to inspect it. “Are you sure?” Andrea asked, already pulling out the cartons and chopsticks.
They both made their plates, and Andrea took a seat on the futon.
“Well, I have that paper to write. Good luck with your studying.” Cady headed back to her room with her food.
“You can work out here with me,” Andrea said.
Cady looked over her shoulder.
“There’s more room, and it’s nice to have company on an all-nighter.”
Cady exhaled in relief and smiled. “Okay. I’ll get my laptop.”
After Cady and Andrea had enjoyed their first normal conversation since the birthday debacle, and split the scallion pancakes because they’re inedible cold, Cady texted Nikos:
I can’t believe you sent me all this food?! You are crazy and too sweet, thank you!!!
His response chimed in a second later.
Not at all! Was sorry I missed your text earlier, wanted to make it up to you. Stupid punches are good for something.
He was nice!
You liked him? Then he’s out. I must be your favourite.
Cady wrote a response, hesitating before she clicked Send.
You are;)
Phew. Good luck on your paper xx
Cady sat back and held the phone to her chest, unable to suppress a smile. Forgiven, or close to it, by Andrea, indulged by Nikos—it was the lightest she had felt all week, and just the boost she needed to get through her paper.
She had just begun writing the second paragraph when she received another text:
Ps. Was it hot??
32
The next morning, Cady slumped in a chair in Sever 207, dead tired, waiting for Professor Hines’s seminar to begin. Her eyes stung from lack of sleep, and her stomach churned from an excess of MSG and caffeine. She and her classmates were seated around the conference table, and Alex sat directly across from her. Alex looked chipper and handsome in a neatly buttoned shirt, while Cady kept both hands on the tabletop, as if to hold herself upright. Yet, by some miracle, a completed paper lay stacked in front of her, although its overall quality was anyone’s guess. She had stayed up all night working on it, practically sleepwalked through writing it, and had woken up with her face planted on her desk. Hitting Print had been all the proofreading she’d had time for this morning.
Professor Hines entered the room, his suit jacket billowing around his slim frame. Without any greeting, he stood at the head of the conference table and clapped his hands once. “Papers. I want to see papers. Fork ’em over.”
The class passed them forward to him in a flutter of white. Cady was glad to be rid of hers. Professor Hines muttered thank-yous as he gathered up the papers. He cracked the stack against the table to align it and gave a yelp. For a moment he was entirely absorbed in looking at his index finger, then he brought it to his mouth and sucked. When he became aware of the class staring at him, he still had his finger in his mouth. “It hurts!” he whined.
Some classmates laughed. Cady hated him.
“Whoever’s paper delivered this injury gets knocked down a grade.”
Again, cloying, brown-nosing chuckles from the crowd. Now Cady hated them.
“So, who wants to start our discussion of today’s reading?”
The room fell silent.
“Well.” Hines crossed his arms. “I recognize we had a paper due today, but you also had a reading assignment, a single poem, very manageable. Here at Harvard, we have to walk and chew gum. So come on, get out your Nortons.”
Cady had not read any poem for today, she didn’t even know which had been assigned. As the other students pulled out their heavy Norton Anthology of Poetry books, she followed suit, stealing a glance at the page number of the boy beside her, rushing so her clumsy fingers nearly tore the ultrathin pages.
“Page thirteen f
orty-four for those lost.” Professor Hines continued, “Here we meet another Harvard alum, T. S. Eliot, class of 1910. He wrote ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ at the tender age of twenty-two, just one year after graduating. No pressure to any aspiring poets in the room. You still have four years to catch up.” Hines was the only one who laughed this time. “Today we’re discussing Eliot’s most famous poem, ‘The Waste Land.’ Some of you may have read in high school, although I doubt many of you were equipped to understand it then. Some of you may not be equipped to understand it now, it’s a challenging work of art, but we’re going to muddle through it together.” He cleared his throat and used his favorite nickname for Cady: “Girl Who Was Late. Why don’t you get us started and discuss the opening?”
Her mouth went dry. She had found the page, at least, but the first line alone was indecipherable.
Actually it’s Latin, said Robert’s voice. Oh, how I adore Eliot. And don’t worry, I can read it.
Robert began to slowly read it aloud to her, Cady simply repeating his words and becoming his mouthpiece: “For I myself have seen with my own eyes, the Sibyl hanging in a bottle at Cumae, and when those boys would say to her: ‘Sibyl, what do you want?’ she replied, ‘I want to die.”
“Yes, thank you for reading us the translation contained in the footnote, but I was looking for actual insight. Moving on …”
Footnote? Why didn’t I see that there? But that’s mere translation. It doesn’t tell the story.
“It doesn’t tell the story,” Cady parroted.
“Pardon me?” Professor Hines turned back around.
Desperate, she wasted no time on caution and repeated verbatim Robert’s words as they came, letting them slip from her mouth as quickly and easily as if they were her own. “The Sibyl of Cumae was a prophet of Apollo. She asked him to grant her immortal life but forgot to ask for everlasting youth, and so her wish became a curse.”
Ghosts of Harvard Page 25
