One Plus One

by Jojo Moyes

  "Mmm. Nope. Nice try, though."

  They sat there, thinking.

  "You could just try his name," said Nicky.

  Mr. Nicholls shook his head. "Nobody's stupid enough to use his name as a password."

  Nicky looked at him. Mr. Nicholls typed a few letters, then stared at the screen. "Well, what do you know?" He leaned back in his seat. "You're a natural."

  "So what are you doing?"

  "We're just going to have a little play with Jason Fisher's Facebook page. Actually, I'm not going to do it. I'm . . . uh . . . I can't really risk anything on my IP address right now. But I know someone who can." He dialed a number.

  "But won't he know it's down to me?"

  "How? We're basically him right now. There'll be nothing tracing this to you. He probably won't even notice. Hang on. Jez? . . . Hey. It's Ed . . . Yeah. Yeah, I'm just under the radar for a bit. I need you to do me a favor. It'll take five minutes."

  Nicky listened as he told Jez Jason Fisher's password and e-mail address. He said that Fisher had been "creating a few difficulties" for a friend. He looked at Nicky sideways as he said this. "Just have a bit of fun with it, yeah? Read through his stuff. You'll get the picture. I'd do it myself, but I've got to keep my hands super clean right now . . . Yeah, I'll explain when I see you. Appreciate it."

  Nicky couldn't believe it was so easy. "Won't he hack me back, though?"

  Mr. Nicholls put down his phone. "I'm going to take a punt here. But a boy who can't think further than his own name for a password is not really overflowing with computer skills."

  They sat there in the car and waited, refreshing Jason Fisher's Facebook page again and again. And like magic, things began to change. Man, Fisher was such a douche. His wall was full of how he was going to "do" this girl or that girl from school, or how so-and-so was a slag and how he'd battered pretty much everyone outside his crew. His messages were much the same. Nicky glimpsed one message that had his name in it, but Mr. Nicholls read it really fast, scrolled up, and said, "Yeah. You don't need to see that one." The only time Fisher didn't sound like a douche was when he messaged Chrissie Taylor and told her that he really liked her and did she want to come round his house? She didn't sound too keen, but he kept messaging her. He said he'd take her out somewhere "really dope" and that he could borrow his dad's car (he couldn't--he was underage). He told her she was the prettiest girl in school and that she was doing his head in and that if his mates knew she'd made him like this, they'd think he was "a mentalist."

  "Who says romance is dead?" Mr. Nicholls murmured.

  And so it began. Jez messaged two of Fisher's friends and told them that he had decided he was antiviolence, and didn't want to hang out with them anymore. He messaged Chrissie and told her that he still liked her, but he had to get himself sorted out before he went out with her because he'd "picked up some stupid infection that the doctor says I need to get medicine for. I'll be nice and clean when we get together, though, eh?"

  "Oh, man." Nicky was laughing so much that his ribs hurt. "Oh, man."

  "Jason" told another girl named Stacy that he really liked her and that his mum had picked out some really nice clothes for him if she ever wanted to go out, and he sent the same thing to a girl called Angela in his year whom he had once called a scuzz. And Jez deleted a new message from Danny Kane, who had tickets for some big football match and said Jason could have one, but he'd have to let him know by the end of the day. Which was today.

  He made Fisher's profile picture an image of a braying donkey. And then Mr. Nicholls stared at the screen, thinking, and picked up his mobile. "Actually, I think we should leave his photo there, mate, just for now," he told Jez.

  "Why?" said Nicky, after he'd put down the phone. The donkey thing was kind of excellent.

  "Because it's better to be subtle. If we just stick to his private messages for now, it's entirely likely that he won't even spot them. We send them, then delete them at this end. We'll turn off his e-mail notifications. And so his friends, and this girl, will just think he's become even more of an idiot. And he won't have a clue why. Which is kind of the point."

  He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe someone could just mess with Fisher's life like that.

  Jez rang back to say he'd logged out, and they shut down Facebook. "And that's it?" Nicky said.

  "For now. It's only a bit of fun. But it made you feel better, right? And he's going to clean up your page so that none of the stuff Fisher put up is there anymore."

  It was a bit embarrassing then because when Nicky breathed out, he did this kind of shudder. He did feel better. It wasn't like it really solved anything, but for once it was nice not to feel like the butt of the joke.

  He messed with the hem of his T-shirt until his breathing went back to normal. It was possible Mr. Nicholls knew, because he looked out of the window like he was really interested even though there was nothing there apart from cars and old people.

  "Why would you do all this? The hacking thing and driving us all the way to Scotland. I mean, you don't even know us."

  Mr. Nicholls continued to stare out of the window and just for a moment it was like he wasn't really talking to Nicky anymore. "I sort of owe your mum one. And I don't like bullies. They didn't start with your generation, you know."

  Mr. Nicholls sat there for a minute, and Nicky was suddenly afraid that he was going to try to make him talk about stuff. That he'd do that thing the counselor did at school, where he tried to act like he was your mate and said about fifty times that anything you said would be "just between us" until it sounded a little creepy.

  "I'll tell you one thing."

  Here it comes, Nicky thought. He wiped at his shoulder, where Norman had left a drool.

  "Everyone I've ever met who was worth knowing was a bit different at school. You just need to find your people."

  "Find my people."

  "Your tribe."

  Nicky pulled a face.

  "You know, you spend your whole life feeling like you don't quite fit in anywhere. And then you walk into a room one day, whether it's at university or an office or some kind of club, and you just go, 'Ah. There they are.' And suddenly you feel at home."

  "I don't feel at home anywhere."

  "For now."

  Nicky considered this. "So where was yours?"

  "Computing room at the university. I was your basic geek. I met my best mate Ronan there. And then . . . my company." His face fell for a moment.

  "But I'm stuck there until I finish school. And there's nothing like that where we live, no tribes." Nicky pulled his fringe down over his eyes. "You do things Fisher's way or you stay out of his way."

  "So find your people online."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. Look up online groups for things you're . . . interested in? Lifestyle choices?"

  Nicky registered his expression. "Oh. You think I'm gay, too, right?"

  "No, I'm just saying that the Internet's a big place. There's always someone out there who shares your interests, whose life is like yours."

  "Nobody's life is like mine."

  Mr. Nicholls shut his laptop and slid it into a case. He unplugged everything and glanced over toward the cafe.

  "We should head back. Your mum will be wondering what we're up to." He opened his door and then turned back. "You know, you could always write a blog."

  "A blog?"

  "Doesn't have to be under your real name. But it's a good way of talking about what's going on in your life. You put a few keywords in, and people will find you. People like you, I mean."

  "People who wear mascara. And who don't like football or musical theater."

  "And who have enormous stinking dogs and sisters who are maths prodigies. I bet you there's at least one person like that somewhere." He thought for a minute. "Maybe. Perhaps in Hoxton. Or Tupelo."

  Nicky pulled at his fringe some more, trying to cover the bruise, which had gone this really grim yellow. "Thanks, but blogs are . . . n
ot really my thing. Blogs are like for middle-aged women writing about their divorces and cats and stuff. Or nail varnish obsessives."

  "Just putting it out there."

  "Do you write one?"

  "Nope." He climbed out of the car. "But then I don't particularly want to talk to anyone." Nicky climbed out after him. Mr. Nicholls pointed his key chain and the car locked down with an expensive thunk. "In the meantime," he said, lowering his voice, "we didn't have this conversation, okay? It wouldn't go down too well if anyone knew I was teaching innocent kids how to hack into private information."

  "Jess wouldn't mind."

  "I'm not just talking about Jess."

  Nicky held his gaze. "First rule of Geek Club. There is no Geek Club."

  --

  "The sock thing," said Tanzie, as they crossed the car park to meet them. She was holding up a napkin covered in scribbles. "I worked it out. If you had n number of socks, you'd have to sum a series of the fraction one over n to the power n." She adjusted her glasses.

  "Got it in one. Exactly what I would have suggested," said Mr. Nicholls. And Mum looked at Nicky as though they were all basically people she had never met in her life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tanzie

  Nobody really wanted to get back in the car. The novelty of spending hours in a car, even one as nice as Mr. Nicholls's, had worn off pretty quickly. This, Mum announced, like someone about to give an injection, would be the longest day. They were all to make themselves comfortable and make sure they'd been to the loo because Mr. Nicholls's aim was to drive almost to Newcastle, where he had found a B and B that took dogs. They would arrive at around ten p.m. After that, he had calculated that with one more day's driving they should arrive in Aberdeen. Mr. Nicholls would find them somewhere to stay close to the university, then Tanzie would be bright and fresh for the maths competition the next day. He looked at Tanzie. "Unless you think you've got used to this car enough for me to go above forty now?"

  She shook her head.

  "No." His face fell a bit. "Oh, well."

  He caught sight of the backseat then and blinked. A couple of chocolate buttons had melted into the cream leather seats, and the footwell was crusty with mud from walking around the woods. Mr. Nicholls saw her looking at him and gave a half smile, like it really didn't matter, even though you could tell that it probably did, and turned back to the wheel.

  "Okay, then," he said, and started the engine.

  Everyone was silent for about an hour, while Mr. Nicholls listened to something on Radio 4 about technology. Mum read one of her books. Since the library had closed, she'd bought two paperbacks a week from the charity shop but only ever had time to read one.

  The afternoon stretched and sagged, and the rain came down in thick, glassy sheets. Tanzie gazed out of the window and tried to do maths problems in her head, but it was hard to focus when she couldn't see her work. It was about six o'clock when Nicky began shifting around, like he couldn't get comfortable.

  "When are we next stopping?"

  Mum had nodded off briefly. She pushed herself upright abruptly, pretending she hadn't, and peered at the clock.

  "Ten past six," Mr. Nicholls said.

  "Could we stop for some food?" said Tanzie.

  "I really need to walk around. My ribs are starting to hurt."

  "Let's find somewhere to eat," Mr. Nicholls said. "We could divert into Leicester for a curry."

  "I'd rather just get some sandwiches." Mum said. "We don't have time to sit down and eat."

  Mr. Nicholls drove through a small town, then another, and followed the signs to a retail park. It had begun to get dark. The Audi crawled through it all, then finally stopped outside a supermarket and Mum climbed out with a loud sigh and ran in. They could see her through the rain-lashed window, standing in front of the chiller cabinets, picking things up and putting them down again.

  "Why doesn't she just buy the ready-made ones?" muttered Mr. Nicholls, looking at his watch. "She'd be back out in two minutes."

  "Too expensive," said Nicky, "and you don't know whose fingers have been in them. Jess did three weeks making sandwiches for a supermarket last year. She said that the woman next to her picked her nose in between shredding the chicken for the chicken Caesar wraps."

  Mr. Nicholls went a bit quiet.

  "Five to one it's supermarket-brand ham," said Nicky, watching.

  "Supermarket-brand ham is two to one," Tanzie said.

  "I'm going to go right out there and say sliced cheese," said Mr. Nicholls. "What odds will you give me on sliced cheese?"

  "Not specific enough," said Nicky. "You have to go for Dairylea or cheaper supermarket-brand orange-colored slices. Probably with a made-up name."

  "Pleasant Valley Cheese."

  "Udderly Lovely Cheddar."

  "That sounds disgusting."

  "Grumpy Cow Slices."

  "Oh, come on now, she's not that bad," Mr. Nicholls said.

  Tanzie and Nicky started laughing.

  Mum opened the door, and held up her carrier bag. "Right," she said brightly. "They had tuna paste on special. Who wants a sandwich?"

  --

  "You never want our sandwiches," Mum said as Mr. Nicholls drove through the town.

  Mr. Nicholls turned on his directional signal and pulled out onto the open road. "I don't like them. They remind me of being at school."

  "So what do you eat?" Mum was tucking in. It had taken a matter of minutes for the whole car to smell of fish.

  "In London? Toast for breakfast. Maybe some sushi or noodles for lunch. I have a takeaway place I order from in the evening."

  "You have a takeaway? Every night?"

  "If I'm not going out."

  "How often do you go out?"

  "Right now? Never."

  Mum gave him a hard look.

  "Well, okay, unless I'm getting drunk in your pub."

  "You seriously eat the same thing every day?"

  Mr. Nicholls seemed a bit embarrassed now. "You can get different curries."

  "That must cost a fortune. So what do you eat when you're at Beachfront?"

  "I get a takeaway."

  "From the Raj?"

  "Yeah. You know it?"

  "Oh, I know it."

  The car fell silent.

  "What?" said Mr. Nicholls. "You don't go there? What is it? Too expensive? You're going to tell me it's easy to cook a baked potato, right? Well, I don't like baked potato. I don't like sandwiches. And I don't like cooking." It might have been because he was hungry, but he was suddenly quite grumpy.

  Tanzie leaned forward through the seats. "Nathalie once found a hair in her Chicken Jalfrezi."

  Mr. Nicholls opened his mouth to say something, just as she added, "And it wasn't from someone's head."

  Twenty-three lampposts went by.

  "You can worry too much about these things," Mr. Nicholls said.

  --

  Somewhere after Nuneaton, Tanzie started sneaking bits of her sandwich to Norman because the tuna paste didn't really taste like tuna, and the bread kept sticking to the roof of her mouth. Mr. Nicholls pulled into a petrol station.

  "Their sandwiches will be awful," said Mum, gazing inside the kiosk. "They'll have been there for weeks."

  "I'm not buying a sandwich."

  "Do they do pasties?" said Nicky, peering inside. "I love pasties."

  "They're even worse. They're probably full of dog."

  Tanzie put her hands over Norman's ears.

  "Are you going in?" Mum said to Mr. Nicholls, rummaging around in her purse. "Will you get these two some chocolate? Special treat."

  "Crunchie, please," said Nicky, who had cheered up.

  "Aero. Mint, please," Tanzie said. "Can I have a big one?"

  Mum was holding out her hand. But Mr. Nicholls was staring off to his right. "Can you get them? I'm just going to pop across the road."

  "Where are you going?"

  He patted his stomach and he suddenly looked re
ally cheerful. "There."

  --

  Keith's Kebabs had six plastic seats that were bolted to the floor, fourteen cans of Diet Coke arranged in its window, and a neon sign that was missing its first b. Tanzie peered through the window of the car, and watched Mr. Nicholls's walk become almost jaunty as he entered its strip-lit interior. He stared at the wall behind the counter, then pointed to a huge hunk of brown meat turning slowly on a spit. Tanzie considered what animal was shaped like that, and could only come up with buffalo. Maybe an amputee buffalo.

  "Oh, man," said Nicky, as the man began to carve, his voice a low moan of longing. "Can't we have one of those?"

  "No," said Mum.

  "I bet Mr. Nicholls would buy us one if we asked," he said.

  Mum snapped, "Mr. Nicholls is doing quite enough for us. We're not going to mooch off him any more than we already have. Okay?"

  Nicky rolled his eyes at Tanzie. "Fine," he said moodily.

  And then nobody said anything.

  "I'm sorry," said Mum after a minute. "I just . . . I just don't want him thinking we're taking advantage."

  "But is it still taking advantage if someone offers you something?" Tanzie said.

  "Eat an apple if you're still hungry. Or one of the breakfast muffins. I'm sure we've got a few left."

  Nicky raised his eyes silently. Tanzie let out a sigh.

  Mr. Nicholls opened the car door, bringing with him the smell of hot, fatty meat, and a kebab was swaddled in white, grease-stained paper. Two twin bungee ropes of drool dropped immediately from Norman's mouth. "You sure you don't want some?" he said cheerfully, turning toward Nicky and Tanzie. "I put only a bit of chili sauce on."

  "No. That's very kind, but thank you," said Mum firmly, and gave Nicky a warning look.

  "No, thanks," Tanzie said quietly. It smelled delicious.

  "No. Thank you," said Nicky, and turned his face away.

  --

  Nuneaton, Market Bosworth, Coalville, Ashby de la Zouch, the signs passed by in a steady blur. They could have said Zanzibar and Tanzania for all Tanzie knew of where they actually were. She found herself repeating Ashby de la Zouch, Ashby de la Zouch, and thinking it would be a good name to have. Hi--what's your name? I'm Ashby de la Zouch. Hey, Ashby! That's so cool! Costanza Thomas was five syllables, too, but it didn't have the same rhythm. She considered Constanza de la Zouch, which was six, and then Ashby Thomas, which sounded flat by comparison.

  Costanza de la Zouch.

  Mum was reading again, with the passenger light on, and Mr. Nicholls kept shifting around in his seat, until finally he said, "That map--is there a restaurant or something up ahead?"