I spit in the sink. Smear on purple lipstick. And run a brush through my hair.
Later tonight, I’ll go on Darkslinger to see if I have any replies to my how-to-hack-a-keyboard thread.
Downstairs, I smile at Trin, who moves with the grace of a dancer in pants stolen from some Persian prince, until his cool fingers are in my palm.
“Merci for the job, Janus.” His posture induces a bow from me and he laughs, flouncing a colorful scarf around his neck. I love him already.
“Here’s how you run the shredder, Trin,” Peter says. Chop-chop rumbles when Peter hits the big green button, demolishing a hard drive like a paper shredder chews paper. Trin claps and tosses in a second.
Before I head for the exit, I shut the office door firmly enough for Peter to get the picture. I’ll work on the accounting tonight.
Waiting at the exit for a few minutes, awkward because I simultaneously need Peter’s help and desperately want him to go away, I wonder where Jonny is? He’s late. I’ve already counted how many times I can cluck my tongue before needing to take another breath. My eyes drift back to my car and I shake my head—I’d forgotten. Jonny’s not coming. I grab the keys and the can of spray paint and then contemplate just how I will manage driving.
My ankle break was a bad one. And with my cast, I can’t bend my knee all the way. It’s my right leg, which means I need to use my left foot to drive.
No one said I couldn’t drive. No doctor took away my license. Something tells me it was an oversight. But … sometimes it’s better not to ask too many questions.
I sidle onto the bench seat and can just reach the gas with my left foot while my right is wedged up near the heater. Turning the key in the ignition, the beast sparks to life.
The car lurches as I test the weight required on the gas pedal. Tires spin in loose gravel and I skid to a stop. After a few tries, I ease the pedal down. We’re in business, shuttling down the avenue of our industrial complex at a slower than usual clip. The radio comes on, and after the first song I’m confused because there are no commercials, just some mixed tracks—Pitbull, Pink and *grin* Gangnam Style by PSY. The car is from the eighties and so is the radio. There’s no CD slot even, just a radio and a tape deck. I laugh, realizing what’s happened.
I push eject and out pops a tape. A mixed tape, labeled These start with P. Jonny has made me a mixed tape? My mom told me about how she used to do this when she was a teenager—every time she catches me pirating a track I just say: What? I’m making a mixed tape. Jonny’s awesome.
And, as I turn into the school parking lot, there he is—but Jonny’s talking to another girl. As my head swivels, I forget all about which foot I’m supposed to use for the gas and brake. My oversized cast hits the accelerator.
Everything bursts into clear, crisp, slow-mo HD. The rear tires shriek and students dive out of the way as the parking lot becomes my personal drag strip. Jonny is pointing and it’s not at me—it’s at the line of cars I’m racing toward.
Finally my mind shifts into gear. I remember my cast and slam my left foot on to the brake. One foot on the gas. The other the brake. Tires are smoking and the car is skidding sideways and jerking with my indecision.
Panicked, I can’t remember which foot is which and don’t want to make the mistake of taking my foot off the brake. The screeching tires ring in my ears and I can barely see for the gray haze billowing from the burning rubber. I see only one solution, and lift my left foot for a split second before hitting the emergency brake. The car heaves forward sending me deep into the seat before skidding out, sliding to park neatly beside a police car.
No one died.
Tufts of faux-tiger fluff stick to my sweaty hands. Smoke clears from the windshield but the acrid stench of tar lingers. Applause erupts. I roll down the window. Everyone is clapping. And it’s not the sarcastic sort of clap. It’s hooray for me, cheering. I turn up Gangnam Style and three cheerleaders start dancing. Even Ellie Wise is giving me the thumbs up.
After I turn the engine off and step out of the car, the decibels climb. For a moment, it feels … it feels wonderful, like I’m no longer an outsider. With a wave, a bow, and a curtsy, the clapping peters out and I crutch my way to school, thankful no one was hurt. Jonny’s nowhere in sight.
“You’re amazing,” says a freshman.
“Thanks!” calls a girl I’ve never even seen before.
Thanks—for what? The entertainment? The early cancer from the fumes I made her inhale?
“Nice one.” Karl pats me on the shoulder and I smile up at him, nearly to ruin the moment by stuttering something about swimsuits being banana hammocks, but he’s already up the stairs and doesn’t hear.
The sun shimmers from the glass atrium, and I don’t see Principal Wolzowski until we’re face to face. By his expression, you’d think I’d burned a crucifix in front of school.
“My foot got stuck,” I say.
“This has nothing to do with your stunt driving, Miss Rose. Follow me.”
He turns, hits the handicap button so that he doesn’t have to hold the door for me, and strides ahead to his office. That’s when I spot Jonny. He’s wearing a wistful smile and shaking his head. At least the girl he was talking to is nowhere near. My crutch shoves open the principal’s office door.
On the couch sits Officer Williams. Something in the straightness of her back tells me I won’t be able to count the meeting against my community service time.
This has nothing to do with the driving. The principal’s comment sinks in. Whatever I’ve done, it must be bad. No one merits that kind of cheering for something good.
Chapter 15
Hours of community service remaining: 1989
“Sit down.”
Why am I here? It can’t be because of cutting class. Is it Hannah? Oh my god, is she dead?
I slump next to Williams.
The two adults sigh and the room is silent. I wonder if I can beat my tongue-clucking record while I wait for someone to say something.
Wolzowski delivers an expectant stare and then rolls his eyes.
“This will not be tolerated,” he says.
I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, but he lifts his hand.
“No—” I try.
Williams squeezes my arm, and I wince.
“You are suspended for three days and you will explain to Mr. MacLean how you achieved it and how he can ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
So, whatever it is, it’s computer related if Chippy is involved.
“I—”
“I don’t see how you have anything to say, Miss Rose. You have made it entirely clear that you have no respect for authority. Mine, Detective Williams’s here, or anyone else’s. I had hoped you might respect your fellow students, but I’m done giving you credit.” He leans back, hands lifted from the desk. “I do have one question.”
I wait for it.
“Was it because of the D you received on your physics quiz?”
“I got a D in physics?” I say before I can think things through. “Oh, that test. How fair is it for me to have to take a test the same day I return?”
“So it was the D.” Wolzowski is nodding and then shaking his head as if he can’t come to a decision.
“What are you talking about? What is it you think I’ve done?” Tears sting my eyes. I’m dug in so deep. I’m not sure there is light above all of this. Whatever this is. Everything. The day I had planned collapses like so many dominoes. What’s worse, I’ve lost faith in myself. I probably am responsible for this nebulous crime. “I don’t have a clue.”
“And maybe you should think about that.” The principal leans forward as if challenging me. I turn to Detective Williams, who hesitates under the glare of the principal.
“I must have broken an act
ual law or you wouldn’t be here, Detective. What am I charged with?”
“Trespassing and vandalizing school property. Namely, hacking the school’s database.”
I rack my brain. Did I? I’ve certainly thought about it, but I was never sure how.
“But I didn’t.” Someone else can take the fall for a change.
Williams’s expression says don’t-make-this-worse-than-it-already-is.
“Prove it,” I say. I’ll take crap, but I don’t have to take crap I’m not responsible for.
“That is enough.” The principal stands, grabs his computer screen in both hands and turns it around to face me. Written across a pop-up is: Look at me, I’m an 3lite haX0R. In bright green letters.
When I see it, I know. “Swift Mercy,” I whisper.
I laugh and look around, but of course no one realizes why I’m laughing.
“Every mark in our database is now an A+. It is not funny.”
Hence the clapping of the students. I rub my fingers into my temples. I’ve been framed. Sw1ftM3rcy is brilliant and now added to my hit list.
“It will take the teachers days to repair the damage.”
“Will you press charges?” Detective Williams asks wearily. She’s tired of me, I realize. I’m too much trouble.
“If Janus cooperates and helps fix what she did, then no.”
“What I’ll do is prove it wasn’t me,” I say. “This is someone who’s making fun of me.”
“Jan, you were absent from class yesterday. You just admitted your frustration about the physics test, and you’re a hacker—” Williams counted the evidence off on her fingers. “Means, motive, and opportunity.”
They really believe I did this.
“No!” I shoot erect and my foot blares with pain. “I am not a hacker. I’m a script kiddie, all right? And I didn’t do this. I only wish I could.”
I hate Sw1ftM3rcy. It’s a strong acidic feeling that burns in my stomach. I want to expunge him. I want to unveil him. I want to stick a digital knife in his guts and spill his bits and bytes. And since I have Peter’s armor, I might just be able to do it.
“You deny all involvement,” Wolzowski states.
“It wasn’t me, and I can’t tell you who it was but I think I can prove it.”
“Until then, you’re suspended and will be retaking the entire semester.”
I shake my head, ready to storm out. “No. I’ve missed weeks of school, and my mom is piling on debt for me to be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Then I leave.
“Don’t come back to school tomorrow without proof, Miss Rose.” The principal’s voice trails after me. I’ve bought myself twenty-four hours.
After English, I’m feeling a bit lobotomized. Under the eye of Chippy, who refuses to let me on the computer without being present, I login to Darkslinger and set up yet another profile, Blackcat58 and send a PM to Sw1ftM3rcy.
Thanks a lot. Now I’m suspended. You’re such a jerk.
Hopefully it’s enough to smoke him out. That he’ll reply with enough specific info to prove my innocence. Chippy grinds his teeth, and I hold up my hand for a fist bump.
“Sorry,” I say under his baleful eye. “People are disrespecting me, and my frustration comes out in different ways.” But before I drop my hand, Chippy lifts his fist and knuckles mine. It’s a small thing, but the act lodges a knot in my throat. If Chippy’s willing to give me a chance then maybe I can fix this.
Jonny strolls past the computer lab doorway with one backpack strap over a shoulder.
“Jonny,” I call, but he doesn’t stop. “Gotta run,” I tell Chippy. “Thanks.”
A canvas pack turns the hall corner, and I huff after it like I’m in a three-legged race. Knocking into a kid, I roll to the left as his binders go flying, tripping another student with a wild swipe of a crutch. I pass Hannah, who dodges me and runs down the hall faster than a baby Grizzly bear—I need to talk to her too, but … the backpack has cleared the glass atrium. I’m sweating already and decide I can catch Hannah later. Jonny on the other hand is likely headed to the graffiti wall—no cars allowed.
I open the door to outside with a crutch. Frigid air rolls over my naked arms.
“Jonny—” I am so out of breath, his name emerges as a croak. Bent over his bike, he’s wrestling with the chain. I crutch down the steps, using gravity to speed my descent and—sometimes I don’t know what gets into me—two steps shy of the bottom, I launch, hit his thigh with my shoulder, sending him sprawling and me over top.
“Agh!” he yells in pain and surprise.
Having landed with my face at his stomach, there’s a moment of grappling while I crawl up to be level with his lips. And then my tongue is down his throat.
Seriously, this is my plan—I need to make up for lost time and I pin his shoulders and start kissing him; tongues entwined, I barely let him breathe. For good measure I put his hand on my breast. I pull back to draw a deep breath and he starts laughing. Clearly, I’ve made another mistake.
I roll off and he’s got a stupid grin on his face.
“What was that for?”
“Just letting you know I’m still here, and I wanted to give your sunshine back.” The can of yellow spray paint drops in his lap. “Happy painting.”
Gone is the suspicious squint from his eyes, replaced by a dull glaze. Maybe this could work. Let boys have a little action and they turn into puppies? I know being a good girlfriend or boyfriend is more than this but, as a temporary measure, it appears to have merit. Time to be a good friend. I need to talk to Hannah. Did I really just think of her as a friend?
After making Jonny help me off the ground, I track Hannah all day, but never find her alone. Whenever I see her, she shuffles over to another friend and starts giggling like an idiot. Why am I working so hard to help her? Because I know that sometimes I avoid things when I’m in real trouble. And the greater my effort to avoid the issue, the greater the trouble I’m in. Finally, I catch a break.
Thirty minutes before the bell rings, I spot Hannah. She’s slouched in one corner of the atrium, shoving workbooks into her backpack. There’s no escaping me. Trouble is, Wolzowski’s over at the other wall and I can’t afford to make a scene.
I’m a lame hyena hunting the stray animal in the herd, and when Hannah glances up, her eyes are like those of some African deer, rolling and full of the knowledge it’s caught. She flails, stuffing and bending duo-tangs.
“Hannah,” I say.
She freezes. Every muscle on her frame flexed.
“Yes.” The tone is tight; the word spoken through clenched teeth. “What do you want?” The zipper on the pack splits as she forces it closed.
I check over my shoulder. Wolzowski has his head bent to Ellie Wise.
When I turn back, Hannah’s moving toward the doors. On crutches, I can’t block her escape.
“Why don’t you want my help anymore?” I demand.
“This isn’t about you,” she says. But I can’t see her face. If I could see her face, I’d be able to tell if she was lying when she answers.
“I didn’t mean …”
A boy carrying a castle on a square of plywood tries to fit through the exit ahead of her, giving me time.
“Listen, leave me alone,” Hannah says. “I fixed it, okay?”
Her voice rises, and the principal and class president squint our way. It’s the okay? that offers an opening.
“How’d you fix it?” I ask, lowering my tone. “Because I didn’t think he’d just go away. I don’t believe this guy will stop. He’s dangerous. Are you meeting him today?”
The door is clear.
“Leave me alone,” she says. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m ready. I wish I never told you.” Then she turns to address the
principal, who strides toward us. “She’s harassing me, Mr. Wolzowski, calling me fat.”
As I jaw at the principal, unable to speak, Hannah flees.
“I … totally … did not!” I manage.
“Tomorrow, Janus Rose. It’s a big day for you.” The principal shakes his head after Hannah and throws up his hands before stomping off, trailed by Ellie.
He has no idea.
Maybe I’m not the hyena, maybe I’m the lame deer, separated and easy prey. But the more Hannah avoids me, the more I believe something is wrong.
I’m ready. Hannah had said. Ready for what? I’m sure she’s planning on meeting creep. I have to help her.
I join the herd of departing students to track Hannah.
Chapter 16
Hours of community service remaining: 1989 …
<
@GumpsSays Tell that to Hannah, JanusFlyTrap replies.
I avoid all of you, not because you’re evil but because you’re boring, Heckleena adds her two bits.
Hannah is on the street corner, waiting for a break in traffic as I crutch to the parking lot and climb into my car. Through the windshield I’ll have a clear view of the street once my ancient car heater manages to defrost the glass. I keep my cast as far from the accelerator as possible. The mixed tape is playing a plethora of P–titled pieces.
Jonny raps on the driver side window and I jump, before powering it down.
“Shove over,” he says. Paint spackles his hands and jacket.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 25
