Going Under

by S. Walden

  “Yeah. I’m new, remember?” I said lightly.

  “Yeah, but it’s, like, the middle of October. You haven’t made any friends yet?” Cal asked.

  I hated the way he talked to me. There was always an underlying note of accusation in his words. Just like when he asked me months before if I had a medical condition. My fault I fainted. My fault I had no friends.

  Apparently he had forgotten that I did have friends, that I drove them home after Tanner’s party months ago. I played to his forgetfulness.

  “It’s hard making friends when you’re a senior and you’re new,” I said.

  Cal shrugged. “Didn’t come with your dad?”

  So he remembered my dad. Interesting. Perhaps I made a bigger impression on him at registration than I originally thought. I had an idea.

  “He works a lot, which leaves me alone a lot. I’m not that close to him.” I made it sound just the slightest bit pitiful. I thought it couldn’t hurt to give the impression that I was a lonely girl with no real connections to anyone. Maybe that would make me a more attractive target. He could violate me thinking I’d have no one to run to afterwards.

  He slipped his arm around my waist, and I jumped. His confidence unnerved me. Why did he think he had permission to touch me so casually?

  “Well, I’ll be your friend, Brooke,” he said, pulling me into him. “Everyone should have at least one friend.”

  “You’re very generous,” I said, trying to hide the sarcasm, but he heard.

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” he replied. “I really want to be your friend.”

  His words, his demeanor—the whole thing felt weird. Suddenly I wanted to be home with my dad, watching bad TV and talking with him about his nonexistent love life.

  “Okay” was the only thing I could think to say. “So who are your friends here?”

  Cal looked over at the boys sitting in a long line taking up most of the row.

  “Well, you know Parker down there. And that’s Mike, Tim, Hunter, and this here is Aaron,” Cal said, pointing to the boy sitting beside him.

  “Hi,” I said, addressing Aaron.

  “What’s up?”

  “Are you all on the swim team together?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Aaron replied. “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, I just took a guess. I know Cal swims. And Parker, too,” I said.

  “None as good as me, though,” Aaron said, and Cal shook his head.

  “Whatever, man.”

  We fell into an easy conversation, Aaron jabbering for most of it. He didn’t seem like a predator, but then there was a lot about Cal that suggested he wasn’t. I realized I needed to look at evil in an entirely different light. Most bad guys weren’t walking around with eyes bugged out. Most bad guys didn’t come across freaky and frightening, hiding in shadowed corners with insane grins plastered across their faces. Most bad guys were your normal, everyday guys moving through life like anyone else. Going to school. Going to work. Going to church, even. They were hard to spot, and that’s what made them so good at being bad. They were sneaky. They could get away with it, and they knew it.

  Cal bought me a hot chocolate and walked me through the game as our team crushed the competition. I tried to ask him questions here and there, but he avoided most. He wasn’t interested in talking about himself. He was interested in football. Unfortunately, I learned more about that tonight than Cal. I realized I’d have to secure information in other ways, but I wasn’t sure how.

  ***

  I was cleaning my station for the evening when Terry approached me.

  “Hey, wanna make out in the back seat of my car when you get finished?” he asked, sliding into a chair.

  I grinned. “Every girl’s fantasy,” I said, filling the last of my ketchup bottles. “How old are you anyway? Fifty?”

  “I’m thirty-six,” Terry answered.

  “Gross.”

  He chuckled. “Seriously, what are you doing later?”

  “It’s eleven. I’m going home. To bed.” I wiped down the bottles and placed them in the caddy.

  “You’re so boring, Wright,” Terry said. “Why don’t you have a little fun?”

  “Oh, I had fun. A few weeks ago when I had to look after my drunk girlfriends,” I said. “Will you please move your feet?”

  Terry lifted his feet while I swept underneath him.

  “I’m not talking about going to a party or anything. And you wouldn’t have to take care of anyone,” he said.

  “Forget it,” I replied.

  “Well, you’re gonna miss out big time,” Terry said. “I’m the funnest person to hang with.”

  “That would be ‘most fun.’ You’re the most fun to hang with,” I corrected, putting the broom aside.

  He smirked. “I’m not going to school for an English degree, Wright.”

  “You’re going to school?” I asked. I was shocked. I thought Terry made being head chef at Patricia’s Diner his career choice. He was thirty-six, after all.

  “You’re such a brat. I’m going to school for computer programming,” he replied. “What? You thought I had plans to work at a diner for the rest of my life?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. You make one hell of a pie.”

  “Whatevs. I don’t need this place. Once I’m through with school I’ll be rolling in the dough.” He laughed at his own pun.

  Suddenly I had a thought. “So I guess you’re pretty savvy with computers and all.”

  “Duh.”

  “And I’m assuming most of your classmates are pretty savvy, too?”

  “Most people go to school for what they’re good at,” Terry replied patiently.

  I tried for casualness. “Know any hackers?”

  “Huh?”

  I thought better. “Um, never mind,” and went back to wiping down the table.

  “No, not ‘never mind’. Why do you need a hacker?” He leaned into the table, eyes glittering with mischief. “So there is a little bad girl in you after all.”

  My face flushed crimson, and he saw.

  “Okay, Wright. Spill it. Who do you wanna spy on?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Bullshit. What if I told you I did know a hacker?”

  “Are you messing with me?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay, who is it?”

  Terry leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. He looked up at the ceiling. “Yours truly.”

  “Bull. Shit.”

  “I’m serious. Why don’t you believe me? You think I’m stupid or something?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, but come on. What are the chances I’d ask you about a hacker and you are one?”

  “Well, you got lucky. Now what’s this all about?”

  I couldn’t believe I was about to let Terry in on some of my secrets. I had no choice, though. Not if I wanted to learn more about that conversation I overheard in the stairwell. I needed him.

  “Wright?”

  “You have to swear on your life you won’t tell a soul,” I said.

  “What? You think I go around blabbing about doing hack jobs for people?”

  “Just swear it.”

  “I swear,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  I took a deep breath and settled into the seat across from him. “I think there’s something fishy going on at my school.”

  “Oh God. Okay Veronica Mars.”

  “Shut up. I’m serious,” I said, but I couldn’t help laughing.

  We were sitting alone under one of the few lights still on in the restaurant. It looked like a scene from some cheesy detective movie. All we needed was the smoke from our cigarettes curling its way up to the ceiling, highlighting the jazzy refrain playing in the background.

  “All right. What do you think is going on?”

  “I overheard a conversation in the stairwell the other day.”

  Terry clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Yo
u know what? Forget it,” I snapped.

  “No no! I’m sorry. Look, I just didn’t know you moonlighted as Nancy Drew in your spare time.”

  “How many more do you have?”

  “Well, those are the only two . . . wait! Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote!”

  “I don’t even know who that is.”

  “Kids these days,” Terry lamented, shaking his head.

  “Whatever. Are you gonna stop making fun of me and let me continue?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I took a deep breath. “So I overheard this conversation—”

  “Can I ask how?”

  “I was hiding underneath the stairs,” I explained.

  Terry burst out laughing. I got up from my seat and grabbed the condiment caddy.

  “Hey! Stop right there!” Terry ordered, grabbing my arm. “Stop being pissy. Now I’m allowed to laugh a little because this is fucking funny, okay? Get over yourself and sit back down.”

  I slammed the caddy on the table.

  “That’s the thing, you moron! It actually isn’t funny. I think some guys at school are raping girls as part of a sick game!”

  That got his attention. I sat back down, watching his face as he processed the information.

  “All right. All kidding aside, tell me what you overheard,” Terry said.

  “I heard these guys talking about a secret club and how this other guy wanted to join. Someone mentioned that the only way he could join was if he slept with a virgin. There was a mention of a score sheet or something.”

  “This is all you heard?” Terry asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “And how do you know they’re raping girls? It could all be consensual,” Terry argued.

  “I know one of the guys who’s involved in this club. Well, if it is a club. I know he raped someone. I think others are doing it, too. Maybe not all of them, but some.”

  “How do you know this guy raped someone?”

  “I just do,” I said.

  “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you expect me to get involved in this,” Terry said.

  I looked into Terry’s brown eyes. It was the first and only time I’d ever do it. I had to make sure I could trust him. I searched them, but they only told me that he was honest, would always tell me the truth, even if it ended up hurting my feelings.

  “He raped my best friend,” I said. “She killed herself over it.”

  Terry was quiet for a few minutes.

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?” he asked finally.

  “She . . . had a bit of a sexual history,” I said. “She thought no one would believe her.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “No one knows about that except for you.”

  “She never told her parents?”

  “You think that jackass would still be in school if she had?”

  “So why do you need my help?” Terry asked.

  “I want you to hack into one of their computers. I want to know about this club. I want to find out if more of these guys are forcing girls to have sex with them,” I said. “Who knows? It may only be Cal, but this Parker dude I met really rubs me the wrong way. I think he’s a predator, too.”

  “You think they’re gonna keep a list of girls they’ve raped on their computers? Get real, Wright,” Terry said.

  “No, but they email each other those score sheets. I know that much. Maybe the score sheet will tell me something.”

  Terry shook his head. “You out for revenge?”

  “You bet I am,” I said.

  Terry breathed deeply. “Well, I’ll need some more information before we break the law.”

  Ten

  Obtaining Parker Duncan’s email address was easy. It was right on his Facebook page. Once I sent it off to Terry, the real fun began. Terry explained his plan. He would email Parker and make it look like a message from Cal. Within the email would be an image for Parker to click on. Terry asked me what the image should be, and I offered the idea of some nude chick. “Fun for me,” Terry had said, and I gagged. Unbeknownst to Parker would be a “Trojan,” a type of computer virus, hidden within the picture. Once Parker clicked on the image, he would enable the Trojan, thus allowing Terry unlimited access to Parker’s every move: sites he visited, passwords he typed into his various online accounts, ability to view his files and folders. Terry was confident he’d have news for me the following day.

  He pulled me aside at work that evening.

  “I’ve got a bunch of shit for you,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come to my house after work,” Terry said.

  “You’re out of your mind,” I replied.

  “Get over yourself, Wright,” Terry said. “You wanna know what I’ve found or what?”

  I grunted. “Fine. But if you try anything on me, I’ll mess you up.”

  “Please. I’m so over you,” Terry said, and I laughed.

  I was shocked when I entered Terry’s apartment. I assumed it would look like a frat house: mismatched furniture with rips and beer stains, old food cartons and pizza boxes littering the surfaces of tables, the smell of something stale and sour. Terry didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had his shit together. I should have known better once he told me he was going to school for computer programming. I should have known to expect a clean, orderly house. Programmers. Total nerds.

  His brown leather furniture matched. He had end tables with lamps on them. Nice lamps that matched and balanced the space. The kitchen was spotless. There were freaking tea towels hanging on the oven and dishwasher handles. I burst out laughing at the magazines fanned out on the coffee table, lying next to scented candles.

  “Who are you?” I asked, walking about the living room.

  “I’m many things, Wright,” Terry said.

  I rolled my eyes. “May I use your bathroom before we get started?”

  “Right down the hall.”

  I sauntered down the hallway in no rush. I was more intrigued with the pictures hanging on the walls. They looked like Terry’s family, and I suspected the kid who sported the same nose and mouth as my hacker friend was his brother. I discovered in one picture that Terry surfed, and thought I should try something new: not stereotyping people the second I met them.

  I really just asked to use the restroom so that I could investigate. I wanted to see if it was as clean as the rest of Terry’s house. He had some scented plug-in going on. It was vanilla mixed with lavender, I think. I gingerly lifted the toilet seat, expecting to see pee stains and God knows what else, but it was clean. Remarkably clean. I couldn’t figure this guy out. He was such an asshole at work—gruff and loud and full of curse words. I figured he owned a Harley on the side and hung out at dive bars on the weekends.

  “No, I hang out in the labs on the weekends, you brat,” he said when I came back into the living room and asked. “You’re too young to be so judgmental.”

  He was lying on his couch flipping through television channels.

  “Actually, teenagers are the most close-minded. Don’t let all our talk about acceptance fool you,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m not fooled. I’ve worked with enough of you people to know how you act. It’s pathetic,” Terry replied, landing on Comedy Central. “The hostesses are the worst. I keep telling Francis to stop hiring 16-year-olds.”

  “How many have you made cry?” I asked, grinning.

  “Three.”

  “Did you get in trouble for it?”

  “What do you think?”

  I giggled. “You’re such a jerk.”

  “I didn’t make you cry, did I?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good. I never wanna see you cry, Wright.” His eyes stayed glued to the television. I don’t know why he said it, but he looked like he meant it. It sounded protective, but not in a romantic way. In that moment I thought I could have an older brother. I almost asked him if he wanted
to be mine.

  “All right. You came here for information, and I’ve got it. You ready to learn?” Terry asked, opening his laptop.

  I nodded and plopped down in a club chair.

  “Come over here so you can see the screen.”

  I moved next to Terry on the couch, and he pulled up a document.

  “Observe Exhibit A. Your score sheet,” Terry said.

  I looked it over, heart racing with adrenaline at the realization that what I was doing was wrong. I didn’t care, though. I thought it was a greater good situation, so Parker’s individual rights had to be violated. Oh God, I thought. If my conservative father heard me say the words “greater good,” he’d disown me.

  The score sheet listed various sexual acts and how each act was scored. Kissing earned the least amount of points. Blow jobs were a high scorer. Sex was at the top. But scores were broken down even more than that depending on the type of girls. A blow job from a virgin fetched a hefty number, the largest score out of all of them if she went all the way. Girls who were already considered promiscuous and easy targets earned lesser scores, even if they had sex with the guy. It was confusing at first, but I figured it out fairly quickly.

  “I found this score sheet under a file folder labeled ‘FSL’,” Terry said. “Didn’t take me long to figure out what that meant.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the score sheet.

  “Lemme show you this first, and you might be able to figure it out,” Terry said.

  He pulled up Exhibit B, labeled “Game 2.” It was an Excel spreadsheet with six boys’ names listed. Under their names were the names of four girls. Some girls already had numbers beside their names. Others did not.

  “What on earth?”

  “They’re teams, see?” Terry said. “Each of these guys has a team of girls. Like Fantasy Football.”

  “Fantasy Football?” I asked.

  “Jesus, Wright. Get with the program. Fantasy Football,” Terry said.

  I shrugged, waiting for an explanation.

  “God, you’re such a girl,” Terry said. “Fantasy Football. You play against people in a league. You draw names to decide who gets to pick first. You pick any professional football player you want for your team, and then you keep score of how they perform in their games. You try to win, see? By having the top score.”