by Lamar Giles
Miss Carney smiles sheepishly. “I tried that Contour-App-Delete nonsense, but it didn’t seem to do a thing.”
“You’re right. It isn’t working. I’m going to try a hard reboot.”
“Will it take long?”
Rozlynn says, “A few minutes.”
“Do I have time to grab a cup of tea from the lounge?”
“Go crazy.”
Miss Carney gives an excited little clap, then motions toward me and Lanie. “Keep an eye on these two while I’m gone. They’ve been little troublemakers today.”
“I will keep the lighthouse in your absence.”
The old lady leaves, and Vice Principal Del Toro calls Lanie into her office. I’m left alone with the freshman computer geek. She flits glances my way.
“How’d you score such a cushy gig?” I say, needing the weird silence to end. Before she answers I lean my head back, and press the ice bags to my eyes, creating a cold blindness. I don’t want to see Rozlynn’s dismissal if she has soured on me.
She says, “You’re talking to me?”
Wow, how shy must you be to think I’m talking to someone else when we’re the only two in the room. Poor kid. “Yes. You.”
If I wasn’t freezing my eyeballs solid, I imagine I’d see her blush from the attention.
She says, “I’ll tell you if you tell me how you got those shiners.”
“A master negotiator,” I say, hoping she takes it as praise. A confidence boost. Be nice if I did something good today. “Deal. But you first.”
She takes a deep breath, like a runner before the starter pistol fires, and says, “There weren’t many—or any—girls in student tech support. When I asked my guidance counselor if I could join, I think he got nervous and pushed my request through. Like, affirmative action or something. You know?”
I do know. Something similar got me a guided tour of the Cablon construction site. Sometimes the gender card works.
She says, “I get training on some cool computer stuff. Stuff I can use when I get ready for college. I might be able to get some scholarships.”
“You and my friend Ocie would get along well,” I say. “Fixing all the raggedy computers must make you the It Girl with the faculty.”
“Don’t know about that. I’m nowhere near as famous as y—” She tries to catch herself, not wanting to offend me. The effort alone makes her friendlier than most these days.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘infamous.’ You’re Rozlynn, right?”
“Yeah. But people call me Roz.”
“I’m Panda.” Of course, she already knows that.
“So, what happened to your face?”
Shrugging. “Karma, maybe.”
“I can see how your, um, exploits might piss off people.”
My phone vibrates in my purse. I lower the ice, retrieve my cell, and read the message. It’s from him.
SecretAdm1r3r: Look Up.
Dozens of my schoolmates pass by the big office windows. Only one is still, staring at me through the glass.
Marcos.
CHAPTER 26
MY ICE BAG SLIPS OFF MY lap, crunch-splashing on the floor when I rise. Despite its absence, I’m chilled.
Marcos smacks the glass then motions with two fingers: Come here.
If this was night, and he was at the mouth of a dark alley, I might’ve made a different decision. But midday, in a crowded hallway . . .
I snatch my purse strap and make for the door.
“Hey!” Roz says. “I’m supposed to watch you.”
I point to the window. “Well, watch.”
Outside, hall stragglers give me the evil eye. I ignore them and move toward Marcos, slowing as I draw near, leaving a few feet between us. Escape room.
“So, Gray,” he says.
“And what should I call you? Does ‘Admirer’ work, or does ‘Sack of Crazy’ feel more fitting?”
His eyes narrow, and his forehead creases. “What?”
“We’re done with the games, right? No more mysterious chat sessions”—I hold up my phone—“or creepy texts?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t have your number. I don’t want your damned number. Not in a million years.”
“But, this text, you just—”
He sidesteps slightly, closes the gap between us. He’s quick, the exact opposite of what I am since I’m puffy eyed and half blind. I rotate a moment too slow, and let his forward motion intimidate me. He backs me into the window/wall. I can only get away by doing a clumsy side shuffle. If he touches me, I’ll scream.
“For what you did,” he says, “that beating you got today is too good for you.”
“Are you threatening me?” I search the hall for someone to help, but we’re alone. The period bell rings, and for the first time in Portside history, it seems no one’s tardy. Except Marcos. But he doesn’t seem concerned.
“Not threatening. Explaining. In case you don’t know what a bitch you are.”
Anger sears the center of my skull, and the throbbing in my eyes doubles, pounding like bongos. I shove Marcos in the chest. He stumbles backward.
“Is that the lesson you taught Keachin? What a bitch she was?”
His crinkled face goes slack. “Don’t you ever talk about her.”
“Where have you been, Marcos?” Did the police have him? Did he con his way out of his cell? “You’re the one who sent me her picture. You told me it ‘had to happen.’”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Daniels. All I know is, you got my friend killed.”
“Your—?” What?
“You want to know where I’ve been? At Keachin’s house, with her parents, crying my damn eyes out.” To demonstrate, twin tears crawl down his cheeks.
“Since when were you and Keachin friends?” I try to imagine the scent of deep-fried hush puppies exuding from his pores and mingling with her three-hundred-dollar Brazilian perfume. His worn army surplus jacket next to her silk blouse as they enjoy a Saturday afternoon matinee.
“That’s none of your business,” he says, “but minding your business is a concept you obviously don’t get. She was trying to get away from Bottin’s crazy shit, to end it on her own terms. You dragged all that into the light, and look what happened.”
Keachin was trying to end her affair with Coach? And Marcos knew about this before I exposed it?
But he can’t have been Keachin’s friend. He’s my Admirer. He has to be.
“Two days ago I thought a twenty-five-year-old Star Wars geek who preys on teen girls was the worst person in this school. That bastard killed my friend. Yet, I’m thinking he runs a close second to you.” He says it between sobs.
Marcos leaves me. When he’s down the hall and around the corner, I start breathing again. Roz stares curiously through the glass.
She couldn’t have heard what he said. Or felt it. That’s the only relief I can find in the moment. The only way I’m able to face her.
When I’m back in the office, she says, “Is everything okay?”
“Peachy. He’s a fan.”
“Somehow I doubt that. He looked kind of intense.”
He did. But intense enough to be my Admirer? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything.
“Roz,” I say, “you’re good with computer stuff. If I asked you for a favor, do you think you could help me?”
She tenses. “Depends on the favor.”
I get it. I’m a walking bull’s-eye right now. No one—even people who don’t despise me—wants to stand too close. This won’t require standing. “I’ve got a phone number and I need to know who it belongs to. Can you do that?”
“Is this a Gray Scales thing, because if it is—”
“No. It’s not like that. Someone’s been messing with me. For a while now. I need to know who he is.”
She nods slowly. “I can try a couple of reverse-lookup sites. If it’s a cell, maybe I can figure a way to ping the GPS. It’ll be a challenge, though. We h
aven’t really covered that stuff in my tech support training. A lot of times we just play Zork.”
“Play what?”
“Just know it won’t help you. I’ll try, though.”
“Good enough.” I grab a Post-it off Miss Carney’s desk and scribble down the number my Admirer’s been texting me from, along with my own contact information. Handing over the note, I add, “One more thing?”
She waits.
“Can you figure out who in the school has the skills to hack my email?”
“I think so. Should be a short list.”
“That guy I was talking to is Marcos Dahmer. I want to know if he’s on it. I want to know if he’s—”
Principal Carlin’s door opens and Danielle exits, followed by an adult in a black-and-white-striped referee shirt. The Foot Locker name tag pinned to the chest identifies him to shoe shoppers, but I don’t need to read it.
Darius Ranson sees me and places a gentle hand on his sister’s shoulder. The picture of restraint.
“Darius,” Principal Carlin says, “please express to Danielle how easy it is to derail herself at this age. She’ll have some time to think about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Darius says, a display of respect I didn’t know he was capable of. “I know. It’s just me and her, and I won’t let her mess her life up over stupid stuff.”
Danielle stares absolute death toward me. Darius catches her doing it and his grip tightens. “Come on. She’s not worth it.”
A former beefed-up sports tyrant just told his sister that I wasn’t worth the trouble she’s brought on to herself. I never thought there would be a day when I’d consider if Darius Ranson was right about anything.
He escorts Danielle away to begin her suspension, and Principal Carlin says, “Come on, Lauren. Your turn.”
The principal is looking past me, at my mom, who just arrived, not a trace of pleasant on her face.
She examines my swollen eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say quietly.
I read the response in her stone expression. It says, Not for long.
Carlin’s office beckons. I step forward to face my school punishment, knowing it will be mild compared to whatever awaits me at home.
CHAPTER 27
THE START OF MY SUSPENSION IS quiet and terrible.
Mom stays home from work that first day, occupying my time with whatever task is farthest from her. Anything so she doesn’t have to be close to me, or talk to me, or look at me.
That hurts, though I kind of get the not-wanting-to-look-at-me part. I’m not too fond of mirrors right now. Not with two bad-getting-worse black eyes.
The throbbing, puffy pain stopped, but the purple bruises circling each eye have turned into ebony rings. My nickname has never felt more fitting.
I keep my mind off my mangled face by focusing on Mom’s long list of chores. Or non-chores. It’s stuff no one really does, like, ever. Things like polishing all the lamps in the house, and ironing the sheets in our linen closet. The mundane nature of each assignment is almost admirable, showcasing Mom’s creativity in the art of domestic torture.
When Dad comes home that evening, he just glares with unhidden disgust and makes a show of leaving whatever room I enter. He’s been that way ever since he learned I’d be missing at least ten days of school over this “picture nonsense.”
I nearly tell him, “No, it’s actually over some ‘punching nonsense.’” Didn’t think he’d appreciate the quip, though.
My parents aren’t too warm toward each other either. That’s the new normal during this ordeal. If there’s a bright side to being in our house of disdain, it’s that Mom’s too busy being irritated with Dad to remember that I still have my phone.
When I’m not being a domestic slave, I wait for word from Roz while trying to ignore my Admirer’s texts. All apologies.
I didn’t know you’d get in so much trouble. I’m sorry.
We were both mad and took things 2 far. I forgive u. Do u forgive me?
I consider showing my parents and telling them, “See. It’s him. He’s real.”
But I know the way things are, at this moment, it doesn’t matter if he’s real.
There’s stuff Dad wants to say, angry things. He saves them for when he and Mom are in their room. Like now. There’s an empty drinking glass on my desk. I upend it, fling off residual drops of water, press it to the wall. With my ear to the glass, I try to decipher the warbling mess. I get, like, every fifth word.
“She . . . think . . . Vicky.”
Aunt Victoria?
I struggle to hear more, but they’re moving around and I stop hearing anything useful at all. Lowering the glass, I consider the possibility that I’m being a total narcissist and every beef my parents have with each other doesn’t necessarily revolve around me. They’re talking about my evil troll of an aunt.
Totally unrelated.
I was allowed to sleep in yesterday. I suspect it was so Dad could leave the house without having to acknowledge my existence. But today, he rocks my bed frame, a gentle motion.
“Lauren, wake up. We need to talk.”
When I roll over, my parents are positioned exactly as they were the night we first talked about Coach Bottin. Dad on my bed, Mom in the doorway. Something uncomfortable is about to happen.
“What is it?”
“Look,” Dad says, glancing away from me, “we’ve been talking about everything that’s going on, and after some consideration, we’ve decided it may do you some good to spend time with your aunt Vicky down in Georgia.”
“What kind of time?” I’m standing. This isn’t “sit down” news.
“She’ll be up for Thanksgiving,” Dad says, meeting my eyes, getting stern. “She’s got plenty of room at her place, so you can fly back with her after the holiday.”
“Thanksgiving is three weeks from now.”
“We’ll come down to see you at Christmas. You’ll be settled by then.”
The man is crazy. Mom. She’s not insane, I can talk to her. “Mom, I don’t want to go. We can’t stand Victoria. Tell him.”
She swipes at her eyes. “Liebste, ich weiß, dass du es nicht hören willst—”
“Speak English!”
She is stung, like I intended. For a moment. She hardens, and her voice takes on the same sternness of Dad’s. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You are not doing well here, Lauren. A change may suit you.”
“I don’t want a change. Not like this. I was set up. You get that, don’t you? There’s some crazy guy that’s turned everyone in school against me. Now you’re turning against me, too?”
“We’re not against you, Lauren,” Mom says.
“It sure seems that way.”
“Stop being dramatic.” Dad rises like we’re done.
“I’m not,” I say. “I just don’t want to live with your evil sister, Dad. She hates me.”
“If she hated you, she wouldn’t be willing to let you live with her.”
“Listen to me, okay. This isn’t my fault. The Admirer—”
“They’re talking about expelling you, Lauren! And locking you up. Do you get that?” Dad’s in my face, and I’m not strong enough not to flinch. A string of spittle stretches from his lip to the bottom of his chin. I smell what he had for breakfast.
Expulsion. Lock me up.
It’s like I’ve got an ice pack on my face again. My skin feels so cold. I say, “Who’s talking about that stuff?”
“The school board, and the lawyer they’re recommending.”
“But we were with the cops the other night. They didn’t even care.”
“Then, Lauren. Things change. It’s time you learned that.”
“But, I—”
“Shut. Your. Mouth!”
My father has never, ever spoken to me like this before. The closest I can recall was when I was five and he barked at me to get my hand away from our stove’s blue flame. Then I’d run, ashamed for disappointi
ng him. Sticking my hand in fire would’ve been better than this.
Mom’s left her perch in the doorway and is pulling him back, trying to. “Come. Everyone needs a break. You should rest and she should rest.”
He allows her to lead him from my room, but not before he speaks again. “You’re going to Georgia. That’s the end of it.”
When they’re gone, I slam my door, lock it. Drawing the curtains and cocooning myself in my comforter, I wait for my parents to return so we can argue, or they can apologize, or they can tell me they aren’t banishing me to the Peach State.
No one comes.
I’m dozing on a moist pillow when I hear shaking. I mistake it for Dad jiggling my doorknob, his apology singing in my imagination. Rising from my cocoon, the sound becomes clearer and I know exactly what it is.
My vibrating phone shimmies beneath the sweatshirt I stashed it under, dragging the garment toward the edge of my desk. I save my cell from a falling death, and read the incoming text.
[unidentified number]: Ur list of possible hackers is on the way
Me: Is this Roz?
[unidentified number]: Close.
At first, I think this is some Admirer trick. Then, no. His tricks are angrier. And, maybe, bloodier.
Me: Who is this?
[unidentified number]: Roz’s boss. You’ll b getting a bill for our services by the end of the week
Me: Taylor?
[unidentified number]: UR as sharp as ever, I see.
Smart-ass.
Me: What do you know about the list I’m looking for?
Taylor: U recruited my mini-me. She’s good, but has a lot to learn
Me: So ur Portside High education makes u a tech expert?
Taylor: Just check your email
I switch apps to view my in-box and there’s a new email titled Portside Hackers but from an almost nonsensical email address: [email protected].
The message says:
Panda, sorry for the delay, but I needed a hand with compiling the list you requested. You know Taylor Durham, right? He’s my coach, and I don’t know EVERYBODY in school, and, anyway, he walked me through. Here you go . . . Dudes with mad computer skills at PHS:
