Chapter 17
Gen and I continued to reign as the number one school tabloid event. Three groups emerged from the chaos. The small band of dedicated Bigfoot enthusiasts. The equally small scientific crowd of hardened skeptics. That left a large crowd of spectators who enjoyed watching, and sometimes helping, Doug and Josh in their taunts against us.
A fourth group unexpectedly emerged from the spectators - those who staunchly defended our right to be wrong.
We entered Bertram’s class. The hum of voices rose in pitch like a hive of swarming bees.
“Good thing it’s Friday,” Gen whispered as we took our seats. “Bertram's looking a little stressed.”
Dark circles ringed Bertram's eyes as if he'd been up all night. He spoke to the class, but his gaze locked on me. “Let's pick up where we left off.”
I met his stare, but a feeling of unease grew inside me.
Bertram continued. “The discussion was whether or not George Roge and everything surrounding him is real. I’ve traced George to a connection with a program called EGOR, an academic program used for research by universities across the country. I managed to put a lock on the program this morning.”
I stifled a shiver. How much did Bertram know? Would this get Dad in trouble?
Bertram was still talking. “Haven’t been able to shut down the EGOR webpage, but I’m working on it.
I didn't dare look at Gen. I struggled to keep my face unemotional. The rest of the class dissolved into a series of arguments using Bertram’s scientific analysis. They debunked George, Bigfoot, and everything associated with them, including Gen and me.
With grim resignation we endured the rest of our classes. Finally the day ended and we could go home.
I walked through the front door and dropped my backpack on the floor. Laughter from the kitchen mixed with the heady smell of cinnamon and sweet icing. The warm yeasty fragrance of baking pastry pulled me toward the kitchen like a deer in the desert following the scent of water.
I stopped, surprised to see that the water hole was occupied. Dad hunched over his laptop like a lion over its prey.
Mom stepped away from the oven, her cheeks flushed with the heat. She held a full tray of steaming cinnamon buns.
“You’re home,” I said.
Her eyes sparkled and she gave me a big smile. “Yes, and tonight we celebrate.”
I eyed the rolls. “I’m in favor of celebrating,” I said. “Good to have you home,” I added for good measure.
“We’re glad to be home,” Dad said, “but that’s not the reason for the celebration.
I tried to sound casual. “Oh?”
Mom set the rolls down and Desiree slathered them in icing.
“Mom’s leaving the night shift,” Dad said. “Monday she starts on daylight.”
My face broke into a big grin. “That’s terrific!” I snatched up one of the rolls and took a greedy bite. Then quickly rotated the hot gooey sweetness around my mouth to keep it from burning.
“Hey!” Desiree said laughing. “Those are for after dinner.”
“He’s just testing them,” Nate said as he entered the room. “I think you need a second opinion.” He reached for the tray but Desiree caught his hand.
“One taster is plenty,” she said.
Nate kissed her hand. “Your fingers are sweeter than any cinnamon roll.”
I almost choked on my pastry.
“Looks like you got some interesting mail,” Nate said. He dropped several letters on the table.
Dad reached over his laptop to pick them up. “These seem to be from publishers,” he said.
“Isn't it rather early for publishers?” Mom asked.
He looked up surprised. “It’s a rejection letter.”
Nate took the letter and read it while Dad opened the next one.
“Another rejection,” Dad said. “I’m beginning to feel inadequate. I’m being rejected and I haven’t even submitted a manuscript yet.”
A suspicious thought was growing inside me, and it was pointing toward George.
Mom opened the last one. “Rejection,” she said.
Dad pushed the letters away. “I don’t understand. How did they get my book?”
“Good question,” Nate said.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room as we all pondered this mystery.
When no one answered Dad looked around the room giving each of us a suspicious frown. “Unless one of you sent it in.”
“I didn’t,” Nate said.
Desiree shook her head.
“Not me,” I said.
“Then who?” Dad asked.
I met Nate’s eyes and we answered together.
“George.”
“George?” Dad said. “Who’s George?”
“Come with me,” Nate said, leading the way to the computer. “Let me introduce you to George Roge, a.k.a. EGOR.”
“EGOR? Like in Frankenstein?” Mom asked.
Recognition filled Dad’s face as he got to his feet. “EGOR. As in the University research program. Am I right?”
“Right,” Nate said. “But EGOR has developed a whole new personality.”
They filed into the other room. My cell phone vibrated. A text from Gen.
Cme ovr here
I had to wait until my family was immersed in George’s videos, then it was simple to slip outside unnoticed. The cold air hit me. I shivered, but it was too late to go back for a coat. I raced across the yard and bounded up the steps. The door burst open before I could knock.
Gen grabbed my arm and pulled me into the warm hallway. “What took so long?”
“We were reading the mail,” I said. “Dad’s getting rejection letters from publishers.”
“I didn’t know his book was done,” she said.
“It’s not. We think George sent letters to the publishers.”
“George!” she said. “That’s why I sent the text.”
“You knew George has been writing letters?”
“No. George, or rather EGOR, is in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble can George be in? He’s not even real. Is someone scattering his molecules through cyberspace?”
“More like shoving him in a black hole. Bertram really did shut down EGOR.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s a segment on the news tonight about it.”
“When did you start watching the nightly news?”
“Dad’s watching the news. I was doing my homework. But the TV was on and I heard them mention EGOR. Come on, how many EGORs are there?” She led the way to the living room and lowered her voice. “Remember to be quiet. Dad hates to have his show interrupted.”
I nodded. We stopped in the doorway. I could see the back of the recliner and just her dad's feet dangling over the end of the footrest.
The end table held a soda, a steaming cup of coffee, a jar of peanuts, and two remote controls. Newspapers and sports magazines jammed the shelf underneath.
The giant walk-in screen dominated the far side of the room. The sports report was just finishing. The camera switched to the slimy reporter.
“Him again,” I muttered.
“Shhh.”
A hand reached out from the chair. I froze. The peanuts disappeared behind the cushions.
The reporter was talking. “Well, Sally, just when we thought that Bigfoot had left our little town, a new development in the story has been discovered.”
“That’s right, Mike. The hoax is more elaborate than just a person in a gorilla costume. Now there is evidence that puts George Roge’s reputation as a news blogger in question.”
“In fact,” Mike continued, “George Roge may be as unreal as the creature he has been reporting on. We have evidence that he himself is nothing more than a computer generated character.”
“Generated by an unauthorized user of our university's research program.”
“We’re not yet sure who is behind this elaborate hoax. Qualif
ied computer technicians who specialize in virus and malware are working on the problem. It has been given top priority.”
“For now the program known as EGOR, has been shut down and all the files are quarantined until they can be examined. Once they isolate the code generating this imaginary character, they can delete it.”
“We’ll bring you more updates as this fascinating story unravels.”
Gen pulled me back into the hall. “They’re going to delete him. George is not a virus.”
“Well you could think of him as infecting the system…” I began.
She gave me a withering look. “He’s a computer life form making use of his own cyber territory. They can’t just delete him like a file you don’t want anymore.”
I took a deep breath. “Convincing Bertram of that is impossible.”
“I thought you believed in possibilities.”
“I do. But Bertram doesn’t. He only believes in what fits into his scientific formulas.”
“But George is one of a kind. Like an endangered species. He needs to be protected.”
“A new species…” I said slowly. “That just might work.” I started thinking through the scientific arguments.
“What do you mean?” She said.
“That could be an argument that might catch Bertram’s attention.”
Gen glanced at the clock. “The teachers are still at school for another 45 minutes. If Bertram didn’t leave early he should still be there.”
“I’ll grab my coat and tell my parents I’ll be out. Meet me in five minutes.”