Riot Girls: Seven Books With Girls Who Don't Need A Hero
Page 82
And had she taken Scott with her, somehow?
Tiger protested when Janis went to set her aside, clinging gamely to her pantyhose. Janis stood, brushed the lap of her dress, and began walking up the street. Her flats beat a quick rhythm against the asphalt. She glanced back toward her front door. She had five minutes, maybe, but she needed to talk to Scott, needed to ask him. As crazy as it would sound, she had to know if he’d gone back to the summer of 1978, too — back to the woods of their childhood.
She was nearly to the top of her hill when Scott’s window went dark. For a moment, Janis stared at the glinting of the street light against the panes, surprised at the weight of her disappointment.
You can always ask him on Monday. But would she?
She turned to walk home. The shadow of the Leonards’ second story rose through the trees in her leftward periphery. She sped her clacking pace as a breeze rustled the leaves. Janis rubbed her bare arms, feeling the cool of the fall night for the first time. A deeper chill brushed her spine.
And then she caught a whiff of smoke, faint but unmistakable.
Could be anyone’s, she told herself, but without conviction. She fixed her gaze on the yellow light of her front porch. Tiger met her at the driveway and accompanied her the rest of the way.
Janis reached the front door a little out of breath, shaking her head at her own paranoia. She opened the door a crack and automatically positioned her legs to block Tiger from trying to squeeze past, but the cat wasn’t beside her. Janis turned to find her at the foot of the steps, a low murmur caught in her throat. She was peering toward the side yard, ears perked.
Probably hears another cat —
The smell of cigarette smoke breezed past again, stronger this time.
Janis patted her thigh for Tiger, let her inside the house, and then hurried to lock the door behind them.
Leaning against the jamb, Janis began to shiver. She didn’t need any special abilities to know that for the duration she’d been outside, Mr. Leonard had been watching.
17
SCOTT STOOD IN his bedroom, his rumpled shirt untucked, one finger hooked over the knot of his tie, staring at artifacts of an earlier hope. The rag and polish he had used to burnish his loafers lay beside his bed; the ironing board where he had pressed his shirt, its legs now folded in, leaned against his closet door; the dark-green bottle of cologne sat on his dresser, its cap still off. Only a few hours old, the ambitions they represented already felt forever out of his reach.
He yanked the pink knit tie from his neck and cast it away.
I told you. The voice again.
“Shut it.”
It’s not your place, Scott-o. Not your people. What did you expect? Your place isn’t with them. It’s above them. You know that. You know the powers you possess.
Scott didn’t fight the voice this time. Instead, he found himself considering his desk. He had dusted and wiped it down with Pledge during the Big Clean, as he thought of it. Now it held his school books and some folders. But looking at it, he could think only of what wasn’t there, what was missing.
He flicked off the light switch, and the room fell dark. The street light shone against his blinds. The Prelude had turned down the street ten minutes before. He’d heard its signature from the family room, where his father had wanted him to watch the end of Sudden Impact (and Scott, feeling too miserable and defeated to say no, had sagged onto the couch). But now, like a desperate flicker, he felt his old hope pleading for a peek outside.
Just a single peek to see if maybe she—
Forget it, Romeo.
He left his room and walked down the hallway, through the blue glow of a television now silent, and past the bass snores of his father. He stopped in the kitchen for the cordless phone, slipping it into his back pocket.
In the garage, he moved the folding card table and the stack of empty boxes hiding his access way. He edged along the tunnel through his father’s hoard to the storage room, the crowded space smelling of sawdust and soldered metal. An aluminum-tipped string dangled from a single bulb. Scott jerked it. A long workbench blinked into view beneath a line of power outlets and a crumbling pegboard that had once held tools. Scott squatted in front of the cabinets. He pulled away concealing boxes and crumpled balls of newspaper and, one by one, stood with his pieces of equipment, setting them across the workbench: TRS-80, DC1 modem, printer, a box of floppies. He emerged with his cables and power strip last.
The next minute was like a familiar dance, something Scott would never blunder, never screw up. He inserted this cord here, that cord there, linking, making connections, enabling communication. With his small network complete, Scott plugged in the power strip and snapped its red switch. He waited a moment, then turned on each device in the proper sequence, finishing with the monitor.
TRS-80 Model III Disk BASIC
© 1980 by Tandy Corp. All Rights Reserved
READY
>
The sight of the flashing cursor triggered a tide of salivation. This is where you belong, buddy, the voice whispered, in here so you can navigate the greater networks.
Scott reached behind the DC1 modem and drew up the one cable that remained inert. It was the telephone cord, but it hadn’t a receptacle for its plastic head. Which means you don’t have jack, Jack. Scott’s face stung at his own joke. Without a phone jack, there was no way to plug in, no means by which to access the globe-spanning networks, to exercise his power. Scott sighed as he looked around the closet-sized workshop. Without a jack, his world was reduced to—
And that’s when he spotted it. Down beside the bench, just above the short length of wood trim that ran along the floor, a basic wall jack. Over the receptacle sat a glob of dried paint that he had to pick away, but when he pressed in the modular connector, it clicked sweetly home.
Seconds later, the modem blinked to indicate a connection.
“Yes!” he hissed.
But was it a clean connection? Stooping over the computer, Scott loaded his COMM floppy and typed out a command to display the number he was dialing from. Within seconds, he had his answer: same exchange as their home phone, but a different line. Scott’s fingers raced over the keys, commanding the modem to dial the number for automated time and weather.
> ATDP3721411
Dialing 3721411
Rapid pulses followed, and in each one, Scott could hear the number: …(3) …….(7) ..(2) .(1) ….(4) .(1) .(1). He held his breath and waited. Then came the ring. But before Mrs. Time could answer his call, Scott punched the three-key command to hang up the modem.
“Damn it!”
He turned and paced the small workshop. Another delay, which meant this line was tapped as well. Any hacking adventures he undertook, whether here or in his room, would be recorded, stored as evidence, and read off to a grand jury one day as part of his indictment proceedings.
The muscles between his shoulders tensed, and for a second he pictured himself shoving all his equipment from the workbench to the cement floor. But the anger wasn’t his, not entirely. It came from the part of himself that he’d felt in the library in September when he had gone to print off The Pact. The part of himself that hungered for access and power — that craved it.
And now it was being denied.
But by what? By whom?
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. He had never shared any of his phreaking or hacking exploits on the message boards. He and Wayne had always been ultra careful in that department. And compared to the big names in the hacking-verse, their own exploits had always seemed small town anyway. Until U.S. Army Information, of course, but that had been Scott’s final hack, his last time on the network.
Scott became distracted. At the far wall, he dragged away obstructing boxes, bags of instant cement, and a stack of paint cans. He’d perceived correctly — the wall was a propped up piece of painted plywood. Tipping it out, he managed to maneuver it against the door. The workshop widened by another seven feet. He walked inside
the new space and stood in the dim light.
The smell of soldered metal was stronger here, and Scott saw why. The space had been a metal workshop. Actually, it still was a metal workshop. A welding bench stood at one end, crowded around with hammers, pliers, a mounted vice, a drill press, cluttered shelving… and was that a lathe? Sheets of metal leaned against it. He supposed his father could have acquired the equipment on one of his discount shopping sprees, but Scott doubted it. The workshop, with its aluminum siding and singed cement floor, appeared to have been used a good deal. The prior owners had just never cleared it out for some reason.
Scott pulled open the drawers beneath the welding bench. In one sat an acetylene torch and a row of soldering irons. Another drawer revealed a folded apron, gloves, and a welder’s mask. Scott donned them, the mask cold against his face, and lifted out the torch. It still worked. The flame whooshed to life and then hissed as Scott honed it to a point. His old passion for model building sang inside him. But this wasn’t plastic and model glue. This was the real deal.
Scott put everything away and returned the piece of plywood to the columnar indentations that marked the two sides of the workshop as separate. He scooted the boxes, buckets, and cans of paint in front of the false wall and stood back. The computer, the metal shop — he could have his old life back here, and no one would ever know. Scott cracked his knuckles as he considered it. No, not his old life — better. It was the evolution of his old life.
But what about the tap? the voice reminded him.
Scott frowned and brought a knuckle to his lips. He needed an ally. He needed… Wayne. But for the last month, Wayne had been abiding by Scott’s decree to the letter: Don’t talk to me. Ever again.
No surprise there.
But what continued to puzzle Scott was why Wayne had been so dismissive of his warning about the phone tap. It seemed the sort of thing Wayne would have jumped all over — getting to play Whiz Kid, using his technical skills to demystify the puzzle, solve the rid—
Scott froze where he stood.
Unless Wayne’s the one who tipped off the feds.
He began to shake his head, then stopped. He had heard stories about hackers ratting out other hackers. They popped up on the message boards from time to time. Some of the hackers-turned-rats had gotten busted themselves and made deals with the feds. Others seemed to have done it out of sheer competitiveness and spite.
Scott thought of the fights he and Wayne had gotten into throughout the past year, all of them fueled by… competitiveness and spite.
He took the phone from his rear pocket and dialed Wayne. His heart pounded in his temples as he waited for the numbers to pulse out. But just before the first ring, he hung up.
Better to confront him in person.
Scott turned off his computer equipment and began disassembling cords and cables. He disconnected the modem from the wall jack last and stood a moment contemplating the cord’s plastic head. All that separated this lowly space in the back of his parents’ garage from the rest of the world was one cursed tap.
And if Wayne was behind it, so help him.
18
Graystone house
Wednesday, October 10, 1984
Dinnertime
MR. GRAYSTONE SLOWLY wiped his napkin against his mouth and returned his gaze to the muted television — another commercial for Viper Industries. He had said nothing for the last minute. He grew silent like this whenever he weighed a momentous decision. All Janis could do was watch.
“How well do you know this fellow?” he asked Janis at last.
“Pretty well.”
He remained looking at her, his face bearing the solemnity she’d seen in the parking lot almost two weeks before. For a man who dealt in sound thinking, pretty well was not the best answer, Janis realized too late.
Margaret, who had been the one to announce her upcoming date with Blake, spoke up again.
“Well, how well do you know anyone before a first date?” she asked. “That’s what first dates are for. But what we both know of Blake” — she moved her eyes to Janis — “is that he’s responsible, respectful, an A student. His father works in cancer research at the hospital.”
“How long has he been driving?” their father asked.
“He got his license this week,” Janis answered, too honestly.
“Which means he’s been driving with a temporary permit for the last year,” Margaret finished, narrowing her eyes at Janis.
“Has he been driving at night?”
Margaret sighed. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes a considerable difference,” her father answered. “Things are harder to see at night — lane markers, signage — especially if you don’t have experience driving in the dark.”
“Well, I’m sure he does,” Margaret said.
Janis had been watching her sister’s eyes, and now their color began to shift with the tone of her voice. She’s doing it again, eroding his convictions until her way seems the only, or at least the easiest, way. The grooves of concern across her father’s brow pouched and sagged like a sand sculpture facing a shallow but relentless tide. It was hard for Janis to watch. Even though Margaret was intervening on her behalf, this didn’t seem right, as if she were upsetting some hallowed order. And it made their father look old.
“I’d like to meet him,” he said, looking back to Janis, blinking. “Have him come early to pick you up.”
“Or how about inviting him for dinner?” her mother offered.
“That’s a fantastic idea,” Margaret said.
“Here?” Janis’s ears prickled at the thought of Blake wedged between her parents and Margaret. “Nuh-uh. No way. Not on a first—”
Margaret’s foot caught Janis in the shin. Don’t screw this up, the kick said. I just got a major concession from Dad for you.
“All right, I’ll ask if he can come.”
And it was settled.
~*~
The crowd in the theater was sparse for a Saturday night. The summer hit Ghostbusters was going on nineteen weeks, according to the sign in the theater lobby, but it was a movie neither Blake nor Janis had seen, so it was the one they agreed on. Sitting in the back third of the theater, waiting for the lights to dim and the red curtains to open, Janis reflected on how unusual it had felt being driven to her date by her date. The dates she’d gone on in middle school involved carpooling parents or bicycles.
Blake found her hand on the armrest they shared, and Janis inhaled the cool scent of his cologne. “I don’t know anything about this movie.” His fingers slipped inside hers. “Is it supposed to be scary?”
She smiled. “Starring Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd? I don’t think so.”
When he laughed, the purple sleeves of his school jacket glinted softly beneath the theater lights. “All right, but if it gives me nightmares, I’m going to be calling you tomorrow.”
Then I hope it gives you nightmares.
But she didn’t say it. All week, Margaret had counseled her about not being too forward, not showing too much interest too soon. “It’s a mistake a lot of girls make,” she said. “And it’s a major turnoff. Make him do the work.” But Janis felt so comfortable in his presence, so exclusive, as though it was just the two of them in the theater despite the other patrons sprinkled about, that she wanted to shove off Margaret’s advice for a change and say what she felt.
Instead, she gave Blake’s hand a playful squeeze. “If it gives you nightmares, then blame the joke writers, not me.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“Hey, um…” She drew the corner of her lip between her teeth. “I hope you were cool with dinner. I know it was probably a little weird, this being our first time out.”
“No, no, I was honored to be invited. Really. You have such a great family, and your mom’s cooking…” He kissed his fingertips. “Just between us, I wish my mother cooked that well.”
As Blake went into the specifics of what he’d like
d about the food, Janis thought about how well the dinner had actually gone despite her obsessive concerns that week on all the ways it could implode. Blake had arrived early and addressed her father as “Mr. Graystone” and “sir” and her mother as “ma’am.” Margaret was working the evening shift at JC Penney, so Blake sat across from their father in Margaret’s usual spot. Her mother had prepared Janis’s favorite dinner: breaded and fried chicken strips with sweet potato soufflé and broccoli on the side.
But Janis hadn’t been hungry. Her stomach flip-flopped every time her father put another question to Blake because no matter the question, and no matter how competently Blake answered, what Janis heard every time was, Why should I allow you to date my daughter?
“So do you plan on playing football in college?” her father asked.
“That’s a tough call, sir.” Blake paused to bring his napkin to his mouth. “I’d like to, but two of the pre-med programs I’m considering don’t have football teams. And the others… well, between the coursework and the research that’s required, I’m not sure I would have the time.”
Bingo.
Her father appeared to relax then. For the rest of dinner, his questions to Blake had mostly to do with whether he was getting enough to eat, which Blake assured him, he was. For her part, Janis said little. She watched Blake’s attentiveness toward her parents, his easy laughter, the neat tuck of his white Polo shirt inside his jeans, where his napkin was spread. And even though she knew it was way too early, Janis caught herself wondering if this was something that might last through high school and into college… maybe even beyond.
In the front hallway, Blake grasped her father’s hand and thanked both of her parents for the evening.
“We’d like our daughter home after the movie,” Janis’s father said. “No later than ten.”
Janis cringed at his forwardness, but Blake didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Ten o’clock.”