Peter steps into the kitchen doorway. A silhouette, a large one that, despite his decrepitude, I’d seen take down a former kettlebell champion.
“Oh, don’t go quiet on me, Janus. An old man needs to live vicariously through the young.”
I see the knife’s edge glint of his smile.
“Like I said, filet mignon and scalloped potatoes. Information doesn’t come cheap.”
He chuckles and heads back in, coming out immediately, hefting a platter heaped with steaming pasta.
Evidently the way to a girl’s secrets is through her stomach because as soon I’ve topped my rigatoni off with freshly shredded Parmesan, I’m gabbing about everything that happened today minus the killer’s laptop. With my mom so quiet it seems I’m in charge of the entertainment tonight. Peter gleams with interest, but my mom’s about to slam her face into her food. She barely eats.
“It’s not exactly tracking a terrorist,” I say.
Peter shakes his head. “You’re right, it’s possibly bigger.”
I laugh. “Bigger as in, who stole the cookies from the cookie jar big. Or maybe the Caramilk secret. Huge.”
Peter has these enormous hands that he hooks under the table like he’s ready to stand up, flip the table backward and start a bar fight. He’s way too excited by all of this. “I’m serious. Carders and all black hatters are what give hackers a bad name. They’re the lowest of the low and likely support most of the world’s terrorist networks.” I swallow too large a mouthful of pasta and choke. He takes it the wrong way. “If you cut off the money supply, you stop the crimes. You’ll see, Janus, just don’t give up on this. Don’t leave it to people who may not understand.”
I blink. The police not understand? I decide to leave it alone. My mom’s nose is an inch away from a Parmesan cheese makeover.
“Mom?” I ask.
She startles, reaches for her wine and knocks it halfway across the table. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cries and begins to dab with her napkin at a part of the table that’s actually clean of wine.
“Mom?” I ask again and grip her hand so it stops slapping at the table. Her eye is tearing. The same side she was covering when I found her on the couch. “Your eye. Can you …?”
That’s when she begins to sob and it’s tough to hear what she’s saying, but it sounds an awful lot like: “I’m going blind.”
Out of my seat, forgetting about my ankle, I nearly fall on top of her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders.
“It’s okay.” She cries, and I know it’s not.
“We have to get you to a doctor,” I say.
“She has an appointment set,” Peter responds.
My head snaps up. He knew—he knew before I did.
“If I leave my bad eye open, everything blurs,” my mom says. “Started a few days ago.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy, Mom,” I cry, ignoring the hurt for a moment that my mom would confide in Peter and not me. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
She sniffs, but we all know that this is part of the disease. For a while you’re okay, and then you grow worse, until you improve again. The problem is, each time you decline you never quite reach the health you were at before you became ill. The disease is chronic and progressive; eventually complications from it will cause her death.
“I can spend the night, Tina,” Peter says, but my mom waves the suggestion away. By his emphasis on the word can, I’m betting this isn’t the first time he’s offered.
The rest of the evening degenerates into hugs, tears, wine stains and pasta congealing into a gluey mass.
Chapter 7
Hours of community service remaining: 1994
<
@FrannieMouth hug me and I pull your arms out, Heckleena replies.
After a sleepless Saturday night, I spent Sunday lying in bed with my mom, the store shuttered. There were moments when she was her old self, joking and poking fun at me, but only moments.
Now, Monday morning, I call out one last time. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?” It’s my first day back at school in weeks because of the complications with my burns and I really don’t want to man the cash.
“I’ll be fine,” she drones from her bed. “Miss many more classes and you miss the semester.”
Like I need the reminder.
I push the down button and the elevator grinds upward. I bite my lip and then dash into the kitchen. My mom’s bedroom has curtains across the office windows. When I enter, she’s lying face down. I leave a peanut butter and banana sandwich on her bedside table with a glass of orange juice. I kiss the back of her head.
“Jonny’s gonna be here soon to pick me up, Mom,” I say.
She sighs a response. I don’t think she’ll be opening the store today.
In the retail area, I pause again. I have to decide. Skip school and serve the few customers who might come in, or leave it closed. On a note I scribble:
Closed today for personal reasons. We will reopen tomorrow and apologize for any inconvenience.
The Management
I scotch tape the notice to the door. Leaning against the frigid glass, I tap the Twitter app open.
I haven’t ventured onto Shadownet since Saturday and wonder if any spammers have replied to Frannie. At least with my trusty iPhone I don’t have to neglect my Twitter followers while I wait for Jonny.
In life do what you can and let everything else slide away, JanusFlyTrap tweets.
I look at the tweet and slouch. Nothing slides away; if anything, I feel the burden mount.
Jonny rips around the corner, back bike tire skidding before regaining grip on the gravel. He’s sweating despite the cool December air. Jonny has these big round eyes, dusky skin and a shaggy head that begs for me to run my fingers through it, always looking like he just rolled out of bed. Today he’s wearing his trademark white T-shirt under a blue leather coat with racing stripes down the sleeves and a pair of jeans.
When I step through the door, he grins. I lock the store, pausing to read the note again. Then I hug Jonny, sagging into his arms. All the tension in my shoulders releases in his grip and shivers rip down my spine.
“What’s up?” Curls half bury his forehead. I stare into his brown eyes and my lips press together.
Holding him, feeling the cool nape of his neck beneath my hands, I can’t keep my thoughts straight. What can I tell him? My mom doesn’t want anyone to know about her condition. The police don’t want me talking about police stuff. Aren’t girlfriends supposed to share this sort of thing?
“My mom’s sick,” I say, pointing at the sign. He waits for me to explain. “We’d better get going.” He catches the car keys I toss and locks his bike to a drain pipe while I crutch slowly to the car door. He’s awesome. Artistic, sweet, smart and cute, and sometimes when I touch him energy buzzes in my head, decreasing my IQ twenty points. My silence isn’t fair, but Williams was clear, and I don’t think I can talk about my mom without crying.
“Excited to be back?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition. The car engine rumbles to life.
I swallow and nod.
“Nervous?”
“Sorry, no, just worried about my mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
I sigh. I have to say something. Maybe I need to for myself, to transfer the weight of it all to Jonny’s shoulders, if only for a moment. “It’s her MS. Last time I saw her this bad, she was in bed for weeks and I had to drop down to part time at school. Not sure I could even do that now that I’m indentured to the cops.”
“How’s the police thing?”
“Actually, it’s pretty cool but I’m not doing very well and they won’t let me talk about it.”
His brow knits but finally
he shrugs. “That’s okay, makes sense.”
I turn and smile at him, feeling a little charge. School is only a couple miles drive and we pull into the parking lot as a flood of students are climbing the stairs to a big glass atrium and crunching through leaves dusted by snow. It’s an urban high school on a postage stamp of land, with too many kids and not enough lockers.
“Ellie’s been voted class president,” Jonny says as he nods in her direction.
I snort. Ellie stands beside the door to the school, giving little waves to everyone as they enter. It’s as if she’s still canvassing.
“She can have it.”
“This year’s special. We have international students arriving in January to attend school with us. Ellie will be responsible for them. There’s a hundred-word essay competition to win the chance to put them up.”
“Nice prize.” I laugh.
“They pay,” he adds.
“Oh … in that case … we may have room for several.” I grin. “Where are they from?”
“Somewhere in China. You better write the essay soon, deadline is in three days, Thursday.”
In truth, another mouth to feed is the last thing my mom needs, but the cash could be handy. I shrug.
When Ellie sees me, she frowns and turns to go inside. At least, that’s how it looks. Karl’s nowhere to be seen and I try to hide the fact that I’m looking for him. Karl asked me out. He’s undeniably the best-looking guy in school and he also happens to be interested in what I do with computers and making things. I can still feel the hard strength in his arms as he carried me out of a burning house to safety. Jonny’s more into himself than my work on computers—I guess most artists would be. And I might be able to beat him in an arm wrestling contest. Still, Jonny’s completely … real. He’s not afraid to call me out. I need that.
“Karl’s made some big swim team, Junior National or something,” Jonny adds. “So if you’re looking for him, he’s late because he’s training.”
“Holy crap.” Life is moving on for the people around me. “Good for him.”
Hannah, a chubby girl who always seems to think she’s friends with me even though I do nothing to encourage it, is flailing her hand in the air like mad and huffing directly toward us.
“Oh, I hope she’s waving at you,” I say to Jonny.
“Nope. Definitely you.”
“Thank god you’re back,” Hannah blurts as she arrives heaving.
“See you in class,” Jonny says with a raised eyebrow.
I give him a what-am-I-supposed-to-do look and then he’s gone.
Five seconds later Hannah has tugged my coat sleeve to the school’s only tiny field and under a tree whose roots are so polished from shoes and backsides that it’s amazing it lives. Things can survive in the craziest conditions.
“I was so happy to hear you were coming back today,” Hannah says. “What took you so long?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my infected burns held me back some.”
She doesn’t catch the sarcasm. Hannah is pretty in her own way; one of her parents is Chinese, and her mashing up of Western and Chinese fashions sets her apart. Today something seems worn and tired in her gaze. The closer I look the more I realize that she’s a little too pale. Her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, crying, or both.
The smile she sports fizzles when I ask: “So what is it?”
She slumps on the bench and the bell rings. Late my first day. Her eyes clench shut, squeezing a tear out as I draw a deep breath.
“Will you help me?” Her voice is squeaky and her fingers have folded into tiny fists. “I know you’re a tech wizard.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re the only one I can go to.” She grips my coat hem, twisting it.
“For what?” I ask, jerking back and smoothing out my front.
“I don’t know what you call it,” she says, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes. “There’s a guy who won’t leave me alone.” I check over my shoulder and peer at the line of houses across the street. She shakes her head. “No, no, he’s on the Internet.”
“Oh—”
For the first time, she looks hopeful.
I continue, “Is he emailing you or texting or something?”
She hangs her head and flushes. “He’s mostly online. I actually went to meet him.”
“You what?”
Tears begin to flow again. I should know from past experience not to jump all over her; this chick is sensitive. I sit down next to her and take out my iPhone for notes. “All right, from the top, what happened?”
“A few months ago,” her voice hitches as she struggles for control of it, “I was on a fan fiction site. He was on it too and … it was like talking to a best friend. He was so nice. Liked everything I liked. Said he was eighteen, which I thought was cool …”
“Wasn’t eighteen, though, right?”
She shakes her head.
“Definitely not. We were planning to meet in front of a coffee shop. He gave me his mobile number just in case something came up. When I saw a man standing outside, looking around, I dialled the number and watched him pick it up. He wasn’t even close to eighteen, more like forty.”
“That was pretty smart, calling his number like that. And I can tell you what it’s called. I’ve got a name for you.” She looks confused. “Luring. He tried to lure you. He did lure you. It’s illegal and you should go to the police.”
“No!” she shouts and I draw back. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
“This guy could be dangerous.”
“No, I’m not going to the police.”
“Why not?”
She gulps. “This is so embarrassing …”
“Won’t tell a soul,” I say.
It comes quick, like she has to spit it all out at once: “He asked me to send him naked pictures.” She glances at me, cringing like some puppy I’m about to spank.
“You didn’t …” My hand finds its way to my forehead.
“I did. This was before I knew he was old or weird or evil.”
“Ugh,” I say. “You know you can’t get those back. Permanent and distributable.”
She shrinks impossibly further.
“Where’s this relationship at now?” I ask. “What’s he doing?”
“I told him I didn’t want to talk anymore.”
“But he’s not listening …”
She bites her lip before coming clean. “He said he’d stop all the emails if I sent him another topless picture, so—”
I cover my mouth in pre-emptive awe at her idiocy. “You didn’t.”
She bawls. “What was one more photo going to do?”
I roll my eyes.
“Now … he …” She’s struggling through the tears. “Now he wants a video.”
“Gross.” It gives me an idea, though; I work my lips back and forth as I think.
“So, can you help me? Please!”
“I can help you. If you know his phone number, I can maybe figure out where he lives. But I want the police in on this.”
“No!” she screams, leaping up and waving her arms. “No police. If you tell them—”
“Hannah, Hannah,” I hold out my hands but she looks frightened. “I already work with the police.”
“You can’t! You don’t understand my family. They’ll kill me. They’ll send me away to boarding school.”
I shrug. This is serious, grade-A crap she’s into. It’s worth pissing off her tiger–mom if that’s what this is about.
Her eyes narrow and stare hard at me. When she speaks again, it’s like some demon has possessed her and I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see her head do a three-sixty on that plump neck while spewing barf.
“If you tell them, if you tell anyone … I’ll kill myself.”
I don’t believe just anything people say. But when they say it like this, I do. Deep in my gut I fear she’ll do it. That I somehow represent hope to her and without that there’s nothing for her left.
“No police, Hannah. Okay.” She stares at the ground. “I’ll come home to your house tonight,” I say. “We’ll devise a plan.”
Chapter 8
Hours of community service remaining: 1994
8-ball question: Have I martyred myself?
Gumps replies: Before I can answer, you would need to die first.
Oh, yeah, there is that.
Mrs. French, our English teacher, is yammering away about a book she wants us to read, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, about Chief Bromden and a guy named Randle McMurphy, who fakes being crazy to avoid prison and ends up duking it out with Nurse Ratched, only to be lobotomized after he nearly chokes her to death and brings prostitutes into the hospital. I can’t believe they let us read this stuff in school. Sounds anti-chick to me, though. Luckily I’ve already seen the movie she’s told us not to watch because it’s “just not the same.” Whatever—I’ll watch the movie again.
“So what did Hannah want?” Jonny asks in a whisper. He saved me a spot in class and is leaning a little my way without looking.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I am sworn to secrecy. Girl thing.”
“This hush-hush stuff is already growing old,” he says.
In the grittiness of the tone, I hear that it’s not only school I could be failing out of. I risk a glance; his face is stony and focused on Mrs. French. So, we’ve officially been dating for seventy-two hours and already his expression looks like the one my dad used to wear when my mom wouldn’t let me race around on his do-it-yourself go-carts.
Mrs. French explains how Billy Bibbit, another psych patient, offs himself near the end of the book and that makes me think of Hannah. For the rest of the class I worry that I should go to the police, but what if she commits suicide because I tell? And I can help her. I know I can.
Assured Destruction: The Complete Series Page 20