“I can’t even remember the last time I parked in there.” She found the folder she was hunting and flicked through its papers, repeatedly wetting the edge of her thumb. “Imagine that. The luxury of parking a car in the one place for which it was actually intended.”
Scott grunted and slurped his cereal.
He was awake now, but it was a temple-boring wakefulness. After mining a tunnel through the garage last night and carrying his incriminating computer equipment, printouts, floppy disks, and Bell manuals to the rear storeroom, it was after two o’clock in the morning. He wasn’t even able to manage one last check of his bedroom to see if he had missed anything. Fully dressed, he collapsed into sleep, only to dream his door was being kicked in. The FBI always raided in the wee hours, went the rumor. So you couldn’t warn your hacker friends.
The microwave beep-beep-beeped at the same moment his mother patted the files down and snapped her briefcase closed. “All right,” she said, slinging the briefcase over her shoulder. “I put three dollars on the mantelpiece for your lunch. If there’s any change, I want it. Mr. Shine might come this afternoon to weed. Tell him I’ll have his check this weekend.”
She wrapped the steaming muffin in aluminum foil, took a bite from the end, and patted her short, dark hair.
“And wake your father before you leave.”
For the first time that morning, Scott became aware of the choked snores from the living room. After pizza last night, his father had fallen asleep on the couch, trying to watch his three rentals from Video World, action-comedies from the sounds of them. His volcanic laughter had erupted on and off until about a quarter to one, then ended abruptly.
“Yeah, all right,” Scott said to his mother.
But she’d already seized her thermos of Ultra Slim-Fast and was halfway to the front door.
~*~
The early morning, though dim, felt raw against Scott’s eyes. The front yard was empty, the street still. No swarm of black Crown Victorias parked helter-skelter over his lawn, which Scott had dreamed as well. He staggered down the street, his oversized backpack bearing mechanical pencils, a scientific calculator, two sheaves of paper inside a green Trapper Keeper, and his unread copy of 1984. The backpack, one of his father’s finds, had sagged to the backs of Scott’s knees the year before; now it barely touched the hemlines of his shorts. His summer growth spurt had been more vigorous than he realized.
He approached Oakwood’s main intersection — no cars coming — and scuttled across. But he didn’t stand beside the stop sign as the letter sent by the school had instructed. Instead, he studied the Pattersons’ driveway, where a pair of tall bushes flanked the garage door. The nearer bush looked fuller. A moment later, he was crouched behind it, peering through the leaves at the intersection.
He shrugged off his backpack and held up his calculator-wristwatch. 7:02 a.m. He was probably safe unless the FBI decided to come for him at school or bide their time until the weekend, when they would have a better chance of catching him asleep.
That’s how the FBI had nailed hackers all summer. The thing of it was, the hackers Scott knew from the boards were harmless, not out to bring the system to its knees or start thermonuclear warfare (as if they could). To them, hacking was a challenge. It was learning how systems worked and then becoming master of those systems. It was sports for nerds. Scott had never scored a goal or a touchdown or swatted a home run — and probably never would. But he couldn’t imagine any of those matching the rush of a successful hack.
Or the terror.
Scott watched cars pause at the stop signs, then cruise down the hill toward Sixteenth Avenue, their taillights as red and bleary as his eyes felt. Most of the cars he recognized, many of them just by the hum of their engines, the cut of their tires: Volkswagen Rabbit, Chevy Chevette, turd-brown Toyota Tercel. Most recognizable were those cars that came from the Meadows, the subdivision where Scott lived. Less familiar were the ones puttering up from the Downs or coasting down from the Grove, where the biggest houses were. The Grove also featured a field with a community playground, where Scott used to venture — until Jesse Hoag snapped his arm.
Scott’s hand went to the place above his wrist where the bone had healed into a lump. It still swelled when he slept on it wrong, and it ached a little this morning. But his mind was preoccupied with his phone call to Wayne from the night before, those extra milliseconds between the final pulse and the ring.
How long had the FBI been monitoring him? Who had tipped them off? How much did the feds know? How much did they need to know to put him away?
That Scott was too young for prison offered little consolation. He could still end up in juvie. And juvie would mean the worst abuses he had suffered during his ten years of public schooling added together and squared. He thought about all of the playground fights, the humiliating wedgies, the two times he’d had his head crammed in a bathroom toilet and flushed on.
His ears burned. No, he wouldn’t do well in juvie.
And what about Wayne? With his Napoleonic size and temperament, his D&D-themed insults, where he’d throw his face forward, lips pursed (“You’re not a Night Hag,” he’d once informed Scott during a spat. “You’re a Night Fag.”), Wayne wouldn’t last a day. And if the feds had a tap on the Spruels’ line, they were likely to have one on Wayne’s as well. Scott needed to warn him. The problem was, Wayne would want to know how he knew about the tap, and then they’d be right back to what caused their fall out in the first place.
Ass-wad, he heard Wayne saying.
Scott unzipped the small pocket on his backpack, took out his Thirteenth Street High class schedule, unfolded it, and ran his finger down the first column: Advanced Computer Programming, the one class he and Wayne would be in together. Third period.
He would have to figure out some way to warn him by then without—
Scott whipped his head around. The thundering belch, still echoing from the Downs, fell into a guttural chop-chop-chop-chop. Scott crammed his schedule into his backpack and crouched low to the bush, checking to see that every part of him was concealed.
A minute later, the black car trundled into view. Not a Crown Victoria but a 1970 Chevy Chevelle — a car whose engine signature Scott had learned well and learned to avoid. The Chevelle idled at the stop sign, the chop of its engine like crude laughter. Scott didn’t need to see through the homemade tint job to know who was behind the wheel. The collapse of the car’s frame toward the driver’s side told him everything: Jesse Hoag, all three hundred pounds of him — the same three hundred pounds that had snapped his arm the summer before.
The Chevelle continued chop-chop-chopping, its wheels compressed to the pavement, not moving. When a minute passed, Scott became certain that he was spotted. He darted his gaze to the left. Could he get over the Pattersons’ wooden fence in time, knock on the sliding glass door hard enough to awaken one or both of them, convince them to let him in?
Jesse was too big to give chase, but Creed Bast would be in the car with him. So would Creed’s younger brother, Tyler. Both of them had tormented Scott at one time or another — and why not? Unlike Wayne, Scott knew the game; he knew the score. He was among the weakest and geekiest. He wore thick glasses and carried an inhaler until just last year. And worst of all, he owned a pair of legs that did everything but what he wanted them to do, especially in times of stress. The qualities had singled him out of the healthy herd long ago. Made him fair prey.
Beyond the bush, the Chevelle ripped another belch and idled. Scott inhaled a lungful of exhaust. Were they toying with him, daring him to step out? Scott tried to swallow the hard lump in his throat, afraid he might start blubbering, like the last time they’d cornered him.
When the passenger-side door swung open, heavy-metal music blasted out into the morning. From a swirling fog of smoke, blue-tinted John Lennon glasses appeared. The rest of Creed’s narrow face followed. He’d grown his hair longer, Scott saw. The dirty blond hair fell from a black bowler hat that
sat high on his head. Creed looked around, then said something over his shoulder.
One of his slender black boots landed on the pavement.
Crap.
Scott slid his gaze to the Pattersons’ fence and ran his dried-out tongue over his braces. It was now or never. Once Creed’s second boot hit the pavement, Scott wasn’t going to be able to outrun him, much less get himself up and over the fence. Scott rose to his haunches.
Creed draped his hair behind his ears. Then he snorted and hawked something into the street. His boot and glasses disappeared back into the fog, and the door slammed closed, muffling the music.
Scott sobbed once as he let out his air.
He was still hidden, but it was only a matter of time. The light blue of his shirt, the whites of his long socks with three red bands circling the tops like racing stripes — in the growing light, they were going to become visible. Only a matter of one of those thugs taking a second look.
Huge brakes cawed, and a chrome yellow nose drew up behind the Chevelle. Two minutes late, but it was here, thank God. Scott stood from his crouch, ready to make for the school bus whenever the folding door flopped open. But the door wasn’t opening. The bus tooted twice at the obstructing car, waited, then blew one long, exasperated honk.
A meaty hand appeared above the Chevelle on the driver’s side, its middle finger extended.
Scott’s thighs began to burn in his stance. Should he go for it, run down and pat on the glass doors? Could he do it without Jesse and the others seeing him? If they did, they would know his hiding place. They’d know where to look for him. And for a moment, Scott wondered who he feared more: the FBI or Jesse Hoag.
Probably a toss-up.
The kids on the bus began to stand. Some lowered their rectangular windows and craned their heads out. A couple of them cheered the Chevelle, which sat there, low and bullish, a symbol of defiance. Scott squinted to see inside the Chevelle’s windows. If Jesse and the others were looking away from him, he would go for it, slip down, sidle up to the bus, get the driver’s attention…
The bus lurched forward. It heaved around the Chevelle, narrowly missing its rear bumper, blasted another long honk, and rumbled down the main hill. Scott wasn’t sure, but he thought he glimpsed the female driver extending her own middle finger. The bus disappeared from his view.
The driver will not stop for students who give chase, the letter from the school warned.
Not that Scott would have. Above the metal music, he heard raw laughter. The Chevelle gunned blue smoke and slogged out into the intersection after the bus, the frame squealing against the left front tire rim. When the coast was clear, Scott emerged from behind the bush and stood for a moment in the lingering haze. Then he crossed the intersection and made for home. He hoped his father hadn’t fallen back asleep. He was going to need a ride to his new year of hell.
6
Wendy’s Restaurant
Lunchtime
“HOW'S IT GOING so far?” Margaret asked, plucking up one of Janis’s fries.
Janis hunched her shoulders to her ears as Feather Heather squealed over something being said at the next table. It was the beach all over again, but instead of bikinis, everyone was in high fashion: Chic, Gloria Vanderbilt, Sassoon, Guess. Janis had agreed to wear jeans, even though it seemed ridiculous (Florida, late August… hello?). But she drew the line at the shoulder-padded number Margaret had tried to push on her, opting for a softball T-shirt instead.
How’s it going? Let’s see… I don’t know anyone in any of my classes. My one opportunity to spend with friends was preempted by your decision that I should eat out with The Seniors. And I’m starting to get that rash-like feeling I get around big crowds. Other than that, it’s going great.
“I started off with four killers.” Janis popped her last bite of burger into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of Coke. “Thought I was going to get a break with P.E., but all the guy could talk about was the F’s he gave out. Oh, and the time he made some big, burly football player cry.”
Margaret smirked. “The legendary Coach Coffer.”
“You don’t have him!” Feather Heather cried, spinning to face Janis. She made her voice low and husky. “If you don’t dress out, Graystone, that’s two F’s. One for not dressing out and one for not participating because you not dressed out. If you miss an assignment, that’s another two F’s. One for not doing your assignment and one for disrespecting me by not doing your assignment. And if you late for class, guess what? Two more F’s. One for being late and one for being plain ol’ stupid.”
“God help you,” Tina said, and the girls fell away into laughter.
Janis grimaced.
“He talks tough, but he’s not so bad,” Margaret said. “Just do what he says, and you’ll be fine. There will be plenty of ditzes and doofuses for him to make examples of. It’s not like Thirteenth Street High is in short supply.”
Margaret cut her eyes to a table where three boy-men were competing to put away their three-quarter pound triples in record time. A small, chanting audience had gathered. Jocks, Janis guessed.
The boys’ cheese- and mayonnaise-smeared jaws smacked and churned until, at last, a boy with a blond crew-cut pounded the table with both fists, then opened his mouth to show he was finished. A chorus of cheers rose above feminine protests of “How immature!” and “Grody!” that only made the guys at the table laugh harder… all except for the one who hadn’t participated. His lips were pressed into a grin, but his indigo eyes winced.
“Blake Farrier,” Heather said from beside her.
“Who?”
“The boy you’re, like, staring at.”
Janis’s cheeks started to burn. “I wasn’t staring at anyone.”
“Sure you weren’t.” Heather nudged her with a bony elbow. “But in case you were, I hear he’s as sweet as he is cute. I could totally put a word in—”
Janis spun toward her. “Don’t you dare!”
“Oops,” Heather whispered. “Like, I think you just got his attention.”
Janis lifted her face. Sure enough, he was looking right at her. Janis’s immediate instinct was to feel terrified, but his eyes were cool, a little mesmerizing. Now a smile reached them, a soft-dimpled smile that seemed to say, Hey, I’m a little out of place here, too. Janis tried to smile back but dropped her gaze to the scatter of fries across her tray, the spell broken.
Heather nudged her again. “Sure you don’t want me to channel my inner Chuck Woolery and make a love connection?”
“Oh, leave her alone,” Margaret said.
Heather opened her mouth to say something more but then got pulled into whatever the girls at the end of the table were shrieking and giggling over. Janis peeked beyond them, but Blake’s head was turned, the feathered sides of his sandy brown hair hiding his face. Soft ridges of muscles showed through his pink Polo shirt.
“Hey, did you have a nightmare last night?” Margaret asked.
Janis blinked. “Huh?”
“I heard you yell, I don’t know, around one a.m. I almost went to check on you, but you only did it the one time.”
Janis felt her stomach lurch. “I… I did?”
A huge mushroom cloud sprang up in her mind’s eye, like one in that movie on ABC last year, The Morning After, about a Soviet nuclear attack on the United States. She watched the cloud swell and blister, sensing its tremendous heat. She began to smell it, even, a smell of death and—
“Oh, before I forget.”
Janis found herself staring at Margaret, who was snapping her fingers.
“Alpha meeting this Friday at lunchtime. Don’t make other plans. Understood?”
It took a moment for her sister’s words to compute. When they did, Janis stifled a groan. Alpha was a service/social organization for girls — scratch that — for popular girls. This would be Margaret’s second year as president.
“Alpha has its share of athletes, and it’s never been a problem,” Margaret said, preempting
Janis. “It’s not going to interfere with your soccer or softball or whatever other games you decide to play.”
“Sports.”
Janis was also tempted to throw in that cheerleaders, while athletic, maybe, were not athletes — not as far as she was concerned. But she bit her tongue. She felt a little more forgiving toward Margaret today. A little more… protective? In her gut, it seemed like the right word. But it didn’t make sense. Why would Margaret need protection? Something to do with the nightmare? Janis fought to think, but all she could dredge up were fragmented images of cockroaches and rotten sacking. Her mind recoiled from them.
“Understood?” Margaret said. “Friday at lunchtime. Don’t forget.”
~*~
Students poured from the classrooms on all sides of Scott, like water through just-opened sluice gates. He fidgeted with his watch and adjusted his glasses, but his legs remained rooted. To that point, he had known more or less where to go, first period to second to third to fourth, the crumpled schedule his compass. But now, with the start of lunch, he hadn’t the slightest idea where to aim himself.
“I’ve got shotgun!”
Scott flinched back before realizing the guy with the orange, flipped-up collar was talking about riding in the front seat of someone’s car. A group of girls followed closely, shoes clacking, gum smacking, making loud plans for the Wendy’s salad bar.
Scott let the girls’ raspberry scent pull him into their wake, into the general flow. He tried to make himself just another droplet in the gushing current. Nothing to see here, folks. Then it dawned on him that the current he’d entered was pulling him toward the senior parking lot.
You have no car, Scott. No ride, either.
He stopped and, his head buzzing with sleep deprivation, wheeled to go back the way he had come. He didn’t see the solid guy in the pink Polo shirt until it was too late. The impact knocked Scott sideways and as he danced a circle to stay upright, he felt the guy moving in.
Riot Girls: Seven Books With Girls Who Don't Need A Hero Page 70