Afterimage

by Naomi Hughes

  Then I pull up the home screen and a sudden onslaught of anxiety buries me. My fingers hesitate above the on-screen keyboard. If I go looking through these files, I might find something I don’t like. I might find something I can’t stand.

  But if I don’t open the files, isn’t that as good as admitting there’s a chance, however small, that my mom really could be some kind of traitor?

  I open the main menu.

  A list of files cascades down the screen: session logs, special projects, medical records. I click on a medical file at random. If my luck holds, maybe it’ll tell me what Quint is. But a dialog box pops up: Sorry, this file is corrupted. Behind the box, a stream of symbols and gibberish fills the document.

  My chest tightens. I click on the next, then the next.

  Corrupted, corrupted, corrupted. Every single one.

  I drop the tablet on the bed like it’s hot, scoot away, and stare. This isn’t possible. How could her tablet be working fine one minute and then have all its data suddenly corrupted just half an hour later? Unless … they already know what I’ve done. Unless this is some kind of anti-theft measure.

  My eyes burn and I cover them with a hand. This was all I knew to do. I have no plan B, and I can’t go back to living half-asleep, not after this. Dad said he’s hiring a lawyer and maybe we can sue to get all Mom’s records too, which might give me answers, but there’s got to be miles of red tape between us and it. Eventually we’ll run out of money to pay the attorney, and in the meantime, there’s no way Dr. Lila will let me out of her sight, much less leave sensitive documents where I can steal them again.

  I’ll never know for sure. I’ll have to live with this awful churning uncertainty forever, trying to convince myself I know the truth about the people I love the most. And—I’ll never find out what’s really wrong with me now. I’ll be stuck with this, this ghost or hallucination or whatever Quint is, and God knows the agency isn’t going to tell me anything about him.

  Chirp. I pull my hand away from my eyes and peer at my Captain America shield bedspread. My new phone is nestled just under the star, blinking with a text notification. I hesitate—I’m sick of the well-wishers and even more sick of the reporters—but pick up the phone anyway, because it could be Kyle. I’ve tried to get in touch with my big brother half a dozen times since I woke up but deleted every message I almost sent him. I want to talk to him, but even more, I want him to want to talk to me. That’s the only thing that could make tonight even a tiny bit okay.

  But it isn’t Kyle. It’s a message from an unknown number. I know you stole the agency tablet, it says. I’ll be at Fish N’ Chips at midnight. Let’s meet.

  I stare at it, my skin prickling, terror lodged in my throat. Possibilities flash through my mind at a hundred miles an hour.

  It’s Dr. Lila. She left the tablet on purpose and I’ve played right into her plan.

  It’s an ally. Another victim of the agency, someone who knows how to fix the tablet and access the data I need.

  It’s someone else, a third party who wants me to sell them the government secrets I tried to steal. Which might now include my mother’s data along with my own medical records.

  I glance at the time, my heart pounding in my ears, flushing my system with anxiety and adrenaline. Eleven thirty. If Dr. Lila isn’t the one who texted, how long do I have before she figures out her tablet is gone and comes after me? I’m already risking prison. There aren’t many ways it can get worse from here.

  “Cam,” calls Dad from down the hall, “do you want anything to eat before I crash?”

  I hesitate. Last chance. I could ask him to make me some waffles, and he’d burn them and then I’d have to make them, and we’d eat them like sandwiches with ice cream in the middle the way we used to when I was little and couldn’t sleep.

  But it’s not a choice, not really. Not with what’s at stake.

  “No thanks,” I call back.

  “Okay. Night, then.”

  I swallow. “Night,” I reply weakly, and then wait to see if he’ll hear something off in my voice. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved when his footsteps retreat to the couch.

  Deep breath. I toss the tablet in my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and slip out onto the fire escape.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FISH N’ CHIPS IS THE last stop on the bus line and I make it with no time to spare. I probably could’ve used the subway and saved ten minutes, but being trapped underground is a huge trigger for me and I need all my wits for whatever it is I’m about to walk into. The designated restaurant—”restaurant” probably being overgenerous terminology—is sandwiched between a defunct laundromat and a shady-looking pawn shop. The décor is faded and the air is coated with a fine sheen of grease, fish, and apathy. The rusted bell above the door barely manages a clunky jingle when I walk in.

  I stop just inside the doorway to tug my Last Airbender beanie down tighter over my hair. Hopefully it’ll help hide my identity from any protestors who might wander past. There’s a group of them camped out at City Hall just a block to the east, or so I gathered from the chatter on the bus.

  I scan the tables in search of the texter. Behind the counter, a dead-eyed waitress watches an ancient box TV tuned to a Spanish sports channel. An exhausted-looking mom scarfs down fries in the corner booth while she watches a video on her phone. When she’s not looking, her son feeds chunks of his fillet to the apparently cannibalistic goldfish next to the front register. There are no other customers. Maybe the texter is late? Although I’m not even sure who I’m looking for—it could be the waitress for all I know.

  I shift, my hand still on the doorknob. I could bail. I could leave before anyone notices me, forget about the message and hope for the best. I could go home and eat that ice cream. God knows I need it.

  “In or out,” calls the waitress, still staring at the TV. “You’re running up the heating bill.”

  I pry my fingers off the door and let it creak shut.

  Quint slides into a booth and, for lack of a good reason not to, I sit next to him. Crumbs and a fleck of what I hope is ketchup dot the tablecloth, so I keep my hands in my lap. I take a deep breath to steady myself and immediately resolve to spend the rest of my time here breathing as shallowly as possible.

  The waitress shuffles out from behind the counter and approaches my table. “What do you want, sweetie? The special is the popcorn shrimp platter.” Her words are perky but her tone is as dead as her eyes.

  “I don’t like seafood,” I say without thinking. She raises an eyebrow and I blush. “I’m … meeting someone. Nothing for me right now, thanks.” I only brought enough money for the bus fare.

  She drifts away with a dissatisfied look. I pick at the tablecloth.

  “I think maybe I might’ve liked seafood,” Quint says from my side, but it comes out as a question.

  I sneak a sideways glance. He’s not looking at me, instead staring out the window into the distance. His eyes are narrow and his jaw is tight like he’s locked in some sort of internal struggle. I hesitate, then allow myself just a second to watch him in the window’s reflection. If he is somehow real, if he’s a ghost or stuck in another dimension or something, what must it be like for him to have no memories of himself? Maybe it’s his own brand of ash and rubble.

  I look away and pull out my phone, calling up a game to distract myself—and then I stop. A search engine icon is hovering on my home screen, and, before I can change my mind, I press it.

  I’ve never searched for Quint before. I didn’t have the energy to do much of anything in the hospital. But if he really is—or was—real, surely I could find some trace of him. He may not be able to remember his name, but he’s a teenager in a lab coat. That should narrow the field at least a little.

  I key in “teen scientist” and then add “agency,” since he’s got to be connected to them somehow, and then I hold my breath and hit search.

  The bell on the door jingles. “Red alert,” Quint int
errupts. “Look innocent.”

  I jump, hit the exit button before he can see what I’m doing, and look up at the small mob of people bristling with signs, one of which is another blurry picture of me with a red slash through it.

  Holy crap. I’m gonna get murdered.

  “For the record, not your best innocent look,” Quint notes.

  I ignore him and do my best to blend into the pleather bench. They’ve come for me. This was a trap set by Dr. Lila, her threat to dox me carried out, and they’ve followed my phone’s GPS or maybe they sent me the text in the first place and I’ve made a stupid, stupid choice and I’m going to be kidnapped or beaten or worse. Or maybe someone will call the cops and then Dr. Lila will carry through on her other threat, and Dad is going to be all alone—because God knows Kyle barely bothers to visit—while I rot in prison with nothing but a maybe-real hallucination and no answers. I scan for exits, trying to figure out the best escape route, trying to breathe diaphragmatically and not hyperventilate and cause another damn panic attack—but the group just walks up to the counter and orders shrimp combos and chicken baskets.

  The waitress disappears into the kitchen. The group watches TV. She hands them a tray full of food. They take it, go to a corner booth, and start eating.

  So … they’re not here for me? I glance at Quint; he’s cleaning his glasses on his lab coat, deep in thought, frowning like he has no idea what’s going on either. I tug my beanie down tighter, shading my eyes with one hand like I’m tired while I think frantically about how to get the hell out of here without them getting a good look at my face.

  Someone taps on the window behind me. I twist around before I can think better of it. A napkin is pressed to the glass, scrawled with spidery writing:

  Should I tell them who you are?

  I freeze.

  Behind the napkin, the waning moonlight wraps my texter in a murky silhouette. From the person’s shape and the way they hold themselves, I’m guessing it’s a guy, but all I can make out is his wrinkled hoodie and the patio table he’s sitting at. He timed this for the darkness, waited until the protestors were here to threaten me. Dr. Lila didn’t dox me, at least not yet. This is his plan. Blackmail, for the second time tonight.

  Fury bubbles up over my fear. I never knew it could feel like this, like there was some kind of fizzy acid in my veins, terrifying and energizing and paralyzing all at once. I don’t know what to do with it.

  The napkin hovers at the window. The blackmailer waits. Without taking my eyes off him, I get a pen from my bag. I pull a napkin from the dispenser. I hold one to the other, and wait for a way out to present itself.

  Ink bleeds into the napkin, spreading in a slow stain.

  Quint tilts his head, taking in my paralysis, and then puts his glasses back on. “You could always tell him to go screw himself,” he advises with a shrug. “It seems to have worked for you in the past.”

  Despite myself, I snort, and the fury fades just a touch. The trace of a smile flits across his features, and something else too: triumph. Not only has he succeeded in jolting me out of my frozen state, but he’s finally gotten me to acknowledge him, even if it wasn’t with words.

  My lips flatten out. I look away and hunch over the table—I can still hardly stand to meet his eyes—and then lift the pen. What do you want? I scribble, and press my message to the glass.

  On the other side of the window, the napkin vanishes. The texter tilts his head in the direction of my backpack.

  My pulse skips a little faster. The tablet. He wants the tablet.

  Outside, streetlights flicker. A burst of wind rattles against the window and shakes the striped umbrella over the blackmailer’s head while I try to figure out my next move.

  Maybe if I make him angry I can get him to come closer, show himself. I doodle on the napkin, taking my time before I hold it up again: Go screw yourself, decorated with tiny smiley faces.

  Now it’s Quint’s turn to snort.

  The blackmailer pulls his napkin away, writes on it, lifts it back up.

  5, it says. I blink at him. He takes it down, writes again, presses it to the window.

  4.

  He flips the napkin over: 3.

  I shove out of the booth and lurch to my feet. A countdown. He’s giving me a countdown. Three seconds to give him the tablet, three seconds before he rats me out, three seconds before I get mobbed.

  I drop my napkin, heart racing. I won’t give him the tablet. I can’t. It’s the only lead I’ve got.

  But the data is corrupted anyway. And would Mom want me to risk my life, to risk Dad being alone, just to prove she was a good person? I shouldn’t need proof to know that. I am a terrible person to need proof to know that.

  Tears stinging the corners of my eyes, I scoop up the tablet and head for the door.

  “Wait!” Quint calls, jerking out of his seat, eyes on the tablet—but I’m already gone.

  I reach up to cover my face when I walk past the protestors, pretending to scratch my ear. The bell jingle-clunks when I walk out. The low rumble of distant thunder clatters up against the buildings and another breeze snaps past, the smell of salt and rain tangled together. A storm is coming in from off the coast. Pedestrians hurry past, eyes on the sidewalk or on their phones, trying to reach their destinations before the weather goes bad. No one notices me. No one notices the blackmailer.

  I turn. The moon is nothing more than a silver smear behind the clouds now, but the blackmailer’s table is only a few feet from a street light. If I can get close enough, if I can make him turn around, I can get a better look and maybe I’ll still have a shot at figuring out who he is and how he knows about me—

  The writer scribbles something on the napkin, gets up, and walks away. Cautiously, I step closer.

  Leave it here, it says.

  I weigh the tablet in my hands and stand there for a long moment, trying to think of some magical option that doesn’t end with me dead or in jail.

  “Please,” Quint says.

  I almost glance at him but catch myself just in time.

  He inhales, hesitates. Exhales. At the edges of my vision, his hands clench and unclench. “There’s got to be another way,” he says at last. The words are unsteady, fumbling. It’s the first time he’s ever sounded anything but composed. My resolve weakens the tiniest bit and my gaze flits to him, but he’s got his eyes closed like he’s concentrating on finding exactly the right words. There’s a worry crease between his brows and it makes him seem suddenly, unsettlingly … human.

  I tear my gaze away. I’m the one who’ll pay the price for whatever I decide to do next. I have to make this choice for myself, and not for a guy who may or may not be a figment of my own imagination.

  Quint lifts one hand toward the tablet but stops short of touching it. “That thing is my only shot at figuring out how to get my life back,” he says. “Please, just—talk to me. We can get it to work, we can figure this out. I swear we can.”

  I bite my lip. I consider his plea. Then, because there is no other way, I lay the tablet gently atop the napkin.

  And then I retreat thirty feet, duck into a side alley, and pull out my phone. I turn off the flash and the shutter noise and zoom in as far as I can, and when the blackmailer strides out of the shadows and snatches up the tablet, I snap five pictures of him in rapid succession.

  The blackmailer slips back into the darkness. I lower the phone. Then I turn and, unable to help myself, look Quint in the eye. I wait for his judgment and try to pretend I don’t care what it is.

  He meets my gaze. He blinks and then, slowly, smiles: a thoughtful, cautious thing, but somehow more real than anything else he’s shown me of himself. “Interesting,” is all he says, and his eyes are narrowed ever so slightly in a way that says he’s reevaluating me.

  The worry line is still there, though—and I’m kind of glad. Somehow it manages to make me feel just a little bit more at ease, proof that I’m not the only one thrown off-kilter by this whole situ
ation.

  Plus … it’s actually a little cute.

  Shouting jars me out of my thoughts. Inside Fish N’ Chips, the protestors are standing, crowding around the TV. Unease brushes at me—something about the way they move, jerky and clenched—and I can’t help but edge closer to the front window to see what they’re watching.

  A newscaster speaks in rapid-fire Spanish while the camera shot pans to show the horde of protestors still at City Hall. They’re riled up about something, screaming and shaking their signs, crowding the metal barriers. One of them tries to kick a police officer. I inch closer, my worry growing as I catch enough of the newscaster’s muffled Spanish to translate a few words that I remember from my ninth-grade languages class: information. Riot. The feminine for traitors.

  Two pictures flash in the bottom corners of the screen. One is a photo of me from last Christmas. I’m in my ratty old Gryffindor sweater, arms thrown around two of my ex-friends, snow in our hair and mugs of cocoa in our hands. Their faces are blurred out, but mine is clear as day.

  In the other corner is a picture of my mother wearing her agency uniform and standing in front of an American flag.

  I stop breathing.

  One of the protestors snarls and slams a fist down on the counter. “Terrorist bitches,” he growls, and the moment goes suddenly crystalline. All I can hear are his words. All I can see is that picture of my mom. The moment stretches tight and shatters. As if someone else is controlling my body, I take two steps, yank the door open, stride up to the counter, and punch him in the face.

  We stare at each other. He puts a hand to his nose. I look down at my fist. It’s shaking. It’s bloody. His blood, but mine too. There’s skin scraped off two of my knuckles from where I caught his teeth. I don’t feel it. All I can feel is the rage, but even that is at a distance, like it exists somewhere outside of my head.

  I look back up. The man I punched is still holding his nose, gaping at me. I lift my hand and stretch out my fingers. They’re slender. Chewed-off nails. One has a ring, which Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I know my hand, this is my hand, but it just did a thing it’s never done before and that felt …