Double Digit

by Annabel Monaghan

  I watched Mr. Bennett walk back down the aisle, trying to catch his eye for some sort of clue that maybe I’d been Punk’d. I turned to look at John and got that same stupid shake of the head. This had to be a joke or a mistake—or maybe, most likely, I was having a nervous breakdown and imagining this whole thing. I mean, the kidnapping and then the whole almost-being-blown-up thing? It can take a toll.

  I turned to my parents and saw this: Mom was looking into a compact and applying a thin layer of lip gloss. Dad was looking at me, nearly expressionless. Not expressionless like disbelief or shock that is so extreme that you can’t muster up any expression. More expressionless like you’re watching the third hour in a row of NASCAR racing on TV.

  The only confirmation I had that this had actually happened was from Uncle Bob. “I can’t believe he just did that to us. I ate his bacon.”

  “If the defense would please call its first witness . . .”

  Uncle Bob was stunned for sure and didn’t seem like he was quite ready to proceed. The plan was that I was not to testify on my own behalf, because if the prosecution started asking me questions and I seemed too knowledgeable about these things, I might freak out the judge. My job was to sit there in my nice navy dress and look young and unthreatening. Mr. Bennett had taken the whole concept of my being unthreatening with him when he left.

  “The defense calls Isabella Clarke to the stand.” Clarke walked up to the witness stand in her now signature FREE DIGIT T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Uncle Bob had suggested that she remove some of her piercings for the trial. Her face on that witness stand indicated that she did not hear that suggestion.

  “Miss Clarke, please tell the court how you know Miss Higgins.”

  “Digit lives on my hall at MIT. She is a hero and a patriot. She is the voice of hackers everywhere who want to show the world its weaknesses. Just because you are all embarrassed that she could get into the DOD doesn’t mean she needs to be treated like a hardened criminal. I say you end this thing right now, go back to Washington, and build a monument to her . . .”

  Established so far: Dangerous girl has crazy friend. This trial wasn’t going quite my way.

  Uncle Bob knew when to cut his losses. “Thank you, Miss Clarke. You are excused. The defense calls its final witness, Mr. Sebastian Taylor, to the stand.”

  Bass was sworn in and sat down. He looked unusually agitated.

  “Before we begin, Mr. Taylor, are you a hacker?”

  “I am not.”

  “Good.” There were chuckles in the courtroom, which I found a tad bit insensitive.

  “Would you please tell the court how you know my client?”

  “I am her RA, residential adviser, on her hall in McKinsey at MIT.”

  “Would you consider her a threat to society?”

  “No.”

  “Would you please share with the court what you know of her character?”

  “Her character? This whole thing is crazy! Do any of you people have televisions? She saved my life yesterday. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Objection!” the prosecutor shouted.

  “If you would please stick to her personal traits and qualities,” Uncle Bob reminded him.

  “Fine. My dog loves her. She can’t dance. She looks away from you when she’s about to say something she means. And she only looks at you if you’re talking to someone else. She doesn’t mind silence, but she’ll open up to you if you’re on a walk. Sure, she’s a genius. But not this threatening genius she’s being made out to be. More than anything, she wants to fix things. Make them better.”

  He stopped talking, like maybe he couldn’t believe he’d said so much.

  “So you would vouch for her character?”

  “Of course. This is ridiculous. I’d do anything for her.”

  Bass looked at me, no smile. I smiled a thank-you. I saw him look to the back of the courtroom. I turned around and saw John leaning back in his seat, arms crossed and eyebrows all the way up. Really? You’re pissed that this guy’s my friend? Can we talk about your dad for a sec?

  I looked away from both of them. I had bigger problems for sure because just then Uncle Bob announced, “The defense rests.”

  The court went into recess so that the judge could decide my fate. My dad hugged me. “It’s going to be okay.” Would everybody please stop saying that?

  “Dad, how could it possibly be okay? I was pretty sure I was going to jail already. But how could Mr. Bennett have done that to me?”

  “He was just doing his job, honey.” Et tu, Daddy?

  Bass was waiting behind my dad. “Hey.”

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “You’ve been completely screwed over.”

  “Feels like it.”

  “Where’d the boyfriend go anyway?” Bass was angry. And that made him seem like the only sane person in the room. I looked around the crowd, and John was gone.

  I said, “He wouldn’t leave. Nothing’s making sense to me right now.” Bass hugged me. I started to cry. “I really feel like I’m going crazy.”

  Bass turned my face up to his. “Listen, you’re probably going to jail, probably for not that long. And I’m going to come visit you. And I’ll bring research for you to read. I’ll bring Buddy if they’ll let me. He’s going to miss you.”

  Judge Horowitz banged his gavel. “Welcome back to the speed-dating version of the criminal justice system . . .” Chuckles all around. What? “This case has been quite literally open and shut, and the penalty seems quite straightforward as well. I hereby sentence Miss Farrah Higgins to three months in minimum security prison in Duluth, Minnesota. Miss Higgins, if you would please go with the bailiff . . .”

  I stood up and hugged Uncle Bob. “Three months is not the end of the world, Digit. You’ll be back at school before spring break.” Ever heard the expression “Easy for you to say”?

  I hugged my unsurprised parents. “What’s with you guys?”

  My mom said, “Henry told us it would be about three months. We were expecting this. Just three months, darling, and you’ll be back at school.” She snapped her fingers to show me just how fast three months’ incarceration can seem. Hello, I’m going to jail now.

  Dad was a little more earnest. “Honey, you are going to be fine. I know it. I promise. And I am very, very proud of you. You have no idea.”

  MY CHILD WAS INMATE OF THE MONTH AT THE COUNTY JAIL

  WHEN THEY PUT ME IN THE van to take me to the airport, there were a few things I was wondering in the back of my mind: Why are they going to the trouble to fly me somewhere? Isn’t there a suitable prison within driving distance? Why do they never show this part of the process on TV? Usually the perp (now felon) just leaves the courtroom, looking over his shoulder. After the commercial, he’s behind bars. I was in some sort of criminal justice purgatory that I wasn’t familiar with.

  In the front of my mind, I was wondering: What sort of food do they serve in jail for Thanksgiving? When are they going to give me my orange jumpsuit, before the flight or after? Will I have to sit in the cargo area like in Con Air? Is John really letting me go to jail without saying goodbye to me? What was that kiss about? Could this be because he thinks there’s something going on with Bass? Is there something going on with Bass? Let’s face it. I was a girl who could use three months in a jumpsuit just to sort things through.

  We drove out of Cambridge and into a more rural area. I saw a small airport building, a landing strip, and a few airplane hangars. Am I too dangerous to take to Logan Airport now that I’m a threat to national security? I was starting to get mad all over again when we stopped outside of an airplane hangar. The driver came around to let me out of the van, like a limo driver would, except he had to since these doors did not open from the inside.

  He led me to the door of the hangar and said, “Please wait here.” Convicted felon here! You’re going to let me just hang out alone? How could I be a threat to the public and a low flight risk?

  And then the craziest
possible thing happened. He came back out, accompanied by Mr. Bennett, John, and the director of the CIA.

  My mouth dropped open and a machine-gun fire of questions came out, at all of them and no one in particular. “What’s going on? How could you have said those things about me? How could you have been saying you were tracking me to protect me when you were tracking me to arrest me? It’s called entrapment. I watch TV, I know! And you, how could you have left? How could you have let him do this? What the hell is going on here?”

  I wanted answers and I got silence, as they all kind of looked at each other to see who was going to start.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “I’ve heard.” Mr. Bennett gave me a little smirk.

  “Dad . . .” John managed to make the word last for two syllables.

  “Digit, remember when we were in my living room and you were going through Jonas Furnis’s bank statements with me? I knew then that the CIA needed you. More than science needs you, more than my love-struck son needs you. I also knew that you’d never come voluntarily. You have a sort of creative curiosity that would not naturally lead you to law enforcement. So I started tracking your laptop, in part to make sure you were okay, but also in the hope that you’d do something stupid that I could use as a bargaining tool.”

  “And you did. Something stupid, that is.” The director seemed to think he was helping.

  I turned to John. “And you knew about this?”

  “Not until Saturday.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, and we have a deal for you.”

  “Whatever it is, I’d rather go to jail.”

  Mr. Bennett softened. “I had to say those things in court because I had to make sure you got jail time. The judge had orders to give you exactly three months, but he refused to deliver the sentence unless I could convince the press that you were dangerous.” And I’m the criminal here? “We need you for one more job. The public thinks you’re in jail, but it will never turn up on your record. We just need you to come with us for three months.”

  “My parents are going to visit me in prison. Are the guards just going to tell them I’m in the shower?”

  “I ran this all by your dad in Virginia. They know. I think he’s secretly proud of how much you can help your country. And it’s only three months, maybe two. You’ll be back in school, and we’ll leave you alone.”

  I turned to John. “And you?”

  “I will not leave you alone.”

  “I mean, you’re buying into this insanity?”

  “Dad, Uncle Jim. Can we just have a second?” John pulled me to the side for the illusion of privacy.

  The director rolled his eyes. Mr. Bennett told him, “You’re going to have to get used to this. It’s nuts with these two.”

  “Digit, you were guilty anyway. And I’m not going to let you go to prison if I can help it. I’m working for the CIA now. And we really do need you on this. We can be together, like normal people, and then you can go back to school. And keeping you away from that RA for a few months is just a bonus.”

  I think I was supposed to say something here. Something like Oh, don’t be silly! Or Who? That guy? But I let it drop.

  “C’mon. It’s this or jail. And you’re going to love this project. It’s right up your alley. No bombs, just numbers. This is the sort of thing you were born for. Your destiny.”

  Mr. Bennett and the director were on us again. “What’s it going to be, Digit?”

  “I am so sick of you people acting like you know what my purpose in life is and telling me how I need to crack some code to stop some psycho. Is ‘I don’t want this’ impossible for you to understand? I will happily get back in that van and go to jail.”

  The director answered his phone and hung up quickly. “He wants to leave. Now.”

  “Who?” As I asked, a huge aircraft pulled out of the hangar and stopped a hundred feet from us. The door opened as a truck towed the access stairs over to it.

  John turned me to face him. “Just say yes, Digit. Please.”

  The director held an imaginary clipboard. “One and done, Digit. One and done.”

  Without answering, I started walking with them toward the plane. It said UNITED STATES OF AMERICA along the side and had a highly stylized symbol by the door, maybe the biggest bumper sticker I’ve ever seen. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, finally able to read it: SEAL OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

  I turned to John. “Is this Air Force One?”

  “Yep.”

  The director: “The president is waiting. Hustle up.”

  Mr. Bennett stood next to me as I looked up the stairs. “Come on. One job working for me, then I’ll be your pal or your mentor or your father-in-law. Whatever you want. But we need you. You just might learn something.”

  I thought of Danny. Go big or go home.

  John held his hand out to me as if to lead me up the steps. Steps? I need help with steps now? Maybe when we got onboard, he could help strap me into my booster seat and bring me a juice box. If I was going to go enlighten the president with my newly gained nano-knowledge and help the country with whatever numbers problem he had, I was going to do it on my own.

  Looking at John’s outstretched hand, I made my decision. I put my hands deep in my pockets and walked up the stairs to board the plane.

  Acknowledgments

  I can barely scratch the surface of my gratitude. Thank you to my agent, Helen Breitwieser, who has taken Digit places I never dreamed she’d go. A special thank-you to my editor Julia Richardson for her devotion to Danny and for reminding me about what ruined the magic of Sam and Diane. I’m starting a new book today, mainly because I like hanging out with you.

  Thank you to the people of Rye, New York, who generously offer their talents to others and, so frequently, to me. Just to name a few: Elaine Kaman Tibbals for photographing me, Jane Rosenstadt for explaining the legal mumbo jumbo, Lynn Halpern for getting the word out, Robin and Peter Jovanovich for keeping my pen moving, and Lee Woodruff for opening doors.

  Thank you to the very, very smart John Carls—Digit enthusiast, and mentor and friend.

  Thank you to my young (and just young-looking) readers: Gretel Dennis, Natalie Wilson, and Stefanie Wilson. Your insights are so good that I’m worried you may stop working for free. And to my peeps Tom, Dain, Tommy, and Quinn: Thanks for making me laugh every single day. You are behind every story that I tell.

  About the Author

  ANNABEL MONAGHAN is the author of A Girl Named Digit and the coauthor of Click! A Girl’s Guide to Getting What She Wants. She lives with her family in Rye, New York. Visit her website at www.annabelmonaghan.com.