Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (2 page)

Mr. Carter invites me to watch TV with him in the living room, but I politely decline and head to my room instead. Putting on the “I’m happy to be here” act is tiring, and I just want to be alone.

As I’ve done since I was ten, I pull out the childish, crumpled handwritten list from my bag and lie on the bed to review my checklist for The Perfect Family. Since I’ve never been permanently placed, I use it for the foster homes.

Kind and caring parents.

Well, Mr. Carter seems okay, I guess. I think ice could actually freeze to Mrs. Carter’s ass.

No drinking. No drugs.

Whatever it was she poured into that glass wasn’t water. And I also doubt this is a onetime thing for her, from my experience with alcoholic foster parents.

No punishment.

Too soon to know, but I’ll be out of here fast if they so much as raise a hand against me. I’ve had enough of that in my life.

My own room.

Totally, check! No sharing space with bratty kids who put ants in my bed as a sick joke.

Love.

I stare at the word, wondering at what point in my life this one started mattering less. I no longer believe in love, no longer believe in the strength of a family that can get a person through the hard times.

I finger my mother’s locket—the only treasure I have from her and the only thing I own that means something to me. Yes, my mother loved me all the way up until the day they scraped her dead body, riddled with drugs, off the street. My last foster parents told me they loved me right up until the day they moved to Hawaii. They said it was too difficult to go through the adoption process, so I got left behind.

That’s what love is.

I scratch through the word with a pencil. No happy endings for me. I won’t be conned again. I might accept friendship or guidance.

Never love.

…

Z

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve hacked these accounts, the excitement when I break them burns through me as if my blood is on fire. The toughest give the biggest rush—the ones with so-called “uncrackable” codes or behind strong firewalls. This one wasn’t complicated, for sure—Micah had already cracked the administrative password on the security system—but the kick-ass feeling lingers as I log on to the account.

I lean back, lightly drumming my fingertips on the keyboard. In fact, this one was easy enough that it’s obvious to me that Jen screwed it up on purpose.

“Z?”

The door to the office opens and Nancy walks in, closing the door behind her. “What’s up?” I ask without looking up.

She sits down in the chair across from me. “I made you a plate. It’s in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

She sighs, drawing my eyes to her. With her hands clasped in front of her and red hair pulled back into a tight bun, she’s in full “mom” mode. Which means I’m probably not going to like this conversation.

“We missed you again,” she says. “What are you working on that you’d miss dinner two nights in a row?”

I wave a hand at the monitor. “Jen slipped up again.”

She peers at the screen, frowning. “I was afraid of that. Bill mentioned something today when I spoke with him.”

I grow cold at that. If Bill’s aware of it, I’m not catching her mistakes in time. I shove the keyboard away and lean back. “Yeah. Well, I thought I’d be able to fix it before he noticed.”

“He noticed. I told him you were on top of it.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s on his way here, though. He might want to talk with you.”

I stare at her. If he’s coming here because of this, I’m in deep shit.

Nancy smiles, though it’s strained. “Relax, you’ll be fine. But you need to talk to Jen. Tell her Bill’s not going to let her go just because she tries to screw things up.”

“I have. She doesn’t listen.”

Nancy considers that, her lips pursed. She picks up a stone paperweight and twirls it in her hand. “Maybe you should think about…”

“No,” I say firmly.

“I’m not suggesting you get back together, so calm down. Just…be nicer. She’s competent. She probably wants attention.”

“She can get that from someone else.”

Nancy sighs, putting the paperweight down and looking at me directly. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job. But you need to consider these girls’ feelings. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Did you have this same conversation with Jen about what she said, what she did to Maggie?” Nancy doesn’t respond. “I didn’t think so. Before you try to make me feel guilty, why don’t you go chat with her about acting like a jealous—”

“That’s enough. I know you’re angry, but Maggie made her own choices. She would’ve left regardless of the things Jen said to her. You can’t break up with these girls and expect them to get over it the next day. It doesn’t work like that.” Nancy stands to leave, turning back to me once to say, “Think about it, at least. As long as Jen’s angry, she risks everything. You’re the only one who can fix this.” She leaves, closing the door behind her.

I turn back to the screen, typing out B-I-T-C-H and translating it into binary. Maybe it’s childish, but I’m tempted to print it and stick it on Jen’s door. Not that she’ll get it.

It doesn’t make me feel less guilty, though. I know the main reason Maggie left, and it was because of me. Jen might’ve made it worse by rubbing our relationship in Maggie’s face, but I did nothing to stop it. That single fact will always haunt me.

My phone buzzes and I check it
.
A text from Sam with two words that make my stomach clench:
Bill’s here.

It takes all of one minute for him to find me. I stand as he enters the office, my fingers twitching nervously. He walks to the desk, the
thump
of his cane the only sound in the room. Bill Sykes used to be decent-looking, sophisticated even, but finding himself on the wrong side of a gun with a former partner and getting steel placed in his leg changed him.

Nancy insists he’s really kind “once you get to know him,” which is stupid because I’ve known him for years now and “kind” isn’t even in the same universe as a word to describe him. She says he started up this home because he hated the idea of kids on the street. I say he started it because he saw an easy and cheap way to make a shitload of money. Still, I’ve made a similar shitload, so I keep my mouth shut.

Bill sits across from me, smoothing out the seam of his pants and laying the cane across his legs. Only then do his icy blue eyes find mine, cutting into me even as he nods at me to sit. This is not going to be a pleasant visit.

“Z,” he acknowledges in the quiet voice that belies the snap of his eyes.

“Bill.” I try to keep my voice steady.

He’s twirling his cane in his lap, almost idly if I didn’t know better. “I thought you were going to talk to her.”

I cringe at the implication in his voice. “I did. But she doesn’t—”

“She’s sloppy. If I hadn’t stepped in, they would’ve been able to trace the source to this house. You of all people should know what’s at stake here.”

“I’ll talk to her again.”

“You need to do more than talk.” His voice rises only slightly but he may as well be shouting. “Do whatever it takes to get her to shape up or I’ll flush her. Do you understand?”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

A long pause, then, “This is two now, Z.” Each word is enunciated carefully, a dagger pricking at my skin. “The next one better shine.”

“I understand.”

He pulls a file from his jacket and hands it to me. “Your new target. This one has proven to be difficult.” He leans forward, his long fingers steepled together. “We’ve tried different access codes, insiders, everything, but nothing has gotten through. He’s got firewalls that make me think it’s Fort Knox he’s sitting on. This might be better suited to your expertise.”

My expertise. Social engineering. In spite of the situation, my skin starts to itch with the anticipation of a challenge—it’s been a long time since I had one that was uncrackable. I open the file and review the picture of an old man. Shouldn’t be too hard. Older people tend to be more sentimental in their passwords. Just a little research and I’m sure I’ll be able to find a way in. “No problem,” I tell Bill.

He nods and leaves me without another word. I sink back into the chair and toss the file onto my desk, grateful that he had a job for me to deflect some of his anger about Jen. For the moment, at least, I’m off the hook.

Jen. She’s a smart one, so I know it’s not a matter of incompetence. Better for Bill to think it’s something easily solved with a kiss rather than the fact that someone I brought on can’t handle the job. Better for me, for sure.

As for the next one…the thought of bringing on someone else just to fail makes me cringe. It’s not like we even need new recruits. Bill is testing me, expecting me to make up for my lack of judgment, which means I don’t really have a choice. But whoever it is better be good, or I’m toast.

Chapter Two

“Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts!”

—Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

Liv

The crowing of a rooster interrupts my sleep. I rub my eyes and blink in confusion, wondering how I ended up at a farm.

I hit the snooze button on top of the deceptively plain white alarm clock. Of course. Trust the Carters to find the one damn clock in the world that has a rooster crowing as its alarm. I flip the sound switch from “rooster” to “bell.”

I thumb through the few clothes I have in the closet and take out a navy top and jeans, the most normal outfit I can find. The worst first impression I could make would be to show I’m different.

The top button on the shirt is missing. My next attempt is a plain white tee that I’ve never worn, but it’s a little too snug. I grit my teeth and kick at the overstuffed laundry bag, wishing I’d had the chance to clean the clothes I usually wear, but Bernadette’s washing machine was on the fritz. I tug hard at the shirt to make it stand away from my chest, sighing as it returns to its clinging state.

Damn it.
I take back what I said earlier. The worst first impression I could make would be to look like I’m wearing the wrong size. Bernadette told me I have one of those bodies girls would kill for, which was her kind way of saying I have big boobs. She was going to take me shopping before Hawaii, but she ran out of time. I swallow hard, hating that I miss her and Marc now. Of all the houses I’ve lived in, theirs was the only one that started to feel like a real home. I yank the hem of my shirt down and push the thought of them away.

When I get to the dining room, Mr. Carter is already there, dressed in a business suit, bowl of cereal in front of him.

“Good morning, Olivia,” he says with a smile. “Want some cereal?”

“Okay.” I slide into the seat next to him and pour some of the corn flakes and milk into the second bowl.

“So, ready for your first day of school? Should be fun, right?”

I try to smile, but my idea of fun does not include switching schools a couple months before the end of the year. And as a bonus, I’m super shy, which makes it even harder to find friends.

I swallow a bite of cereal. “Mr. Carter, just so you know, I’d rather not tell anyone I’m a foster kid. Some people act like they feel sorry for me when they find out.”

“I understand.” He reaches over to me, but I jerk away. He raises an eyebrow. “Well, I want you to know that you can talk to me anytime, okay? Anytime at all.”

No thanks.
“Where is Mrs. Carter?”

He runs his tongue along his teeth and glances toward the hallway, where their bedroom door is closed. “Ah, she’s not feeling well today. Usually, she leaves for the office early, so I’m afraid you won’t have much help from her in the mornings. But I’ll be here to drive you to school every day before I go to work.”

“Oh. That’s okay, I’ll take the bus.”

Honestly, I hate the bus, but it’s better than having to rely on him for rides. What I need is a car.

His hand lifts as if to touch my shoulder, but then he seems to think better of it when I lean away slightly. He takes a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and hands it to me. “For lunch. Looking forward to hearing about your first day tonight at dinner.”

Ten bucks? I start to tell him that lunch doesn’t cost anywhere near that much, but he’s already walking out the kitchen door to the garage. I slide the bill into my pocket and grab my backpack. In a way, it’s good to have something to do today instead of being stuck at home with icy and probably hungover Mrs. Carter, but the idea of going to a new school makes me a little sick to my stomach. In the years I’ve been moving around, it’s never gotten easier.

At ten past, I’m standing at the bus stop with a couple other kids from the neighborhood. Rarely have I experienced a bus ride without at least one girl giving me the bitch-slap look for one reason or another. In this case, it’s a gum-smacking girl with a bright-pink streak highlighting her long brown hair. The spiky-haired guy standing next to her is holding a cigarette, sporting an eyebrow piercing, and grinning at me in a way that makes me cross my arms over my stupid, overdeveloped chest.

Her narrowed eyes move from me to him and back again. “What are you looking at?” she asks, then whispers something to the smoker. He shrugs, his eyes still trained on me. I glance in the opposite direction, hoping like hell the bus will get here soon.
I need a car. I need a car.
I resolve to look for a job as soon as the last bell rings today.

A few other kids join us and immediately start laughing and chatting with the smoker and his friend as the bus appears. It squeals to a stop and the doors fold open. The other kids climb up the steps, glancing at me but not acknowledging me otherwise.

“Hey, new girl. Sorry about Candy. She can be such a bitch,” the smoker says, grounding his cigarette into the sidewalk. He gestures grandly to the door and I step up.

It’s not shocking that Candy and her crew park themselves in the last rows. I walk down the aisle and find a seat precisely in the center. The bus jerks forward and my new neighborhood crawls by. From a higher vantage point, I can see that my first impression of the neighborhood was accurate. The houses
are
clones—all shaped like big boxes, with the same windows, same doors, same twiglike trees spaced evenly apart. It’s like living in a kid’s cardboard play set, complete with Matchbox cars parked on quiet streets.

The smoker plops into the space next to me. “This seat taken?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be sitting back there?” I look to the rear of the bus. Candy’s infuriated face tells me she believes he’s in the wrong seat, too.

“Hey, she does talk!” He claps his hands as if in delight, reminding me of a seal. A punk seal. “I was beginning to think you were mute.”

Is this guy for real?

“I’m Tyson. What’s your name?” He slings his worn backpack forward and hitches his knee up on the seat in front of us. The reek of smoke hovers around him like an invisible fog. I’ll be pissed if I smell like cigarettes later.

“Olivia.”

“Olivia? That’s a name for old people,” he says, laughing. I grimace and turn to the window. “Hey, kidding. Pretty cool name, Olivia. Do you go by Livy or what?”

“No.” My friends usually end up calling me Liv, but I’m guessing he won’t be on that short—make that now nonexistent—list.

“Tyson!” Candy calls from the back. “Get back here.”

He puts an arm around the seat. I twist my shoulders away, but he doesn’t get the hint.

“So…you’re seventeen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Cool. Sophomore? Or a baby junior?”

Baby? I don’t bother to answer. I hate the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something to eat. With my luck, I’ll end up in class with this jerk.

Of course, I’m right.

Having stopped by the office to pick up my schedule, I find myself standing in front of my first class—Computer Science—waiting for the teacher, Ms. Walsh, to acknowledge me and doing my best to avoid Tyson’s smug look.

Ms. Walsh finally turns to me and takes my schedule. “Okay, let’s see…Olive Westfield. Welcome, Olive.”

“It’s Olivia,” I say quietly, ignoring the snickers from the class. “That’s a typo.”

The name on my schedule says Olive Westfield. Seriously.
Olive.
The secretary refused to change the name in the system, claiming she has to follow the process for researching my records. She didn’t look in a hurry to do it.

She also didn’t notice that I watched her type her user name and password into the computer’s admin site.

“Oh, okay. Olivia.” Ms. Walsh smiles and hands it back to me. “That’s a nice old-fashioned name. Is it a family name?”

I try to smile as if I know why my mother gave it to me. She probably picked it off someone’s bottle of prescription meds. But I don’t say anything. Teachers usually don’t know about my situation. If they do, they sometimes act like I’m some sad abuse case in need of saving or a freak no one should trust. I don’t care. Well, at least not on days when my clothes fit me. I keep my arms crossed over my chest, uncomfortably aware of all the eyes staring at me.

“Well, Olivia, this is kind of a strange day to start, but hopefully you can just jump right in. We’re practicing for a competition that many of our students are participating in this weekend. You can take that seat over there.” She points to an open spot in the middle. Of course, it’s next to Tyson.
Crap, I knew it.
I slide through the middle row into the empty seat.

Tyson smiles and leans over to me, the stink of stale cigarettes heavy on his breath. “I get the hottest girl next to me. Cool.”

“And I get the biggest jerk,” I snap back. Maybe it’s a little harsh, but I can’t help it. The way he looks at me is just…gross.

I hear a snort and see the guy directly behind Tyson smirking. His eyes move toward me for an instant before sliding back to his monitor.

“Seriously, that’s awesome,” the girl on the other side of me says. “Hi! I’m Sam.” She has an easy, open smile and friendly eyes. Her cropped blond hair frames her smooth, perfect features—a model’s face.

“Olivia.”

“Tyson’s an asshole,” she says in a loud whisper for the obvious benefit of Tyson, who glares at her.

I like Sam already.

Ms. Walsh is now talking with another student who walked in, and everyone else is talking among themselves. I glance around. Tyson is chatting with the person on the other side of him, and Sam is texting. No one is paying attention to me. I open the school’s admin site and type the secretary’s log-in and password in the box, smiling when I get the welcome screen. My student records are easy to find, and I quickly adjust the spelling of my name—Olive to Olivia. So much for their stupid process. I take a pen from my backpack and write an “ia” over the “e” on my paper schedule.

Now at least I don’t have to go through the entire day being called Olive.

I can feel Sam’s eyes on me, so I quickly log out of the admin screen without looking at her.

“Okay, class.” Ms. Walsh claps her hands together. “Practice day! We’ll be splitting into pairs again. For those of you who are not competing this weekend, please let those who are have the first go. Then you can take your turn as part of Group Two.” She hands a girl in front a stack of papers. “Alyssa will hand out the assignment to the Group One participants for the first task. Remember, it’s not only about speed but accuracy, so focus. Those who are competing, this is very similar to what they’ll be giving you this weekend.” Ms. Walsh directs her gaze to me. “Olivia, you can pair up with Sam here.” She smiles.

I breathe out, relieved, ignoring Tyson’s exaggerated sigh of disappointment. I glance at Sam as she takes her paper. “Are you competing?”

“Hell no,” she says, snorting as if I suggested something offensive.

I stand up to move behind her at Ms. Walsh’s instruction to the class. We’re supposed to learn from each other. I glance at Sam’s paper—it’s an easy one. I could do it in my sleep.

After Ms. Walsh says “Go,” I watch as Sam draws a trapezoid using OpenGL code. I had assumed she wasn’t very good, but it’s just the opposite. She’s really fast, fingers tapping the keys perfectly, with no errors. She’s concentrating hard, but it seems pretty easy for her. I’m fascinated at her speed, and kind of shocked, considering her reaction to my question about whether or not she’s competing. She raises her hand before anyone else is finished.

Ms. Walsh checks Sam’s trapezoid then claps her hands together. “We have a winner! Congratulations, Sam.” She hands her a small package of hard candy. When Ms. Walsh turns away, Sam flings the candy toward me, her eyebrows raised as if to say,
I wasted my time for this?

The rest of the class finishes their trapezoid assignment, then we switch. Another student hands out the Group Two assignment, and I almost laugh out loud when I see it. Not that I would tell Sam, but I’ve done this one before.

Ms. Walsh tells us to start, and immediately I start entering an algorithm to determine possible outcomes of a tic-tac-toe game. A waste of time, since everyone knows the game can be played a million times without a winner, a fact I learned the hard way a long time ago, thanks to my horrible older foster brother, Frank. He told me I had to play him until I won. It didn’t take long before I realized there wouldn’t be a winner. He wouldn’t stop playing, though, and would threaten me if I tried to quit. It was my foster sister Dani who rescued me from going into another hour playing with that jerk. He just laughed and said he’d have a different game for me the next day.

The next game he tried to play…

Sam taps me on the shoulder, making me jump. Shoot, I’ve stopped typing. I shake off the memory I’ve tried so hard to block and refocus my attention on the assignment. Just another minute…

“Done!” a boy in the row behind me calls out. It’s the same one who snorted when I called Tyson a jerk, only now his look is smug. He’s the cliché of a smart guy, from his geeky square, black-rimmed glasses to the buttoned-up Ralph Lauren Polo. His eyes are on Sam, who’s tsking with hands on her hips. She’s smiling, though, so I’m guessing they’re friends.

“Yes, of course. Congratulations, Z,” Ms. Walsh says.
Z?
She hands him a bag of candy, which he immediately opens. He pops a piece into his mouth and raises an eyebrow at me. I turn to the front, my face burning, and quickly type the rest of the data to complete the assignment. Everyone else is still working.

Sam sits back in her chair as we wait for the others to finish. “You did great,” she says in a quiet voice. “Programming is easy for you, huh?”

“I guess. It was my favorite class at my last school. I thought I was pretty good, but now I’m not so sure.”

Sam glances back at Z and smiles. “Oh, yeah, he’s fast. Don’t feel bad, though. He beats everyone.”

“Is he competing this weekend?” I ask hopefully. Something tells me this guy thinks highly of himself and could be taken down a notch or two. Maybe it’s the name—
Z
. Who names their kid Z?