Zenobia July

by Lisa Bunker

  “Who are you?” They glared at each other. “You are so weird. It’s like, you’re not like a regular girl at all. It’s like, you’re putting on an act.”

  Zen felt tumbled over as though by a giant wave. Disaster. There was no good way forward. Was she about to speak? Her mouth opened, probably to say something she would regret saying for the rest of her life. And at that moment, Mr. Walker reentered the room.

  Zen felt herself lurch back into her body. The teacher’s return had instantly rewritten the rules of combat. She saw in Robert’s face that he thought the same. The showdown was going to have to happen—no avoiding it—but maybe not right now. Right now would be so terrible in so many ways. Robert’s eyes faltered. He glanced at the clock, then turned and bustled out of the room, making a show of heading to the bathroom before class.

  “Zen,” said Mr. Walker, looking at her expectantly. “Have you heard? We had another hack last night.”

  Straining as hard as she could toward a normal face and voice, she stammered, “Oh, y-yes? Um . . . okay?”

  “And this time, whoever it was changed all the passwords on the site, so we had a harder time shutting it down. The hack was up until about an hour ago. We had to contact the company.”

  Despite still reeling from the encounter with Robert, Zen felt a touch of interest. Not super-subtle, that, but a cute finesse. She could hardly say that out loud, though. Instead she said, “And the tracker?”

  “It worked. We got the IP address.”

  “May I see it?”

  Mr. Walker blinked at this. Maybe he had been expecting more of a pleased reaction? Looking for a little yay? Instead of this weird intensity.

  Zen watched as he pulled a file folder out of his briefcase. She stepped close. There was a yellow sticky note on the front of the folder with the distinctive dot-separated number clusters of an IP address written on it in neat pen. Mr. Walker looked down at it, then up again. Sounding hesitant, he said, “What good would that do? I mean, at this point, it’s for the authorities to handle, wouldn’t that be right?” And he moved the folder back toward the briefcase.

  “Yes, sir,” Zen said. In the five seconds it had been visible, she had memorized the sequence of numbers. To move him past the moment, she asked, “Was it more anti-Muslim memes?”

  “No. This time it was anti-transgender.”

  Zen staggered. A high buzz started in her ears. She opened her mouth. She had no idea what she was going to say. Words came out. “I know who the hacker is.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Robert.”

  “What? Robert? Robert Grant?” Upon these words, the boy himself, as if on cue, came back into the room. “Are you sure, Zenobia? That’s a very serious accusation.”

  Zen looked at the hated rival who had just said that her girlhood was an act. “I’m sure,” she said. “He’s the hacker. I have proof.”

  Robert gaped, eyes first puzzled, then switching over to blazing. Mr. Walker, looking troubled, said, “All right, then, I guess we need to go talk to some people. Robert? Would you please come with me? And, Zenobia, you had better come too.”

  It ended up being Robert in front, Mr. Walker in the middle, and Zen behind, walking three in a line down to the office. Zen kept her head down, to avoid the blaster eyes Robert kept shooting back, but also because of the whirlwind of feels buffeting inside her. She had big trouble now. Because, all the rage in the world, plus a strong feeling . . . Well, a few seconds ago, it had felt like certainty. So she had said what she had said. Including the part about proof.

  But, in fact, she had no proof at all.

  FORTY-ONE

  SITTING IN THE outer office, waiting for Aunt Lucy to show up, Zen squirmed. What do you do after you jump off a cliff? Not much else to do but fall. And wait to hit the bottom. One tiny bright spot—after saying what he had to say, Mr. Walker excused himself to return to teaching. So at least the one teacher she actually liked would only hear about her humiliation later, instead of witnessing it firsthand.

  After a stretch of time that seemed simultaneously too long and not nearly long enough, Aunt Lucy arrived. Thunder was brewing in her face. “What is this about, Zenobia?” she said.

  Zen could only work her mouth soundlessly and blush.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I . . . I can’t explain.”

  “Please try.”

  To Zen’s at least momentary relief, the receptionist cut in. “Excuse me,” he said. “Assistant Principal Bowen will see you now.”

  Assistant Principal Nettie Bowen (said the plaque on her desk) turned out to be a brisk, businesslike woman who seemed the sort to stand for no nonsense. While the two adults said courteous things, Zen scrunched herself into the farthest corner of the farthest chair. Aunt Lucy sat down in the next chair and said, “Now, will someone please tell me what this is about?”

  Ms. Bowen gave Zen a look combining pursed lips and raised eyebrows: Well? Zen blushed again and stared at the floor. Ms. Bowen said, “All right, then, I’ll say it. Someone has to. Zenobia has accused another student, Robert Grant, of being the person behind a couple of recent security breaches on the Monarch Middle School website. Mr. Walker, who teaches both children in first period, reports that she has said she has proof.”

  Here it was. The moment of impossible quandary. The moment of no good next moment. Assistant Principal Bowen turned to Zenobia again and said, “Zenobia, is this true?”

  Zenobia kept staring at the floor. Her face felt like a balloon full of hot blood, ready to burst.

  “Zenobia. You have made a serious accusation. Is it true, what you said?”

  A flare of sudden, desperate anger. “He had access to Mr. Walker’s laptop! He had worked on it before! He got mean when he heard about the tracker. The new memes are . . . um . . . never mind that part. But it’s obvious, he’s the only one who could have gotten the password.” Aunt Lucy put a hand on her shoulder, and Zen fell silent.

  Leaning forward in her chair, Ms. Bowen said, “Zenobia, please look at me.”

  Reluctantly, Zen brought her face up.

  Ms. Bowen said, “Sometimes, when we are angry, we say things we don’t mean.” Zen flushed hard red yet again. “And from what you said a moment ago, I can see how a person might suspect that Robert had something to do with what happened on the school’s website. But suspicion is one thing, and proof is another. So I’m going to ask you again: Do you in fact have proof that Robert Grant is the hacker?”

  Looong silence. Aunt Lucy’s hand squeezed Zen’s shoulder, but Zen couldn’t tell what it meant. The anger drained out of her. She slumped in her chair. At last, she mumbled, “No, ma’am.”

  Aunt Lucy’s hand went away, and inside, Zen plunged down toward blackness. The two adults were still talking, but she paid no attention. She had ruined her life, but at least the ordeal was over. She would just stop coming to school, and she would never have to deal with Robert ever again.

  Wrong. Robert was in the front office, with two people who could only be his parents, a man and a woman, both wearing business clothes and looking affronted. “That’s her,” Robert said when he saw Zen.

  The man stepped forward. Aunt Lucy stepped forward too, meeting him toe to toe. Neither offered a hand. In a loud, belligerent voice, the man said, “Are you this girl’s mother?”

  Aunt Lucy’s voice was quieter, but steely. “Her guardian.”

  “And she accused my son, Robert, of sabotaging the school website?”

  “Yes, she did.” Aunt Lucy took a breath to continue, but Mr. Grant rode over her.

  “Well then,” he said. “In that case, what I want to know now is, what sort of restitution is going to be made for this unjust accusation? Against my son? This . . . this slander?”

  “Restitution?”

  “This girl has made a public accusation against my s
on. She is liable for damages.”

  Still icily polite, Aunt Lucy said, “Excuse me. Not public.”

  “What?”

  “Respectfully, the accusation was not public. It was made in confidence to a teacher, and other than that teacher and Assistant Principal Bowen, we here are the only ones who know about it.”

  “That makes no difference. This is totally unacceptable.”

  “Also, before you interrupted me,” Aunt Lucy continued, “I was going to add that, under questioning just now, Zenobia retracted her accusation.”

  Zen couldn’t help glancing at Robert, seeing the instant victory sneer she expected. “Ha!” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you freak!”

  “That’s a laugh!” Zen snarled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you pathetic noob!”

  “Zenobia!” Aunt Lucy said, and Zen subsided, face burning.

  Robert’s father’s face was still heavy with anger. Aunt Lucy said in a steady, measured tone: “Mr. Grant, I suggest that if you take a moment to think about it, you’ll see that the matter is resolved.” Mrs. Grant put a hand on her husband’s arm, as if to say, Let’s just get out of here. “However,” Aunt Lucy continued, “if you feel compelled to lawyer up and press the point, you can rest assured that as Zen’s legal guardian, I am prepared to spare no expense in fighting back every inch of the way. And I do know some excellent attorneys.” Mr. Grant’s eyes wavered, just a little. Aunt Lucy’s voice was even softer as she added, “And if you do choose to proceed, I’d also suggest first making certain that Zenobia’s accusation was in fact unfounded. Just because she doesn’t have proof doesn’t mean she is wrong.”

  Robert turned white. Mr. Grant looked at his son, and for a second doubt was plain in the paternal face. The Grant parents exchanged a look, and then Mr. Grant said huffily, “I find that to be highly unlikely.” The force had gone out of his voice, though. And then the Grant parents harrumphed their way out the door, taking Robert with them.

  In the hall, Aunt Lucy steered Zen to an out-of-the-way bench. She said, “Zen, what got into you?”

  Zen shook her head. How could she possibly put into words the tangled ball of rage, hurt, and fear that still careened around inside her? “I’m sorry, Aunt Lucy,” she managed at last. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Yes, I’m mad at you,” said Aunt Lucy bluntly. Raised by an unpredictably explosive father, Zen quailed. She was startled by what Aunt Lucy said next. “But it’s all right. People can be mad at each other and still have it be okay.” They can? “And,” Aunt Lucy went on, “that’s not the strongest feeling I’m feeling. My strongest feeling right now is concern. You are under an enormous amount of pressure, and I’m not certain how to help you.”

  Zen gasped, so strong was the sudden uprush of feelings inside her. “Oh, but you are,” she said fervently. “You are helping so much. You and Aunt Phil both. I wouldn’t even be able to go to school or do anything except for how much you’ve helped me.” Aunt Lucy had a hand up to her mouth—an unusual move for her. “So, thank you. Thank you with all my heart.”

  Aunt Lucy was not nearly as touchy-lovey as Aunt Phil, but when Zen suddenly lurched forward and wrapped her arms around her, she squeezed back. “You’re welcome,” she said. They held each other for a few more seconds, disengaged. Aunt Lucy said, “Do you want to spend the rest of the day at home?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “All right, then. Let’s go home.”

  FORTY-TWO

  FRIDAY MORNING THERE was no way Zen was going into that first-period classroom, but once it was safely too late to have to figure out how to face Robert and Mr. Walker, she began to think maybe she could swing the rest of the day. After yesterday, how could things possibly get worse? So she asked Aunt Lucy to write her a tardy note, and went.

  Things got worse.

  It started toward the end of third period. Giggles in the back of the room. She sneaked a look and saw two heads bent over a phone. Ms. Owen particularly hated phones in class and barked a command. All heads turned, and Zen felt a hollow feeling in her stomach. The two laughing faces had both looked right at her. Kids she didn’t even know.

  In the hall after class, it seemed like every hand had a phone in it, and every face had a smirk on it. And were all eyes on her? She was so used to the squirmy feeling that they were, it was hard to separate this out. But as she approached the cafeteria, she grew more certain. Something was out there on all those little screens. Something about her.

  In a trance of building horror she robot-walked the food court. Her steps slowed as she approached the archway into the eating area. She took a deep breath and held it. This was going to suck so hard she would probably die. She rounded the corner.

  No doubt about it. Eyes everywhere. Sneaky, mocking, gleeful eyes. A gust of giggle moved around the room, flitting from table to table. Zen felt dizzy. She locked her gaze on the orphan misfits’ table. Only Clem was there. He looked at her with an expression full of pain and sympathy. Feeling like she might pass out, she robot-walked toward him.

  Suddenly a face rose up in front of her. A face with wire-frame glasses. She stopped. It was the boy Paul. He said, “I think your eyebrows are nice.” Which was, she supposed distantly, sweet of him. And brave, to say so in front of the mocking multitude. She gave him a blank nod and stepped around. So, something about eyebrows. What a surprise.

  As she sat down she heard the word caterpillars. She looked at Clem. “How bad is it?” she said.

  Clem looked miserable. “Bad.”

  “Who has it?”

  Clem just shook his head.

  “Everyone?”

  “Gone viral, pretty much.”

  Zen felt the room tilt. She clutched the table for support. “Show me.”

  Clem winced. “You don’t have to,” he said. “Why? You don’t have to look.”

  “Yes. Yes I do. I have to know.”

  Clem was not taking out his phone, so Zen took hers out instead. Access, search. And there it was.

  It was actually quite clever. Even in the depths of her life-ending mortification, she could see that it was clever.

  Someone had made a gif. It was a picture of her face. The second picture that girl Olive had taken, zoomed in so much it had a grainy look. Only a bit of her nose, her eyes, her eyebrows, and some of her hair in the frame. And someone had animated in little feelers and googly eyes on both eyebrows. The feelers twitched back and forth each time the gif played. The googly eyes googled, rolling around and back. Caterpillar eyebrows. So very clever.

  Zen took one last look around the room. Openly mocking faces now. Actual pointing and laughing. Her face, she sensed, must be bone white. But, really, in a way, she felt nothing. A sort of protective numbness had taken hold. If she could feel, it would kill her. So, the merciful numb.

  Zen stood up. She shook off Clem’s hand. Leaving her lunch tray on the table, she lifted her head high and started walking toward the exit doors. Not the ones back into the school. The ones with the metal grills in the windows and the alarmed crash bar that led outside. Laughter swelled. Zen was trembling. The tears pressed up behind her eyes. She began to walk faster. She would not cry in front of them. She refused to let them see that. She began to run. She hit the crash bar. The alarm blared, instant and deafening. A teacher voice shouted in surprise.

  The door scraped rustily open, and she was out into the cold air. Two teacher voices behind her now, calling query and alarm. She began to run. She rounded the corner to the front of the school. Footsteps behind, falling back. Big, lumbering someone, unable to keep up. No cars coming in either direction, so she angled across the street, still running. She cut back under the trees and into the park.

  It felt good to be running. She would go home. She would go into her room. She would lock the door. Whatever the Aunties might say or do wouldn’t ma
tter, because she was done. Nowhere left to go now but back to the only place she had ever felt truly safe and in control of her life and self. Back to the secret dark under-halls and haunts of Cyberlandium. Back where she knew herself best, powerful and free.

  As she approached the apartment house steps, her phone rang. Zen glanced at the screen. Aunt Lucy. She pulled up short. Right, she had barged out in the middle of the day. Of course the school had contacted her guardian. Zen stared at the phone in her hand, debating whether to answer. Just before it was about to go to voice mail she snarled a swear word and tapped the screen. “Aunt Lucy,” she said flatly.

  “Zenobia? Are you all right? I just got a call from the school.”

  Zen groped for a tale to tell, and then, finding none, decided to go with the truth, whatever the consequences. “I freaked out,” she said. “Some kids were teasing me, and all of a sudden I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left.”

  Silence on the other end of the line. Zen used her last shred of patience with other humans to restrain herself from saying more. At length Aunt Lucy said, “I see. But you’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just done with school for today.” More silence. “Okay? I’ll just go home?” Another pause. Zen made a final effort to at least sound like she was still playing by the rules. “And try again next week?”

  One last pause. Then Aunt Lucy said, “All right. Very well. I’ll call them back and tell them it’s okay.”

  Zen nodded curtly, once. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Knowing it was abrupt, but so needing to be done, Zen ended the call.

  FORTY-THREE

  THE APARTMENT WAS empty when she arrived. She slammed through to the bathroom, closed and locked the door, splashed her tear-blubbered face, then sat down on the toilet with her fingers knotted between her knees and worked to slow her breathing. She was hot from the run home, and presently it seemed to her that her self had a smell it hadn’t had before. Like boys standing too close in line.