by Ryan Schow
Shaking my head, a clear picture of the office in my mind, I say, “That wall has a book case on it. Full of books.”
“Whatever it says there, these are the official plans. They’re clear as day.”
“I’ve been in his office a dozen times and trust me, there’s no elevator. Only his desk, a bookcase, some pictures and the normal kind of décor you’d find in a place like his.”
“Draw me the layout. Where’s the bookcase?”
I draw him the layout and he says, “It has to be behind the bookcase.”
The revelation has my head spinning. The idea that beneath the infirmary are three more floors that aren’t listed on the official campus map is…well…exciting in a Scooby-Doo mystery sort of way.
“Do the plans say what’s down there?”
“They don’t,” he says.
“Isn’t that supposed to be a part of the planning process?”
He says, “When you have the kind of money the people who fund this place have, laws don’t really apply. It’s about payoffs, future favors, votes and blackmail. You know the drill. Mrs. Pearce talks about it all the time in politics. Don’t you have her?”
“Second period.”
“See?”
I’m speechless. And practically sick with curiosity. “I have to know what’s down there.” I look up at him, “Don’t you?”
“B and E isn’t exactly my specialty.”
“Think of it as physical hacking.”
“With physical jail time,” he says, wide-eyed.
“Don’t be such a vagina. We won’t get caught. We’re too smart.”
“That’s what every criminal says before they end up going to jail and getting gang-raped by lifers in the penitentiary showers.”
OMG, this is the first real break I’ve had in weeks! I look at him and he looks at me and already plans are forming. Already I’m fleshing out the details. My eyes hold a steel resolve. I see hesitation in him, though, and it pisses me off. He needs to man-up. “We’re breaking in that office, Brayden. You and me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me and I know he’s afraid. Then: “We’re going to need a hidden camera to see how he gets behind the book case and into the elevator. If he even uses it and if he knows it is there.”
“He knows,” I say, resolute.
“You think?” I stare at him, my face becoming a smile, my slow nod becoming hypnotic, willing him to say yes. “Fine, bitch. We’ll break in, but only if you promise to come visit me in jail.”
I give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a big sloppy one full of emotion. “Holy crap,” I say, “we’re about to become criminals.”
“It’s a little too late for that,” he says.
4
We start planning right away, Brayden scoping out different kinds of spy cameras to buy online, me annoying the hell out of Nurse Arabelle to get an appointment with Dr. Gerhard. After five straight days of me stopping by the infirmary, Gerhard finally caves. By then Brayden and I have a finely tuned plan.
Sort of.
I walk into Gerhard’s office wearing my backpack, then set it on the floor before sitting down with the pocket facing up. It has two cameras in it. One on a small teddy bear dangling from the zipper and another on a decorative pin tacked to the canvas. Both cameras are on and feeding real time images to the computer back in my room where Brayden is watching. A third camera is on a pin I’m wearing on my shirt. Brayden says three cameras feel like overkill, but it’s been a bitch for me to get in to see Gerhard, so overkill is just us playing it safe.
What keeps crossing my mind is how much of Kaitlyn’s story I should tell Brayden. Or how much of my own story. The way my looks have changed in the weeks since I’ve been here at Astor, I know now that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. But breaking into Gerhard’s office? Yep. I need Brayden. And he isn’t dumb. Not by miles. So what should I tell him? That’s the million dollar question. And what is he going to hear in my meeting with Gerhard? After today, he just might learn more than I want him to know. He might learn everything. More than anything I’m terrified he will learn the truth and hate me. After all, our greatest bonds come from being ugly and scarred. Together, the way we loathe the beautiful and the arrogant, it’s practically our own art form.
My plan is to be cryptic. Gerhard might not behave in kind. He’s a straightforward sort of doctor who threatened me if I told anyone about my treatments. I assume he’s working on the belief that I actually took his threats seriously. He trusts me. And technically, if I’m filming and recording this conversation and he says something detrimental to our secrecy, then technically it wouldn’t be me telling Brayden. It would be him. Not that he would buy the argument. I wouldn’t. Still, that’s how I rationalize the situation.
“I’m very busy, Savannah,” he says, annoyed. The weary look in his eyes is a screaming confirmation. “Working on your treatment no less.”
“I was just wondering about the progress.”
“Not enough.”
“When can I come in again?”
“It could be weeks, the rate I’m going. Or tomorrow. I just don’t know at this point, but one thing I can say for sure is the more time I sit here explaining myself to you the longer it will take.”
That’s all I need, a short appointment. No specifics. It’s time to go. I stand and extend my hand. Scowling, he takes it, gives it a curt shake, and that’s that.
Back at my room, Brayden is waiting for me, excited. He says, “I’ve found the perfect nanny-cam for his office,” he says. He shows me pics of a smoke alarm that supposedly has a camera built into the indicator light.
“A smoke alarm?”
“Yep. It looks exactly like the one on Gerhard’s ceiling. Here, look.” He shows me the still shot of the smoke detector in Gerhard’s office and then shows me how the one he’s looking at is nearly identical.
“And how the hell are we going to get that in there?”
That’s when the look on his face changes. “We’ve got to steal his key, make a copy, then break into the office and install it.”
My body temperature spikes several degrees, warming my nerves. “If we’re going to break in, why install the nanny-cam? Why not just go to the lab?”
“We don’t know how he gets through the bookcase, if there’s a secret way in, and what buttons to push—if there are any—on the elevator.”
“Okay, fine. But that’s insane. How the hell are we going to steal his key? And what if the place is alarmed?”
“I checked all the alarm permits for Placer County and there isn’t one registered for the school. Now that doesn’t mean he didn’t install one on the DL. Of course, there would be a wall mounted keypad if the office were alarmed, and from what I can see by the video footage today, there isn’t. Not in the lobby or his office.”
“Maybe you didn’t see it,” I say.
“All alarm keypads are going to be placed near the door, or at least in a common area that has quick, easy access. With our cameras, I was able to pick up all these common areas.”
“And?”
“Like I said. Nothing.”
“Okay, so how do we steal his keys?”
“I have an idea, but you’re absolutely going to hate it.”
Operation: Destroy Cameron O’Dell
1
For an entirely different project, one I like to call Operation: Destroy Cameron O’Dell, I have Brayden take my photograph. A full body photograph to match one already posted on her Facebook page.
“If it’s a war that rotten scab wants,” I say, “then we’ll give her a war.”
Apparently she’s had Theresa taking photographs of me for some kind of online post highlighting me and my rapid, impossible physical changes. It’s been the hot topic lately. The reason most people have stopped talking to me. At first I couldn’t figure out why Theresa has been snapping photos of me everyday, but the truth is, deep down I know.
I just re
fused to admit it to myself.
Damien said Theresa had a Facebook post about me. I finally read it and she couldn’t find a kind word to say. Cameron’s responses were worse. Far worse. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Cameron’s thread for two entire days. Until last week. That’s when I realized I had to do something about it. I just didn’t know what. Around that same time, I brought Brayden into the fold. When I asked if he knew about Theresa’s posts, he got red-faced and quiet. Like he was embarrassed. At that point, I didn’t care what he knew. He would learn the truth about me sooner than later, if he didn’t know already.
Using a modified keystroke logging program, a program that records all the keys pushed on another person’s computer from a remote location, Brayden is able to isolate the email and password Cameron O’Dell uses to access her Facebook account. It’s well after dinner when he logs on from my computer using her stolen access information. Three minutes ago I sent her a friend request, because I need full access to her. Brayden now accepts it for her before logging back out.
He says, “It’s done.” Now I can both see and comment on her posts to her inner-circle. I can say exactly what I want to say. What I need to say.
Staring at the comments thread from the folder of more than twelve pictures Theresa gave her of me not-so-gradually transforming over the last six weeks, I tell Brayden, “Let’s upload the picture first.” Brayden agrees. We return to Cameron’s account, upload my most recent picture. It looks the same as the last picture Cameron posted of me weeks ago. Body, face, height. Same pose.
With Brayden’s skills, just enough journalistic insight to be dangerous and the knowledge that dirt equals leverage, I’m almost giddy with delight. Pushed to this point, turning the tables on Cameron once and for all will taste as sweet as cotton candy. Beneath the picture, I write: I GUESS SHE’S NOT A CLONE AFTER ALL. SHE HASN’T REALLY CHANGED—MAYBE I WAS WRONG.
I press ENTER and the post goes live.
In the box below, where I’m not limited to word count, I type: I SUPPOSE I HAVE BEEN PICKING ON SAVANNAH BECAUSE THERE’S SOMETHING HAPPENING IN MY LIFE THAT I’M NOT WANTING TO FACE, OR EVEN TALK ABOUT.
I stop typing, consider what I’m about to do. I look at Brayden. He’s looking at me, anxious. “What?” he says.
“This will crush her.”
“Don’t tell me you’re growing a conscience.”
“I’m not. It’s just…this is going to be really, really bad.”
He sits down on the bed beside me. “Do I have to remind you two girls killed themselves because of her? That she’s trying to destroy you on Facebook? Or that she gouged the crap out of your car, which still isn’t fixed? I can go on,” he says. “I can do this all day long. She had all her friends puke in a bag and left it gift-wrapped outside your door, she stole your clothes during PE, she’s constantly making fun of you to everyone around. Should I go on? C’mon, Savannah, this is her wake up call,” he says. “Or as my mom likes to say, her ah-ha moment.”
Knowing he’s right, I finish typing.
Cameron’s final post reads: MY FATHER, COUNTRY SUPERSTAR PATRICK O’DELL, IS CURRENTLY FACING FELONY CHARGES FOR SOLICITING A MINOR. A BOY. BECAUSE THIS SAME BOY, A PROSTITUTE, HAS SEXUAL TIES TO KEY MEMBERS OF CONGRESS, THERE IS A MEDIA BLACKOUT UNDER THE GUISE OF NATIONAL SECURITY, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT’S ANY EASIER TO HANDLE. THE STRESS HAS BEEN AN IMPOSSIBLE BURDEN FOR ME AND MY FAMILY, AND FOR THIS REASON ALONE, I’VE TAKEN MY AGRESSION OUT ON SAVANNAH. SHE DOESN’T DESERVE IT, SO I’M SORRY. P.S., THERESA’S FATHER, GOLDMAN SACHS EXEC JAMES PRICHARD, IS CURRENTLY UNDER INVESTIGATION BY THE FCC FOR SECURITIES FRAUD, MISAPPROPRIATING FUNDS AND EMBEZZLEMENT, SO THE STRESS SHE’S UNDERGOING HAS ALSO PLAYED A ROLE IN SAVANNAH’S HARRASSMENT. SHE IS SORRY. WE’RE ALL SORRY FOR EVERYTHING.
Brayden reads it over my shoulder. I feel him smiling. I’m smiling myself, beneath the nerves. If I post this, it could mean further escalation. Or it could be a death blow to Cameron and Theresa. Either way, they can’t say I’m lying because Brayden and I have proof. The story, all the facts, they’re sound. Breathless, my armpits soaked, I press ENTER.
The room collapses into a vacuum of silence, a palpable reverence that overcomes both of us. Like someone has died, or is about to die.
I log off as Cameron and log back on as me. The comments to Cameron’s post start to pour in. One after another after another. Julie writes: WTF? and me and Brayden are snickering. Maggie writes: AT LEAST YOU’RE FINALLY BEING HONEST.
“Whoa!” Brayden says.
More and more I have hope for Maggie. If only she’d switch her circle of friends. She’s so beautiful, yet I can’t find one spark of emotion, or a single ounce of cruelty in her. The girl is a true enigma.
When I ask Brayden what Maggie’s deal is, he just shrugs and says, “Beats me. I think she wants to be a singer. She’s got a few songs on YouTube.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, she’s incredible, but she barely says anything in school. It’s creepy how mostly inhuman she seems at times. Then she’ll be totally human and it’ll freaking confuse everyone.”
I make a mental note to look up her videos. Finally Cameron logs in and writes: I DIDN’T POST THIS!
“Now,” Brayden tells me.
I type: LOOKS LIKE YOU DID. AND I APPRECIATE YOUR HONESTY AND YOUR INTEGRITY. I ACCEPT YOUR APOLOGY.
I press ENTER.
After that comes the most ferocious stream of curse words and threats I have ever read or experienced. It’s the kind of profanity young kids shouldn’t hear or even see.
I write: ARE YOU BIPOLAR, OR IS THE STRESS OF YOUR FAMILY’S PROBLEMS EMERGING? BECAUSE THE POST YOU WROTE WAS SO GENEROUS, AND HONEST, AND IT REALLY MADE ME THINK OF YOU MORE AS A DECENT PERSON THAN, WELL…WHAT WE ALL SEE NOW.
ENTER.
The typing looks like screaming: HOW ARE YOU MY FB FRIEND? I HATE YOU!!!! I DIDN’T EVEN TYPE THIS, YOU DID!!!! YOU’RE DEAD BITCH. DEAD!!!!
Brayden says, “Let me,” as he gives me a slight shove over. I hurry out of my chair, my heart a pounding force in my chest. I’m practically out of breath.
He writes: BOTH HARRASSMENT AND THREATS ON FB ARE TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY THE FBI AND HOMELAND SECURITY. I’M SAVING A SCREEN CAPTURE OF THIS POST, ALONG WITH COPIES OF THE PICTURES YOU’VE TAKEN OF ME, AND FORWARDING THIS TO THE FBI AND HS. FURTHERMORE, I’LL BE SPEAKING TO HEADMISTRESS KLEIN REGARDING THIS ISSUE AS SHE’S ALREADY REPRIMANDED YOU FOR THIS KIND OF HARRASSMENT. IT SHOULDN’T BE LIKE THIS, BUT I’M AFRAID YOU’RE TOO UNSTABLE AND I CAN’T SIT BY AND SUFFER YOUR ABUSES ANY LONGER.
ENTER.
“Holy crap!” I say, raking my fingers through my hair. I’m actually sweating. But not sick. Not throwing up. Not even nauseous. For all the physical changes I’ve felt via Gerhard’s shots, not throwing up every time I get stressed out or embarrassed is the best result.
Still…
“She must be having a full scale meltdown right now,” I say. This queasiness making its way through my guts, it’s different. Not social anxiety sickness. More like I just did something I can’t take back…that kind of sickness.
Only one more post hits before the thread gets erased. The post if from Amy Masterson, the girl who inadvertently added her own blend of barf to the bucket of puke I tossed on Julie’s door. She wrote: I LOVE YOU, SAVANNAH VAN DUYN.
Then everything is gone.
Brayden and I hug and celebrate and put on music to dance to, and then we sit, breathing heavy, staring at each other with grins that won’t go away. He finally says, “You’re the most fun I think I’ve ever had.”
“I’m thinking the same thing.” Then the moment comes, a moment between us that feels like what that moment before kissing should feel like, but I can’t stomach the idea of my lips on his, so the moment passes.
Finally Brayden says, “I think it’s about time you tell me the truth about you.”
I remember saying the same thing to Georgia. Now I know how she felt.
; “If you judge me badly, or tell me you’re not going to be my friend, then I swear to God, I will have you killed.”
“I’m pretty sure I already know what’s happening, I just want to hear it from you.”
I tell him everything. He takes it well. And he asks lots of questions I try best to answer. It’s clear to him now why I’m dead set on finding Kaitlyn. Then there comes that moment when there’s nothing left to say and the silence grows long.
“Well, I should be going,” he says.
I say good-bye knowing how badly he wanted to kiss me, and how I wasn’t about to kiss him back and this leaves me feeling uncomfortable. Is this what it was like for the boys I wanted in my earlier life? When I was fat and so hideous even my winning personality counted for less than squat? Were they hesitant to be my friend for fear I would fall in love with them and they’d have to later reject me? I hate feeling like this. What a hypocrite! Still, no matter how creative I feel, or how persuasive I can be with the warring parts of myself, I can’t see myself making out with someone I’m not physically attracted to.
If only he looked like Damien, or that horse’s ass Jacob Brantley…what I wouldn’t do to be with him then!
2
The next day, all day long, I suffer the hard stares of legions of Julie Sanderson, Cameron O’Dell and Theresa Prichard fans. I’m called countless names. Horrible names. Sometimes out loud in front of others, other times they’re muttered just loud enough for me to hear in passing in the hallways, bathrooms and classrooms. For as many haters as I have gained, I’ve also earned some fans. People who never seemed to notice me before are smiling, encouraging me, reminding me to stay strong. Amy Masterson even introduces me to her friends.
The disgusting names my fans utter are aimed at Julie, Cameron and Theresa and I have the feeling that last night’s post just divided the entire student body in two: Pro-Savannah versus Anti-Savannah. How I have gone from this nobody to a somebody of interest almost over night dumbfounds me completely.