Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  About a block away from Compass Bikes, I took my phone out of my bag, thinking I’d call my mom and tell her I was on my way home. But my battery was almost out again. And sure enough, a text buzzed in.

  WELL??????

  Another insistent buzz.

  WHERE IS THE BIKE?

  I typed furiously.

  No idea! Tell me why you want it.

  His reply:

  NOT YOUR CONCERN. JUST GET ME THE BIKE BY THURSDAY. NO MEDIA CONTACT, NO POLICE TIP-OFFS.

  MY EYES AND EARS ARE EVERYWHERE. WE CAN DESTROY YOU.

  Then the messages vanished.

  /////

  I TOOK the subway from Kendall to Harvard Square and went straight to the phone store.

  “My battery’s not holding a charge,” I explained to the technician. “And I’ve been getting some weird texts from an unknown sender. Can you trace them?”

  “That’s probably a job for the police,” said the tech. “But I can take a look, see what I can find.” He scrolled through. “What text messages? I don’t see any record of messages here.”

  “Yeah, that happens. They go away. Could someone be controlling my phone?”

  “Very possible. Someone could control it remotely and wipe data.”

  Wipe data. Like Juan Carlos’s phone number, which he’d typed into my phone the morning of Chain Reaction. And my half-finished text to him. And my exchanges with Darwin. All that was gone.

  No wonder Darwin thought I might have something to do with the missing bike. I’d implicated myself by texting Juan Carlos and mentioning the bike in the woods. And he probably took Juan Carlos’s number out of there so I couldn’t warn him with any more details.

  “Yeah, your phone’s infected with malware.” The tech made a clucking sound as he scrolled through a computer screen. “This model’s been particularly vulnerable to attacks. I see you’re still under warranty. Give me a half hour. I’ll wipe it, go back to factory settings, and install an antiviral for you.”

  I wandered outside to wait and strolled through Harvard Square, down JFK Street toward the Charles River. It was a relief to be free of the phone for now, even for thirty minutes. I could almost feel normal again. Almost, but not quite.

  Juan Carlos was dead. That was not normal.

  My thoughts veered back to this reality every few moments. I resented all the cheerful people—tourists, students, moms with kids—who went about their daily business as if the earth had not been jolted off its axis. As if a good guy had not left this world.

  I paused at a boutique, determined to distract myself even for a minute. I couldn’t walk around weeping all the time.

  A rack of sundresses caught my eye, especially a red dress at the front.

  “Looking for anything special?” a saleswoman asked.

  “Oh. Um. No, thanks.” I had no business doing something as frivolous as shopping. The last time I’d shopped for a new dress was for Jake’s prom. I’d bought that silvery, shimmery column dress and gone to that prom less than a month ago. How long ago that seemed. A happy night, even though my parents had thought we were broken up, and I’d had to lie and say I was at Sarita’s. Jake had actually danced. We hadn’t talked about the bike scandal all night. You’re a snowflake, he’d murmured into my neck as we swayed under hot lights on the dance floor. Don’t melt. Promise me. Don’t ever go anywhere.

  I won’t, I promised. Don’t go anywhere, either. Okay?

  He hadn’t answered. Of course he was going somewhere. College. Cycling again. And I’d be going places, too. Hopefully to study journalism. The whole conversation now seemed absurd, begging someone not to go. But a kind of enchantment had come over us that night—maybe from the dress—and being in his arms had felt right.

  “That one would look darling on you,” said the saleswoman, nodding at the red halter dress. “Want to try it on?” She took the hanger off the rack and danced the dress toward me.

  A soft breeze played at the skirt. Sunlight caught the beading around the neckline. This was not a dress for a high school prom night in New England. It was a dress for salsa dancing. A dress for flirting in the moonlight. In South America. Not here.

  “No, thanks. Just looking.” I walked down to the Charles River. Standing in the middle of my favorite footbridge, leaning over the railing, I took Mari’s Vuelta brochure out of my tote bag. The photos showed people biking through green and gold hills, snowcapped mountains rising up in the background. Couples strolled down cobblestone streets, past white and pastel-colored colonial buildings topped with red-tile roofs. Indigenous women with embroidered white blouses, long black braids, and layers of gold necklaces hugging their necks held out handwoven baskets, embroidered shirts, fruit. I drooled over cloud forest pictures, enormous blue butterflies, chocolate-brown rivers, and jungle vines. Banana plantations. A land of colors.

  I tore my gaze from the brochure and looked down the river at the buildings of Harvard, white spires rising out of red brick. I watched the joggers along the footpath, the scullers on the river, the summer school students with backpacks. Cambridge had been my world for as long as I could remember. Here, I’d thought I was marching down a straightforward path to success. But now my path was no longer sure.

  I looked at the brochure again, reading the words this time.

  Volunteer for Vuelta! Come to latitude zero, the middle of the world, and give your time and skills. Have the adventure of a lifetime! Contact: Wilson Jaramillo.

  An email address and a phone number for their Quito office followed.

  My breath caught in my throat. Was changing the direction of my life as easy as calling a number or emailing this guy? Could I go to Ecuador, like Mari, as a Vuelta volunteer? Even film for my vlog there? Could I ditch Darwin and those creepy texts, put some serious miles between me and that crash scene—not to mention Jake—and flee to the middle of the world? Maybe I’d free myself of this nightmare. I’d come back to a fresh start, having done some good in the world.

  Right. Like my parents would ever let me go. This Vuelta advertisement might as well have been a brochure to the moon. I folded up the paper and shoved it deep into my bag.

  /////

  BACK IN the phone store, the tech handed my cell to me between thumb and forefinger, as if its infection was catching. “Just as I suspected: loaded with malware. That’s what ran the battery down. You’ve got the best antiviral now, but a sophisticated hacker can get full remote access and subvert the antivirals.”

  “Oh my God. How did this happen to me?”

  The tech shrugged. “Hackers manage to stay ahead of us all the time. If you’re within a few feet of someone’s mobile device now, a hacker can install malware that pulls your data without even touching your phone.”

  “Could someone track down where I am?”

  “Oh, absolutely, if your phone is turned on,” said the tech. “Your phone has GPS activated. Listen, if you’re worried, tell your parents. And they should call the police.”

  I thanked him and turned off the phone before shoving it deep in my tote bag. What I really wanted to do was chuck it into the Charles River—but then I’d have to explain the loss to my parents, who paid for the phone. And throwing out the phone didn’t rid me of Darwin. I had no doubt he’d find more direct ways to stay in touch with me.

  Now I knew how Darwin had tracked down my house. I’d had my phone off at Compass Bikes to save the battery, so at least he hadn’t known I was there all day. But he had known I was at the ice-cream stand near Cabot yesterday. He could have seen my location on the phone and assumed I was eating ice cream, then worded his text as if he were watching, just to freak me out.

  If he could get into my phone and manipulate texts, and figure out where I was anytime that phone was on, I had no doubt he could follow through on his promise to wreck my mom’s business. And more.

  20
>
  DURING DINNER, much as I wanted to tell my parents about Darwin, I couldn’t. Instead, I gushed about my day of volunteer work at Compass Bikes and the idea I had for my vlog. My parents seemed intrigued. They even agreed to let me return to the shop in two days to help with the container load and film interviews with volunteers. It felt good to see their proud smiles again.

  After dinner, we turned on the living room TV and caught up on the latest news updates. The medical examiner spoke at a press conference. “Toxicology tests are in. Mr. Macias’s blood levels were normal,” she said. “Hematocrit level was normal. There is no evidence of ingesting any performance-enhancing substances, either legal or illegal.”

  No doping. That was good, right?

  “The cause of death was a brain hemorrhage, a result of the impact of the crash.”

  I buried my face in my hands and stifled a sob.

  His reputation was intact. Juan Carlos was riding clean. But the medical examiner had spelled out my worst fear. Impact. That was caused by me.

  “Why don’t you call a friend,” my mom suggested, putting her hand on my back. “Kylie and Sarita left you voice mail messages here all day. You didn’t lose your cell phone, did you?”

  I squirmed. “Um. No, I didn’t lose it.”

  “I drove by Kylie’s earlier and saw the Fingernail outside. I bet she’s home now if—”

  “Oh, no! Kylie!” I looked at my watch. “I have to go. I’m missing Beth’s birthday!”

  /////

  KYLIE OPENED the door. And scowled. “Nice. You missed it,” she said. “Rob and I are cleaning up. Mom’s spent. She’s lying down.”

  “Kylie. I’m so, so, so, so sorry. I was volunteering at this bike shop, and—”

  “You lost the time at a bike shop?” Kylie shook her head. “Wow. Again with the bikes. I hope you win the Tour de France someday, for all the time you’ve spent on this sport.”

  I handed her a bouquet of wildflowers I’d picked from my mom’s garden on the way over. “These are for your mom.” They suddenly looked pathetic, wilting.

  Kylie took them. “They’re crawling with aphids.” She handed them back to me.

  “I’m sorry. My mom’s sworn off plant sprays and she’s trying integrated pest management. The aphids won’t hurt anything. Can I come in and say hi to her?”

  She angled her body to block the door. “She’s resting now. Maybe another time.”

  “Right.” I sighed. “Was is it a good party anyway? Did she have fun?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was a real hootenanny.”

  “Kylie. I’m sorry. Like I said, I was at this bike shop. Get this. I talked to this girl mechanic named Mari, who I’d met at Chain Reaction. Turns out she knew Juan Carlos, and he volunteered in their bike shop a lot. And then I had to go to Harvard Square and have my phone—”

  Kylie held up a hand. “Stop. Okay? Just. Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Obsessing about this dead cyclist!”

  “He’s not just some dead cyclist. I knew the guy.”

  “Barely.”

  “We talked. More than a few times. He was always really nice to me.”

  “But you weren’t, like, friends. Or anything bigger. Right?”

  I hesitated. “Right.”

  She reached out and touched the gold chain. “You’re still wearing this thing?”

  “It’s a connection to him.”

  Kylie shook her head. “You’ve gone too far. You’re taking all the energy you put into Jake and transferring it to this guy. A dead guy. Which is the ultimate in not available.”

  “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I can see what you can’t see. What good are friends if we can’t keep each other on track? I don’t think what you’re doing is healthy. Somebody has to say it. Look. You have every opportunity to have a great summer. You have two healthy parents. I know your dad has that heart thing, and he just turned sixty. But he’s here. You’re not locked into taking care of someone who’s sick. You don’t have to drive anyone to chemo, or cook meals, or clean up those meals once they’ve been puked up all over the floor.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “Kylie. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize things were so bad, or that you and your brother had to do all that.”

  Kylie shrugged. “It is what it is. Anyway. You have real freedom, Tessa. You could be doing something great.”

  I bristled at that. “What’s not great about volunteering for a bike drive? That’s what I did today. And I was feeling pretty good about it, until I came over here.”

  “Volunteering there isn’t the whole story, and you know it. You’re spinning your wheels, hanging around this bike shop, chasing somebody’s ghost. You’re trying to solve his problems, which have nothing to do with you. And I’m worried about this Darwin guy. He’s harassing you, and he’s got the wrong person. It’s a mistaken identity case! Call the police. Let them deal.” Retching and coughing sounds erupted from somewhere inside the house. “Besides.” Kylie’s voice softened. “Juan Carlos is dead. He doesn’t need you. I need you.”

  I nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. I know I haven’t really been there for you, through all this. I’m going to try harder. I promise. But I wish you could support me, too.” I turned to go before she could see my face. I wished Kylie could understand how it wasn’t so easy to just call the cops. And how important this stolen bike was to me—not only because finding it would get Darwin off my back. My path was linked to Juan Carlos’s path. I’d swerved right into it.

  21

  THE NEXT morning I got up early to help my mom with those graduation proofs. I couldn’t stop thinking about the real proof I needed to be looking at. Proof of Juan Carlos’s stolen spare bike. Or at least a solid lead. Having to work for my mom all day today was a huge setback. But that was the deal my parents had offered. Start paying off the Chain Reaction debt today, and I could go back to Compass Bikes tomorrow. Tomorrow: the day Darwin needed me to deliver the bike. Or else.

  I started to twist my hair into the old sideways braid. Then I shook it out, brushed it, and let it hang straight over both shoulders. I slipped on a blue cardigan to cover up my arm bandage and put on a little makeup. I stepped back from the mirror. Not so bad.

  I beat my mom to the studio. I paused in the doorway, turning on the lights, illuminating all those photos of happy children and parents on the walls. It made me sick to my stomach to think Darwin was capable of destroying all this with the push of a button, the click of a mouse, sending a fake incriminating photo and a complaint to the local police. Even if nothing could be proved—because of course she didn’t do anything—the complaint alone would bring her down. People trusted her with their children. Nobody would go to a family portrait studio that had a hint of scandal, just like most sponsors wouldn’t back cycling teams that had any suspicion of drugs.

  I didn’t have much time to myself before my mom came to work. I went behind the screen she used to separate an area for portrait sittings. I set up my video camera on a tripod, then sat down opposite it, on a stool against a plain black screen. I hit RECORD using the remote control. I’d memorized the introduction I wrote out last night. The words came easily now.

  “Hi! Welcome to Volunteen, my brand-new vlog about young adults who are making a difference. I’m Tessa Taylor, and I’ll be your guide as we journey into all kinds of communities and meet some truly inspiring people. We’ll learn what’s at the heart of their volunteer work, whom it benefits, and how you, too, can get involved. Our first episode will take us to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and a unique shop called Compass Bikes, right near MIT. ‘Taking You Places’ is their slogan. And they aren’t kidding. A shipping container filled with four hundred donated bikes, and countless bike parts and gear, will be heading to Ecuador tomorrow. I’ll be helping them out, and giving you the inside story about thi
s awesome project. Along the way you’ll learn about a cyclist with a vision. Juan Carlos Macias-Léon, of Quito, Ecuador. Join us for the journey.”

  My mom was standing in the doorway.

  I hit the STOP button with the video camera’s remote.

  She clapped softly. “You look beautiful, honey. And you sound great.”

  “Is it okay? I’m going to upload it right now.”

  “It’s good,” my mom said. “But do you really think it’s on the same level as KidVision? Are your viewers going to find your vlog online, with all the other stuff that’s out there?”

  I sighed. “I don’t want to repeat KidVision. I’m trying something different now.”

  “Your dad and I were thinking we could have a meeting with Kristen . . .”

  “I don’t want to go back to KidVision, Mom. I want to be able to talk about whatever I want. To come up with my own ideas and write my own questions.”

  My mom stood for a moment longer, looking at me, then took a seat on a stool opposite me. “I think I understand why you want to do this vlog.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. Being your own boss? That’s freedom. That’s why I like my job so much. Most days anyway. I think the six-month-old I photographed yesterday afternoon was calling all the shots.” She laughed wryly. “Anyway. I knew when I was about your age that I wanted to do my own thing. Watching you do this vlog—wow. It brings it all back.”

  “Wait—you knew since you were my age you wanted to take pictures of kids?”

  She looked down. “No. I came into that later. What I really wanted to do? When I was your age, and into my twenties? I wanted to be out in the field. Working for human rights organizations, as a photographer.”

  I stared at her. “I thought you loved taking pictures of kids.”

  “I’ve come to love it. It has its rewards. It’s steady work—people seem to keep having babies. And it’s great to think I’m preserving memories for generations.” She gazed at a wall of framed baby and toddler portraits. “But to this day, for every well-off family’s kids I photograph, all those cuties in their little J.Crew outfits, I can’t help thinking of very different kids, all over the world, or even in our own city, who don’t have heirloom photographs. Or expensive clothes. Or even basic comforts. Those are the kids I thought I’d take pictures of. It’s their images I see when I look at that wall, like negative images. Ghosts. The photos not taken. They haunt me.”