by Barnes, Vivi
Derrick and Denise share a large walk-in closet, occupied by hanging clothes, a neat row of shoes, and plastic boxes of, well, stuff. I sigh. This may take a while.
I open the first box to find purple and pink plastic flowers. The next box contains smaller boxes with cell phone accessories. The box under it—various computer and economic publications. I flip through them, mildly interested, until I see a magazine sandwiched among them featuring a woman flashing her boobs on the cover. I immediately drop the other magazines on top of it and close the box. Yuck.
There are more boxes stacked on the shelves above the hanging clothes. A stepladder is conveniently tucked in the back of the closet, so I open it and climb to the highest step, looking around until I spot my black laptop bag in the very back. I grab it but slip off the step, falling sideways into Derrick’s suits. I try to regain my footing, but instead land on shoes and boxes. A couple of the boxes are turned sideways, their contents sliding out. I set my bag down and hurriedly try to sort the shoes and papers into their appropriate boxes.
As I put the last paper back into the large box, my eyes land on a folder labeled Olivia Westfield. I open it to see a small picture of me stapled to the top of the first page, which lists my basic information. My foster paperwork. The documents Derrick and Denise had to fill out are here, too. I guess Julia gave them copies. It’s pretty generic—statements about why they want to be foster parents and a list of references and stuff. I’m pretty impressed, actually. Derrick must have been the one to fill out most of it, since it appears to be a guy’s handwriting, but there’s information about Denise, too. And questions about their childhoods. The answers are all about wanting to show love for the foster child and crap like that. I flip through the pages, but one response catches my eye, mostly because I can tell it’s Derrick’s handwriting, though it’s Denise’s form.
Have you been in a previous marriage or long-term relationship? Previous marriage to Alejandro Santos. One child, age two years. Both deceased via car accident.
Denise was married before and had a child who died? No wonder she’s so withdrawn. How did she get together with Derrick, then, and why did she tell me she couldn’t have kids?
The rest of the page is also filled out in a slanted version of Derrick’s handwriting. It looks like he tried to fudge Denise’s writing on almost the entire questionnaire. I wonder why Julia didn’t notice. He lists out the strengths of their relationship from “her” perspective as loving, expressive, open communication, etcetera.
I somehow doubt that, if she had filled out this page, she would have said the same things.
A glance at my watch reminds me that Derrick will be home any minute. I stack the papers to put back in the box carefully, but one more thing catches my eye: a CD without a case is sitting at the bottom of the box. I pull it out and flip it over. There are no marks, no labels. I start to toss it back inside but change my mind and slide it into my laptop bag. It would be interesting to see what else child services says about me and my past. Quickly closing the box and placing it back under his clothes, I tuck the stepladder against the wall and leave the closet.
I run out to my room and hide my laptop bag in my closet, just in time to hear Derrick whistling in the house. My heart is hammering. Maybe I should’ve checked the plush carpet to see if any imprints of my shoes were left behind?
Before Derrick even asks, I offer to help him make dinner, mostly to overcome my guilt. He shows me how to cut the vegetables his way, on the slant, and talks the whole time about marinating steak and stuff. I try to show interest, and he seems thrilled about it. Actually, I feel pretty happy myself. I have my laptop back and can do my homework tonight from where I should have been doing it this whole time—in my own room. I can enjoy surfing the net and forget all about the fact that I’m stuck with Z tutoring me after school tomorrow.
Though I somehow doubt it’ll be that easy to forget.
Chapter Nine
“There is no remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this, in time.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
Liv
Z is so damn smug. He’s looking forward to making me feel stupid while “tutoring” me this afternoon, I know. I decide to ignore him completely. At lunch, I choose to sit with Steph and Kori, a couple of girls I’ve talked with a few times in my biology class. They notice Z watching me and spend the entire time speculating on whether I should go out with him or not.
“I don’t want to date him,” I tell them. “I don’t even want him tutoring me after school.”
This sends them into a round of giggles and inappropriate comments about his “lessons.” The period finally ends, but it makes me even more irritated at Z that I had to spend an entire half hour listening to the ridiculous conversation.
The rest of the day ticks by slowly enough for me to obsess about what I’m getting into, as (1) Z will be hovering over me for an entire hour, (2) I’ll probably look stupid in a subject I’m not at all stupid in, and (3) I’ll be looking stupid while Z hovers over me for an entire hour.
Maybe I can head to the bus stop early to avoid Z. When the last bell rings, I pick up my books and walk toward the main doors of the school as fast as I can. I’ll just pretend I forgot when I see him tomorrow.
“Trying to escape?” a low voice says from behind me. I groan inwardly.
“No, I was just getting a drink.” My chin lifts in defiance of his arrogance as I move over to the wall and take a few sips of the disgusting lukewarm water from the fountain. I follow him back to the classroom and stand by the door, watching as he walks around the desks to the computer.
“You see, the way it works is that you have to come sit at the computer. The computer won’t walk to you.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I drop my backpack on the floor and trudge over to sit next to him. I start to boot up the computer but he puts his hand over mine. I jerk away and scowl at him.
“Easy.” He holds up his hands. “I was only going to suggest that you use my computer. I have it all set up.”
I sigh loudly but change seats. He plops down into my chair
“So, what should we start with? Algorithms? Arrays?” he asks in a cheerful voice.
“Look, I appreciate the offer to help, but trust me, I don’t need it. I’ve never had a problem with this class or any like it.”
“Really? How’d you get a C, then?”
“How should I know? Ms. Walsh must’ve confused my grade with someone else’s.”
“Well, why don’t you go in and look at your scores to see why?”
“I can’t access the student portal from here.”
“How about through the admin site?”
I try to maintain my patience. “Um, because you have to be an administrator to access the administrator site.”
“Yeah. I guess you wouldn’t even know how to go about getting into the admin site.” He chuckles as if he made some private joke.
“I already did, remember?” He’s got to remember—he gave me a hard enough time about looking him up.
“I mean, other than using some password you stole from the secretary.”
Crap, how does he know about that? I didn’t say anything to Sam. Maybe it’s just a guess. He doesn’t look at me, seemingly intent on the screen in front of him.
“Why would I even want to hack in?” I finally ask.
“Never mind. It’s hard to do. You could get caught.”
Caught? This guy, worried about getting caught? “Have you done it?”
He fiddles with the keyboard. “Obviously. It wasn’t hard. For me, at least. Just… Never mind.”
He sighs and keeps tapping away at the keys. I don’t look at his screen to see what he’s doing; I know he’s trying to bait me. I know it. But my pride takes over. “I can do it just as easily as you can.”
He snorts. “I doubt that.”
“I can do it right now.” I don’t care th
at I’m falling into his trap. I can’t help myself.
He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Prove it.”
I stare at the monitor. There’s no way I’m going to try the secretary’s password. Not after what he said.
In my last school, a few of us would meet for computer club. For some reason—probably because it didn’t have close teacher supervision—we spent most of our time talking about how to hack accounts. And much of that time we discussed different ways to break into the school’s site. Various methods were considered, but the one that made the most sense was the simplest.
I execute my shell script and wait. I have Z’s full attention now but he doesn’t say anything. I’ve never actually tried this. I’ll be totally embarrassed if it doesn’t work.
I create a bogus user name, Columbus1492, and a user password—“password.”
Z snorts. “The user name I get. Clever. But ‘password’? The most overused password ever?”
I glare at him. “I don’t give a damn if this bogus account is hacked. I’m just proving a point. And I don’t even know why I’m doing that.”
He holds his hands out. “Sorry, do what you want.”
I face the computer again.
“It’s not what I would do, though.” He can’t seem to help getting in the last word.
I keep tapping at the keys, gritting my teeth and ignoring him. I log out. “There.”
“There what? How do you know it worked?”
I sigh loudly but go to the admin site and type my bogus name and password. It works. I stick my tongue out at Z, who’s grinning.
“Not bad. You may as well check your grades, since you’re there.”
I click around until I find “Student Grades” and enter my student ID number. All A’s and a C in Computer Science. I scowl at the screen. “Impossible.”
“What’s impossible?”
“That I got a C. That I got a seventy in this easy class.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean? About what? The test was online.”
“Your grade. How are you going to improve it?”
Is he kidding me? “If you think I’m going to say, ‘study harder,’ forget it.”
“Ah, well, maybe I should’ve said ‘change it,’” he says, reaching over to the mouse. He clicks on the button for adjusting grades. He drops his hand and fixes his gaze on me, his eyes intent. “How are you going to change your grade?”
I stare at the cursor that is flashing over the 70. “What the hell, Z?” I whisper, my throat dry. “They’ll catch us.”
“They won’t.” He moves behind me and leans over my shoulder. “Trust me. Walsh is so oblivious to everything.” I can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before. He places my hand on the mouse.
I shake him off. “I can do this, you know. I’m not stupid.”
He doesn’t move from behind me. “Then do it,” he says calmly.
I know I didn’t earn a C. I know it. But all I can do is stare at the screen, unmoving.
“Go ahead,” he says in a low voice near my ear. His words wrap around me like a deceptively gentle embrace. “If it’s not right, change it.”
I bite my lip and change the seventy to a ninety-five. It’s like I’m in a bad remake of the movie WarGames.
I did not earn a C. I click on the save button. As the computer whirs, I lean back in my chair with a mix of new emotions welling up in me, most surprisingly exhilaration. I don’t know if it’s because my grade is now what I think it should’ve been or because I broke the law. Remembering the shirt I stole at the mall, I swallow hard. I’m turning into a regular criminal.
Z sits back down in his chair, a triumphant smile playing on his lips. “Perfect. The grade you actually deserve.”
“Wait a minute.” My eyes narrow to slits as it finally sinks in. He’s too sure of himself, too cocky. “You changed it, didn’t you? You gave me the C. Why the hell did you do that?”
His smile grows wider. “I wanted to see if you’d change it back. You had an A. Actually, a ninety-five, exactly what you thought.”
I jump to my feet and shove my chair at him as hard as I can. “Screw you, Z.”
His laughter follows me as I stomp toward the door.
“Hey!”
I don’t turn.
“Sorry, I know that was a shitty thing to do.”
I don’t answer.
“I was just seeing if you’d do it. I’ll tell Walsh to check the test again, that she must’ve read it wrong. She makes mistakes all the time. She won’t even think about it.”
Nothing.
“Come on, come back. No more, I promise.” He steps in front of me so I’m forced to look at him. “Or do you want me to take you home?”
“Yes. Straight home.”
I walk out in front of him, never turning back. He doesn’t try to talk to me. It’s better for him that he doesn’t—I really feel like kicking his ass. When we get to his bike I shove the helmet on my head and climb on behind him.
“Sure you don’t want to go for a longer ride?” he asks, smiling widely at me.
“Straight. Home.”
The motorcycle drowns out his laughter as it rumbles to life. When we get to the house, I push myself off his bike, refusing his hand, and throw his helmet back at him. He runs his fingers through his windblown hair.
“So tomorrow, then?” he asks.
My only response is to turn my back, walk up the steps, and slam the front door behind me. I flip him off behind the door as the roar of his bike fades into the distance. Jerk.
“Everything okay?” Derrick asks, walking into the room.
“Um, yeah. A friend dropped me off early.”
“Good. How was the tutoring session?”
“Fine.”
He waves toward the kitchen. “I was just about to start dinner. Want to test out your culinary skills?”
Derrick is obsessed with this culinary thing. I should break it to him that I’m not interested in being a chef, but all I manage to say is, “Sorry, I have to get ready for work.”
His shoulders droop in disappointment as I head to my room. I’m so pissed that Z thought he could manipulate me into changing my grade, when he’s the jerk who changed it in the first place. But mostly I’m angry that I hardly even hesitated to break in to change it back, just like I so easily stole that top. I storm to the closet and grab the shirt from the back, slinging it on my desk and vowing to return it to the store at the first opportunity.
The worst thing is that I’m stuck with Z tomorrow afternoon, unless I want to come home and be Derrick’s assistant chef. I have a feeling Z would tell Ms. Walsh, too, or do something to get me into worse trouble.
I refuse to acknowledge the adrenaline that flooded my senses when I changed my grade. Damn him.
After a while, I get up to put my neon nightmare of a uniform shirt on and head out to make crap for tips at Slice of Happy. Mr. Bronson introduces me to the newest addition to the Slice of Happy family, a woman named Jeanette. Why he felt the need to hire someone else when there’s hardly any business in the first place is beyond me. Jeanette’s nice, but very shy, even more so than me. She seems comfortable until a customer walks in. Then she freezes up. I’m patient with her, taking all the customers myself and letting her shadow me. Of course, I’ll still split the measly tips with her.
I grab one of the newspapers a customer left behind and put it in back near my bag, intending to start looking for another job tomorrow.
I’m in the process of showing Jeanette how to work the register when the bell over the front door clinks. My breath catches to see Z, looking very much like he did in the club: leather jacket, dark jeans hanging low on his hips, blond hair falling over his forehead. He smiles at me as he sits down at the counter, placing his helmet next to him.
“He’s all yours,” I tell Jeanette, not bothering to keep my voice low. Jeanette is clearly frightened to death by the idea of waiting
on her first customer. She walks over to him and stammers out an introduction.
Z is nice to her, asking for a Coke and a slice of pepperoni pizza. She seems relieved by the easy order. While she writes out the ticket, I move toward him slowly, sliding my hand along the counter and reminding myself that he is, in fact, a jerk and not to let the fact that my heart is still lodged in my throat influence me.
I muster up the rudest voice I can manage. “Why are you here?”
“Heard they had excellent pizza.” His eyes twinkle, and the ridiculous comment almost makes me laugh. The quality of the pizza matches the quality of the tips.
“You still mad?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Can I make it up to you?”
“How would you do that?” I ask.
“I’ll think of something. What time do you finish here?”
“Nine o’clock. Why?”
He leans forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “Thought maybe you’d need a ride home.”
“No, thanks. It’s not a far walk.”
“Somewhere else, then?”
I swallow hard. He doesn’t give up easily, and I hate to admit that I kind of like that. I must be the biggest glutton for punishment that ever existed. “Seriously, it’s not that far.”
“I know, but do you really want to be out in the dark with the crazies on the loose?”
I snort. “Crazies? In this neighborhood? The worst that happens is someone’s grill is out of propane. Is that really why you’re here?”
He smiles at me without responding.
“Fine. Whatever.” I flip my hand at him and move away to help the women who just walked in. Even as I take their drink orders I can sense Z’s eyes on me, and I’m sure my face is turning several variations of red under his gaze. I have to ask the ladies twice what they want to order because I can’t hear over the heavy whooshing of my pulse in my ears.
Throughout the rest of the evening it’s the same—almost becoming a game. I smile at the few customers and deliver their food, occasionally locking eyes with Z. His smile is soft as he leans on his elbow, watching me. The only time his smile fades is when I stop to chat with a couple of good-looking guys wearing University of Richmond T-shirts. I would normally never act flirtatious like this—not with Z, and not with these guys, as nice as they are. That’s abandoning my comfort zone for Sam’s. But he’s scowling now, and his expression propels me into easy laughter, almost like flirting is second nature for me. Considering his asshole move from earlier, this is strangely satisfying. Scowl away, Z.
