Lost in Cyberspace

by Richard Peck

  “Like you’re fine-tuning yourself, right?” I said to him. “Like you could be time-warped into another age, right?”

  “I’m in early stages with it,” Aaron said. “And remember, generally speaking, technology is way behind concept.

  “And remember this too, Josh.” He stared across the table at me like a red-headed owl. “Artificial intelligence is the buzzword of the age and the wave of the future. But the human brain is the ultimate computer.”

  All this talk about time and distance reminded me of Fenella for some reason.

  “We’re getting an 0 Pear.”

  Aaron pushed back his tray and ran a hand through his hair. Being carrot-red, it suits a vegetarian.

  “Tell me about it, Josh.” Sometimes he sounds like a guidance counselor.

  I hadn’t meant to tell him a thing. I hadn’t even mentioned that my mom and dad were separated. Dad had only been gone three months and a week, and usually called Sunday nights. I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning it to anybody. I didn’t even like mentioning it to myself.

  “Your mom’s getting some help around the house now your dad’s left and she’s going back to work at Barnes Ogleby?”

  I stared. “Aaron, how do you know my dad’s—not around? How do you have access to all this personal data about my family?”

  “Vince. The doorman. Day shift. Doormen know it all. Who’s there. Who’s not. What we eat, because they see the grocery deliveries. Your mom’s not having the groceries delivered anymore. She’s cutting down expenses by carrying them home. Doormen read our mail.”

  “They read our mail?”

  “The envelopes. How else could they sort them? Your dad’s writing from a 60611 zip code. Chicago, right? You people ought to get E-mail.”

  “It’s just a trial separation,” I said, though I wasn’t too sure about that. Maybe I should ask Vince.

  “Is it a French au pair or a German one?” Aaron asked. “Because they’ll try to teach you the language. Bonjour, mes enfants; Guten Tag,Kinder—that kind of thing.”

  “English,” I said, “but our apartment is filling up with women.”

  I didn’t have to say I wanted Dad back. Aaron could figure that out. His dad and mom are together. But his mom is his dad’s third wife, so you never know.

  The field trip shot the day. We only went back to Huckley to catch our buses home. Mom was already there when I came in.

  “I got the job,” she said. She was in jeans and a sweatshirt, clearing everything out of Dad’s old den. He hadn’t taken much but his computer and fax. I thought that was a good sign. But now Mom was sweeping clean. She was dusting Dad’s empty shelves.

  “What a long face,” she said, fingering my chin. “It’s just for now, Josh. Really. I’m tidying things away so we can put Fenella in here. We’ve always used it as a guest room anyway. Think of Fenella as a—helpful guest. She’ll be good for Heather. Heather needs a ... role model.”

  So Fenella was nearer than I knew.

  I dreamed that night, big-time and nonstop. It was about Aaron and me at the Natural History Museum. It was us, but it wasn’t exactly the museum. It was actual Mesozoic times. We weren’t wearing anything except blue-and-white Huckley ties, which is typical of my dreams. As we trudged along through the swamp, mud and twigs seeped between our toes.

  “Primeval ooze,” the dream Aaron said.

  Volcanoes were erupting in the distance. Some really scary things were flying around on webbed wings. All my dreams are colorized. Aaron was eating a carrot. When he clutched my dream arm, we took cover under a plant with giant leaves.

  A huge, long-necked, small-headed shadow fell over us. It blotted out the sky. Aaron and I grabbed each other. The leaf we were hiding under turned transparent. And this dinosaur spotted us. Its head wasn’t so small anymore. A snaky neck coiled, and it was coming down at us, and it was all teeth.

  “Tyrannosaurus Regina,” Aaron whispered. “Cretaceous period. Meat-eater.”

  Now its eyes were zeroing in on me. And its face was changing. Now it was half-human with big brown eyes.

  “My name is Fenella,” it said. “Think of me as a helpful guest.” Then its jaws opened wide.

  That was enough to knock me out of bed. I fought my way up toward being awake. It’s a long way from the Mesozoic Era. But I was nearly there. I could feel the sheet twisted under me. And I had on my pajamas, which is more than I was wearing in the dream.

  I wasn’t alone, though. Somehow Heather had horned in on my dream. But I was moving faster than she was. Her shoes were slowing her down.

  3

  The Club Scene

  “Let’s put our best feet forward,” Mom said. She’d rounded up Heather and me to meet Fenella at the airport. She even hinted we might wear our school clothes.

  “No way,” Heather said. “We’re only inmates during the day.” She wanted to stay home because she said Camilla Van Allen might call. Heather says Camilla Van Allen is her best friend. But we hadn’t seen anything of her.

  “She’ll leave a message for you on the machine,” Mom told Heather. “If she calls.”

  Heather looked sulky in her parachute silk puffy jacket, jeans, and her biggest shoes. I wore the Bulls warm-up jacket Dad sent me from Chicago after one of the Sunday nights when he didn’t call. We cabbed out to JFK Airport in the middle of the evening rush. Then Fenella’s flight was two hours late because snow was blowing. Only one runway was open.

  That gave Mom time to run over the Au Pair Exchange printout. Fenella was seventeen, a recent “school leaver,” whose interests includedreading

  field hockey

  gardening

  needlework

  flower-arranging

  and gourmet cooking

  Her career aspirations were in the areas ofteaching

  editing children’s books

  or interior design

  Halfway through the printout Heather wandered off to browse the airport arcade shops.

  There was a fuzzy Xerox picture of Fenella in a school uniform and straw hat. It didn’t look too recent and could have been anybody.

  The contract said Fenella could be expected to “assist with light household work, food preparation, and child care, no more than twenty hours a week, with opportunities for extended travel experience in the United States.” She had a right to her own room.

  “Do we pay her, or does she pay us?”

  “We pay her,” Mom said.

  Heather came back and said, “Let’s eat.” We went to the Skyteria until they announced that the London plane was on the ground.

  Passengers came pouring out through the Customs doors, pushing their luggage on carts. Mom kept the picture handy and was watching everybody. “Let’s be very careful about our speech patterns,” she said. “English people speak so beautifully.”

  I lost count after a hundred and eighty people. Aaron would have had his calculator with him. “Maybe she’s not coming,” Heather said, perking up. The waiting crowd was pretty much just us by now. Most of the people coming out were flight attendants. “When we see the pilot,” Heather said, “let’s leave.”

  Then the door banged open, and this girl appeared, dragging a giant laundry bag with tags. She was fairly giant herself, dressed in total, recycled black. Several layers over a black body stocking and big elf boots below.

  But what you really noticed was her face. It was a large pale moon with black lips, three nose rings, and a small spider tattooed on her right cheekbone. The hat on top was hard to miss too. It had a big floppy brim pinned back by a bunch of black plastic flowers.

  Heather blinked. “Beyond grunge,” she said.

  Mom was still looking for somebody to match the picture. But the girl came toward us, getting bigger and bigger. We weren’t hard to spot. We were the only people left.

  “Fenella here,” she said, gazing over our heads with big sleepy brown eyes.

  “Oh,” Mom said. “Oh. I’m ... Mrs. Lewis.”

 
; “I’m Josh,” I said, staggering back because Fenella had dropped her laundry bag on me.

  “I’m like amazed,” Heather said, staring.

  The snow was blowing out to sea, and the air was crisp and clear. You get a great look at Manhattan on a night like that: all the twinkling towers and the chains of lights on the bridges. Mom wanted to show Fenella the view. But she slept through it. She was zonked right to our door. We had to wake her up to get out of the cab.

  “Jet lag,” Mom said in a hushed voice. “It’s just temporary. But I wonder if that spider is permanent.”

  Then Fenella dozed off in the elevator, slumped against the wall with her hat tipped down to her nose rings. She snored.

  She slept for nineteen hours. By then it was Saturday evening. Mom was getting nervous. For one thing, she was going out that night. Behind a door, I heard her and Heather.

  “It’s not a date,” Mom was saying. “Stop calling it a date. It’s dinner and the theater with Mr. Ogleby, Jr. It’s business. He’s head of the accounting department, and he’s welcoming me into the firm. He’s just showing me professional courtesy. Should I wear my drop earrings, or are they too much?”

  “It’s a date,” Heather said when she caught me listening outside the door. “Mom’s dating again. We better get Fenella on her feet or Mom won’t leave. She’ll cancel Mr. Ogleby, Jr., and stay home with us. She’ll want to pop popcorn and rerun Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.”

  We cracked the door of Dad’s den. The sofa folds out into a bed. There was a large lump in the middle of it. Fenella’s hat was on Dad’s desk, covering most of it.

  “Hey, Fenella,” Heather said. The lump moved. “It’s like a whole different day. In fact, it’s night again. Get up.”

  Fenella seemed to be on her hands and knees now, shaking her head. “Crikey,” she said, or something like that.

  Mom was dressed in her best and beginning to pace when Fenella came into the living room. She filled up the whole door. She’d taken off some of her black layers and left on the rest. We hadn’t caught a good look at her with her hat off before. Hair sprang up like a stiff mop all around her head, and it was between maroon and purple. On her right cheekbone was a small human skull with a dagger through its eye socket. So the spider wasn’t permanent.

  “Oh,” Mom said. “Feeling rested?”

  “Feelin’ like I just been jumped by a bunch of skin-heads,” Fenella said. “Feelin’ like I was just kicked in the—”

  The buzzer rang, and it was Mr. Ogleby, Jr. Mom had to go. “Maybe I should call when we get to the theater,” she said at the door. She didn’t feel any too good about leaving us.

  “It’s cool, Mom,” Heather said. “We’ll 0 Pear Fenella. She’ll be fine.” Then Heather gave me a look which she usually doesn’t do.

  After that we showed Fenella the kitchen. She stood in front of the refrigerator, making a few selections.

  “Do you want to do some gourmet cooking?” Heather inquired, testing her.

  “Some wot?” Fenella said. “You got Big Macs in this country yet?”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if Fenella had wanted to call it a day and go back to bed. She didn’t move fast even in her thinking. And I’ll tell you this. She never did figure out what our names were. We followed as she roamed around the apartment, ending up at the living room windows. “Oy,” she said or something like that. “It’s night.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Heather said.

  “So let’s go,” Fenella said, beginning to stir.

  Heather blinked. We’re talking New York here, so we don’t go out at night a lot. On the other hand, Heather began to see some possibilities. Anyway, maybe Fenella would be protection enough.

  “Like where?” Heather said carefully.

  “Like outta here is flippin’ where,” Fenella said. “Clubs and such.”

  “Clubs?” Heather had heard of them, but didn’t know where they were.

  “Clubs, raves, venues,” Fenella said. She was waking up now. “I got some addresses. Downtown.”

  To us, downtown is anywhere south of Saks, and we don’t go there. A strange, eager look came over Heather’s face. “I don’t think Josh can get in,” she said, still carefully. “Of course, we could leave him at home.”

  “You couldn’t get in like that.” Fenella looked down at Heather in her peach cableknit cardigan and then at me in my Bulls warm-up jacket, which I’m always wearing when I’m not wearing something else.

  “You, Tiny Tim,” Fenella said to me. “You got a school uniform? Coat and tie, something like that?” I nodded. “Go put it on. They’ll think you’re a midget.” This could have been Fenella’s little joke. But I didn’t want to get left behind, so I went to change. Fenella pointed Heather to her room and followed her in.

  In fifteen minutes the three of us were out in the hall, waiting for the elevator. I was in blazer and Huckley tie.

  Fenella didn’t look too different. She had her hat on, a major statement. She’d freshened the black on her lips and added a ring or two to her nose. From her laundry bag she’d come up with a long black cape. She looked like a cross between a vampire and a graduating senior.

  Underneath, she had on a really micro-skirt, also black, with fishnet stockings. The stockings had holes in them with a lot of Fenella showing through.

  But Heather was the center of attention, which she likes. Fenella had done her over. In fact, Heather had on Fenella’s face. Her lips were coal-black. Fenella had even drawn in nose rings with her eyebrow pencil, along with a small coiled rattlesnake with fangs on Heather’s cheek. Heather’s hair is pale and preppy. But Fenella had wrapped it in a black scarf, turban-style. Heather’s skirt was amazing. It wasn’t any wider than a scarf itself. In this light it looked like shiny black leather.

  “It’s a plastic garbage bag folded and pinned behind,” Heather whispered. “Fenella’s a genius.”

  Heather wore her own panty hose, which she’d torn some serious holes in. She already had the right shoes. She looked like Minnie Mouse from Long Island, but older, which thrilled her.

  The elevator door opened, and a man and woman were inside. The woman saw us and screamed. The man jammed a button, and the door closed in our faces. We took the next elevator. But the man and woman had been the Zimmers, Aaron’s parents.

  “Wot come over them?” Fenella wondered. Then we were past the doorman and out on Fifth Avenue. “Which way’s downtown?” she asked, and we pointed her south. With her cape billowing behind her, Fenella was like a large pirate ship under full sail. There was a lot of space in that cape. I began to see how all three of us might get into a club.

  “It’s south of SoHo,” said Fenella, who was a little better organized than she seemed. “Do we hoof it or wot?”

  I had money, but didn’t know what a cab that far downtown would cost. So I aimed us left on 68th Street for the subway entrance.

  We rocketed downtown on a train. And I have to say there were some stranger sights on it than Heather and Fenella. Heather kept giving me looks with her new eyes, which had giant lashes painted in. She was pretty excited. We don’t do the subway and certainly not after dark.

  We got off way downtown in the warehouse district. But Fenella had a good sense of direction when it came to finding clubs. Finally we were walking along a dark street that was all stripped cars and fire escapes with icicles.

  Then we were walking past a line of people who seemed to be looking for a Halloween party. Half of them were on Rollerblades. You had punk and post-punk. You had important hair and totally shaved. You had prom dresses with leg warmers. You had more tattoos than a tractor pull. You had everything from biker boots to bikinis. You had stuff you can’t believe. At the front of the line two big guys were guarding a metal door.

  “Right, you two,” Fenella muttered to us, “under the cape and put a sock in it.”

  “Put a sock in what?” Heather asked.

  “Shut your gob,” Fenella explained. “Keep quiet
.”

  Suddenly I was sandwiched between Heather and the back part of Fenella under the cape. The world got even darker.

  Fenella had planned to talk us straight into the club, no waiting. But the big guys at the door were giving her static.

  “Aw right, aw right,” she said. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I come all the flippin’ way from Lunnun to get in this club. I get in all the Lunnun clubs. I’m a personal mate of Boy George. Wotcher mean, I’m too dressed down? ’Ere, stand aside, you miserable gits, or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  When she stamped her big elf boot, she nearly flattened one of my toes. My foot jerked back and caught Heather on the shin: one more hole for her panty hose.

  “A right pair of yobbos you lot are,” Fenella was telling the door guards. The cape flapped, and I realized she was putting up her fists.

  She was about to punch out two bodybuilders of gorilla size. By now Heather had both hands around my neck, holding on. We’d never have gotten in that club anyway, not with all those extra legs under the cape.

  Fenella was starting up the steps anyhow, fighting her way in. I tripped, but followed. Then the world shifted. Robo-hands slipped under Fenella’s armpits. She was suddenly off the ground. Her big legs windmilled in every direction. Then we all seemed to be airborne and peeling out of the cape.

  We hit frozen litter in the gutter between two stripped cars. A cheer went up from the waiting line of Halloweeners.

  The next thing I remember is limping down a side street, listening to what Fenella was calling the two bouncers. They were probably pretty bad words in England. “Prats” was one of them, and “wallies” was another. Heather was beginning to trail behind because of her shoes.

  No cab would pick us up, so we had to take the subway again.

  Since we hadn’t been out that long, I thought we might be home free. But Mom opened the door. She’d called from the theater, and her own voice answered her on the machine. She panicked and came home.