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Warrior> Yep, just got in.
SMASH> Ur outta luck, I’m off. Sleepy. L8r
Hazard-Us> Night, sissy!
Hazard-Us> What u been up to, Warrior?
Warrior> Testing some new probes, u?
Hazard-Us> Unleashing a few viruses here n there, fun stuff!
Hazard-Us and his viruses. Doesn’t he get sick of doing the same thing all the time? I play along, though, tell him he should send me the code. He promises he will, but I know he won’t. He’s a script-kiddie. We chat for a bit before he hops off the loop. The cursor blinks next to my handle name. I need to quit staring at the computer screen and go to bed.
I’m about to log out when Mom screams. My heart slams against my chest. When the burst of panic passes, I sigh. I should have known she’d have one of those nights tonight.
In her room, I find her sitting up in bed.
“You okay?” I ask from the threshold. Light from the hall spills on her, revealing a pale face with strands of sandy blond hair matted to her cheeks. Sweat stains the front of her gray tank top in a V-shape.
She shakes her head in response.
“I’ll get you some tea.” I head to the kitchen.
I pour two cups of water in the electric kettle, open the tea drawer and select the Sleepytime variety for the both of us. Four spoonfuls of sugar later, I walk into Mom’s bedroom. Her bedside lamp is now on. Her room is tidy. She sleeps on one side of the bed, as if she expects Dad to come back one day. I wish she’d just use the whole stupid bed and stop reminding me of his absence. He’d be here if he could, but the dead can hardly make someone’s bed warm.
She cradles the mug between both hands and I sit by her side, holding mine the same way. We both sip quietly.
“Sorry to wake you,” she says, though her eyes are unapologetic, and still seem lost in the folds of her nightmare.
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just double checking my math homework.”
Her eyebrow lifts, an indication that she knows I’m lying. Homework has never kept me up at night. School’s too easy for my overactive brain. Besides, I learned long ago that marginally good grades keep you out of the spotlight, both ways.
My eyes gravitate to the picture on her nightstand. In it, Mom looks radiant with Dad’s arm around her and the ocean sparkling in the background. I stand in the middle, a toothless grin on my face, my chubby body stuffed into a pink bathing suit. Hard to believe I ever liked that horrendous color, harder yet to recall ever being that happy.
Dad’s wide smile gleams on his tan face. He was tall, handsome and strong, with deep brown eyes that inspired trust. I’m glad I look like him and love those rare occasions when I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.
Back in those days, my brother’s kidnapping never weighed so heavily on Mom’s mind. Since Dad died though, it’s like she lost her grief compass and went off the deep end. While Dad was alive, she never lit an extra set of candles on my birthday cake and wept as I blew them out. Or told near-strangers she had two kids just to have them ask later why one of them was never around. Or kept a box under the bed full of baby outfits Max never had a chance to wear.
No, when Dad was alive, she was normal.
“We were happy then, weren’t we?” Mom asks, as if she’s read my thoughts.
The question makes me recoil. She knows I hate talking about it, yet she insists. Maybe to torture me.
“Yeah.” I slurp my tea and shift my body toward the door.
“I dreamed about Max,” she says.
I clear my throat. Let’s not go there, please.
“A memory, really,” she adds. “His tiny body whisked away, prodding needles, doctors. He was so small. Only three pounds. He never made a peep. You, on the other hand, came out ten minutes after Max, kicking and wailing.” She makes it sound as if I came out with two heads. I can’t help but wonder … if I’d been the one taken away, would she hurt Max the same way she hurts me by saying stuff like this?
She must notice something in my expression because she adds, “You had a head full of black hair already, spiky and shiny.” This is one of the things Dad used to say when he fondly talked about the day I was born. The words sound empty on Mom’s lips.
“It still sticks out if I cut it too short. That’s why I keep it long,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. I don’t like where this is going.
Mom puts her tea down on the night table. Her hands fall to her lap, where she worries at a hangnail. Her eyes lose their focus and her expression grows pained.
Oh, no.
“When I saw Dr. Dunn at the hospital and then that horrible alarm shrieked, I knew what had happened. I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me. Not even your father. That man took your brother, Marcela.”
“I know, Mom.” She’s told me this story a million times, as if talking about it will make the outcome different.
My teeth grind, as her memories swim in my brain. They’re lodged in there like a splinter, as vivid as any movie I’ve seen on the big screen, as vivid as if they were my own. This is why I hate these conversations. They awaken these images, which have no business being in my head. I already have enough in there that doesn’t belong. They make me understand Mom’s pain all too well and, even if I never knew Max, his loss hurts. Every time Mom brings this up, the splinter digs deeper—so deep that I think it will split me in two one day.
I imagine Dr. Dunn as a balding, short man with small hands and Vienna sausages for fingers. He wears a spotless white coat over an equally white button-up shirt and dark blue tie. He smiles with thick, fleshy lips. He winks at me and my heart skips a beat.
Damn, my overactive brain. I shake my head. “Mom, uh, I think I should …”
“Why would he take him? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Because he was a sick man, I want to say. Why else would he have tracked Mom’s pregnancy after doing the fertility treatments? Why else would he have stolen a newborn baby in need of neonatal care?
Mom clings to this hope that Max is alive somewhere. I know because one night she woke up screaming that she had failed Baby Max and now that he was a teenager, we both failed him every day by not bringing him to his real home.
Does she really want him growing up with that bastard? I want to shake her, ask her if she’s crazy. I pray to God my little twin brother didn’t survive after he was taken from his incubator. I pray he’s an innocent little angel with wings and a halo, floating on fluffy white clouds.
And like always, as I pray for his redemption, I think: it could have been me, that monster could have taken me.
Chapter 5 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)
Back in my bed, I toss and turn. I keep seeing weird shapes and I can’t sleep. Tonight only the H-Loop can keep me sane. I wrap my quilt around me and tread back to the computer desk.
I tap on the keyboard and notice I never logged out. Not smart. The customized console program I wrote to connect to the loop creates a daisy-chain through different servers, so I’m never detected. But still, you can never be too safe.
As I start scanning the list of people logged in, I noticed a new chat window is open. One single line stares at me.
IgNiTe> I know what you are.
The timestamp of the message is now. The cursor blinks. My heart keeps the same beat. I tell myself the words mean nothing. It’s just some idiot playing games. I’ve no idea who this IgNiTe guy is, but I’ve ran into his kind before. He needs a taste of Warrior’s cyber wrath. Just what I need to keep my head free of the ghosts weighing me down.
I rub my hands together, load my tracing program, and type a message to keep the jerk online.
Warrior> Do you, skiddie?
He calls himself a hacker when he’s nothing but a cracker. I hit enter and just as I’m doing it, a belated sixth sense warns me to stop, but it’s too late. All three monitors go blue and white text starts raining down the screen, repeating the same thing over and over again.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
I know what you are. I know what you are.
Cursing, I drop to my knees and fight to untangle myself from the stupid quilt. I slip and slide in an effort to get traction on the parquet flooring. Under the desk, I’m faced with three CPUs and a tangle of cables swathed in dust bunnies.
Furiously, I push everything out of the way until I find the power strip. I press the button and the LED light goes out, indicating the flow of electricity has been cut off. In the same instant, the uninterruptible power supply kicks in and starts to beep. I scramble to unhook all the cables to the battery backup. Damn, why do I have to be such a meticulous freak?
Finally the hum of the CPUs dies down. I lay under the desk seething, wanting to strangle something. He better pray I don’t find him, because I’ll kill him, very slowly. No one messes with my equipment, my sanctuary. My ears are hot, and if I was a cartoon character, there’d be steam coming out of them.
When the rage subsides, my mind hits fifth gear. How did he do it? How did this IgNiTe jerk get through my intricate security measures? Everyone in the H-Loop knows I’m the hacker to beat, so it’s obvious why he’d want to mess with me. But how did he do it? My system is tight. The hardware, my code … I don’t ever leave any trails. I rack my brain trying to figure it out and come up empty. I’ve been outsmarted, and I don’t even know how.
Suddenly, I feel like crying. I can’t even hide in my room anymore. I shake my head. Self-pity isn’t something I allow myself. Slowly, I crawl out from under the desk. The clock reads 5:29 A.M. I groan. When the display changes to 5:30 A.M., I walk over to the alarm and turn it off. Time to leave for the dojo. I ponder whether I should go or sleep for an hour before school. The bed looks tempting, but after what just happened my brain won’t quiet long enough to let me sleep. Only punching something can help me now. That is … if I can even stay upright long enough to do it.
I start jogging on the spot, letting my arms hang like a dummy’s. They swing from side to side as I turn my head around and bounce on my toes. My body feels supple enough in spite of the lack of sleep. Okay, I guess I’ll go. I try to never skip practice. The emotional focus that martial arts give me is critical. It keeps the shadows and the fear away.
Looking back at my desk, I’m tempted to stay to assess the damage to my computers. Tension bites the back of my neck at the simple thought of what that good-for-nothing cracker just did to me. Anger flares again, but I get it under control after a few deep breaths. It looks like I really need to go to the dojo to clear my head. I can’t let emotions control me.
This is how my life goes. Every day is a struggle. An endless array of do’s and don’ts designed to keep the shadows at bay. And after what happened last night, after discovering the torture I would endure if I let my defenses down, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.
If only my worries amounted to no more than what outfit to wear today.
After almost two hours of grueling practice at the dojo, I enter the locker room and throw my sweaty karategi in a plastic bag. I fold the belt and drop it on top. The contrast between the white canvas pants and the black belt isn’t as startling as it should be. The uniform has been washed too many times and it’s now starting to look more yellow than white.
New leather pants. New karategi. New helmet. New computers? I sigh.
I don’t have enough money to pay for all those things. Not after having spent my savings on the Kawasaki. Clearly, it’s time for a hacking gig, except for the minor inconvenience of my system being infected by some punk’s virus.
I sling my sports bag over my shoulder and wince. I hit the heavy bag too hard while I was drilling and hurt my wrist. Sensei took a look at it, bending it this way and that. It hurt like hell. He said I should ice it and then bandage it at least. I told him it would be fine. It already feels better.
“You’re a lucky sucker, Guerrero,” he said.
“It has nothing to do with luck,” I told him. “It’s all about toughness.”
He laughed and frowned at the same time. “It’s gotta be. I don’t know how you always bounce back so quickly.”
I walk through the dojo, sports bag bouncing against my side. The short, forceful battle cries of the 7 A.M. students fill the air, as well as the flat sound of their uniforms snapping with each of their kicks. I wrinkle my nose at the gym-sock smell and wave Sensei goodbye.
“Nice workout, Guerrero,” he says with a quick grin, before turning back to instruct the class. “Check out the tournament website, will ya?”
Steve Yakamoto, your ass is crazy if you think I’m joining that tournament.
“Sure deal, Sensei ’Moto.” I wonder when he’s gonna give up. He thinks I should care about winning trophies and medals. I don’t.
As I walk down the sidewalk toward my bike, I relish the calm left behind after the hard workout. Kicking and punching the bag and pads make my limbs sore and heavy. The physical exertion grounds me, roots me to the pavement, makes me worry about my body. Not my mind.
Sensei ’Moto doesn’t understand that this is all I need from karate. He always asks me why I don’t want to learn Kata or try meditation again. He says it would improve my technique even more. But Kata, with their repetitious, choreographed moves, require me to concentrate on one thing for too long, while meditation demands that I think of nothing at all. Yeah, like I want that kind of trouble.
I strap the gym bag to the back of the bike, on top of my book bag. Running gloved fingers along the curve of my helmet, I cringe at the scratches from last night. I’d just bought the stupid thing and now it’s less than perfect. Man, I’m so glad we took Clark’s Yamaha and not my new Kawasaki. Lovingly, I pat the bike’s leather seat. My new toy was worth every hard-earned penny, every line of glorious code.
I check my phone. No answer from Xave to my earlier text. I hope the idiot can still think for himself this morning. After putting on my helmet, I straddle the bike and start the engine. It roars to life, putting a smile on my face.
I tear down the street, slipping between two SUVs. The driver of the Blazer screams at me through his open window. I flip him the bird and punch the bike for more gas. Within minutes I’m at school.
Oh joy!
Dragging my feet, I join the throng of equally enthusiastic students. I wish I could skip ahead to trying to find out who hacked me, but I’ve pretty much maxed-out my absences. For now, I’ll hold on to the few I have left, just in case. The way things are with Xave and the virus attack, I have a feeling I may need them soon.
Chapter 6 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)
Classes are a blur. I make sure to sign in and, after that, I pretty much nap. I don’t perk up until five minutes before the last bell goes off. Then I head to the gym, where chess club, my only mildly entertaining school activity, meets every Friday.
I enter the chatter-filled gym and scan the floor. Tables are set up in the middle, topped with chessboards and timers. The teacher, Mr. Gallager, walks around, handing out papers to the students.
Small cliques stick together. A few Asians here. Two Hispanics there. Whites elsewhere. I belong to none. I keep scanning, but I don’t see the person who makes this activity challenging enough for me to stick around. I start to turn when Mr. Gallager moves a few steps, revealing the table behind him.
“So you are here,” I mumble to myself when I spot Luke.
My shoulders square off as I take a deep breath and walk toward him, boots clicking on the polished wood.
A few heads turn my way, including Mr. Gallager. “Boots, Marci, boots. I’ve told you, they scratch the floor,” he says, pointing at my shoes with disapproval. He really doesn’t care about the floor. He’s just supposed to say that.
“There are no jocks here today, Mr. Gallager. They can’t stop me,” I say with a smirk.
He shrugs and keeps handing out sheets.
“Unless we count you. You’re a jock, right?” I say, as I sit in front of Luke, who looks up from the chessboard and lifts a perfect, blond eyebrow.
He reclines back on the chair and bends his head to one side, appraising me. “Didn’t think you were gonna show up after your sad defeat last week, and the week before and the week before that one, and the week … should I go on?” His tall frame looks almost too big for the chair. His sandy blond hair slides to the left and brushes his temple.
Luke Smith, the conundrum. Jock by day. Lady’s man by night. Straight-A student and chess player extraordinaire. I’ve known him since kindergarten and he always manages to surprise me some way or another. Like the day he asked me out on a date. Yeah, that was different and totally unsettling for some reason. He’s good looking as all get-out, and many a girl would give a lung to go out with him. Me? I got sick to my stomach. Violently. Like never before in my life—not even after that time I ate the street tacos that nearly landed Xave in the hospital and barely made me feel queasy. But, judging by the way I reacted with Luke, you would have thought my own dad was making a move on me. He played it cool, though. Even when I made a beeline for the girls’ bathroom, ready to puke. To this day, I still don’t know what came over me and I can’t stomach the idea of being romantically involved with him. In all, it’s a surprise he still talks to me.
I narrow my eyes into small slits and give him a fake grin. I would promise him an ass-whipping, but if I knew I could beat him, I probably wouldn’t be here today. No. I’m sure I wouldn’t be. I wonder if he would? I wonder if, like me, he comes for the challenge. It’s true he has won every game we’ve ever played, but I make him sweat for it. And I know that pretty soon I’ll finally beat him.
As I lean to put my book bag down, he asks, “Had a rough night last night?”
My eyes flash back to him, suspicion rising in me. What does he know about last night? Could Luke be the IgNiTe dude? My mind examines this possibility, weighing in all the variables.
He’s certainly smart enough. The way he plays chess and beats me every time serves as proof. There’s even a small chance he’s smarter than me. Okay, not really, but still. His IQ has to be pretty up there. I wonder if he’s into computers. I know he’s into football and girls and … parties, but what else? I frown. The truth is I have no idea. We’ve been classmates on and off all these years, but, for all I know, every night he turns into a flesh-eating transvestite. Like me, he might have this other life that no one suspects.
“Your eyes are red,” he adds when I don’t answer. He smiles, crosses freckled arms over the logo of his black Under Armour t-shirt. He sounds innocent. Clearly, I’m just being paranoid.
“No, they’re brown,” I say.
He leans into the table. “Brown and big and pretty,” he whispers, his own blue eyes sparkling. My mouth sours and my stomach flips. I swear he relishes the way his flirtatious tone twists me up into knots.
