THE HACKER
Since I’ve been disciplined, the girls of Goode accept me back to the school with grace, almost as if the spat in the dining room this morning never happened. I walk the halls expecting the whispers and stares, but it’s as if the whole school came to an agreement that they’re going to leave me alone, and after my meltdown with the dean, I’m relieved to move through the rest of the day unmolested.
I didn’t enjoy the disappointment in Dr. Medea’s eyes at my late arrival this morning. He didn’t scold or hand out JPs, as I expected, but that look was enough to make me vow never to be late for him again. And my programming sucks.
I want to get him back to that smooth, smiling, generous soul he was the first few weeks of school. I have to keep him on my good side.
In English, I receive a B on my Mary Shelley essay, with extensive notes on how to revise. I skip lunch, grab a smoothie from the Rat—no way I am going to face the wolves so soon—but talk myself into going to dinner, head up, eyes focused ahead.
When I sit at the sophomores’ table, Vanessa stands and moves. Piper, after an apologetic glance, follows. Oddly, Camille stays, nattering on about her upcoming meeting in the attics, a cardinal seen flying into the open chapel doors, and a letter from home written by her stepbrother.
Battle lines drawn. I ignore Vanessa, roll my eyes at Piper, indulge Camille’s soliloquy, eat my Cobb salad, then, back on the hall, purposefully sit in Vanessa’s usual spot in the sewing circle for an hour, chatting with a couple of girls from my English class, bitching about my two weeks of detention. They are enamored. Better, though, is the look on Vanessa’s face when she realizes I’ve captured her spot. She takes one look at me in the middle of the circle and her eyes burn with hatred. She huffs and disappears down the hall. Utterly priceless.
I mustn’t allow myself to be cowed. If I show any more weakness like I did this morning, I’ll be fighting them off the rest of term. No, staying calm and in their faces is the best way to handle things.
After study hours, I retreat to my room to draft the outline for an essay on the theories of Plato’s Cave seen in Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Satisfied with the bones, I settle in to indulge my inner naughty by writing some astounding code for Dr. Medea. I park myself at my desk with my usual setup—earbuds for some slamming music, a Diet Coke from the kitchen. A notebook in case the structure of what I’m developing doesn’t show itself—all of my code have shapes in my mind. It’s why I’m good at this, Medea told me. Some coders see in numbers or colors; my talent is shapes. Double helixes, braids, hearts, lately. A lot of hearts. The shape of the code helps me find the nuance of what I’m hacking. He says this is rare. It makes me feel special.
Technically, I shouldn’t be writing hacks, but Medea seems to enjoy my white hat work so much, and I like showing off for him. It’s like he understands me in a way most of the other teachers don’t. After my screwup today, I want him firmly back in my foxhole.
I’m halfway through a complicated keystroke analysis when I realize there is movement behind me. I ignore it, turn up the music, but it persists.
Camille, clearly nervous, is walking in circles like a caged lion, waiting until her appointed time to go upstairs. She is making silly little humming noises and scraping her hand on the top of the sofa. I don’t know how I can sense this through July Talk’s intense lyrics, but I can.
I pull out my earbuds. “Will you stop?”
Camille shakes her head. “What if...?”
“What if what?”
“I don’t know. Ignore me.”
“Impossible. You’re doing laps around the couch. It’s a bit distracting.”
“I’m just so nervous.” She goes to her dresser and I see the flash of clear glass, hear the clink as the little bottle of vodka she keeps stashed in her top drawer disappears back into her socks. Camille plops down with an alcohol-tinged sigh. “That’s better. Are you okay? You cut classes, you’re going to be in trouble.”
Oh, lovely. We’re going to bond.
“Already am. Detention with the dean for two weeks to work off my JPs. I thought you’d heard?”
“I’ve been distracted today. Where did you go?”
“Town. The coffee shop. Do you know Rumi?”
She blanches. “Oh, my God, Ash. You can’t talk to him. He’s...he’s dangerous.”
“I heard. He told me about his father.”
Camille’s pale face goes even whiter. “He just told you? What did he say?”
“The truth, I reckon. He said it was hard on him. And if he was dangerous, the dean wouldn’t have him on staff here. He seems a decent bloke, for all I could tell.”
“There are rumors about him. He likes to watch us, the girls, I mean. He stands on the path to the arboretum and watches the teams practice. He’s some sort of pedophile. You really should stay away. He’s not your type.”
“There are rumors about everyone. Me included. And I seriously doubt he’s a pedophile. He’s just lonely. And how do you know what my type is?”
A small chime and Camille leaps to her feet, her face splitting into an incandescent grin, the specter of Rumi already forgotten.
“Finally, finally, it’s time. Wish me luck.”
I say, “Cheers,” and mean it sincerely. I have no idea what the seniors want with Camille, can only assume it’s about me. They want information and think my roommate is the best source. Why they don’t have the balls to ask me directly or go to Becca, who knows. Sometimes the logic here is beyond me.
When the door slams and I’m finally alone, I sag against the chair. Why did Camille warn me off Rumi? He seems totally fine. Nice, even.
Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve been thinking about my chat with him all day. How difficult it must be for him, to be the object of derision and scorn from the town where he grew up, to be looked down upon because of the choices of his parent. I understand more than he knows.
With all this chaos raging in my mind, I find it almost impossible to concentrate on my elegant little code. I’ll work on it tomorrow. I might as well get ready for bed, snuggle under the covers and read. Dr. Asolo assigned Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own this afternoon and I’m actually looking forward to reading it. I understand the desire to have something private, a place where you can be yourself without guile. I don’t know where that will ever be for me, not anymore.
I brush my teeth and get into my pajamas. Glance at the clock. It’s nearly eleven. Time for lights out. Camille has been gone for a while, longer than I was.
I read, get lost in the words, the rhythm. My eyes are starting to droop when the pounding begins, fists slamming against my door with such force the small painting above Camille’s desk crashes to the floor.