Her brow rises, but she doesn’t say anything. Close one.
I fly down the stairs and run to the back of the warehouse to grab my bike. Biking will cost me time.
At the nearest Starbucks I borrow their WiFi—I don’t have enough money to pay the coffee-rent and my iPhone isn’t great for hardcore Web research. Using my laptop and the 411 directory, I discover that there are three Shaftsburys living within a ten-mile ride of the school. I check the school catchment areas and rule out one of the families as living outside of the borders. With only pedal power this is going to take longer than I’d hoped, but I still have a couple of hours before Jonny would typically return home from school. I can do this. I slip the laptop into my backpack and swing on to the bike.
Soon I’m sweating and my palms are slippery on the handlebars. I’m sure this is supposed to be good for me, but as salt burns my eyes, I can’t see how. I turn on a busy street and climb a long steady hill. I pedal for another fifteen minutes. Sweat’s running down my back in rivers, and I catch the bike chain on my jeans three times before I pull over to the curb. I look around and don’t recognize a thing. I punch the address into the Google Maps app. It helps take me from A to B in the form of a flashing blue dot and highlighted path. I hug my phone to my chest.
Not seeing anyone I know around, I bend down and cringe as I wrap my white athletic sock over my already oily pant cuff. I’m a dork, but I refuse to wreck my second pair of jeans in a week. I set off pedaling again.
The blue dot finally connects with the Shaftsbury’s address pin. Their home is on a quiet residential street with older houses from the twenties, the yards dotted with large oaks and maples. Nice—not poor—middle class with some low-rent housing mixed in. I cycle right past the house as I don’t want to raise suspicions. The porch is clean and newly painted. Bright yellow shutters stand out against red brick. No car in the cobblestone driveway. Nice.
I cross the street and circle back, stopping in front to lean my bike against the rugged bark of an oak tree. Brown and orange leaves crunch beneath the tires. My first job is to confirm I’ve got the right place.
Mail sticks out from the mail slot. I look around casually and then jog up the porch steps. Without knocking, I check a letter. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Shaftsbury. This gets my feminist goat and doesn’t help. The next letter provides my answer. Ms. Aliana Shaftsbury.
I’m actually relieved it’s the wrong house.
“Excuse me?”
A woman on the sidewalk squints up the steps. She and a two-year-old stand between the house and my bike.
“Aliana?” I ask, mind whirling.
“No,” she says. “I’m a neighbor.”
“Do you know when she gets back?” I keep everything light. I’m supposed to be here. No need for police. You’ve seen me before. On your way. Move along now.
“Usually five, who are you? Reading mail is a felony.”
My Jedi mind tricks clearly aren’t up to par.
“Can you tell her Iva Goddago stopped by, please?” I ignore her comment about felonies. People are so over dramatic. Really? Are all mail carriers felons then? It’s a wonder any mail makes it to the right place.
She doesn’t say anything, and I waltz past her and her kid, stopping to say, “Well hello there, cutie-pie.” And then I’m off.
As I turn the corner, I start laughing and laugh so hard I have to stop and clear my eyes or risk whacking into a parked car. My phone buzzes again and I check it. A tweet to Heckleena telling her off—one of many. But it’s weird: What happened to you? It appears someone has hacked her Twitter account and is sending out nice, syrupy tweets worthy of a greeting card on Valentine’s Day.
I’ll love you until the day after forever.
When you see a falling star tonight, make a wish, it will come true because I wished and I found you.
Holy crap, I even hate her.
I don’t have time for this, but it reminds me of my plan. I punch in the address for the next Shaftsbury and start pedaling. My thighs are already burning and my butt feels like I’ve sat far too long on something way too pointy. The next house is on the other side of a really big triangle, and it takes a good half hour to reach. Factoring in time to bike home, I have maybe twenty minutes on site to do what I need to do.
As I approach the address, I skip the drive-by. I let the bike fall against the sidewalk and rip the laptop from my backpack. The home is a pre–war job. Semi-detached, squat, ugly, aluminum sided with a single-car drive and a carport. The garden in front is well tended and the lawn trimmed.
I don’t even bother checking the mailbox. I don’t have time—this is either Jonny’s house or I’m too late. I sit on the curb, buttocks rebelling from the cold, hard concrete, and boot up the ThinkPad, which is grindingly slow.
Breaking into a wireless network isn’t all that hard if you know what you’re doing. I loaded the hard drive with the programs I need, and the old wireless card is actually handy for this job. Unfortunately I’m not using Linux, and so this makes placing the wireless card in monitor mode a little trickier. This is all blah-blah-blah to most people but it costs time. Basically, by using some special software, I can collect data that allows me to figure out the password with another piece of software.
I don’t collect as many packets of data as I’d like, so the second piece of software—AirCrack—takes a lot longer than I had hoped. Still, I penetrate the wireless network within six minutes and only one car has driven past.
After that it’s a cinch to find Jonny’s computer—there are only two on the network. I wonder if I should look at his or the other one.
A door slams behind me, but it barely registers.
I’d rather rule Jonny out than his mother, so I choose Jonny’s. I need to be able to trust someone in case this starts to get really dangerous. A cold fist in my stomach is telling me it already is. I see he has a webcam. I could hack it if I wanted to and look around his room. Sick, right?
Instead of totally violating his privacy, I find his Firefox web-browsing history and pull it up.
“Hello?”
The question is to my back. At the familiar tone of the voice, I almost wonder if the last Shaftsbury’s neighbor followed me here. I flip the lid of the laptop down.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
This woman is overweight and wearing a large floral print dress with black tights underneath. Another big yellow flower sticks out of her hair. Her gut sticks out at me.
If it worked once, it’ll work twice, so I give it a whirl.
“I’m, ah, looking for Roz Shaftsbury.”
The woman lifts a drawn-on eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Yeah, I—” I pause, hoping she’ll come out with another comment but she doesn’t, only bringing a ham fist to her hip. “She’s not here so I’ll come back.”
“No, she’s here all right.” She smirks. “You’re looking at her. Now what do you want?”
I’m stunned. Unless Foxy Lady ate herself five times, this is NOT Roz Shaftsbury, not the one who dropped off Jonny’s computer.
“Mom? Jan?” Jonny’s walking down the sidewalk. He’s home early. Then I remember—computer science class is last today. Chippy lets you out early if you’re done. “Why are you at my house?”
“Who is this?” His mom asks him.
I need to run or I’ll be late for my shift. My head’s whirling.
“What are you doing here, Jan?” Jonny asks.
I’m realizing that something really bad is going on. If this isn’t Roz, if this isn’t some petty revenge taken too far, if this is a conspiracy, I’m in way over my head.
“I didn’t like how we ended last night,” I say.
“Well, maybe there shouldn’t be a we,” Jonny states. “If there ever was.”
; He’s still mad—I would be, too. And he doesn’t know about Karl.
“Can I talk to you, Jonny?” I ask. His mother’s eyes narrow as I’ve lowered my voice. “It’s about the Shadownet.”
His lips are thinner than I remember, eyes a dull matte.
We walk a little ways down the sidewalk. “I have your old computer,” I say.
“What?” And a sudden light flashes in his eyes as if he’s hoping for a rational explanation. “You took it?”
“I didn’t take it. Some woman dropped it off at Assured Destruction, even asked for it to be destroyed, but she said her name was Roz Shaftsbury and I wanted to see if it was your computer.” I speak so fast I’m not quite sure what I’m saying.
“How’d you know it is mine?”
“Your files.”
“You went through all my stuff?”
I cock my head.
“You shouldn’t be looking through people’s private stuff!” he says. “Wait.” He points at his mom, but I know he’s talking to me. “Why are you really here?”
The question’s loud enough for the street to hear.
“I caught her with her laptop open.” His mom scuffs the curb with her slipper.
“You thought I was the person doing this to you.” Not a question. “You were hacking our network.” Jonny’s eyes fly wide with hurt.
“Shh … I just wanted to see if it was your mom.”
“But it’s not my mom, and I won’t shh. Someone very bad could have all my personal stuff and I don’t know why.”
“They’re after me,” I say, but I know he’s right. Someone had taken the trouble to find another student’s computer and ensure it landed in my hands by impersonating his mother. This is bigger than me, and Jonny knows it.
“Really? Because you haven’t had someone steal naked pictures of you, or had your medical history shared, or anything except that stupid website that you probably did create.”
I lower my gaze and my throat constricts. Everything is starting to make sense—why Jonny’s journal entries are all three months old and why there were no pictures of Foxy Lady on his hard drive. He has nothing to do with any of it. His laptop and Foxy were the true trojans.
“Am I one of your digital slaves?” he demands. I back up a step, but don’t answer. “Am I?” He grips my shirt and twists it into his fist. “I saw Life Is Beautiful. Funny thing, I took a picture just like that.”
“What’s this about, Jonny?” His mom stomps toward us.
I shake my head and say in a hush: “Don’t tell, give me a week and then I’ll go to the cops.”
He looks down at his fist and opens his fingers, letting my shirt go slack.
He seems to consider this—the Underpass feels so long ago. “Twenty-four hours,” he says. “Then I call the police myself.”
“Forty-eight hours,” I plea. “I need a friend, please.”
“This time tomorrow.” His voice is even and cold. “And if you want any more help, maybe you should talk to whoever I am on your stupid network.”
I can hear his mom’s huffs nearing, but I’m staring into Jonny’s dark eyes. He knows I don’t even have fake friends anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say. And then I scramble around Jonny’s mom, grab my pack, and race off on my bike.
As I pedal, I hear Jonny say, “Don’t worry, Mom, she’s a freak.”
My tears aren’t of laughter this time as I turn the corner, and I’m still upset when I pull into Assured Destruction, sweating, disheveled, and out of breath. My mom’s at the cash. I’m fifteen minutes late. I stand at the door, mother grimly watching from inside. And just when everything seems dark, I catch a glint. A flash of hope.
Sunlight reflecting from the lens of our security camera.
Chapter 16
I wait, sweating in the entry of Assured Destruction. Inside, it’s cool and dark as my eyes adjust. My mom’s shoulders are back and her jaw flexed. Slowly I roll my bike to the wall and lean the frame against it. Her sighs whistle from her nostrils.
“Where were you?” she demands.
I can’t tell her what I’ve really been doing, but I can’t lie to her anymore. “I went to a boy’s house.”
Her chin tilts down so that now she’s looking at me like a wolf might when ready to pounce.
“It’s complicated,” I add with a sniff.
Her expression suggests she’s considering whether to lock me in a closet or to hug me close, but something else is wrong. Her mouth opens and closes, and she frowns. I’ve never seen the vein at her temple throb so prominently.
“Your school called,” she says. “They’re deliberating your expulsion.”
I stand nonplussed, wracking my brain for what new terrible deed I have committed.
“Why would you do it?” she cries. “What are you going to do if you are expelled?” Both my mom’s hands are in the air like she wants to karate chop something.
“I haven’t done anything, have I?”
“Are you this mixed up?” she asks, face screwing in confusion. “How can you not remember plagiarizing?”
“Plagiarizing …” And then I catch on. OMG. The essay. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for me to get into more trouble.
“No, no I remember, but—” I set my bag down slowly, like I’m placing a gun on the floor under threat of death. “I just didn’t have time to finish the essay.”
“Because of your computers.”
“No—well—yes, sort of,” I begin and sag. “Listen, Mom, I need to tell you about everything that’s happening, but I can’t. You’ll understand why when I’ve fixed it.”
She rolls her chair back and forth. I’ve seen her do this before. She’s thinking, weighing the options.
“Maybe you need some help,” she says. “Maybe I can help you.”
And this is why I think my mom is so cool. Here I am, a cyberbully, a plagiarist, a liar, and a jerk to someone she cares about, and still she’s there for me. I begin to cry.
“I’m really sorry it’s gotten out of control. I’m losing friends because of it too.” I sob.
“What got out of control? What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain yet. I would if I could.”
“And you will,” she says quietly. Anger is not far off. “And until you do, you will go from here to the library, where you will check in with me, and then you will return and you will work. That is all. You will rewrite that essay tonight and hand it in to me at midnight.”
“Then I need my computer,” I say, wiping my eyes.
Her face pinches. “Why should I trust you?”
I swallow hard. I’m sixteen. My mom is treating me like I’m six. “You can’t. You shouldn’t. I’m a lost cause.” My tone is sincere.
“But I want to trust you.” Her voice cracks. “So I will.”
She turns slowly in her chair, only using one hand, with the other at her temple. I realize that I just used reverse psychology on my mother. Her heart is in my hands.
“Take over for me, please,” she says, and I can’t believe how much I’ve hurt my mom. “Peter’s coming, ask him to come back tomorrow.”
She wheels into the elevator before I say anything in reply.
I wait and the doors close with a thump. The sadness wells in me; my mom, my failures, my hurting Jonny and Hannah, Harry, Astrid. My lungs hitch and my mouth turns down; another choking sob escapes my chest. With its echoes I’m overcome by grief and I’m on my knees, tears dripping from my elbows as they run from my hands and down my forearms.
After a few minutes, I rub my eyes and run fingers through grimy, sweaty hair. The cry has cleared my head and strengthened my resolve. All my pain, and everyone’s vengeance, hinges on me solving this mystery. My expulsion.
Mom’s business. A boyfriend. Justice for Harry and Astrid. Even for Ellie. I need to set this to rights. I climb to my feet and head for my mom’s office.
The office is a room with no windows, two filing cabinets, no chair, one desk, and a shelf at the same height as the desk so that my mom can reach everything. We keep security video tapes on a seven-day rolling basis, so we have tape from a week ago, which we’ll soon copy over. The images are grainy, but enough to identify a person or car or—if I’m lucky—a license plate.
I pick the tape for three days ago and plug it into the display unit. It goes all crazy with snow and then returns with an image of our parking lot just in front of the door on a sunny day. The time stamp is 8:04 AM, which is when we switch the tapes. Then it goes black. I rewind it well past halfway, trying to recall when Foxy Lady came in. It takes another minute of searching to catch the snarling eyes peering into the camera lens, but the car is parked out of view and a lens flare obscures some of the frame. I pause the tape and start to rewind to see if I can catch the car as it comes in. I do; it’s a Honda Civic, black, but there’s no plate on the front. I try for the rear as it leaves.
The door jangles, and at first I think it’s the tape, but there’s no audio on it.
“Dear?” a man asks.
Who says dear?
Peter! I pause the video and scramble out of the office. Peter stands at the cash, on the threshold of crossing over into the Employee Only area.
“Hi, Peter,” I say. Instead of a bouquet of flowers, he’s holding a pizza box with a hard drive on top. On most days I’d be impressed that he’s carrying my two favorite things in the world. Today I need to get rid of him. “My mom’s really upset—because of me—and asked you to come back tomorrow.”
His face crumbles, and I can see how upset he is. On the other hand I still believe he is a retired dude who likely has too much time on his hands. He’s probably planning on taking my mom on an all-you-can-eat cruise as we speak. I quell my evil thoughts and try to like him.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 10