Exposed (17 page)

Mom’s voice rings in my mind.

We aren’t raising you to be obsessive….

Yeah, well, somebody should explain that to Lauren a little better.

She starts warbling “The hiiii-iiiillls are aaaalliiiiiiive …” before I even make it up the steps.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sprawled on my bed, doing stretches and chatting with Paul. This whole before-the-middle-of-the-night-talking thing is too cool.

“I swear, that kid’s really freaking herself out about this play,” I tell him, adding a cross-eyed smiley for effect, even though he could see bits and pieces of me through the webcam as I stretch.

“Don’t you freak yourself out about games and competitions?” he types back. “I always did. She’s just getting an early start.”

Before I can say anything else, he adds, “That stretch was a nice one,” with a smiley that has big, bulging eyes. “Put the computer on a pillow and do it again. Let me see the whole thing.”

I get that tingly feeling all over, and I can’t help grinning. He makes me feel so …
all that
. I slide the laptop up to my pillow, stretch on my side with my back to the door, extend as tight as I can, and lift my left arm and leg at the same time, until my fingers and toes touch.

Paul gives me a thumbs-up in the camera window, and we both laugh.

Another few smileys with giant eyes come through.

“Do it again,” he writes. “In your underwear.”

I roll my eyes.

Guys.

They really are
all
about one thing, most of the time.

Except I happen to like this guy, so I compromise. Since I have on a sports bra, I take off my shirt and toss it on the floor, but leave my sweats in place. Then I do the stretch for him again, really, really slowly.

It’s so delicious, making him happy like that, with just my body. I don’t feel as self-conscious now that I’m a little smaller—and with my sweatpants still on. I’m not too proud of my legs, but my upper body, it’s not so bad.

Definitely not so bad, judging by Paul’s reaction and the lines of smileys he fires through the chat.

Soon he might want to see more.

That thought gives me shivers, because soon I might want to show him more.

It doesn’t feel like such a problem or a risk, showing off for him through a webcam. Like there’s a barrier between us, a small one, but enough for me to feel safe and not so guilty. I mean, how much safer can sex get, just showing with no touching at all? I don’t have to worry about anything like outbreaks or protection or pregnancy. It’s just … fun.

I wonder what he looks like under his clothes.

With a grin, I lean forward and type, “Why don’t you take off
your
shirt?”

Paul sits up straight, then smiles and shakes his head. In one fluid motion, he pulls off his black hoodie.

And oh, my God, the muscles.

He really is cut, just like a gym model. Tats crisscross his arms and pecs, some I’ve seen before in his pictures and some I haven’t. I squint at the designs, trying to make them all out. If he could materialize in my bedroom, I’d trace them all, from his wrists down to his belly button. I like tattoos, especially artful, sexy ones like his.

Paul stands up and pulls off his jeans to show me thick, muscled legs sticking out of bright blue Scooby-Doo boxers.

I crack up.

He poses for the camera, curling his biceps like a bodybuilder at a photo shoot.

And I can’t help noticing he’s … a little excited.

Except, he doesn’t look little at all.

Adam-P was, uh, interesting in that department, but now I realize he really is just a boy. Paul’s definitely a grown man. Lots more interesting.

He sits back down and seems to realize what I’m staring at. I get another smile, along with a line of bulgy-eyed smileys.

“Did you like what you saw, Red?”

My face flushes, and my stomach jumps.

“Yeah,” I type back. “You’ve got a lot of … muscle.”

His eyes go wide and he laughs as he types, “You are so bad. You know that? But I like it. Don’t stop.”

“For tonight, we’re stopping.” I shake my finger at him on the webcam. “I’m worn out, and my mom will be home like, any second. Plus, Lauren will probably be up to get some leotards soon.”

Though come to think of it, she hasn’t been doing that as much lately. When she isn’t on the computer, she’s out in the garage, singing—or in my bed after a nightmare, kicking me stupid.

Paul is typing.

“We’ll do more soon, right?” he writes. “I mean, it’s safe and everything.”

“Safe in one way,” I answer. “Sure. But I don’t want to go too fast.”

On the camera, Paul shrugs and nods. “You’re the boss,” he types. “And you’re sexy as hell in that sports bra. I’d settle for that and some tight shorts….”

“You don’t give up, do you?” “Never.”

I give him another long, slow stretch, letting my sports bra ride up just a little on one side, to tease him. I even cup my breasts, to show him the real shape.

“You’re beautiful,” he types in giant letters. “I want to see more. Now. You’re teasing me to death.”

I keep up my show and let him see a little more of my breast. “Don’t you wish I’d show you what’s underneath
this cloth?” I ask out loud, knowing he’ll figure out what I mean. “But you’ve got to earn that.”

Paul virtually jumps backward, and his camera window winks out. A message flashes, telling me he’s left chat just about the time I hear my bedroom door bounce against the door jamb.

I forgot to turn the lock!

Paul must have seen the door opening through the webcam.

There’s no time to flip up the screen concealer, and no way of hiding that I’ve been in chat. Worse yet, the streaming image of me is still active, even if Paul’s gone. There I float in space on my computer, holding my breasts through the sports bra, looking like everybody’s favorite hooker.

Let it be Lauren at the door.

The silence behind me feels like knives in my back.

Let it be Dad.

I slowly lower my hands to my sides and get ready to turn around.

When I do, I find Mom standing ice-statue still, arms folded, eyes wide, face completely pale. “Might I ask what
the hell
you were doing?” she says in a deadly quiet voice.

Sweat pops out on my face and neck and chest, where I feel the heat of Mom’s gaze.

“I expect an answer, Chandra. Now.”

My eyes close all on their own. “I was stretching,” I say, hoping she still doesn’t understand the streaming video. “Exercising. With support. You know, like at Weight Watchers or something, only this is online.”

“With whom were you …
stretching
?”

Mom walks farther into my room, closer to the bed, closer to seeing what I don’t want her to see. And if she sees the chat room name, she’ll track it, and find Paul, and his age, and everything. He’ll be dead. I’ll be dead.

“A friend.” Lame.

“One I’ve researched and approved?”

“No.” I sigh. “This is a new friend.”

“
Devin
is a friend, Chandra. A real, live person that you know, in real places and real times. People online aren’t friends. They’re gambles at best—risks. Dangers.”

Fire catches in my chest. “I’m not that stupid, you know. I’m capable of talking to people and judging them for myself.”

“You’re sixteen years old,” Mom says in that I-know-all-and-you-know-nothing tone I really hate. She moves closer behind me, and I know she’s trying to see what’s on the laptop. With each passing second, I’m getting madder. More mad than scared, even.

“What were you doing with that boy I saw on your screen? Tell me the truth, Chandra. He could
see
you—you could see him!” She starts toward the laptop. “There’s some kind of video camera built into that machine.”

I whirl toward the bed, grab my computer, and slam the top shut.

“Chan!” Mom reaches past me, snatches the laptop off the bed, and yanks the top back open. “I do not believe you just did that.”

Relief washes through me when I see the black screen with the
Hibernating
logo. The programs I’ve downloaded to erase my Internet “tracks” are already at work, scrubbing away my history. Erasing Mom’s access to Paul.

Tears push into my eyes. Almost out. Almost real teardrops.

Paul’s safe. He’s still mine and nobody else’s, and Mom can’t touch him. She drops the computer back on the bed and glares at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Something like rage, but also disgust. And a little bit something else.

Fear, maybe?

Her eyes sweep over me, top to bottom, and disgust wins. Her upper lip curls, and all of a sudden, she looks like Ellis and the senior majorettes and every kid in school who calls me
skank
every time I turn a corner.

My eyes dry up before any tears fall, and so does my throat. My fists clench. I want to hit her. I actually want to hit my own mother.

It doesn’t even freak me out.

“Put on your shirt,” she says, ice-cold and whispery.

I can’t move, because if I move, I’ll hit her, so I don’t twitch, not even a little twitch, or I’ll do it, I swear.

Mom glances around, finds my shirt, snatches it off the floor, and throws it at me. It hits me across the chest and rests on my shoulder.

“Put it on!” Mom yells. Her fists clench just like mine.

I grab the shirt off my shoulder, jam my hands into
the sleeves, and jerk it down to cover my bra and belly. “There. Happy?”

“Who was he?” Mom points to the computer. “That boy. I want his name.”

“Merwood Spitball.” I’m yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “We don’t use real names on the Net, remember?” I want her out of my room. I still want to hit her. And go take a shower, because of how she’s looking at me.

“Damn it, Chan—who?” The questions land like punches. “How old? How long?”

This time, I don’t say anything. I fold my arms and hug myself as tightly as I can. No hitting. If I stand like this, I can’t move my hands.

She points at me. “How did you meet him? And that camera—why would you do something so stupid?”

“I’m sixteen! Don’t I have a right to
some
life of my own? A little privacy? A teeny bit of respect for my intelligence?”

Mom’s sarcastic laugh slices right through me. “Intelligence. I guess showing your boobs to some boy on the Internet constitutes smart behavior now?”

“That’s my business, not yours!” I hug myself tighter, and feel myself flushing red all over. My face burns. Even my eyes burn. She’s still giving me that you’re-so-filthy stare, and I hate her for it. “That
boy
makes me happy. That
boy
doesn’t look at me like you’re looking at me. I’m not ratting him out to anybody—especially you!”

Mom draws her hand back like she’s going to slap me.

My head snaps away and I cover my face and shout, even though she didn’t do it. More heat pours through me, and my brain starts to burn.

“Get out of my room!” I yell as loud as I can. “I hate you! Get out, get out!”

Mom lowers her hand.

Her expression finally changes. She doesn’t look disgusted anymore. Just blank, then almost surprised. She picks up the laptop and walks toward my door.

I gasp for air and keep yelling. “Get out! Stay out!”

She has my computer. She’s taking it. Taking Paul away.

“You’re grounded,” Mom says with her back to me. “Indefinitely. School and practice only. No unsupervised computer time, no phone calls, no visits from Devin, except to finish the paper. This computer, I’m taking it to my tech friends at work. They’ll track this boy and find him, and then we’ll talk.”

She says other stuff, too, but I barely hear it. I can’t stop staring at the laptop and hating her long enough to pay attention.

Disappointed beyond belief …

Ashamed …

Scared for you …

I thought you were so much more mature than this, Chandra. I thought …

When your father hears about this …

Her voice melts into a total drone, and then she’s gone. Just gone. With my computer. I stand there shaking, and staring out my open bedroom door, and hating Mom worse than I’ve ever hated anything.

Lauren drifts into view, standing just outside. She’s wearing a baggy shirt and a dirty pair of warm-up pants, and her hair’s ratty like she hasn’t combed it all day.

I glare at her, waiting for her to laugh at me or tease me or freak out and start crying so I have to stop feeling anything and just go take care of her, but she just looks all messed up and tired and sad. After a minute, she slips into my room, puts her arms around me, and presses her face into my belly.

Surprised, I put my hands on her shoulders and hug her back.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispers. “It has to be okay, right?”

When she pulls back and looks at me, I wonder if she’s been crying. Probably upset from all the yelling.

“It’ll be okay,” I mutter, because I don’t know what else to say.

Lauren nods. She lets me go and leaves my room, closing the door softly behind her.

“I so do not believe I’m helping you do this.” Devin’s got her back to me. Her arms are folded so tight over her black sweater that I can see her fingers digging into the cloth under her arms. Even without seeing her face, I know she’s frowning. Her black skirt sways as her foot taps against the tiled lab floor.

“Hey, who took care of delivering the break-up note to Tevo?” I bend over the technology lab keyboard and type as fast as I can. “He
cried
, Devin.”

She does that air-hissing-through-the-teeth thing. “Fine. Okay. We’re gonna be late for marching.”

“Just another minute.”

“Doofus will catch us any second, Chan.”

Dr. Dorfas leaves early on Wednesday. It’s just his lab assistant, and she takes three smoke breaks before she comes back to tutor and close down.

We know about Doofus and the lab assistant because last year, we did some serious recon and pulled about
fifteen computer raids for Devin, so she could e-mail her boyfriend while she was grounded over staying out past curfew. Only, her boyfriend lived a few blocks from my house, not in some other state. And he was only seventeen years old.