Two

Maria and I stepped out onto Cleveland Place in the North End. Cleveland Place is a wide alley that connects to a narrow street, which connects to another narrow street, and so on past the Old North Church. Maria had moved here with her aunts a year ago.

We walked down Prince Street, past dying piles of snow that had refused to succumb to the recent equinox. Winter in Boston doesn’t give up without a fight. Still, the Sox were playing again, the Boston Marathon was set for Patriots’ Day on Monday, and even this cold spring day was above freezing.

Maria maintained her silence. I assumed that the recent invasion of her Facebook account and the hysterical response of her friends’ parents had shocked her. Truth was she’d been a quiet kid for the past year, life having knocked the stuffing out of a rambunctious tween. As a software engineer who’s worked with his share of introverts, I try to respect the silence of others, figuring that people talk when they’re ready. I don’t always succeed.

We turned at Hanover Street and headed for the only place where we went for “coffee,” Caffe Vittoria. Her dad’s old hangout.

Nick the barista waved a hello. “The usual for you guys?”

I looked at Maria, who nodded. “Yeah, Nick. Thanks.”

We sat in the front of the restaurant behind a floor-to-ceiling window and watched people bustle along the street. At one time Sal had run his business from this spot, but that was a long time ago.

Nick brought us the usual. Two biscotti to share, one chocolate, one almond, an espresso for me, and a hot chocolate for Maria.

I drank the espresso. “Any idea how that guy got your password?” I asked.

Maria slurped hot chocolate. “I was stupid.”

I waited. Maria bit into the chocolate biscotti. She always started with the chocolate.

“Stupid how?” I asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s fair. Nobody wants to talk about how they were stupid.”

Maria drank more hot chocolate.

“But I want to find out who did this to you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. It was a terrible thing to do. The guy should be punished.”

“Why do you say he’s a guy?”

“It’s always a guy.”

Maria bit into the almond biscotti. Chewed, swallowed. “You promise not to be mad at me?”

“Yeah. It’s not your fault.”

“I told him my password.”

“You told who your password?”

“The guy who said he worked for Facebook.”

“Did he send you a direct message?”

“Yeah. He said hackers were trying to break into my account and he needed to fix it. He asked me for my password.”

“Seriously? You fell for that?”

“You said you wouldn’t get mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“You promised.”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m—I’m mad at the asshat who stole your password.”

I bit the almond biscotti. I like to start with the almond because otherwise the chocolate takes over your mouth and ruins everything. Maria would learn that in time. Drained my espresso. Got up. Asked Nick for another. I had thought the walk would vent some of my spleen, but it hadn’t done the job. Got my espresso, paid, sat down next to Maria.

“Why you?” I asked.

“Huh?” said Maria.

“Why would somebody target you?”

Maria shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Is somebody mad at you? Maybe somebody from school?”

Maria shrugged again.

“Because,” I said, “this is bullying.”

“Don’t call it bullying,” said Maria.

“Why not?”

“Because if you call it bullying, it becomes this whole big thing, and there are police, and the principal, and then you’re a snitch and everyone hates you.”

“Looks like somebody hates you now.”

“That’s better than everyone.”

“So who hates you?”

Maria stood, pulled on her coat. “Can we go home now?”

“Sure,” I said. “But, Maria … ”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to find out who did this whether you help me or not.”

Maria pushed through the glass door, led me back into the street. She stayed a step ahead of me, heading toward Prince Street. I caught up, tapped her shoulder with the backs of my fingers. She reached for them. We held hands and walked, swerving around pedestrians living their own lives.

It had been more than a year since the events that had brought her to live with her aunts, Adriana and Catherine: a year of The-First-Withouts. The first Easter without her parents. The first birthday without her parents. The first Christmas without her parents. Adriana, Catherine, and I had been united in a sort of protective tribe, making sure Maria knew she wouldn’t live through those milestones alone.

Still, the retreat had come. Whether it was a young girl’s typical transition into the angst of the tween years, or a reaction to her new life, we didn’t know. We just knew that she’d spent a lot of time in her room, binge-watching videos on the computer, giving her homework scant attention, and rarely laughing.

“Nice day,” I said.

Maria took in the gray sky and raw chill. “It’s cold.”

“The marathoners will like it, though. They hate the heat.”

“Hmm.”

“You know who did this to you, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You shouldn’t let him get away with it.”

Maria pulled her hand from mine. Crossed her arms. Just like a grown-up. When did that happen?

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“It does matter.”

Maria didn’t answer. Apparently it didn’t matter to her.

We turned right and left through the brick streets, back to Cleveland Place, and climbed the steps to her apartment. Adriana and Catherine sat in the front living room, pecking on laptops. They looked a question at me. I shrugged. Maria took off her coat, wordlessly closed her bedroom door behind her.

“So?” asked Adriana. “What happened?”

“We shared some biscotti,” I said.

“And?”

Maria opened her bedroom door. “Why can’t I log into Facebook?”

“I changed the password so you wouldn’t get hacked again.”

“What’s the new password?”

I glanced at Adriana. She gave her head a tiny shake. Then a nod toward Maria.

Great. Give me the dirty work.

“What’s my password?” asked Maria.

“Honey,” I said, “you’re too young for Facebook.”

“What’s my password?”

“You don’t have a password anymore,” I said.

Adriana stepped in. “But you can get back on when you’re thirteen.”

“You took away my account?”

“Technically,” I said, “that hacker you’re protecting did that.”

“This isn’t fair!”

Catherine said, “You are too young, and that’s the end of it.”

Maria’s face shattered into a crinkled mash of sobbing. She turned, slammed the bedroom door behind her, and wailed, the sound carrying through the door, twisting my heart.