Jumper: Books 1-6: Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  I wander the campus, waiting for Billy’s memories to give me direction. School doesn’t start for another forty minutes, and I’m not even sure which class he has first.

  I sit down on the fountain’s edge and stare at the coins along the bottom.

  I dig into my pockets, but can’t find any change to buy a wish.

  Figures.

  I search Billy’s backpack, find his iPad, pull it out, and peruse his books. I smile in recognition of a few authors I recall: Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, and Phillip K. Dick. I remember some of the stories I’ve read and feel some nostalgia looking over the titles. But then that feeling is replaced with a hollow sorrow as I realize the memories I have of these books aren’t mine — I have none of my own — but instead belong to my previous hosts.

  Maybe I can read a bit before school starts and make my own memories.

  I pick a book by Stephen King and Peter Straub — The Talisman — and click on it. It opens to the first page, meaning that either Billy hasn’t read it yet, or he’s already finished and the book has reset to the starting point. I’m not familiar enough with iPads or the various reading apps to know. I start reading the tale of Jack Sawyer.

  About ten minutes in, the story is broken by a girl’s voice. “Billy?”

  I look up to see two girls, a blonde and a redhead, approaching me, both wearing matching uniforms — blue dresses and white shirts — but they somehow manage to find a way to express themselves. The blonde is wearing a floral headband, beaded with tiny silk flowers and matching rosebud earrings; the redhead has a scarf that looks like it probably belongs to her mother, even though she owns the look. Both of their backpacks are plastered with buttons.

  I’m drawing a blank on their names.

  Shit.

  “Hey,” the blonde says, “how’s your sister doing?”

  Are they Chelsea’s friends? They do look a bit older than freshmen. I’m not sure how to answer. I don’t want to give out any private information, or make “the situation” any worse than it is for Dear Ol’ Dad.

  The redhead says, “I’m surprised you’re even here today.”

  I nod. “Yeah, me too.”

  “How’s Chelsea?” the blonde asks again. There’s something about her piercing blue eyes that I don’t like — an iciness inside them.

  I try to shake my suspicions and give the best possible answer. “She’s still in the hospital. Hanging in there.”

  “We’re so sorry,” the redhead says. She seems slightly more sincere than the blonde.

  “What did you hear?” I say. “I mean, how much is out there?”

  The girls trade an uncertain glance. Then the redhead opens her mouth. “Well, we heard she’s in a coma. But … ”

  “What?” I ask.

  The blonde says, “Well, some people are saying she tried to kill herself.”

  She says it almost as if looking for confirmation, so she can be among the First To Know.

  She stares at me, but I don’t confirm or deny. “Well, people love to talk about stuff they don’t know.”

  “So, it isn’t true?” the redhead asks.

  “We don’t know what happened, but we’re hoping for the best.” I figure that’s the safest thing I can say for both Chelsea’s privacy, and for Billy’s standing at school whenever he returns to his body.

  The blonde doesn’t seem to like this response. She gives me a fake little smile, leans forward, puts her hand on my shoulder, and makes her eyes overly large and artificially sad. “Well, I hope she feels better.”

  But I don’t believe a word.

  The girls leave, and I decide to find another spot before more people I don’t know approach me.

  I find a spot behind the library and am just about to dive back into my book when I hear a male British accent.

  “Billy?”

  I look up to see a friendly face, Pete Arber, who I recognize as Billy’s best friend since sixth grade.

  Pete has long brown hair with blue and red highlights. He’s fiercely flamboyant and very open about his bisexuality. This makes him someone that Jack Caldwell doesn’t approve of. He hasn’t quite forbidden Billy from being friends with him, but he has threatened it enough times that Billy’s afraid of the eventual day when Pete does something that Jack doesn’t approve of.

  “What are you doing here?” Pete sits beside me and puts a hand to his mouth before I can answer. “Seriously? Your dad made you come to school today?”

  “It’s okay. It’s better than sitting at home not being able to do anything.”

  “You could be at the hospital, with your mom!”

  “Yeah, well I guess Dad felt school was more important.”

  “What a cunt.”

  I laugh.

  Pete laughs, too.

  “So, how is she? Any word?”

  I have a flash of Billy texting Pete yesterday from the hospital, updating him. I don’t think anything has changed since then.

  “Nothing new.”

  “Shit, that sucks. I’m sorry.”

  I stare out at the courtyard, watching kids hanging out, throwing footballs and Frisbees, carefree, laughing, going about their lives oblivious, or blind to, Billy’s suffering.

  “It’s okay. She’ll get better,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to convince myself or Pete.

  We sit in silence for a moment. I feel uneasy because while Billy and Pete are best friends, I don’t have enough of their shared history to turn an awkward quiet into something comfortable. I feel a need to fill the air with something, but don’t know what to say. So I opt for silence instead.

  Pete is fidgeting, sitting cross-legged and bouncing his knees like he wants to say something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know if I should say anything.”

  “What?” I ask, leaning forward.

  He folds his hands, covers his mouth with a deep, dramatic sigh, and finally meets my eyes.

  “What?” I ask again.

  “You’ve got to promise that you won’t do anything crazy.”

  “What is it?”

  “Promise first.”

  I promise.

  “You know how people have been calling your sister a slut the past couple of weeks, but we didn’t know why?”

  I nod, even though Billy’s memories haven’t filled me in on this yet.

  “Have you heard anything about a video?”

  “Video? What video?”

  “That your sister was in?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think so.”

  “What video?”

  “You’ve got to promise that you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I already did.”

  “And promise not to be mad at me.”

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “For not showing you sooner.”

  “Showing me what?”

  He reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out his phone, flips through some screens, then holds it to his chest, meeting my eyes.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes!” I say, grabbing the phone.

  I look down at the screen and see that the video is titled, high school cam slut spreads for me.

  My heart racing anxiously, I press play.

  The video shows Chelsea sitting in front of a webcam in a dark room. She’s wearing a light gray tee, hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks uncomfortable. There’s no audio, but I can tell she’s typing something.

  I look up at Pete. “What is this?”

  “Keep watching,” he says, looking away as if he can’t stand to see me watching it.

  Chelsea takes off her shirt.

  She’s sitting there in her bra, staring at the screen, but there’s nothing seductive about this. Her eyes are wet like she’s holding back tears or had just finished crying. Her lips are quivering. Her jaw is sticking out, almost, but not quite, defiantly.

  My stomach feels l
ike I’m in a jostled boat.

  What the hell is this?

  Chelsea shakes her head.

  A long pause where she watches the screen. Someone must be giving her instructions. Maybe that’s why there’s no audio; whoever recorded this deleted their part in this sick little film.

  She wipes her eyes then takes off her bra. She starts fast but stops halfway as if instructed to go slower, to be more playful.

  She slows down, removing it more teasingly, then reveals her breasts.

  Another long pause.

  Another head shake.

  Then she plays with her nipples.

  The sickness in my stomach grows. I don’t want to see any more. But at the same time, I feel like I have to — I need to see what happened to Billy’s sister.

  After history’s longest minute, the camera pans down. As Chelsea removes her shorts, I return the phone to Pete.

  “I can’t watch any more. What the hell is this? And where did it come from?”

  Pete takes the phone and slips it back into his pants pocket as if he’s ashamed to own it.

  “Someone uploaded it to a porn site a couple of weeks ago. Kids started sharing it. A few even posted it onto her Facebook page, along with nasty messages calling your sister a slut and stuff, before she removed her page.”

  “A couple of weeks ago? And you’re just telling me now?”

  “I didn’t find out about it until last week, and what was I supposed to say, ‘Yo, I saw your sister in a porn video?’”

  “It’s not a porn video! Someone obviously made her do this. You can tell by her expression. Does it look like she’s enjoying it?”

  “Hey, believe me, Billy, I’m the last person to judge! And even if she was enjoying it, even if she sent this to a boyfriend and was 100 percent compliant, that doesn’t give anyone the right to post it on a porn site, or any of these fuckers the right to judge her.”

  “We’ve gotta get this taken down! She’s a teenager for God’s sake!”

  “She’s eighteen. And dude, the Internet is forever. Even if you take it down at this site, the person who did it, or hell, anyone who downloaded it, can upload it to a thousand more sites just like it.”

  Is this why she tried to kill herself?

  “Fuck!” I stare at the ground, feeling rage, frustration, and helplessness pounding through me.

  “Wait a second,” I say, Billy’s memories filling in a few details. “Chelsea didn’t have a boyfriend. I mean, she’s never had a boyfriend. So, who do you think she recorded this for?”

  “Maybe she had a boyfriend we don’t know about? Hell, if it happened before she turned eighteen, maybe we can get it taken down, at least from the most popular porn sites.”

  “I think I’d know if my sister had a boyfriend.”

  “I dunno. With your dad being like he is, I can see her not wanting to tell anyone.”

  “But she knows I wouldn’t judge her or tell anyone. We get along.”

  “I dunno.” Pete’s eyes widen, and he looks at me.

  “What?”

  “I might be able to find out who did this.”

  “How?”

  “Just let me work my contacts,” he says with a glint in his eyes. Pete enjoys playing detective almost as much as he loves gossip. If anyone in school can find out who’s behind this, it’s Billy’s best friend. “I’ll see what I come up with and get back to you at lunch.”

  The next few hours are hell.

  Kids coming up to me with false consolation, asking questions about Chelsea’s welfare, some even asking if she left a note. I don’t trust any of them.

  How many of those same kids were laughing at her, calling my sister a slut behind her back? How many of them shared this video? How many of these so-called friends are only pretenders? How many are to blame for her suicide attempt?

  I hate them all, though I know it isn’t fair. I can’t tell sincerity from charade with these private school kids. They’re all so damn good at living behind a facade.

  I spend Billy’s class time trying to coax more memories that might help me learn why I’m here, or who is behind this sick video, but I’m not getting anything useful.

  At lunch, I head straight to the cafeteria where Pete and Billy always meet for lunch. They sometimes eat with other kids, but it’s usually the two of them since there are three lunch periods and most of Pete’s drama friends — the group he hangs out with most — are in the other periods.

  When I see him, he races toward me, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  “OMG,” he says, pulling me away from the lunch line. He drags me out of the cafeteria, finding a spot in the common area out of earshot from anyone.

  “What did you find out?”

  “I think I know who did it.”

  “No way. Who?”

  “You’ve got to promise not to do anything crazy.”

  I shove him in the chest, not hard, but not exactly playful. “Tell me!”

  “Well, everyone I talked to said they heard about the video from Rocco. He was practically a one-man advertising campaign.”

  Anthony Rocco is a cornerback on the school’s football team — an obnoxious, entitled asshole made even more obnoxious and entitled because of his parents’ wealth. He’s also a giant, at least a foot taller than Billy, with at least fifty pounds more muscle on his frame. And even more relevant: Rocco’s rumored to have date raped a few girls. Nobody knows if it’s only hearsay, or if his father, a high-profile lawyer, managed to pay the girls’ families off to keep things at a whisper. Regardless, he’s a known sexist pig, and could easily be behind this video.

  I start walking back to the cafeteria.

  “Billy? Billy? What are you doing?”

  I keep walking, my eyes scanning the lunchroom.

  I see Rocco toward the back of the room, sitting in a swarm of jocks and cheerleaders, the insincere blonde and redhead who approached me this morning among them.

  Rocco is big and tan, with short dark hair and a wide smile. He looks like he failed at least five times, and should be playing college ball.

  Even though I’m a good eight tables away, they’re looking up at me, smiles on their smug faces, some of them giggling.

  Rage courses through me.

  Pete runs up behind me. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

  I ignore him.

  I march forward, eyes locked on Rocco, heart racing and knees shaking. I ignore the fear, fueled by rage.

  I make it to the table and am vaguely aware of Pete falling back a bit behind me. History says he’ll have my back if this comes to a fight, but he’s clearly uncomfortable taking on a fair share of the football team. But before I can consider the logic of what I’m about to do, I’m standing at the table, glaring at the jocks.

  Blake Wellington, the six-foot-two blond-haired, blue-eyed quarterback is sitting next to Rocco. Even if he hadn’t been blessed with his model good looks or his talent with a ball, he’d still have won the gene lottery by virtue of being born to Dean Wellington, one of Oregon’s largest landowners.

  Before I can choke out a word to Rocco, Blake eyes me up and down and says, “You lost, Preacher Boy?”

  Laughter from the others.

  I glare at the blonde and redhead. The blonde meets my gaze, almost challenging me to say something while the redhead stares at the floor.

  I ignore Blake and turn to Rocco. “Why did you do that?”

  He looks at me, thick eyebrows furrowed in a knot. “Do what?”

  Everyone’s looking at me. I feel like half of them are dying to hear me say something about the video.

  “You know what.”

  “No, I don’t,” he says, standing up.

  “The video,” I say, practically whispering the word. “Why did you make her do that?”

  Rocco looks genuinely surprised. “Make her? You talking about the little porn video your sister made? You think I made her do that?”

  His emphasis on the word I ins
tead of made makes me wonder if I’m accusing the wrong person.

  “I heard that you made her do it.” The words sound so frail on their way out of my mouth that I’m instantly regretting not thinking this through. The fact that a half-wit jock is outsmarting me, assuming that somewhere out there I’m an adult of reasonable intelligence, makes me want to retreat with my tail between my legs.

  But I can’t let these morons win, and need to find out who did this to Chelsea.

  “She told me,” I lie before I can think of something more clever.

  Rocco leaps over the table so fast I barely have time to back up.

  He’s on me in seconds, hands around my throat.

  “Then the little slut lied!”

  “Whoa, whoa, let’s all calm down,” Pete says, trying to put a hand between Rocco and me.

  Rocco lets go of me long enough to shove Pete.

  He stumbles back but manages to stay on his feet. Then Pete raises his fists, challenging Rocco.

  I don’t want him getting his ass kicked because of me, so I stand between them.

  Rocco glares at me, his smug smile curling into something ugly, daring me to do something.

  I oblige and take a swing.

  I’m surprised when he doesn’t dodge my fist, and my blow finds his jaw.

  Rocco falls back, covering his face in surprise.

  Four of the jocks leap to their feet.

  Rocco grunts, “I’m gonna kill you!”

  Shit is about to get real.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, gentlemen!” Blake stands, launches himself over the table like Rocco, and steps in front of me, a barrier to Rocco’s aggression.

  Blake’s eyes are intense, but his smile is friendly as he puts his hands on Rocco’s chest. “Chill, chill. Kid’s sister is in a coma; he’s not thinking straight.”

  He looks back at me as a silent message to stand down, or he’ll let Rocco and the others beat our asses.

  Suddenly, a tall black man in thick glasses with a shiny bald head is making a beeline toward us. Dean Pritchard.

  His voice is deep, his eyes serious. “What’s going on here?”

  I’m tempted to tell him, but what do I say? Do I tell him about the video? I suddenly realize how much I’m in over my head, being impetuous with another person’s life, possibly an entire family’s welfare, if this video goes viral beyond the school — assuming it hasn’t already.