And:
Why doesn’t she just die?
I suspect that I don’t want to read any of the responses but I click the donut-dog-fart post anyway. Beneath are seventeen answers. I check Frannie’s spam folder and sure enough I find all seventeen comment notifications. Looks like the site went live at some point last night, and people were commenting the whole time I just happened to have skipped class. Coincidence? I’m choking on coincidences.
The answers are pretty juvenile—well if she’s a princess then I’m the pea; queen of 0110001001101001011101000110001101101000 (I translate—BITCH—points for the use of binary); I actually think she knows she’s pathetic; and so on.
It’s not a pretty picture and it’s clear who they’re talking about. Evidently when you cross a donut, a dog, and a fart, you get me. And as to why I don’t just die—because that’s me too …
Yeah, I know, right?
Or: Maybe she already is dead.
And: Maybe she’s a cyborg.
The last one leaves me cold. The sender is Anonymous—they all are—but what’s the chance of Jonny painting the cyborg and then someone mentioning it here? Maybe I’m over-thinking. I don’t know what to think. All it would mean is that Jonny is on the site, not that he created it. I hug my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Why wouldn’t he warn me? Maybe he’s embarrassed about my rejecting him again and he’s taking an anonymous pot shot.
If I’m receiving notifications, it means I have the keys to this thing. I search through Fanny’s mail but can’t track down the password into the blogging platform administration. Somehow Chippy, or whoever set it up, has the comments coming to me, but without giving administrative access to the blog. All I can do is comment. I could complain to the host, but I have to decide if I really care.
Why doesn’t she just die?
I rub the gooseflesh on my forearms. That Chippy could be my tormentor is a relief. Otherwise the guy who posted the topic … Or girl, I guess—I’d rather get punched in the face personally than crap like this—someone may want me dead.
A chill climbs each vertebra of my spine. My hand hurts, and I realize I’ve been gripping the mouse so hard my knuckles are white. I release and flex my fingers. My iPhone starts bleeping away with notifications, but I ignore them. Nothing can be more important than the website.
The code I write next is gobbledygook for the average citizen, but to me it’s genius. Or at least, a good idea. When it’s ready, I prepare a comment of my own.
What do you get when you cross a donut, dog and fart, you ask? It’s amazing that my opportunity to take my revenge on Ellie has occurred so soon. I upload a link to a picture of her with the offending code I just wrote imbedded in it. I’m banking on the fact that whoever created this site is eagerly waiting to click on people’s new comments. I’ll delete evidence of my reply as soon as I know who is doing this to me. If it’s Ellie, then so much the better.
I don’t have to wait long. Someone—Anonymous—replies: Not cool. She’s awesome. And I know I have them.
The code attached to the picture was a piece of malware. A small .exe file. A trojan that should—any minute now—open the address book of the victim’s computer and send me an email. And there it is in Frannie’s inbox.
From: Ellie Wise
A small thrill snakes through me. Then the thrill turns icy.
This all of course makes perfect sense if Ellie knew anything about technology, but I suppose she could set up a blog.
Someone writes another post about me, but I ignore it. I have another hit on the Ellie pic.
From: Bob MacLean
I clench my head between my palms. Chippy!
I can’t ignore the coincidence. His reaction to my seeing his screen. The site he was looking at—I’m sure it was the same one. If I’m planning to take on a teacher though, I need proof.
I unfurl, delete evidence of my initial reply, and start writing a new bit of code. This will be a little more complicated. This time the code will hide on the victim’s machine and wait for me to activate it so I can take a peak around. That part’s easy as long as I know the IP address, but creating a trojan like this won’t be simple—
Oh no! What the …
Beside me, Hairy’s computer goes blue. I cry out. Blue is worse than dark. Dark means no power. Blue means there’s something wrong with the operating system or the hard drive. They don’t call it the Blue Screen of Death for nothing. What’s worse, the timing can’t be an accident.
I type faster. These are my friends, my family. I’ve spent weeks rebuilding and months creating them.
Frannie goes blue. My heart rams against my ribs. I have to make a decision: Save the hard drives or get this code up? My dad. My mom. Everything could be lost.
I dive for the wires.
JanusFlyTrap’s blue … good excuse for my essay? No one will buy it. I pull the first plug. Heckleena’s gone. Tule’s gone. I tear all the plugs from their seatings in the powerbar. On the ground, I clutch them like a bouquet of flowers. It’s too late. My image of my dad beckoning blinks away. The only plug I yanked in time was Paradise57. My hands and knees press into the concrete floor. It’s possible that this is just a system error and I can recover all my files, but if this was targeted, then everything could be gone and all I’d have left are memories.
Gumps is still flashing green at me. Of course—he’s not connected to the Internet. Nothing could have infected him. I still hear a humming and slap my forehead: the backup server. I sprint to it, but just as I arrive, it shuts down all by itself.
I shriek. And crumple to the floor, where I sob.
A minute later, my iPhone proximity alarm goes off—I really need to delete it from the app store, makes me look bad. But when I wipe my eyes, I see Peter at the base of the stairs, watery eyes now clear.
“Quite the network you have here,” he says.
I bite my lip. “Had here. Something just shut me down.”
“Virus?”
I shake my head. “There is no way a virus could have gotten in. I’m so careful.”
“Sorry to hear that, Janus.” He looks uncomfortable. “We heard the scream … and your mom can’t, well, you know.”
“I know.”
“Not that that is important,” he adds. I look at him weirdly, not inclined to be nice to anyone tonight and failing to care that my view of him might be important. If I just got nailed with a worm, why should I let him off the hook? “I’d prefer she could walk, of course,” he says, fumbling around for the right words. “Your mother is very special to me.”
Special is such a loaded term. If someone called me special in school, I’d flip out. So I say, “Great, my mom must think you’re special, too.”
He looks at his feet. “You’re okay, then?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
And as he walks back up the stairs, I realize that now another someone can access my private space. I don’t like it. Not while my mother’s business is at stake. Not with her heart on the line.
I plug Hairy back in and try rebooting. On the screen blinks the message to please install the operating system. I shut the computer back down and sidle over to Gumps. 8-ball question: Is Peter using his money to date my mom?
Response: Outlook not good.
I stare at the dark screens. The only light is from the green phosphorescence of Gump’s monitor and the occasionally bleeping iPhone, full of Facebook notifications.
I cry and wonder what to do. I can’t bring myself to see how bad the damage is on Shadownet. I dread school tomorrow. I don’t want to go upstairs and be around Peter. Shadownet is mortally wounded. I pull my sweater over my head and huddle against the cooling server.
Chapter 12
I hunker down in the front seat of my car in the sch
ool parking lot. As I wait for the bell, the tape deck (you heard right) is playing one of my mom’s old The Who tapes: Who are you? Who, who, who who. I’m avoiding everyone. I don’t want to hear the rumors. The snide remarks. I now know why I have a hundred Facebook notifications. Someone impersonated me and posted the link to the blog on my own page. Another space of mine hacked, and I use pretty strong passwords. At least I’d thought so.
@JFlyTrap You’re kinda like a boulder rolling down a mountain causing an avalanche that crushes all the innocents in a village, aren’t ya? Heckleena tweets.
It’s not your fault @JFlyTrap, it’s the bad peoples’, Frannie replies.
Would any of it have happened if not for @JFlyTrap? Hairy asks.
No more Facebook, no more Twitter, no blogging, I’m offline, JanusFlyTrap tweets.
Who are you? Give us back our @JFlyTrap! Heckleena demands.
“We’ll see how long it lasts,” I say aloud. The bell rings and I kick open the car door.
English is my first class. I run from my car to the classroom. Despite my best efforts to avoid people, I still catch whispers as I jog through the hallway.
In class, my teacher stands at the white board, surveying the few stragglers.
“Please place late essays in the pile at the front.”
I open my mouth to protest, to tell her that my computer crashed, then the server, and that someone is maliciously targeting me, but it all sounds crazed. Janus the computer nerd loses her data? Besides, it doesn’t matter. My mom said, “Pass your courses or bye-bye computers.” Well, Shadownet is offline. The only thing I can do is send tweets and posts over my iPhone and respond to email. It’s like Shadownet has arms and legs, but no heart.
It’s ironic that my backpack holds the only copy of my essay—if you don’t count where it came from. I reach inside and leave “Hullabaloo” with the few other late essays, including Karl’s; he smiles at me as I lay mine on top of his. After I sit, I concentrate on them as hard as I can, but unfortunately they don’t spontaneously combust.
I don’t take English with Jonny, so instead I spend the class doodling about him and Karl. I can’t participate in the class discussion because they’re going over what the essay should have contained and I haven’t read the book beyond a Wikipedia plot summary. Instead, I draw Jonny brandishing a huge paint brush and Karl wielding a baseball bat. They duel until Jonny sticks the paintbrush into Karl’s eye socket, but in a final swing of the bat, Karl wallops Jonny in the side of his head staving in his skull. By the end of class, they’re both bleeding out on the ground, dying for their love of me.
“Janus, the principal would like to speak with you.”
I look up. Mrs. French’s lips are pursed. Class is over. I’m one of a half-dozen kids lingering. I’m not worried about the principal; I can guess what he wants to talk about. I shrug my courier bag over my shoulder and walk out. When I reach the offices, the school admin assistant waves me behind the desk.
Chippy is leaving the office ahead of me. My concern ratchets higher, but then, maybe he has been caught. The school takes bullying seriously.
I knock on the door.
“Enter.”
I turn the knob and walk into the room. My breath catches in my throat. It takes a lot to force my mom to drive, and here she is, sitting on the principal’s big couch.
“Mom?”
She stares at me. The principal points to the couch with its free seat right next to the police officer, the same one who came poking around Assured Destruction about the health clinic. Constable Williams.
“Hello, Janus,” she says. “I’m with the cyber crime unit in the police force.”
I clear my throat without saying hello.
“Are you familiar with a website where anonymous posters are making comments about other students, including you?” the principal asks.
I nod.
“It’s quite clever of you, Janus.” He smiles and grunts appreciatively.
I look to my mom in confusion, but she’s giving nothing away. Stone faced.
Principal Wolzowski checks a file and then shuts it. “We know you’re intelligent, but you’re failing several courses, including computer science.”
I start in, but my mom cuts me off.
“No, Janus,” she says. “Listen.”
“It’s come to our attention that you created the website that allows anonymous respondents to make posts and reply to posts regarding other students. Including one that suggests a student die.”
“But—” In my head I’m screaming, I die. It suggests I die.
This time it’s Wolzowski who holds up his hand. “Someone posted a picture of Ellie Wise and inserted a piece of malicious code, a virus that takes over the computer creating what Chipp—what Mr. MacLean calls a zombie and uses the inbox to propagate—”
“It sends an email, one email,” I blurt.
My mom looks at me and shakes her head. I’ve just handed the principal all the proof he needs.
“I didn’t make the website,” I add. “Mr. MacLean did. I saw him surfing it yesterday.”
“We find that hard to believe. Mr. MacLean brought the site to our attention when he realized it dealt with Hopewell students. That only occurred when you posted Ellie’s picture. We think you made yourself the focus to distract people from its real purpose.”
My mind is whirling ... how convenient of Mr. MacLean to tell them about the site. It keeps his hands clean.
“Janus,” my mom begins with a warning glare to not interrupt, “when the principal called, I was worried for you. I had Rogers Communications take down the site and track the IP addresses of the users to see if any used its services. It did. A Frannie Mouthwater. Does that name ring any bells? Because all of the mail is going to that account. It is yours, isn’t it? It’s the same name you gave one of your dolls when you were little. The one that vomits when you squeeze it.”
“I don’t know how to explain,” I say. And I don’t. Not without getting into Shadownet and confiding that I’ve been stealing the hard drives of customers. Maybe if the cop wasn’t here, I would have told, but she’s wearing handcuffs and a sidearm.
“I bet you don’t.” There’s sarcasm in my mom’s tone, which hurts more than anything that’s been said so far. “Your relationship with Ellie Wise is no secret, dear. Just because she told on you about this Hannah incident doesn’t give you the right to—” She cuts herself off, red faced and head shaking.
So she knows about Hannah—great. It was dumb of me to use Ellie’s picture; I really should know better. Wolzowski opens his mouth to speak, and I feel like a ball being kicked around the school yard. “This site could have done a lot of damage, Janus. Ellie Wise is not happy, but luckily it appears the only person you have really hurt is yourself. She’s not going to press charges.” He nods at the constable. “This time.”
I lower my chin. If I did tell them about everything else, I’m not sure it would help. And this has grown very personal. Chippy, or not, I will find out who is doing this to me and I will destroy them.
“Given that you don’t appear to have learned your lesson from yesterday, and considering there isn’t even anything beautiful in my inbox due to your altercation with Ellie. I have no other option but to suspend you until further notice.” The principal folds his hands on the desk. He passes the ball.
“And grounded,” my mom says. She shoots—“And you will still send something beautiful to the principal every morning”—and scores. So much for the team.
The meeting ends with a lot of dark glowering. I’m escorted by my mother through the hallways. We stop at my locker and I collect the rest of my books. Teachers will send on homework via email. I spy Jonny at the end of the hall and I don’t know what to do. His hair is back in a short ponytail. I give him a pained ex
pression, but I’m sure I just look constipated.
“Help me,” I mouth, but don’t know if he catches it.
“I’ll see you at home.” My mom pushes the button to open the atrium door and rolls smoothly outside and down the ramp. We’ll be driving home separately. It’ll be my last few minutes of freedom. I turn back for Jonny, but he’s gone.
Would I have had my face pressed up against the window?
I shake my head and stroll to the parking lot, balancing the stack of books in my arms. I open the trunk of the car, let loose the landslide of books, and flop my bag on top. Once I’m sitting in the front seat, I heave a sigh.
“Can I come?”
I cry out, and Jonny’s head pops up from the back seat.
“Sorry,” he says. “I guessed where you would be headed and had to hide when a teacher walked past. The door was unlocked …”
“Yeah, I’m not too worried about someone stealing the sound system.” I twist in my seat. “What are you doing here?”
“When a friend of mine says help me, I help.”
I nearly break into tears. I’m not much of a weeper, and here I am, twice in twenty-four hours. He reaches out and touches my shoulder.
“You better go,” I say. “Here comes another teacher.”
“I’ll walk back from your place.” He ducks. “Drive.”
I start the car and ease out of the parking lot. Once moving I keep well below the posted speed limit, wanting the drive to last as long as possible.
“So what’s happening?” comes the disembodied voice.
And I make the decision to tell him. To tell him everything. It feels so good to offload the guilt, the fear, the confusion, to have someone I can trust who knows. The only thing I don’t mention is that I’ve been poking around in his hard drive—that would end our budding relationship and I’m not ready for that.
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