Then I see the instant message window. Surrounded by a crowd of overlapping windows for other documents, it's a tight fit. It says:
Why do you let him hit you?
Chapter Ten
FOR A SECOND—JUST A SECOND—I wonder how he knows. I haven't told Cal about Frampton punching me, though the thought is tempting. In one of my favorite fantasies (slightly below the hostage story line), I tell Cal about the people who've been bugging me and he gets pissed and dishes out some righteous justice, which inspires me as well, and I get my licks in on a variety of jocks, losers, and scumbags.
I close some of the windows on my screen so that I can see the entire IM window. The sender's name is wrong. I assumed it was Cal, but the screen name isn't IamaChildMolester (Cal's sick sense of humor at work). It's Promethea387.
Which I should have known without ever even looking at the screen name. Cal would have typed: y do u let him hit u?
Instant Message spam. That's all it is. I sink back in my chair, relieved and disappointed at the same time. That carefully constructed, edited, and reedited fantasy in which Cal and I wreak havoc and ass-kicking on the unending hordes of jock Jerks that roam South Brook High like the buffalo killers of the Plains crumbles into dust. (Though I'll resurrect it someday, I know.)
Promethea387.
Why do you let him hit you?
I can't figure out what kind of spam that would be, though. It's not for Viagra or Nigerian bank accounts or herbal remedies or the kind of sex that doesn't make it onto cable. Spamming for people who are abused? What kind of sense does that make? Is it some kind of public service spam, designed to get the attention of women who are being beaten by their husbands? I don't get it.
I check the window thoroughly. It's definitely an IM window, not an ad or a pop-up.
Promethea387.
And why would a spammer use the name of an Alan Moore character from a comic book that isn't being published anymore?
I stare at the window, but it doesn't change. It can't be a coincidence. I flash to Cal's morbid screen name. What if it's one of those sick guys who troll the 'net looking for kids they can seduce and snatch? Why do you let him hit you? would be a good opening line, especially for some kid who's being smacked around at home. Get the kid's confidence, offer to help out, reel him in...
But it just doesn't sound right. It's that Alan Moore reference. Why would someone aiming for little kids use a character from a comic book written for adults? Why not Superman or Batman or something from Yu-Gi-Oh! or...
It just doesn't make sense.
I look at the bullet, gleaming next to the keyboard. Almost like it's a talisman, I stroke it briefly with the tip of a finger.
There's only one way to find out what's going on. I hit "Reply" and I start to type: What—
Online
Xian Walker76: What do you mean?
Promethea387: Why do you let him hit you?
Xian Walker76: I don't know what you're talking about.
Promethea387: Bull. Mitchell Frampton. In gym class. He hits you over and over and you just stand there. Why?
Xian Walker: Who wants to know?
Promethea387: Why do you care?
Xian Walker76: Because I'm not in the habit of discussing things with faceless, anonymous sock puppets who appear from nowhere. Or am I supposed to believe you're actually Promethea?
Promethea387: "faceless, anonymous sock puppets." Isn't that saying the same thing three different ways?
Xian Walker76: Stop dodging the question.
Promethea387: Stop dodging mine. I asked first.
Xian Walker76: That's a mature, reasonable perspective. Are you five?
Promethea387: Sorry. I'm "not in the habit of discussing things" like my age with "faceless, anonymous sock puppets" on the internet who could turn out to be chicken hawks. I'm somewhere between ten and a hundred, though.
Xian Walker76: Ha ha. You started this, and you know who I am already. Pretty pathetic dodge.
Promethea387: No more pathetic than your dodging in gym class. Or do you try to get hit?
Xian Walker76: Well, now I know who you are. Or what you are, at least. Hope you had your fun and you and your jock buddies got your fair share of laughs. I'm signing off.
Promethea387: You think I'm a jock? I thought you were smart. And I wouldn't blame you for trying to get hit—gets you out of the game that much sooner. If only you didn't have that other little problem. You know, the big blond idiot with the punching fetish.
Xian Walker76: Whatever. I'm done. Lose my screen name.
Promethea387: Check your e-mail.
Chapter Eleven
I BLINK AS I CLOSE OUT the IM window. Check your e-mail. My hand has gone slick on the mouse, the onscreen pointer wavering over the "Log Out" button.
I'm pretty sure it's some jock moron from school. Probably got my screen name from something Cal said or did, something he did that inadvertently let slip how to find me online. I was an idiot to think that no one saw Frampton punching me. So Vesentine or Warshaw or one of those jackasses decided to mess with my head. Bunch of muscle-head freaks, sitting up at night, laughing their remaining brains out, trying to get me to say something sad or pathetic or incriminating online, something they can e-mail to everyone they know, something they can post on the web.
The more I think about it ... The pointer vibrates. I let go of the mouse and snatch up the bullet, rubbing its cool, smooth surface between my palms until it warms. They probably even set up the whole thing to begin with. Why else would Frampton just appear and decide to start hitting me? Why do it twice?
Check your e-mail.
Yeah, right. It's probably more gay porn.
Check your e-mail.
In the comics, Promethea was a sort of physical and metaphysical avatar for the nature of ideas themselves. She was the incarnation of imagination, and her purpose, if I remember right, was to bring about the end of the comic book universe she inhabited. Sort of a metatextual commentary on the self-destructive cycle of superhero comics or something like that. I don't remember exactly. Cal would know.
"She." That's the thing. Promethea's a female character. Why would a bunch of jocks decide to use her to trip me up? Lull me into a false sense of complacency? Maybe they just saw the name on one of Cal's comics or something...?
The bullet's warm now, a tight knot of brass in the center of my hands, which have now gone white with tension. I'm going to log out. I'm going to disconnect and go back to Schemata.
I hold the bullet in one hand, grab the mouse with the other, and click "Check My E-mail" before I lose my nerve.
In there among the usual spam is a message from Promethea387, with a little paper clip next to it. An attachment.
I open the e-mail, thinking, "Virus, trojan horse, worm, spyware," but it's just a message that says, "See?" and a JPEG.
The JPEG is a crappy lo-res image, slightly blurry and small, but unmistakable. It's me in gym class, my face frozen in an expression of surprise and pain as Mitchell Frampton's fist slams into my shoulder. The extreme foreground is a blur of bodies playing dodge ball.
I stare at it for long seconds. The angle ... No one playing dodge ball could take a picture. And the angle ... It's so wrong. It's just off somehow. I don't—
And I think of a black blur with a white blur stuck into it, a face like a thumb dipped in white paint.
I bring up the instant message program and pound out a message to Promethea387: Who are you .. . and why do you sit up in the bleachers during gym?
The pointer vibrates again, then I hit "Send" before I can change my mind. The bullet grows hot, mashed between my hands as I rock back and forth like a toddler who needs to go to the bathroom, waiting. My message is thrown out into cyberspace. Is Promethea even online anymore?
I'm chewing my bottom lip and thinking that I'm too late when the IM comes back: Nice to meet you. Check your e-mail again.
My e-mail has another message from Promethea387, thi
s one with multiple JPEGs attached, all of them in that same crummy format, all of them still eminently readable: Frampton punching me again. Frampton's arm pulled back. Mr. Burger and Mr. Kaltenbach in a corner, ignoring the gym as they laugh at something on Mr. Burger's clipboard.
I'm absorbing all of this when the IM program pops up a window again.
Sometimes don't you just wish someone would break into school and kill all of them?
Chapter Twelve
DON'T YOU JUST WISH SOMEONE would break into school and kill all of them? It echoes in my head all night and all day. Because when you come right down to it, I guess that's what I have been wishing. Never in such stark terms, though, and never out loud like that ... if an instant message counts as "out loud." I figure it does, in some way.
If Promethea387 hadn't brought that question up, I probably would have signed off last night and never given another thought to my mystery IMer. Instead, I'm going to meet this person after school today. I'm not even really sure why. Maybe it's sleep deprivation—I slept a couple of hours last night, finally logging off the computer at four-thirty a.m., waking up when I heard Mom and the step-fascist tromping around upstairs at six or so. Even for me, that's not much sleep.
This morning, though, I got through first-period biology and second-period social studies with no problem. My secret weapon in these situations? Mom's stash of Excedrin Migraine, gone unused during her pregnancy. The stuff's loaded with caffeine, strictly verboten for the gravid among us. Headaches are caused by the expansion of blood vessels, which causes pain because they get too big for their allotted space and get squeezed. Caffeine, being a diuretic, causes the blood vessels to constrict. That's the magic of Excedrin Migraine.
Wash a handful of those suckers down with a Coke, and all's right with the world no matter how tired you are.
I'm glad I know things like that. Sometimes being the smart kid is fun. Other times, it's not.
For example, there was dirt in my locker this morning. Someone had obviously poured it in through the ventilation slots at the top, which must have taken them a while—the slots open down, which means that you'd have to force the dirt up into the slots a little bit at a time and let it drop inside. Someone had patience, though, and managed to get a good bit in there. I didn't even realize it until just now after third period; as I stooped to get my English books from the bottom of the locker, I saw the dirt and figured it out. Who was around my locker this morning, who had been out of place, waiting to see my reaction? At least I disappointed them.
I touch the bullet briefly.
Cal claps me on the shoulder as I head to English. "Hey, man, I finally did it!"
"Did what?" Cal's presence spikes a thought: Whoever put the dirt in my locker has to be involved in an afterschool activity so that they could have done it last night after I left. Which narrows my suspects to half the athletes in school and the band, but I just don't seem to inspire hatred in the band.
"Finally beat you on a paper," he says, and whips out a sheaf of stapled papers with the title "Who Watches the Watchman?: Emerson's Transparent Eyeball and the American Transcendentalists." Mrs. Hanscomb has written "98%" and some generic complimentary teacher-talk on the cover.
"You just couldn't resist an Alan Moore reference in your title, could you?"
He points to one of her comments. "She thinks I'm referencing Juvenal's Satires. "
"How did you get your paper back so early?"
"She's giving them back in class today. I ran into her this morning and she gave it to me." He grins and waves it in my face again. "It took me almost the whole year, but I finally beat you in this class. No way you get higher than a ninety-eight. Doesn't happen."
"Congratulations."
"That's all you have to say? That's it?"
I probably should have more to say, especially considering all the good-natured ribbing I give Cal on a regular basis about my grades and his, but I'm humming from the caffeine buzz and my brain is still processing last night's IM and e-mail chat-fest.
In English, Mrs. Hanscomb hands me my paper as soon as I walk into the room. The bell hasn't rung yet and everyone's still settling into their seats, including Lisa Carter, wearing, today, a pair of nicely tight blue jeans that are pleasing to the eye but do absolutely nothing to help the ongoing Panty Algorithm investigation. Cal is joking and laughing behind me, reading Mrs. Hanscomb's comments on his paper just loud enough for me to hear them, exulting in his triumph.
I look at my paper and I can't help it. I explode with laughter and collapse onto the floor.
"What?" Cal looks around. "What? Don't. Don't tell me."
So I don't. I just lie there laughing, and hold the paper up for him.
"Ninety-nine? Ninety-nine? No way! I can't believe this!"
The bell rings and Mrs. Hanscomb tells Cal to take his seat. Glancing my way, she says, "You, too," and I pick myself up and walk to my desk, aware of the eyes on me. I couldn't help it, though. I just had to laugh.
"The American body paradox," Mrs. Hanscomb says, hoisting herself to sit on her desk and crossing her legs. "Who can tell me about this?"
"Beats me," Cal says. "I only got a ninety-eight on my paper. Ask him." And he hooks a thumb in my direction.
The class laughs, and maybe it's just the caffeine, but I laugh along with them.
"I mean, his hobby is tearing the erasers off his pencils," Cal goes on.
Mrs. Hanscomb allows herself a grin. "OK, Calvin, that's enough."
"When he gets a perfect paper, his grade point average goes down. "
And now the laughter takes on a slightly dark tinge, a bad flavor, as if dipped in a solution containing the slightest percentage of vinegar. Mrs. Hanscomb tells Cal it's enough again, and he flashes me a grin before tucking his paper away in a folder, but now I'm conspicuous and the laughter's echoing in my head. I slip my hand into my pocket and stroke the tips of my fingers against the bullet. I feel calm almost immediately.
It's not good to remind them that I exist. Not good at all. I can't afford to let myself feel good, to let my guard down, to think for a single moment that I belong.
Because I don't.
Chapter Thirteen
AT THE END OF THE DAY, I skip the bus. I've managed to sweep most of the dirt out of my locker onto the floor, where it's scattered by the constant march of feet up and down the hall. Cal catches me on his way to the buses: "Hey, man, you coming to the game tonight?"
The game? I think about it for a second—I seem to remember something about a lacrosse game being mentioned on the morning announcements. Despite his intellect, Cal suffers from the misapprehension that I secretly harbor some measure of concern about the school's sports teams.
"No," I tell him.
"Come on! You never come."
Which really tells you all you need to know right there.
"You should see us. If we win, we go on to the county playoffs."
I can't imagine anything in this world I care about less. "Sorry," I tell him, shrugging my shoulders as if that action somehow absolves me of any responsibility for the decision.
He just rolls his eyes with an expression that says, "There you go again." Not that I've given him any cause to think so, but he seems to believe that my dislike of the Jock Jerks is passive, as if I just can't be bothered to go to sporting events. But I actively don't care about them. I mean, I work at not caring about those morons!
He tosses a salute my way as he heads down the hall. I wave weakly. Have fun, lacrosse boy.
I go outside, skirt the bus line, and go around the building before anyone can notice me. There's an elementary school, the imaginatively named South Brook Elementary School, nearby. You cross an access road and go down a hill, and there it is.
And there I go, my backpack bumping against my shoulder blades as I stutter-walk down the incline. I hope I'm right about this. If not, I'll be calling Mom for a ride and she'll be pissed that I missed the bus.
I spot someone on t
he playground behind the elementary school, a small figure dressed in black sitting on one of the swings. For a moment I kick into paranoid mode: This could all still be a trap. It would be an easy setup. Lure me out here with some e-mails and Instant Messages, then pound the crap out of me. I should turn around and huff my way back up the hill. I might still be able to catch the bus.
But there's no one else around, and the figure in black is just sitting there all alone, barely moving on the swing.
I walk up to her. She's wearing long sleeves even though it's hot out, some kind of black shirt with buttons up the side instead of the front, opened at the top to show her neck and part of that well between the neck and shoulder on her left side. The shirt's untucked, flapping over black jeans, which lead to black socks and black shoes. Her hair is black—either dyed or just naturally made out of semihardened ink. It's like something that swallows light, thick and endlessly dark and chopped short on top and in back, hanging long and low in front. She's looking down at her shoes, which trace lazy arcs in the sand as she drifts on the swing.
"So," I say. "Promethea, huh?" Brilliant introduction. I should have had something better planned.
She looks up at me, not bothering to push her hair away from her eyes or her forehead. Her face is so pale ... It's so pale that I can't even think of something to compare it to. Chalk? Kabuki makeup? Liquid Paper? Her eyes are brown stamps on it, her nose a bump that sparkles with a red stone through one side. Her mouth twists in a sneer; her lower lip is pierced at the corner, and the ring somehow makes the sneer broader. Now that she's raised her head, I can see that she's wearing a necklace with a reversed smiley face on it: a black circle with yellow lines making up the face, like a photo negative.
"Yeah. Promethea. Got a problem with it, fanboy?"