by Lamar Giles
Can’t help but wonder, is he thinking of me, too?
Ocie’s pissed about me not signing off on the double-date thing. It’s just . . .
I’m not a prude, ’kay. Not even a virgin. I had a boyfriend for most of sophomore year. He went to Stepton High, fifteen miles away. I knew him from my track days.
The beauty of the relationship was we got to miss each other because we were only together a couple of Saturdays every month. It worked for a while. I don’t have anything against boys or dating in general. Jalen and Mike are cute.
I just haven’t been open to dating someone from Portside in a long, long time. For me to get with a Portside boy, he’d have to be beyond special. Beyond lying, too.
In my room, I power up my phone and see the single missed text from my Admirer. R U ignoring me?
Drafting a text and flipping my MacBook open at the same time, I attempt to write back. Before I can send my message, I get pinged through my chat program. There is a lesson here. Hard to get works.
SecretAdm1r3r: We not friends anymore? I’ve been waiting to hear from you all day.
PandaD: I’m surprised you’re so impatient. You didn’t have a problem keeping me waiting.
SecretAdm1r3r: I don’t know what you’re talking about. :)
PandaD: My photo was awesome. Admit that it stunned you silent all weekend, then maybe we can talk about the parameters of this “friendship.”
SecretAdm1r3r: Neptune’s Fury was . . . okay.
Bullshit, okay. “Okay” doesn’t take three days to comment on. “Okay” is what it is the first time you look at it. Not the second time. Not the seventeenth. I looked at Dante a thousand times. Every flickering flame, every charred piece of furniture. The framed print on the wall in Dante, it’s not a painting. It’s a movie poster, a one sheet from some old film called American Graffiti. That’s how much time you spend on special.
PandaD: Downplaying me is not cool.
SecretAdm1r3r: The way you framed the sunlight was skillful, I’ll admit.
PandaD: You’re a jerk!
SecretAdm1r3r: I’m not saying the picture isn’t good. I just think you can do better. I did.
What?
The email pops up in the corner of my screen. Title: View from Heaven.
I click it open, then the attachment. My screen fills with a panoramic view of Portside, taken at night, from about thirty stories up. The hem of some baggy jeans and scuffed sneakers are visible in the bottom portion of the frame, dangling over the side of a mirrored glass skyscraper. The other buildings in the picture clue me in to exactly what I’m looking at. My Admirer managed to get on the roof of the Patriot Trust Building downtown and take this photo from the ledge.
SecretAdm1r3r: Are you stunned silent?
For a second, I am.
Something else in the photo catches my eye, and the panic attack I feel coming on subsides. I’m learning the rules of his game, and I already know my next move.
PandaD: Nice.
SecretAdm1r3r: Now who’s downplaying who?
Panda D: You’re a Rooftopper. Big deal.
It is a big deal.
There are whole sects of photography dedicated to taking dizzying, dangerous pictures from the tops of skyscrapers. I’ve seen a ton of photos like his on the web, in photography forums. Shots from Russia, China, India. Mostly because those countries have really awesome buildings. Also, it’s easier to pull off infiltrating a rooftop in those places because there’s generally less security to bypass. We’re so paranoid about terrorists in America. Especially in live buildings—those that are occupied and in use. From what I’ve read, your social engineering and stealth abilities need to be government spy level to pull off that sort of thing.
PandaD: When did you take this?
SecretAdm1r3r: Last night. Why?
Because if you took it last night, you must have been up late. Were probably pretty tired by the end of today. Tired enough to skip DP class. Right?
PandaD: Just curious.
SecretAdm1r3r: Think you can do better?
PandaD: Am I still being blackmailed?
SecretAdm1r3r: No way. We’re past that. I know you’re in the game now. Good luck topping that though.
PandaD: I think I can manage.
SecretAdm1r3r: IDK, I checked the weather, no storms for a while. LOL!
PandaD: I’ll have the picture by next week.
SecretAdm1r3r: Someone’s feeling confident.
PandaD: I am. Hey, the text you sent me today, “some ppl don’t learn,” what did you mean?
SecretAdm1r3r: The return of Keachin Myer, of course.
PandaD: I know. But what was she supposed to learn?
SecretAdm1r3r: Karma’s a bitch. ;)
My irritation from before is gone. My thoughts are on the city sky. I’m starting to like this game. The challenge of it. The possibilities.
We’re all something we don’t know we are.
I don’t know what my Admirer—Marcos—is. Not exactly.
Whatever he is, I might be, too.
CHAPTER 14
IT’S A BUSY WEEK. A LOT of prep for the photo shoot that will top my Admirer’s latest.
Marcos makes it to Digital Photography every day. I watch him closely from the corner of my eye, and I’m just as careful as he is not to give any indication that things are different between us. The one time I’m bold enough to speak to him, I ask for his thoughts on the Canon 20D—the camera SecretAdm1r3r mentioned in our first chat. His response: “Sweet rig.”
That was all. But the way he said it . . .
Soon. Once I get this next photo, we can stop this part of the game and figure out a new way to play together.
Between getting ready to top View from Heaven, and school, and getting back into Hall Ghost shape, I feel like I’m working three jobs. The whole time, the scandal I sparked continues its rise toward critical mass.
Coach Bottin officially loses his job. But he also makes bail. Would he see that as a silver lining? Probably not.
Keachin cycles through a series of new looks each morning. From reserved on that first day, to loose locks and smoky eye makeup on day two, to bloodshot and teary on the day Coach is fired, to a barely-adhering-to-the-dress-code miniskirt on day four, to the Friday shocker . . . her formerly long and draping hair chopped short on one side, and shaved to the scalp on the other.
The worst part, it’s fabulous.
She’s run the board for the week. Five days of ensuring her name’s never far from the lips of her peers. Flipping between snapping at peons who dare to breathe in her direction and milking sympathy from the sheep she herds.
It drives me a little crazy, if I’m being honest. She’s the first to come back from a Gray Scales exposé stronger for the publicity. But I force myself to move on, focusing on the task at hand. Keachin Myer may still be due some comeuppance, but I won’t be the delivery driver. Gray don’t do repeats.
I make a couple of trips into the city after school for research that week. Dusting off some of my Gray-honed espionage skills to score some crucial information.
Really, it only takes one trip into the city to get what I need. The other trip—I wanted to get to the top of the Patriot Trust Building. If Marcos could do it . . .
Homework first, of course. That building belongs to the bank, but there are dozens of other businesses leasing space. Among them, AGG Technical Institute. A small for-profit computer-training school that offers tours and tech seminars to Portside kids in an effort to recruit them after graduation. A bunch of their pamphlets are in a rack in the guidance office.
Bright-yellow block letters on the front of the brochure scream: Make Your Appointment Today!
A quick call to their 800 number, and that’s enough to get me past the lobby guard in the Patriot Trust Building. Hell, he might as well have walked me to the roof.
Exiting the elevator a few floors from the top, I find a stairwell, and make it to the roof access door. A red-on-g
ray sign reads: Alarm Sounds When Door Is Opened. Neither the sign nor the electric horn over it is much of a deterrent for me. Like I said, I did my homework.
These types of alarms have been handled by many Rooftoppers, and they’re more than willing to share tips on disarming them. My newly purchased tool kit—screwdrivers, wire cutters, tiny pliers—is made for this kind of work. I pry the cover off the horn’s circuit box, having memorized a half-dozen possible schematics to determine which wires to snip.
The job’s already done. The wires I would have cut are unsheathed and frayed. Makes sense. He would’ve had to bypass the system, too.
My Admirer’s done the work for me.
Rooftop gravel crunching under my feet is enough of a thrill for me. I don’t bother to grab a ledge and dangle my feet. That’s what he did. I must do better.
The Portside skyline twinkles like an alien solar system. I take it in before reentering the building and making my way back to the elevator. Excited about my next challenge, hopeful I’ve done enough prep to pull it off.
If I haven’t, I may need to call up Coach Bottin and get his lawyer’s number, so I can get out of jail as fast, if not faster, than he did.
Time to recruit the getaway driver.
I’m in Ocie’s room, flipping casually through her calculus textbook as if it’s interesting. “You know that photo contest I’m in?”
“Please tell me it’s over and you won and you don’t need my help again with something crazy. Though, I’m betting that’s asking far too much.”
Ocie’s intuition. “Um . . . how?”
“You’re dressed like a soldier.”
Well, yeah, I’m in night-stalker attire. Black boots, dark jeans, dark hoodie. Not your typical grab-a-milk-shake-on-Saturday-night wear.
She breaks me down further. “And you’ve got the look.”
“The look?”
“You look interested in something. Since you don’t care about clothes, boys, and any of the other normal stuff I’m interested in, I know it’s going to be something wild. What now?”
I may have lost her already, but if I have a chance in hell at getting her assistance, I can’t hesitate or show any nerves. For once, I am nervous.
Getting through it the best I can, I tell her what I aim to do, try to make it sound less insane than it is. I don’t do a good job.
She says, “No, no, no.”
“Ocie, I’m not asking you to help me get the shot. I want you in the car, on the phone, letting me know if someone comes.”
“Someone. You mean the police.”
I shrug. The fire department and rescue squad are good candidates, too.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t want me with you. You shouldn’t do it. It’s dangerous, and you’re going to get in huge trouble.”
“Not if you’re there.”
“I don’t get it. What kind of contest would need you to do something like this? I’m not getting involved. I’m sorry.”
I love Ocie like a sister, but here lies the problem in having a single, solitary best friend. If she’s not down for the cause, there’s no one else to draft. I have to convince her.
“I haven’t told you everything,” I say.
“Surprise, surprise.”
“There’s a boy . . .” I leave it vague because I know my friend.
Ocie fills in the rest. “I knew it! There had to be some testosterone in this bag of crazy. Who is it?”
“It’s the guy from the contest, the one I told you about before.”
“He’s cute.” Not a question. She’s building my motive for me.
I nod.
“Let me see him.”
I’m not prepared for that. I can tell she’s not going to be down for this without a visual, something to satisfy the Cutie Quotient in her head.
I think fast, and go into the photo gallery on my phone. I have stock photos I’ve used for digital art projects. Plenty of male models to pick and choose from. I scroll to one that looks the least like Marcos. Tall, dark, clothes hugging his muscles like either they’re shrinking or he’s swelling.
When I show him to Ocie, her face lights up, “Oh, he’s smokin’, reminds me a little of—” Her mouth snaps shut.
I look at the picture, then back to her. “Who?”
“Never mind. This is really about impressing the hottie?”
I nod again.
She sighs, looks me in the eye, and I feel the “no” coming. “It’s still crazy, Panda.”
“But you said he’s hot, right? We agree. He’s our black.”
A reluctant nod and sigh. “He is. Our tantalizing black.”
“So . . .”
She raises her hand, shushing me. “Love is crazy. If this helps you embrace the insanity and get the guy, I’m in.”
We drive downtown, the red, white, and blue signage of the Patriot Trust Building visible from the highway. We hit the surface streets and move beyond Winston Avenue and Noble, which house bars and clubs filling with the party crowd. Farther east and we’re in the business district, which is as busy as a riot during the week, but feels like church on weekends. Only a few cars line the streets next to our destination, so parking’s not an issue tonight.
Tonight’s issue is something else entirely.
Idling in front of the Patriot Trust Building, I crane my neck, stare up its mirrored face. I imagine Marcos at the tip-top, legs dangling while his camera flash goes off like an exploding star, a winking jewel in the mane of the constellation Leo. That bit of imaginary astronomy gets me going, a boost to do the extremely scary thing I’ve come here to do.
I step from my car, turn away from the Patriot Trust Building, and face the unfinished structure across the street.
The Cablon Hotel. Due to open for business in the fall of 2016. When it’s done, it will be Portside’s tallest skyscraper, usurping the current champion . . . the Patriot Trust Building.
It’s ten stories from being completed. The steel girders forming the frame of those final floors are in place, protruding from the fully built facade of its lower three-fourths like bare bones. From those high, unfinished floors it’s a perfect downward view of the Patriot Trust roof.
That’s where I’m going.
I pop my trunk, and remove a set of bolt cutters.
Yeah. Bolt cutters.
Ocie circles the block while I walk toward the Cablon site like I’m auditioning for Fashion Week. I’m in a red three-quarter-length trench, “borrowed” from Mom’s closet. It’s more suited for the clubbing crowd a couple of streets over than for tonight’s exercise in Urban Exploration, but it proves its worth when a cop car passes and the officer inside doesn’t look my way. Nothing looks more suspicious than someone in shady attire. You wear something bright, you can’t be doing anything wrong.
Really, the key is confidence. Life Hackers and Social Engineers and Rooftoppers all agree there can be no hesitation—no doubt—when attempting a sketchy goal. The philosophy is summed up in three words.
Be bold. Belong.
I sneak to a dark corner of the hotel construction site, next to a “security” fence where I pull my gear from hooks I sewed into the coat’s lining. Removing the coat altogether, I slip it into a heavy-duty garbage bag to keep it clean. Crouched, I make several quick snips with the bolt cutters, unmooring a section of fence that I can peel back, then slip through.
There’s some sort of orange contact paper lining the inside of the fence, and my utility knife makes quick work of that. The chain links jingle like chimes on a cat’s collar as I squeeze through, dragging all my stuff. Once inside, the paper conceals me; I leave the garbage bag by my entry point and move about the site freely, using the flashlight app on my phone.
“Please tell me you’re not going to take the stairs, Bond,” Ocie says. I’m wearing a Bluetooth earpiece, same as her, and she’s keeping me connected to the outside world via cell.
“I’m not. Are things looking good out there?”
; “All’s clear, Bond,” she says in a horrible British accent.
“Stop calling me that. You’re so other, Ocie.”
“No, you’re so other, Double-O Nutcase. How are you going to get to the top?”
“I don’t need to go to the top.” Thank God. I only need to get higher than my Admirer got. I maneuver around bulky equipment that feels like sleeping monsters in the dark. A flock of birds takes flight, their wings batting the air, nearly taking my screams with them. I talk to Ocie more for comfort than any pressing need to explain my every move. “I’m taking the elevator.”
“It works?”
“It did when I was here earlier this week.”
“When you were— What?”
When it comes to Rooftopping you get bonus points for the height of the building, and the security you must bypass to reach the roof. News flash, getting to the very top of a building is not easy. The owners don’t want daring (not to mention suicidal—or, I guess, homicidal) people on top of their buildings. In barring access to adrenaline freaks and psychos, artists like me and my Admirer have a lot of hurdles to jump. Locked steel doors, alarms, cameras—the kind I don’t like.
Fortunately, they haven’t installed all that stuff into this building yet.
Seems hotel investors are much less concerned about security before the fancy silverware and Egyptian cotton sheets get ordered.
Slowly, avoiding hidden holes, and scattered nails, and any number of other dangerous minutiae that litters construction sites, I make my way to the service elevator. The construction crew uses it to get supplies to high floors; later it will be the elevator that the hotel waitstaff uses to deliver room service to guests. I know this because of the notes I took for my school newspaper article. Never mind that I don’t write, and my school doesn’t have a newspaper.
Thumbing the up button parts the doors, exposing the dusty, paint-splattered car, with a flickering light bar casting the interior in a strobe effect that makes it seem like I’m moving in slow motion. I step in, select the forty-second floor, and explain my insider knowledge to Ocie because I can hear her nerves coming through the phone. I need her calm and focused.