Dead Ringer

by Jessie Rosen

  The first day back had been typically busy, plus she’d stayed after school to help Mrs. Egenoff finish organizing the computer lab for extra credit. Sasha didn’t need the extra credit. She could probably teach all of the computer classes her school offered, but new Design Suite software had just arrived for the AP engineering class, and Mrs. Egenoff said she could spend an hour playing with it as thanks for the help. It didn’t hurt that hiding out in the lab meant she could avoid walking through the first-day activities fair. The thought of table after table of screaming upperclassmen hawking a dozen different paths to high school glory was the opposite of appealing. Sasha made it her goal to talk to as few people as humanly possible in a given day.

  By the time Sasha got home, it was already six o’clock, and then there was dinner to make and a surprising amount of homework to do. She didn’t hold out hope that they might eat as a family in honor of the first day of school. They had never been that kind of unit. Mom would probably labor away at some ridiculous metal sculpture thing in her studio and Dad would hide out at the office until at least eight. Sasha was pretty sure that neither of them even knew school was back in session, but she didn’t mind. The less they paid attention to her, the more time she could spend online.

  Sasha very clearly remembered the day she’d first learned what hacking meant. It was the spring of her eighth-grade year, and she was sitting in computer class. Some terrified-looking substitute teacher had been directed to keep the kids quiet by showing a “20/20” special on people who got caught cracking the New York Stock Exchange security systems and wound up serving eight years in a federal prison. It was intended to scare the class away from any curiosity about the hacking world, but it had the opposite effect on Sasha. From that point on, she was hooked. It was exactly what she needed to help with the investigation.

  It takes the average baby hacker about a year to develop the skills to crack a basic office security system. After that, things progress quickly to the point of figuring out how to monitor a person’s online life. Sasha tackled all that within her first six months. That’s how she earned the name “Phenom.” You know you’re finally accepted into the community once another hacker gives you a handle, and she received hers from Syke, the leader of the Midnight Kids—one of the top hacking groups online.

  Sasha’s skills expanded a thousand-fold once she had the support of Syke and his crew. They helped her develop an interface to track all the communication she was monitoring. Sasha knew everything that went on inside the computers of over three hundred fifty people—emails, chats, downloads, searches, and more. After that, she built an alert system to let her know when relevant information was shared. That is, if relevant information was ever shared.

  It had been five hundred twenty-one days since the search terms she’d built her system around popped up in the interface—almost a year and a half since any of the people she was hacking mentioned the words she’d been waiting to hear. Those words were the key to building her case.

  Sasha still checked in on the feed twice a day, every day, no matter how useless the act felt. She couldn’t let herself give up yet, if ever. She’d wake up, shower, get dressed, and then sit down at her computer to check the feed. At the end of the day, she’d finish her homework, change into her pajamas, and sit down to check it one more time before bed. Every single day was the same. No new mentions of the search terms.

  They had obviously all forgotten about what happened, and she hated them for it. Nobody wanted to remember that kind of tragedy, least of all Sasha. And yet here she was again, as always, sitting before her computer for the end-of-day check. She refused to let a day go by without honoring the promise she’d made herself all those months ago, even if no new clues ever surfaced.

  But today, all that patience finally paid off.

  Sasha saw the flashing red S on the top right of her screen and a mix of joy and fear rushed through her body.

  She clicked on the icon, which opened the master-panel listing of all the computers she followed. Sasha had built the system to collect a huge amount of data—enough to give her the greatest chance possible of finding the one thing she was looking for. But the deluge of information wouldn’t be a problem today. The problem now was where to begin.

  You have 942 mentions of the requested search term: Sarah Castro-Tanner.

  For a second, Sasha just froze. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, jump up and down, or scream. Somehow every emotion available felt right. Instead, she took a deep breath and clicked on the very first name on the list: Andrea Adams. An instant-message screen popped open. She noticed that Andrea Adams had engaged in an online conversation with a Christine Beck at 3:45 p.m., which was almost immediately after school let out for the day. Sasha would typically do a control+F keyboard search to find mentions of the word Sarah, but that wouldn’t be necessary. It was the very first thing Andrea Adams said.

  AndieA: Ohmygod how much would it suck to look like that girl Sarah?

  Chelsbells: Think the new girl looks that similar?

  AndieA: Enough.

  Chelsbells: Did anyone tell her?

  AndieA: Idk. Would you?

  Chelsbells: No thank you. What would you say? “Welcome to Englewood. You look just like the town’s most famous dead girl.”

  Chapter 2

  Laura

  Laura sat on her bed working on the latest in her ever-growing collection of infinity scarves. Her mom’s mom, Grandma Hellen, had taught her to knit the summer that she stayed in her cottage in Santa Barbara. Laura had been something like ten years old, but the lesson stuck and knitting became her favorite way to relax—even if it did make her feel like an old lady.

  Laura thought back on her first day at Englewood as she stared at the needles flying around the bright-pink yarn. “I survived,” she’d reported at the dinner table earlier, and luckily there was no follow-up question. Laura didn’t want to talk about the confusing looks, and she certainly didn’t want to remember what she overheard as she left lunch.

  Charlie and his friends were already at the table when she walked into the room, giving her the chance to observe them from afar. To Charlie’s left sat a petite blonde wearing a blue-and-white-striped sweater dress. She had blunt-cut bangs and tiny little panda bears painted on her fingernails, and she moved like a flitting hummingbird, totally focused on everyone but herself. To her left was a shorter, stockier version of Charlie. He wore a Varsity jacket, an attempt at dressy sweat pants, and the only five o’clock shadow Laura had ever seen at noon. On his lunch tray were two meatball sandwiches and a giant side of fries, most of which appeared to be from the blond girl’s tray. And then there was the other girl, the really beautiful one. Her lanky frame, bone-white skin, and deep-auburn hair made her look like she’d just stepped out of a magazine fashion spread, and her perfect posture made it clear that she knew it. She clearly owned the table, if not the whole school.

  Just as Laura was about to approach, the beautiful one hit Charlie with a look like he’d just said something totally shocking.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Laura said as she slipped a tendril of hair behind her ear. Everyone in the group startled at her arrival—especially Charlie.

  “There she is now!” he said, expertly smoothing over the awkward moment. “We were just talking about how much it must have sucked to never have winter on the West Coast.”

  Laura smiled. “Seventy-five degrees year-round is a total bummer.” The group forced a laugh. Whatever they had been talking about was being pushed aside for now.

  “Laura, the group—group, Laura.”

  The little blond one stuck her hand out first. “Welcome to Englewood. I’m Katherine Jacobs, but everyone calls me Kit. Your dress is super cute, but you’re probably going to tell me it’s from some cool shop in L.A.” Kit seemed sweet and genuine, like she knew just how to make a person feel comfortable.

  “Thank you,” Laura said, “It’s actually from my friend’s fashion line. Your nails are reall
y fun. Do you get them done in town?”

  “Of course you have a friend with a fashion line, and, yes, at Satin Hands. They can do any nail art you could possibly think of. We’ll have to go sometime.”

  “That would be really nice,” Laura said.

  “Don’t let Kit morph you into her taller twin,” Varsity Jacket said. “She makes up for her height with her bossiness.” She fake-shoved him. He put his arm around her and gave her a rough kiss. Okay, so these two are a couple, Laura thought. Then she said a silent prayer that Charlie and the perfect one weren’t also a pair. “Sean Miller,” the wrestler said. “But everyone calls me Miller.”

  “Miller,” Laura repeated. “Got it.”

  “I’m Amanda.”

  She’d said it casually, like she was obligated—not like she had any real interest in meeting this new person at their table. By the time Laura had the chance to turn in her direction, Amanda appeared to have shifted her seat closer to Charlie.

  “Hi, Amanda,” Laura said, “Thanks for letting me join you guys.”

  “It was Charlie’s idea,” Amanda said, shooting a pageant-queen smile in his direction. Unlike Kit, Amanda knew just how to make a girl feel uncomfortable.

  Laura got a full rundown of life in Englewood over the course of lunch: Yes, the school is cliquey, but people are happy keeping to their own groups, and don’t worry, we get along with everyone. The football team sucks; the soccer teams reign supreme (and with them Captain Charlie Sanders). People mostly hang out at house parties over the weekend, and at The Golden Bell Diner over on Route 9 most weeknights.

  She also answered the full barrage of new-girl questions, most of which she’d prepped for: Yes, I really miss home, but I’m excited to be on the East Coast. Yes, I was pissed at my parents for moving me before senior year, but their new jobs have them traveling a ton, so that’s a plus. No, no boyfriend back in Cali (and thank you, Kit, for asking in front of Charlie.)

  And then the bell rang for fifth period and it was over. Laura silently patted herself on the back for making what she thought was an excellent first impression.

  “We’re off to Señor Leon,” Kit said, “You guys?”

  “Calc for me,” Charlie said.

  “Same,” echoed Amanda with a big, wide smile.

  “I have AP stats,” Laura said. “Is that in the same hallway?”

  “Whoa. Impressive,” Charlie said, which instantly wiped the smile off Amanda’s face. “That’s in the same hall as us. Let’s go.”

  They only made it a few steps beyond the cafeteria doors together before Amanda looped her right arm into Charlie’s left and pulled him aside.

  “You know what…can I have a word, Carly?” she said.

  “Um…sure?” Charlie said, clearly thrown off by the move. Laura didn’t budge at first. She was testing the situation to gauge whether what she suspected was true: that Amanda wanted to have a word about her.

  “Could you excuse us for a moment, Lauren?” And there was her answer.

  “Of course,” Laura said. “I think I forgot something in my locker anyway. See you guys later.”

  Laura chose to overlook the fact that Amanda had intentionally botched her name, but as the two of them walked away, she overheard something that she could not ignore.

  “The last thing we need is our faces associated with that face,” Amanda hissed. “Stay away.”

  Charlie

  The sun was almost completely set as Charlie huffed up Vista Hill on the final leg of his evening three-miler. Soccer practice had officially started two weeks ago, and each player was responsible for logging five additional miles of running per day. Charlie made sure he did at least seven. These next few weeks of training would be brutal and he was determined to leave the right impression on every recruiter that came to visit. But the truth was that he’d always loved pushing his body to its limits. It made him feel powerful, and it helped him take his mind off life.

  Right now, though, it wasn’t working. All he could think about as he ran was whether or not Laura had overheard what Amanda said outside the cafeteria—and why he cared so much.

  Maybe Amanda was right. Charlie had been too focused on his instant attraction to Laura to realize that one of the last things he needed was to be reminded of her. It was all in the past now. It had happened over eighteen months ago. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d heard her name uttered in the halls of Englewood. Everyone had moved on—including him. Amanda was right.

  By the time he got home from his run, the smell of his mom’s famous lasagna was wafting out the front door. Charlie should have known she wouldn’t be able to help herself today, even though she should have been getting her sleep in before the overnight shift at the hospital call center. Grandma’s meatball lasagna had always been the first-day-of-school dinner tradition, and Mom wasn’t about to deny her pride and joy a family tradition.

  “Look at you,” she said as he walked into the kitchen. “Where did my little Choo Choo Charlie go?”

  Charlie walked over and smothered her in a sweaty hug. “He grew into a six-foot monster!”

  “That smells! Go wash up before we sit down for some lasagna,” she said.

  “You didn’t have to, Mom,” Charlie said.

  “I know,” she said. “But I’m proud of you. It’s been a tough few years, and you’re handling it like a pro—just like you handle everything.”

  Charlie gave his mom a kiss on the forehead. He was tall enough now to do it just like Gramps always had—way up top where her hair met her forehead. Grandpa used to say that he did it because his back was too achy to bend down for a hug. Charlie would never admit that he took over the tradition because it was often too hard for him to look his mother in the eyes after all the lies he’d told her. No more, he thought as he watched her grab her famous icebox cake out of the fridge. This year will be different.

  * * *

  It was nine o’clock at night by the time Charlie grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge and headed into the apartment building’s garage. He needed to work the heavy meal off so it didn’t turn him into a slug at practice the next morning.

  After his freshman year, Charlie built a small home gym to fit inside his mom’s garage unit out behind their building. This way he could put more hours into lifting than what coach required during school practice, even if it meant having to dig her car out of the snow a few times a year. The whole thing had technically been Amanda’s dad’s idea, and the equipment was his very generous gift. Dan Hunter had been a star Englewood player back in his day. He was part of the alumni team that scouted the country to find Coach Stanley for Englewood, and he still coached his own traveling boy’s team on the weekend, even as the town’s newly elected mayor. “The time you spend in the gym makes all the difference,” he’d told Charlie during one of their first heart-to-hearts.

  Mr. Hunter had treated Charlie like a son from the moment Amanda brought him over for his first Sunday dinner. The Hunters had three very girly girls, and it was obvious that Dan—as he insisted Charlie call him—loved having another guy in the house. Charlie was more than happy to fill in, even if the frequent gifts of expensive soccer cleats and extra summer training camps made him a little uncomfortable. Dan had his back, and he also had Coach Stanley’s ear, which didn’t hurt.

  Charlie put his cellphone on the floor next to the lifting bench and started in on his reps. His mind was clearest when his muscles were moving. Hopefully this would help get him ready for a good night of sleep. But just as he pushed through the first lift in, his phone buzzed. Charlie looked down as a black square flashed on the screen. He placed the weight on its rack and picked up the phone to examine the weird image closer. It wasn’t actually a picture; it was a video, and it had popped up on VidBit, one of the thousand apps Amanda had loaded onto his phone over the summer. Charlie opened the app and clicked on the video.

  The black box never turned into an image, but Charlie did hear the recording of a voice: �
��What don’t you understand, asshole?! She doesn’t want to do it! We’re leaving!”

  The line repeated over and over and over again against the blank box, but Charlie only needed to hear it once. It was Miller’s voice, though Charlie had no idea what he was talking about. Miller didn’t need much of an excuse to yell at someone, especially someone on their team. He must have accidentally recorded this and sent it. Charlie shot Miller a text.

  What’s with the weird message?

  Miller replied after a few seconds.

  What message?

  That VidBit you sent me.

  There was a longer delay before Miller responded.

  I didn’t send u anything.

  Charlie touched the app symbol to look for the list of incoming messages. The video was gone, and a new username was now sitting directly above “MillerTime” in his contacts list. “C-O,” Charlie read aloud. “Who the hell is that?”

  Charlie didn’t have the time or interest to figure out the inner workings of this dumb, cellphone time suck. The only reason he even had it was because Amanda insisted. Hopefully he could delete it without her throwing a fit.

  Charlie shifted back into position on the bench and got back to work. He didn’t give the video a second thought, not until he found himself sitting straight up in his bed at three o’clock in the morning, dripping with sweat.

  “She doesn’t want to do it! We’re leaving!” he heard Miller yell over and over in his mind as if he was sitting right next to him on the bed.

  Suddenly those words didn’t seem so random. Charlie didn’t want to let himself think it, but he was almost certain he’d heard Miller say them before—the night that Sarah died.