“And you’re the one who’s always telling me to be myself,” I say.
She sighs and looks at me with a thin mouth. “Sit down, honey.”
I bite my lip and take a spot in the armchair, curling my legs beneath me.
“Up until a month ago I hadn’t gone on a date since Dad.”
I blink my surprise. She’s been on dates in the last month I didn’t know about?
“They’ve come over here,” she explains, sensing my distress. “I haven’t hidden them from you, but you’re always buried in your computers.”
They?
“To be honest, I haven’t felt very womanly since I was diagnosed, and since your dad …”
“What? What did Dad do?” I ask. On the day they announced their separation, they had this huge fight over something. I have no idea over what and my mom has never trusted me enough to explain. Afterward, she collapsed into a major depression for a month, and I became the head of the family.
“This isn’t about what happened,” she says. “It’s about how good I feel now that I’m dating again.” She blushes even deeper and I’m stunned.
“You could have told me.”
She shakes her head a little. “Maybe it’s time you went on a few more dates yourself?”
Maybe I am more hurt than I let on, or maybe I’m jealous, but whatever the reason, anger burns through me. “Maybe if I wasn’t chained to the store, I could date.”
She holds my stare as my eyes water. For once, I wish we could have a conversation without laying on guilt. Her chin drops and she takes a deep breath.
“Okay, honey, I’ll try to work some more.”
I’m ashamed that I smashed her good mood into a billion fragments and don’t trust my voice not to crack. Instead, I nod and head to my bedroom. The label on my door reads Vice President Sales. I hate sales and I’m finding it really hard not to hate myself.
A storm is rolling in, and the whole building shakes with each round of thunder.
Chapter 4
<
Soon the world will end and you all will be let off the hook for your miserable lives #endoftheworld, Heckleena tweets.
Hairy adds his intellectual bit to the conversation: Prophets do not have a good track record when predicting the #endoftheworld. I’m standing at the bottom of the steps to my school, fingers dancing over the gorilla-glass surface of my iPhone as I hail the Twitterverse.
What should Paradise57 write? It shouldn’t be so hard to come up with ideas.
Good morning, he tweets, and I roll my eyes.
My school is sort of pretty. Red brick, built a hundred years ago for a couple hundred students. A thousand now attend, and the additions are matched to the heritage with a modern touch in the form of a big glass atrium. Unfortunately the expansion ate up most of the sports fields, but I’m not into athletics anyways. Last night’s storm has filled the air with a fresh-scrubbed scent and crisp energy.
As I stroll up the twenty steps to the entry, my heart climbs into my throat. Jonny’s reflected in the windows; he’s right behind me.
“Hey,” he says as he walks right past.
He’s in through the doors before I can respond.
My lip hurts. I didn’t realize I was biting it. Jonny and Jan. JJ. Ugh.
Jonny is cute, and now that I think about it, always doodling and sketching away at the back of the class. His shaggy hair hangs down in front of his eyes.
I’m suddenly very conscious that I chose to wear a skirt this morning. I hardly ever wear skirts or dresses, but here I am on the school steps, cold autumn air blowing over my thighs and through my thin sweater. I steel myself to follow and confront him about his hobby, but suddenly everything dissolves into a shrill whine.
“… break-in? It isn’t a break-in. This is totally more than a break-in.” Ellie Wise’s eyes are saucers; she’s waggling her phone at her chubby sidekick, Hannah, and looking—for the first time in my living memory—like she hasn’t stepped out of a salon. No makeup, frizzy hair—are those clothes even clean? I am desperate to take a picture and seriously wonder if we’ve entered an alternate world or exchanged brains today.
Ellie’s supposed to be on vacation. She’s not due back until tomorrow—not that I’m keeping track or anything.
“Everything is gone?” Hannah exclaims.
“Everything,” Ellie replies.
“That sucks,” I say, cutting into the conversation.
Ellie glances up at me, eyes bored. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says. “They took all our computers and televisions, furniture, clothes. Everything. They took the books off our shelves.”
“Audacious,” I reply. “That would have taken hours.”
“Yeah, our stupid neighbors actually spoke with the thieves, who told them they were movers.”
“Terrible,” Hannah says.
“Sick,” I add, a little impressed.
“Maybe you would understand,” Ellie says to me with her finger on her chin. “You know what it’s like to have nothing. It does suck.”
I bristle, but only part of me hates Ellie for these remarks. I tolerate her because she is “Tule”—read Tool—on Shadownet and I let everyone trash-talk her. She’s also handy for social reasons. I know she thinks we compete, but we were best friends in elementary school and so hang out with some of the same people. We have a history that ensures I can be with the “in” group, and I admit it I want this sometimes. Especially when a certain boy is around.
“Is that why you’re wearing those clothes?” Hannah asks Ellie. “Because all your nice ones are gone?”
And when Hannah says this, I laugh. Ellie’s jaw makes a cracking sound as it drops.
“They’re not bad—just rumpled,” Hannah continues as Ellie lets out an indignant huff and shoves past me. Hannah stays on the steps, looking pained. Ellie doesn’t handle insults well, and drawing attention to her ragged appearance isn’t smart.
I knew Ellie was on vacation; I had her father’s receipts for the flights. He dropped off her hard drive four months ago and from it rose: The Tule. It reminds me that Ellie now has a perfect excuse not to hand in her essay on time. Pretty and lucky. I hate her a little more. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be robbed and to lose Shadownet, though—like losing limbs.
#Endoftheworld is here—I’ve lost all my clothes, they even took my makeup, Tule tweets, and it makes me feel better.
Before heading to class, I call home to check in on my mom; she has good days and bad days. Today is a good day and that lifts my spirits too. The school is abuzz, but the bell rings and I don’t have a chance to talk to anyone to find what about.
Math test is a snap, and by the time lunch arrives, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Karl steps into the cafeteria, and I finish my bite, carefully scraping all the peanut butter off my teeth with my tongue. Karl may have a crappy name, but his muscles bulge in places that no other sixteen-year-old’s do. I’ve always been jealous of his relationship with Ellie; they’re not boyfriend-girlfriend, they’re closer than that. Like brother-sister, always looking out for one another. He’s staring at me with sea-colored eyes. My thoughts aren’t very sisterly. If he has a peanut allergy, I’m prepared to kill him in order for our lips to touch.
“Hey, Ellie.” He waves, and I realize he’s not looking at me, but through me. “Heard about the robbery.” His hair is so blonde it’s almost white. “Need another set of hands to clean up?”
I clear my mouth of the last of the peanut butter. “I’ll help too, Ellie, if you need someone.” I can’t believe I just offered to clean Ellie’s house, using time I don’t have, helping someone I’m not sure I like.
“Thanks anyways, Jan,” Ellie says, “
but I can’t pay anything.”
Back up, sister. This chick is always talking about how poor I am. I smile broadly. “I’ll wave my usual fee, just for you.”
“Then—?” Her smile widens as she looks to Karl. “Oh.” And with a smug look, she gives him a great, long hug and peck on the cheek of thanks. “Looks like I have all the help I need.”
Tool. Tool. Tool! I can think of worse words and I’m about to voice my opinion when someone screams: PIGS!
I duck before realizing that I’m not actually doing anything illegal.
Two police officers enter the cafeteria and stand before Harry Giannopoulos, a short junior with enough curly brown hair to make his head look like a mushroom cap. Harry also happens to be my Hairy on Shadownet. I can’t hear what the police say, but if Harry has the right to remain silent, he sure doesn’t use it.
“I didn’t post naked pictures,” Harry says, afro bobbing at the policeman’s shoulder. “I didn’t! I didn’t do it. She’s my girlfriend!”
It’s quite the show. Easily a hundred kids are gawking, standing on tables, many taking pics with their smartphones. I take one myself. I’ll let Heckleena have her say later. #Thingsthatwillnotlookgoodonthecollegeapplication.
Behind, I hear sobbing. Astrid, Harry’s girlfriend, slinks into the glass atrium held at the elbow by a female officer.
After Harry’s I didn’t do it does nothing, Harry shuts down, and we all follow him and Astrid into the atrium and down the steps of the school until they enter cruisers slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The way the boys are looking at Astrid curdles the contents of my stomach; I suddenly realize that half of them are trying to picture her naked.
“Show is over,” calls Principal Wolzowksi from the top step. But we all know it’s so not. “Off to class.”
If you’ve ever had a lockdown or something big happen at your school, you’ll know what happened next. Girls are crying … why, I’ll never know … guys are chattering and freaking out that they linked to the picture and wonder if they’re criminals. Suddenly I realize that tucked into my knapsack is my cut-and-paste masterpiece for English class. I sort of feel as if Harry is a good friend of mine since he’s part of the Shadownet. But the reality is I need to get out of class this afternoon and this looks like my chance. In the chaos of Wolzowski trying to herd everyone inside, I slip away.
Strangely, by the time the tires of my wreck of a car crunch over the parking lot of Assured Destruction, I do begin to worry. Two people who are on my network just had terrible things happen to them. Ellie had everything stolen, and Harry’s been grabbed by the police for posting child pornography. A coincidence? I shudder and the hair at the back of neck lifts like miniature antennae. The afternoon sun suddenly feels a little pale.
Chapter 5
“First Ellie, now Harry and Astrid,” I wonder aloud as I enter Assured Destruction, startling Fenwick. The notes of the Chris Isaak tune he’s been singing—Baby did a bad, bad thing—die off and he flushes.
I’m home early, and he is still at the cash.
Fenwick is one of those overeducated imports who can’t find a better job. I think he has a PhD in something from his former life in Estonia and speaks a dozen languages, but here he handles the register and lifts heavy objects. He’s good at that, with his neck like a tree trunk and these meaty hands which could snap my neck in a second. I feel guilty because I actually don’t know much about him even though he’s worked here for almost a year and he’s my mom’s only other employee. He shakes my hand—always shakes my hand—and it’s like gripping a bundle of sausages.
“You’re welcome, Fenwick!” I say after he thanks me for letting him off early. “You going home to a wife and kids now or out to find a bride?”
He pauses, face screwed up, and I realize I’ve insulted him. Maybe his wife and kids are stuck in Estonia? Maybe they’re dead. Maybe he killed them! Then his face splits into a grin as the translation registers.
“Not wife and kids. Other job.” He shrugs. “Maybe other time?”
Does he think I asked him out? I try to recall what I said and suspect something was lost. “All right then, have fun, hope your back is okay from that TV I left,” I say.
He shrugs again and sticks out his lips. He does this often, and I think it means don’t worry about it. In Italian it stands for whatsamatterforyou?
“I team kettlebell. National Champion 1996.”
I blink, itching for Wikipedia in order to look up kettlebell. Instead I nod vigorously until I’m distracted by the bell as a customer enters. Pizza, I think, seeing the suit and tie and a stack of IBM ThinkPad laptops.
As Fenwick leaves, I flash my best smile at the customer.
“Assured destruction?” I ask.
But he shakes his head. “Just recycled, please.”
“No confidential documents? Passwords? Medical information? Financial reports?” I add. “Nothing that you’d file under need to keep confidential or you’ll get sued?”
He pales and I smile inwardly.
“How much?”
“Fifteen dollars a hard drive.”
“To turn on your shredder?”
“We’ll give you a certificate. You’ll have done your due diligence.” This last bit always impresses the lawyers and financial types.
It earns me a raised eyebrow and a shake of a head. “Seems like something I can do with my sledgehammer.”
I suspect he doesn’t have one with him, so I just let silence extend between us.
Finally, he shrugs defeat and sets the laptops down on the counter. “Destruction, then.”
I smile and take the five pizzas. Then I write out the certificates so that he has them for his records and hand copies over.
The afternoon has started well so far, but a chill lingers in the cool warehouse. I wrap my arms around me. Five more hours until close.
“I’m going to order a pizza, okay, Mom?” I call, letting her know I’m home.
“No pineapple!” she calls back. She’s no fun.
I order the pizza, putting fruit on half, and set to work cracking open the laptops to pull the hard drives. Chop-chop is making spaghetti of them when the door chimes again. I figure it’s the pizza, but when I look up, a cop stares me down. I’ve had enough cops for one day. I shut Chop-chop off and return to the cash.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Rose?” the cop says. A pin on her uniform tells me she’s Constable Williams.
She looks Hispanic but speaks without an accent. I search for suspicious challenge in her brown eyes but find none. The officer straightens her shirt, which has ridden up on her bulky gear. What happens if you have big boobs and need to wear a Kevlar vest?
“That’s Ms. Rose,” I reply. “One second.” I turn. “Mom! Cop here to see you!”
My mom’s chair squeaks with each rotation of its wheels as she emerges from the back room. Between the mousy hair and the chair sounds, I sometimes see her as a little rodent. In a good, cute way. Evidently I take after my father.
“Yes, officer?” my mom asks, rolling up to the counter.
“Have you had Family Planning Clinic as a customer?” the cop demands.
“What regarding?” My mom frowns.
“I’m investigating the release of their client list. Are they a customer of yours?”
My mom shoots a look to me, but the bottom has dropped out of my blood pressure. I press my hands into the counter and try to remain upright. What’s going on here?
“I don’t know,” my mom says. “When would it have been?”
“About four months ago.” The police officer checks her notes and nods again.
My mind is grinding, four months ago … sure, okay, yes, I do remember. A man with three computers and a laptop. I flip back through four months of the certificates, which are
written in triplicate, and tear out three.
“Here you are!” I hold them up. “Certificates.” I fan them.
“What’s this about, officer?” my mom asks.
“Family Planning Clinic has reported the theft of confidential data. They said they recently upgraded their computers and had the old ones shredded. Here.”
“It’s an abortion clinic, isn’t it?” My mom claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I feel terrible for those women. This is dreadful.”
“We did shred them!” I wave the certificates. “Here’s proof. These are the certificates of assured destruction.”
I remember, though, the hard drive of the laptop wasn’t one of them. The man hadn’t paid for that to be shredded, and I’d taken a look through it before sending it out for recycling. Hadn’t I? Maybe I’d left it in the drive for a day first, but that shouldn’t matter. No one has access to Shadownet except me. Should I tell them about the laptop drive? It was just recycled, not even wiped. I totally remember the laptop because it had a big happy-face sticker on the lid. Our hands are clean.
“Can I have copies of those?” The officer asks.
I jog into the back and run the photocopier. I can barely breathe. Something is very wrong here and I’m beginning to see a pattern. Shivers rattle down my spine, and it’s all I can do to keep standing. Before I know it, I’ve run fifty copies too many, and guilt surges in me about the trees I’m killing. Tears well in my eyes and I clear them before heading back to hand the copies over.
After the officer departs, my mom doesn’t leave.
“They were destroyed, weren’t they, honey?” she asks.
I can see the disappointment in her eyes.
“Yes! The three computers from the clinic got spaghettified.” And it’s true, so why do I feel like I’m being hunted?
“All right,” she replies.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 3
