by Loretta Lost
“It means a lot,” I tell her quietly. “I want to know everything. I want to know you.”
She reaches out to place her fingers on my hand, and squeezes it gently. Is she comforting me? I swallow. I hope it’s not causing her pain to share this. I hope it’s healthy for her to talk about it and get it off her chest.
“What ended up happening with Benjamin?” I ask, encouraging her to speak more.
“It wasn’t easy to leave,” she says, looking over to the window. “He threatened to kill me. He said that if I ran, he would find me. But more importantly… I was attached to my home, and I didn’t want to leave. For the first time in my life, I had my own desktop computer in my bedroom. I was comfortable, never hungry; I always had nice, new clothes that fit me. I was winning trophies in school for both sports and academics. I could really imagine staying in that home until adulthood.”
“Even with… everything he did?” I ask her, really trying to wrap my head around this.
She gives me a self-deprecating smile. “You know, it’s almost better to be touched at all, in any way, than to be left entirely cold and alone for years. I managed to convince myself that he really cared. I started to convince myself that I cared about him. It was the only way I could get through each day—by pretending it was normal. He was an attractive enough man. I know that in some countries, and cultures…” Her voice trails off.
I shake my head, unsure of what to say.
She reaches out to touch the keyboard of her destroyed laptop. “It was just my stupid period that messed everything up. I went to planned parenthood to get birth control, but he found it in my room and tossed it out. He was very religious, and he said that he had plenty of money to take care of any kids I might have. He said that he could just blame a boy my own age, and spin it into a heroic deed about taking care of a pregnant teenager’s baby. He said it would make a great story for his pro-life supporters.”
“What the hell?” I whisper. “That’s so messed up.”
“Yeah,” Scarlett mutters. “He did a lot of good things for the community while there were cameras on him, but behind closed doors… he thought that those good deeds gave him license to do whatever bad things he wanted.”
“This guy is insane,” I tell her matter-of-factly. “He should be in prison.”
“I left a suicide note so that he wouldn’t look for me,” she says as she fingers her computer’s smashed circuitry. “I stole money to take bus rides all the way out here. I lived on the streets for a while because I was still scared that he would find me if I went back into the system. But that’s okay—it’s easier to live on the streets in California than New York.”
“Scarlett… God. I had no idea.”
“Yeah.” She places her hand on her injured abdomen and gives me a crooked smile, as if to relieve the tension caused by her brutal honesty. “The stuff Professor Brown is doing? The cigarette burns and mild violence—it’s not that bad. It only hurts me, and only temporarily. It doesn’t put my future at risk, and it doesn’t put any possible children in danger. I can live with the kind of abuse that doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
“It hurts me,” I tell her. “You shouldn’t have to choose between being raped and being hit.”
“What are the alternatives? Choosing to starve. Choosing to sleep in abandoned warehouses with drug addicts.”
“Some group homes aren’t that bad,” I tell her—but that hasn’t really been my experience.
She rolls her eyes. “Really? Choosing to be completely ignored. Choosing to have a shitty education. Choosing to be treated like crap by the other teenagers who are really messed up, and worse than the professor. Choosing to be locked in a box.”
“I guess… for now, maybe this isn’t the worst place for us,” I admit, but I hate the possibility that it could be true. I don’t want to be so defeated that I believe that this is an acceptable situation. I want to hold on to my memories of better times, and work hard to somehow make them real again.
Scarlett nods, glancing at me. “Trust me, Cole. It really isn’t that bad. Besides: You’re here, aren’t you? I thought that it was bullshit when my social worker decided to place me in a home with a Mensa kid, and I expected you to be an annoying, arrogant nerd. But… I like talking to you. You’re kind of… a sweet boy.” Her cheeks darken a little and she tilts her head to the side teasingly. “Besides, I’ve never had a role model before.”
I scoff at this. “There’s nothing I can teach you, Scar. You’re doing so well in school, and you’re tough as nails. Compared to you, I’m a spoiled brat, and I should take a page out of your book. How the hell did you get so smart?”
“Libraries are free to the public,” she explains with a shrug. “I just read a lot, as much as I can.”
Shaking my head in amazement, I stare at her. “How do you manage to impress me a little more every single day?”
“I do?” she asks, in surprise.
I nod. “My parents spent a lot of money homeschooling me with the best tutors, and I grew up pampered with tons of attention. I took it all for granted, and I never knew what I had until I lost it. If you had grown up with the opportunities I had—you would probably be working at NASA or something by now.”
“You’re just saying nice stuff to make me feel better,” she says shyly. “Maybe I have a little skill with computers, but… that doesn’t really matter if my computer is smashed, does it?”
“I will replace it,” I tell her. “I promise.”
“Please don’t make promises to me, Cole.” She lets her face sag forward into her hands with a heavy sigh. “Everyone always breaks their promises. I can’t bear to hear any more empty words.”
“I always mean what I say,” I tell her earnestly. “Cross my heart and hope to die. You’ll see, someday soon. But in the meantime, I believe it is my duty to teach you a very important lesson—something I learned from my parents while they were still around. When it comes to abuse, the only policy you should have is a zero tolerance policy. When you overlook these things, and let them continue for too long… it takes a toll on you. It changes who you are.”
“I know that,” she says softly. “But what can I do? A zero tolerance policy for abuse sounds like a fairy tale. Come on, Cole. If I walked away from everyone who hurt me, I would be living on a deserted island somewhere, foraging for fruits and nuts.”
“We can still change this,” I tell her, rising to my feet and offering her my hand. “We need to do something about Mr. Brown, and make him stop hurting you. Let’s go confront him.”
“Cole,” she says hesitantly, “that will just make it worse. I’m fine with the way things are.”
“I’m not,” I tell her firmly. “And I’m not going to let him get away with this. He’s just an insecure jackass and a bully, picking on someone much smaller than he is so that he can feel like more of a man. If we stand up to him, I guarantee he’ll back down.”
She shakes her head in refusal. “You can’t talk to him now, when he’s drunk out of his mind like this. You’ll only make things worse. Go back to bed, Cole.”
“No way in hell. I can’t just go back to bed like nothing happened.”
“You’re very heroic,” she tells me slowly, “but heroes often fail.”
“I already failed to save my parents. You’re the closest thing to family I have had in years—I couldn’t live with myself if I just sit around and do nothing while you get hurt. What if Mr. Brown goes too far one night? What if he breaks something more important than your laptop?”
Scarlett looks at me as if I am insane. “There is nothing more important than my laptop.”
“You are more important than your laptop.”
“Whatever,” she says stubbornly.
I study her face and see that she is genuinely upset by everything that has happened to her, and not just on this night. If I rock the boat, we could end up getting removed from this home and separated, and that wouldn’t do either of us any good. I take a dee
p breath. “Alright,” I tell her, grabbing a pillow from her bed. “I will take some time to think about how to approach him, and I’ll deal with him in the morning. But for now, I’m going to sleep here.”
“What?” she says in surprise.
I place the pillow on the floor, halfway between her bed and the door. I quickly pop outside to grab my baseball bat before returning and lowering myself to the pillow. I place my bat beside me and link my hands together over my chest resolutely. “It’s the least I can do. After all, I broke your bedroom door,” I tell her with a grin. “So now I’ve got to be your personal bodyguard.”
“Fine,” she says quietly as she rises to her feet. With one last, forlorn glance at her smashed laptop, the dark-haired girl moves to turn off the light that illuminates her room. She turns on a smaller reading lamp before crawling into bed and adjusting her remaining pillow. Positioning herself close to the edge of the bed, she looks down on me from above.
For a long time, she gazes at me, and there is a strange look in her glassy eyes. Their blue is so pale and almost transparent, like I could see right through and read her secret, innermost thoughts as they dance across her brain. I try. Carefully and methodically, I search her eyes to better understand the mind of this mysterious girl whose life is becoming closely entangled with mine.
All I see is pain. Pain and scars that are so overwhelming they almost consume her existence. Pain and despair that so many people have abandoned and harmed her in her short lifetime, which doesn’t feel quite so short. Pain and tiredness for it to all be over, and for things to finally be calm and better.
I keep searching until I find something else. Rebellion. A tiny glint of rebellion against everything that has ever given her pain. Rebellion against misfortune and all the failings of humanity that have led her here, and everywhere else she should have never been. Strength. Impossible strength and dogged determination to survive anything life throws at her—and everything life takes away.
She can’t even help it. She doesn’t even try. She just needs to survive.
Am I really seeing all this in her, or is it just my imagination running wild? Do her strangely clear eyes have the effect of a mirror, and am I just seeing bits of my own soul reflected back at me? Can a person ever look at someone else and see anything other than the qualities and feelings they recognize as their own? I am mesmerized and puzzled by her, and held completely spellbound.
Until she blinks. The spell is lifted, and I am free.
“Thanks,” she whispers as she turns to look at the ceiling. “I feel better that you’re here.”
Warmth washes over me at her words. A tiny bit of pride swells in my chest to know that I’m helping at all. I wish I could help more, and take away all of her pain. Maybe over time, if I stay beside her and try to lift some of her burden, she will start to feel like she isn’t so alone.
I won’t give her any empty words and promises. I will only show her that I am here, by consistently being here. I will make sure that I am close whenever she needs me, until she knows that no matter what, I always will be. She needs someone like that in her life—someone consistent and reliable, who cares unconditionally. I know because I need someone like that. Everyone needs someone like that.
For starters, your mother or father is supposed to be the person who cares about you. Ideally, both. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, an aunt or an uncle, too. Grandparents. Siblings. Eventually, friends.
But we haven’t been so lucky.
Lying here on the floor, I can see the silhouette of Scarlett’s face in the dark. She has a sharp and beaklike nose that is both regal and predatory. The curve of her chin is soft and feminine, yet it juts out proudly with stubbornness, even as she rests. It suddenly occurs to me that she knows how special she is. She knows her own worth, and she values her own intelligence. She has healthy self-esteem, and a strong sense of her own identity, but she is unsure of her place in the world.
Looking up at her like this makes me feel like she is a princess, and I am her loyal knight, standing guard over her. This thought gives me a bittersweet smile. I wish I had a younger sister to play games like that with. But it’s too late now. Scarlett and I are no longer children. The time for make believe and building castles in the sand is gone.
When children are born into good families, with good parents, they can afford to stay children for as long as possible, well into adulthood. They rarely learn the meaning of hard work and independence. But when children have no parents, or have shitty parents, they quickly learn to fend for themselves. They are forced to grow up sooner, and be adults while the actual adults are absent or uncaring.
In some ways, I wonder if losing my parents improved me as a person. I might have been an eternal child if they were still around. But now, I know that I cannot afford to build castles in the sand that will be washed away with the tides. I cannot afford to build forts out of sheets and pillows. I cannot afford to waste time.
I need to build something that lasts. I need to build towers that stretch to the sky. I need to build houses that won’t burn down. I need to build a life for myself, because I don’t have someone else’s life to piggyback on.
Staring at Scarlett, I wonder if she feels this way, too. I wonder if she can understand the drive and desperation inside me to establish a foothold here. I think she does.
We barely know each other, but somehow, we need each other.
“Cole!” Scarlett says softly. “Can you keep it down?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I tell her with confusion.
“You’re thinking loud enough to wake up the neighborhood. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? It sounds like there’s a whole construction crew in your brain and they are all drilling and jackhammering and bulldozing.”
“Wow. That’s exactly what it feels like inside my brain,” I say in awe. “How can you tell?”
“I am connected. Wirelessly.”
Her voice is cryptic in the darkened room and it gives me a shiver. “What are you talking about?” I ask her with a nervous laugh, wondering if she somehow hacked into my head. But she does not respond. She is already asleep.
“Goodnight, Scar,” I tell her softly.
By the time we arrive at the airport, I have hacked into the police files containing the ongoing investigation into Cole’s death. I have also downloaded footage from the hospital security cameras on the night that he was murdered. I need to keep finding details to focus on so I can occupy my mind. I need to stay distracted. As soon as we get past security and arrive at our gate, I pull the laptop out again and proceed to continue my work.
“Jesus,” Zack says as he glances over at my fingers flying across the keyboard. “Those are some mad skills.”
I ignore him and continue to gather information. I need to get as much as I can before we board the plane, because I’m not sure if there will be reliable internet access in the sky.
“I thought you just didn’t like having electronics around in the home,” Zack muses. “I thought maybe you weren’t tech savvy…”
Glancing at him with a raised eyebrow, I quickly turn back to accessing Cole’s email account. I then copy his cell phone notes and calendar, his car’s GPS detailing all his recent locations, his home security system…
“Who the hell are you?” Zack asks in amazement.
“Aren’t you supposed to know the answer to that question before you propose to someone?” I snap at him hotly.
“You never really gave me a chance to know you, Sophie.”
I suppose he’s right. Out of curiosity, I proceed to play the hospital security footage on fast forward, covering half of my screen with the feeds from three different cameras, and the other half of my screen with Cole’s recent text messages. I scan through them both simultaneously, my eyes darting around the screen and barely blinking with the effort of multitasking.
“How did you gain access to the hospital tapes?” Zack asks as he leans over to study my screen.
&n
bsp; For a few seconds, I continue what I’m doing and do not respond, but then I start to feel like I’m being rude. “That was the easy part,” I explain to Zack. “I designed all the security systems that Cole uses in his buildings, so I know how to access the servers. They haven’t updated the system that much since I left.”
“You can design software? Why the hell are you working as a librarian in Arlington?”
“I’m not.” I stare at him and shake my head in amazement. “It’s a cover. I thought you would have been able to figure that out.”
Zack leans back in surprise. He looks around to make sure no one is nearby before speaking in a lowered voice. “You mean to say that you work for…”
“An agency. I figure I can tell you now that I probably lost my job.”
His face displays hurt, but also fascination. “What do you do, exactly?”
“I’m a cryptanalyst,” I tell him. “A code breaker.”
“I know what a cryptanalyst is,” he tells me. Then he frowns and gestures to my laptop. “But it seems like a step down from what you did before. Being the person who designs the codes.”
Glancing at the laptop, I give him a tiny nod. “They recruited me because they needed help with a puzzle their other code breakers couldn’t crack. They needed me to hack into some foreign satellites.” A small smile touches my lips. “I designed some of the most impenetrable security systems in the country, so they figured that if anyone could do it, it would be me. And I did.” I pause, turning to look at Zack. “I do sometimes consult about the software used for our own national security, but not very often.”
For a few seconds, Zack is quiet. Then he leans back and exhales with a low chuckle. “I’m proud of you, Sophie. That’s pretty amazing. I had no idea you were so smart.”
I make a face at him before returning to my task of searching Cole’s files. Still, I am impressed. I always thought that Zack would have a strongly negative reaction if he ever found out I’d been lying to him all along. I’m pleasantly surprised that he understands.