by Linda Gerber
Down at the end of the row, Bayani was earnestly pecking away at his keyboard. From the look on his face as he watched the computer screen, we were going to be there for a while. I blew out a long breath. Well, I may was well update my blog, since that’s what I said I was going to do in the first place.
I unenthusiastically signed out of chat and switched to the When in Rome website. It took forever to load. And then I had to sign into my blog and wait all over again for the main page to come up. One thing was for sure: at this rate, I’d never get a vlog posted. I’d die and fossilize before the connection would upload any photos, let alone a video. A short post would have to do. I could write something about my first impressions of Costa Rica. I composed the opening sentences in my head as I waited for the blog page to load. Maybe that’s why it took me a moment to process what I saw on that page when it finally did.
My blog had already been updated, only not by me.
I first started keeping a blog because my grampa got sick. My posts were letters to him with pictures of all the places my mom and dad and I went for the show. Fans of When in Rome started to read my entries, and it didn’t take the network long to notice the amount of traffic my blog was getting. As the number of followers grew, the network decided to move my blog onto their website so they could give me more bandwidth, updated features, and more security. Everything through the network site was firewalled, encrypted, and password protected. So who could have accessed my account?
I didn’t panic. Not yet. Mostly, I was just mad. At first, all I could think was that someone at the network had gotten impatient for me to update the blog. Now that they were using me to promote my mom and dad’s show, they liked for me to post new content on the blog at least two or three times a week. It had been three days since my last post, but since I’d either been packing or traveling the entire time, you’d think they could cut me some slack.
The thing was, it didn’t make sense that they’d get antsy over three days. I’d gone half a week between posts before, and no one at the network ever said anything, let alone stepped in to post for me. Besides, the network always stressed that we had to be respectful to our host countries, so if they ever did take over, this is not the kind of thing they would write:
Costa Rica sucks. Rain, mud, clouds, gloom. What are these people thinking? Why do they stay here? Why do I have to come here? I hate this place. I hate the show. I hate my stuck-up partner. Can I go home now? Yes, please.
I reread the bit about the partner, and an icy wave crashed over me. It had to be talking about Logan. Who outside of the network knew anyone was going to be filming shows with me?
“Um, Bayani?” I called weakly. “Can you come look at this?”
He gave me a distracted wave without even looking up. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a minute.”
I fidgeted with the leather cord of my charm necklace. My grampa had given it to me for luck, and I could use some luck now. Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe. Maybe this thing wasn’t as scary as I was making it out to be. I mean, anyone could have heard about Logan working with me, right? Liz said the network had test-marketed head shots of him. They had lined up sponsors. That he was going to be my partner was hardly a secret.
And once I thought about it, I was pretty sure I knew who was behind the post. Tabloids have been known to hack into people’s private accounts. What would stop them from messing with my blog? I’d had paparazzi hounding me since Spain, and I wouldn’t put anything past them. In fact, one of them could be watching me at that very moment.
I leaned back in my chair and pretended to stretch my arms over my head so I could take a quick glance around the bus. You never knew who could be a paparazzo. It could be the guy in the baseball cap at the computer next to mine, or the lady with the bright red lipstick sitting at one of the café tables. Well, if they were waiting for a reaction (beyond me calling for Bayani, I mean), they weren’t going to get one. Squaring my shoulders, I sat up straight and arranged my face in a neutral expression the way my mom did.
Which was pretty hard to manage when I knew exactly what she and my dad were going to do when they heard about my blog. They were going to freak. After the way the paparazzi had stalked me in Spain, it was a miracle they ever let me get back in front of a camera again. It took Cavin four weeks and a whole lot of talking to convince them to let me go to Greece. Paparazzi had followed me around there, too, but at least that time it wasn’t because of anything I’d done. Still, Mom and Dad were overprotective. If they thought someone was harassing me again, they’d probably lock me in a tower somewhere and seal the door. I’d never get the chance to give the pura vida attitude a shot. I’d never get to fix things with Logan.
Unless they never found out…
I looked closer at the fake blog post. The time stamp was from less than two hours ago, which meant that since there’d been no Internet service at the farm, there was no way my mom or dad could have seen it.
I stole a quick glance down at the other end of the bus. Bayani hadn’t moved. He didn’t have to know about the rogue post, either. No one had to know. Before I could change my mind, I quickly highlighted the entry and hit Delete. The computer hummed as the progress bar lit up on the screen. Five percent. Ten. Twelve. Fifteen. I worried the charms on my necklace and bounced my foot. Seriously. Could the computer be any slower? Thirty-five percent. Forty.
“Okay,” Bayani said. He pushed back his chair, though he was still watching something on his screen.
Sixty percent. Sixty-seven. Seventy-five.
He stood up.
Eighty-two percent.
Come on!
Ninety percent.
Bayani started walking toward the front of the bus.
Ninety-five percent. I bit my lip. Hard. (I don’t recommend doing that; it hurt.)
“What do you need?” Bayani asked.
The bar completed its count and the offending post disappeared.
“Never mind.” I waved him off. “My blog page wasn’t loading, and I thought maybe there was something wrong with it. But it finally came up, so we’re good.”
He shrugged and went back to his seat. I quickly wrote a few lines about Finca Calderón to replace the blog post I had deleted.
And I hoped I was right about not telling.
The next morning, I woke to the sun slanting in through the narrow window at the end of my room. Mama Tica was right; the clouds had lifted. Now the Monteverde that had been hidden by the mist was on full display—the farms, the hills, the trees, the green. I could even see the Arenal Volcano all the way across the lake, a cone of green and brown against a rosy sky.
Closer to home, workers in coveralls and black rubber boots were already busily moving in and out of a barn nestled at the bottom of the hill. On that hill, more cows than I could count hung out in groups, grazing or basking in the sun. I pulled away from the window, worried that I must have slept in. Then I remembered. Days on a farm started early.
I took a quick shower, got dressed, and hurried downstairs to look for Logan. We may have started off wrong the day before, but he was my best friend. The whole ride back from the Internet café, all I could think of was telling him about the weird blog post. But he’d already gone up to his room by the time Bayani and I got back to the lodge. I couldn’t text him because my phone still had no signal. I’d just have to grab him before breakfast.
I followed the smell of eggs and beans, fresh bread, and coffee into the dining room. No one else was there yet except for Mama Tica, who was setting the table and humming to herself. She glanced up as I walked in and gave me a crinkly smile. “Good morning! ¿Que pasa, calabaza?”
“Que what?” I asked.
“Que pasa,” she said. “It means, ‘How is it going?’”
“And the other part?”
“Ah, that.” She folded a napkin and set it neatly on the table. “It is an endearment. It means ‘pumpkin.’”
I couldn’t help but laugh. My gramma used to ca
ll me her little punkin’ when I was younger. Someday Mama Tica would have to come to Ohio. She and Gramma would probably get along great.
…And Gramma would be appalled if she knew I was standing there idle while Mama Tica did all the work. “What can I do to help?” I asked.
“May I do to help,” Victoria corrected as she walked into the room.
I pulled what I’m sure wasn’t a very attractive face. “Do you have to do that? It’s seven in the morning. Lessons haven’t started yet.”
“That,” she said, “was not a lesson. It was a reminder of something you should already know.”
“To answer,” Mama Tica cut in, “you may do nothing, calabaza. You are my guest.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“You are very sweet,” she said, “but your breakfast is waiting. Please, sit.”
“Oh. Uh…” I looked helplessly back to the staircase. Where was Logan?
“Your mum and dad are on their way,” Victoria assured me. “Let’s have a seat. We can wait for them before we tuck into the food.”
Parents. Right. If that’s who she thought I was waiting for, I wasn’t about to correct her.
It was about that moment that Britt and Marco strolled into the dining room. Not simply at the same time, but together. Which probably wouldn’t have captured my attention except for the way that Britt was smiling at Marco—like she was a pageant queen or something. I raised my brows and nudged Victoria, but she didn’t react at all.
“Buenas dias,” Marco said, tipping his head to Victoria and then to me.
I said good morning in return and tried not to be too obvious about watching how he pulled a chair out for Britt or the way she flushed as he helped her scoot it back in once she sat down.
She was seriously crushing on him, and he wasn’t exactly indifferent to her, either. The smile he gave her might have been a little less lovesick, but it was enough to set off a little spark of jealousy. Would Logan ever look at me that way?
At the moment, I’d settle for him showing up for breakfast so I could talk to him.
While we were waiting, Victoria pelted Marco with questions about the weather, the farm, the cloud forest, and a bunch of other stuff I don’t remember. That’s probably because my attention kept snapping to the door every time someone came into the dining room. First Bayani, then Daniel, then Liz, but no Logan. Where was he?
“Cassidy?” Victoria nudged me. “Did you hear what Marco asked you?”
It wasn’t easy, but I pulled my attention away from the door and back to the conversation at the table. But even then I have to admit I was only half listening.
Marco wanted to introduce me to a couple of the local crew members, Claudia and Estefan. They were freelancers from San Jose or something like that. I admit I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. I was too busy running my future conversation with Logan through my head. Should I start by apologizing for the day before or just go straight into telling him about my blog? I already said I was sorry, after all. He was the one who hadn’t—
“There they are,” Victoria said. She pointed out the two tico crew members I had seen at dinner the night before, and pulled me to my feet as they came into the room. Claudia had long, black hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid. Estefan was tall, and kept raising his thick brows as people spoke so that he constantly looked surprised. Marco made the introductions, and we took our seats again.
Still no sign of Logan.
I was just about to go looking for him when my mom and dad walked into the dining room, and the expression on my mom’s face stopped me cold. Or, I should say, the unexpression. She had that neutral thing going on, which meant she wasn’t happy about something. And since she was looking straight at me, I could only guess that the thing she wasn’t happy about involved me.
My heart sank. The only thing I could think was that she knew about the hacker, although I didn’t know how that was possible. I had deleted the post, but maybe not quick enough. Maybe the post had already been archived. Or maybe someone at the network had seen it and told Mom and Dad and—
“’Morning, Cassie-bug,” Dad chirped. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “Smells delicious!”
Huh. Okay, clearly he didn’t know anything or he wouldn’t be so cheerful. For sure Mom would have told him if she knew about my account being hacked (or, more to the point, me not telling them about it), so if he didn’t know anything, that meant she didn’t know anything.
I leaned back in my chair and let out the tension with a long sigh. I had to stop being so paranoid. There was nothing to worry about. Right?
But just to be sure…I pulled out my phone to see if I could check on my blog. It wasn’t picking up a wireless signal, which was weird—the rain had moved on, so there was nothing to interfere with the Internet now. At least I could get online with the 4G signal. It might be a little slower, but—
“Cassidy.” Mom shook her head. “Not at the table.”
I murmured an apology and tucked the phone away.
“Mornin’, everyone,” Cavin called from the doorway. All that waiting for him and Logan, and I didn’t even notice when they walked in. “Forgive our late arrival,” he said, glancing pointedly at Logan. “Someone had a hard time of it this mornin’, tryin’ to peel the mattress from his back.”
Logan yawned and dropped into the nearest chair. His eyes were still heavy-lidded from sleep, and his hair was damp from the shower. It curled in dark tendrils just above his collar. I have to admit it was kind of adorable.
Wouldn’t you know he chose that moment to look up at me? He caught me watching him and cocked his head to one side, as if to ask, What?
“Uh…” My face grew hot, and I could just imagine how red it was getting. I should have just looked away, but I was flustered, and when I’m flustered, I tend to babble. “So, are you ready for today?” I cringed as soon as the perky words left my mouth. They sounded as fake as…well, as fake as they were.
And he knew it. He grinned, obviously enjoying my discomfort. “Naw,” he said, “but it sounds like you’re ready enough for the both of us.”
I wanted to slug him, but he was sitting two chairs away from me, and I would have had to go through Victoria and Cavin to get to him. So I laughed instead. At least the tease was real. This was the Logan I knew, the Logan I had been expecting to find yesterday.
“Well,” I said, spreading my napkin daintily in my lap, “someone’s got to carry the show.”
“Really,” he drawled. “’Cause I’m pretty sure the market test projected me as the favorite with the fans.”
“Fans? No one knows who you are!”
His smile grew wider. “Not yet.”
“Right,” Liz cut in, talking over us, “now that everyone’s here, let’s review today’s schedule, shall we?”
Logan gave me one last smirk and then ducked back behind his dad so he couldn’t see me give him one in return. Cheater.
Liz ignored us both and launched into a recitation of the day’s events for both groups. Ours sounded like the most fun—while Mom and Dad were off talking ecotourism in Santa Elena, Logan and I would be zip-lining through the canopy and riding mountain bikes. After lessons, of course.
There are strict regulations that spell out exactly what a production company is supposed to do with the young talent on their shows. (I love being called “the talent.”) Even when we were filming outside the United States, and even though Logan was Irish and not American, since the network headquarters was in New York, they expected us to follow U.S. regulations. Which meant three hours of schooling every day.
I know three hours doesn’t sound like a lot when a regular school day is twice that long, but believe me, a compressed day does not equal half the work. We have no breaks between classes, no time off for lunch. It’s just three hours of study, study, study, and that’s on top of the time we’re on camera.
Cavin and Liz and Bayani went on to discuss all the boring details of that ca
mera time with my mom and dad, like permits and setup and angles and that kind of stuff. I was more focused on Mama Tica as she refilled platters of eggs, cheese, toast, fresh fruit, and black beans with rice.
I know that last thing doesn’t sound like something you’d expect to eat for breakfast, but I’ve been to enough places to realize that any food you get in the morning tastes great if you’re hungry enough. Heck, in Japan, I ate fish for breakfast. I liked black beans and rice better.
And so did Logan, apparently. All through the meal, I kept trying to get his attention, but he was too busy shoveling in the beans and rice to look up. I swear, you’d think he hadn’t seen food for a week. All he had to do was pull himself away from it for a second so I could signal that I wanted to talk, but he never did. I was contemplating pelting him with a piece of toast when Cavin pushed back in his chair.
“Splendid meal,” he said to Mama Tica. “Muchas gracias, señora.”
Finally, Logan finished eating and stood at the same time as his dad. I jumped up to follow them when Mom took my arm and tucked it around her own. “Before you go off for your lessons,” she said quietly, “I’d like to have a quick word with you.”
My heart not only stopped, it backpedaled a few beats. Maybe she knew after all. I watched wistfully as Bayani pulled Logan off somewhere, taking my chance to talk along with him. Not that it mattered anymore. I was too late. My mom was going to kill me, so talking to Logan wasn’t going to help anyway. I trudged behind her as she led me to the couches in front of the great room fireplace.
“What is it?” I managed to squeak.
She regarded me for a moment and then said, “Sit down.”
I sank obediently onto the couch cushions, which was probably just as well because my legs were shaking too badly to stand. My brain shifted into overdrive, racing to come up with a good reason for not telling anyone about the hacker.
Mom sat next to me. “Filming for your show begins today,” she said.
“Yeah?” I asked cautiously.
“I want you to remember a few things before you get started.”
