Olivia Twisted (Entangled Teen) (4 page)

“Wait,” I call to Sam as she starts up the steps to the house. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I hold out my hand expectantly.

She grins. “Not until you admit it,” she says, her voice teasing.

“Just give it to me.”

“Nope.”

“Sam…”

She reaches into her jacket pocket to remove the flash drive that contains Liv’s school file. She flips it around her fingers as she walks toward me. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That I found her.” Sam’s close to me now, waving the bright-green stick in front of my face.

I don’t change my bored expression. “Fine. You found her.” I reach up to grab the flash drive but she yanks it away.

“Admit that I’m better than you, and I didn’t even have to rely on my sex appeal to get her.”

Sex appeal? I grab her wrist and yank her close. Her eyes widen—does she think I’m going to kiss her? The thought almost makes me laugh. Talk about crossing the line. Sam and I don’t work that way. Instead, I use my other hand to tickle her, making her squeal and jerk away from me. I grab the flash drive from her hand.

“I don’t think so,” I tell her, smirking.

She turns to go into the house in a huff. I pull the laptop out of my backpack and prop it on my leg, inserting the drive. I browse through the data, copying select information into my files. Current and past foster parents, date and place of birth, test scores. Everything that will give me background on this chick and anyone she’s connected to. It’s not hard to find talented kids; the complicated part is making sure there are no attachments that could interfere down the line. At least, as in my case, not on record.

Glancing through her file, I notice she’s bounced around to a lot of different foster homes. Sometimes only six months or less between. Probably not very good ones, either, considering there are a couple of psychological evaluations noted. I remember the foster system very well. I hated it, and I have to admit that part of me hopes this works out just so she doesn’t have to do it anymore.

Her picture from her last school is in the next folder. She’s giving the forced “say cheese” smile for the yearbook. Her hair is as long as it is now, pulled over one shoulder. The corners of her eyes are creased, like she’s actually happy. Surprising, considering the conflicting evidence in the file. My eyes are drawn to the gold heart-shaped locket she always wears. Like Sam, I’m curious about whose pictures she’s hiding inside.

I can hear the engine spitting before the old blue pickup pulls into view. Jen’s the only one who hasn’t been able to upgrade her transportation yet, so she’s stuck driving a dump that I could beat home by walking. I close the laptop and slip it into my backpack.

Jen slides out of the truck and doesn’t notice me until she passes my bike. My arms are crossed, and my expression is as serious as I can make it. Her eyes harden when she sees me.

“What?” she asks, her voice steady despite her clenching and unclenching hands.

“You know what. Do you know what it means when Bill shows up in person to ask me about someone who can’t even do her
job
?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t think it was
that
bad.”

“Not that bad?” I grit my teeth. “You’re risking everyone here, Jen. You’re screwing up and I’m the one who has to take shit for it.”

Her face lights up, and I realize that I just said the wrong thing. She steps toward me now, a glint in her eyes. “You don’t like me messing everything up? You’re the one who left me on my own from the very beginning. Like I’m supposed to know how to do everything.” She waves her arm around. “Maybe you should’ve stayed with me, at least until you showed me what the hell I was getting into. Maybe you still should.” Her eyes soften slightly.

No. Way.
She knew exactly what she was getting into. Oh, yeah, she’s good at trying to make me feel guilty, but getting back together with this girl would be like stabbing myself in the eye with a fork. I can live with the guilt.

“You know that’s never going to happen,” I tell her.

“Then I guess you should free up time for more social calls from Bill.” She swivels around to march toward the house, her hair whipping across her shoulder.

“Well, remember this,” I say in a voice just loud enough to reach her ears. “Bill might blame me now, but do you think he’ll let
you
get away with this? I’m valuable to him. You aren’t. Keep that in mind.”

Instead of going inside, I start up the bike to ride away, but not before I notice that Jen’s smug expression has been replaced with a look of dismay.

Chapter Four

“Surprises, like misfortunes, seldom come alone.”

—Charles Dickens,
Oliver Twist

Liv

In the two weeks that I’ve been at this school, Z has said maybe five sentences to me.

And I’m okay with that. He intimidates the hell out of me, he’s so damn smart. He makes the exercises in Computer Science look like first-grade work. Every time I finish one, way ahead of the rest of the class, I peek over my shoulder to see him with his arms crossed and eyes shut, as if he’s done and now bored. I set a personal goal to finish before him on at least one thing, but I haven’t done it yet.

Sam, on the other hand, never stops talking. She’s funny and makes me laugh, but sometimes I feel exhausted after being around her at lunch. She seems to especially enjoy barraging me with questions about my past. I quickly realized that making up a whole lot of stuff was easier than telling her truths I’m not ready to share with anyone. Z doesn’t seem to buy it. He occasionally glances at me with a raised eyebrow, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he’ll ever say anything.

I half listen to Ms. Walsh talk about Unix and Linux systems, stuff I already know. Sam is playing an online game, engrossed in a battle with weird-looking creatures. I tap a finger on the mouse, staring at the Explorer icon in the corner of my screen. Screw it. I click on the “e.” The school’s got to have information on Z, and it’s too tempting to pass up. I use the secretary’s password again, which works. I don’t know anything about Z except that stupid initial. I put the initial Z in the field for first name and several pop up. I find the one that lists Z Z—
that’s got to be a typo
—and open the file. There is an address and the name Nancy under contacts, but nothing else.

Pay attention.

I stare at the box that popped up on my computer, then quickly close out of the admin site, my throat going dry.
Crap.
I sit up straighter and glance over the monitor at Ms. Walsh. She’s still going on with her lecture, not looking at me. Maybe she just has warnings scheduled to go off here and there on random computers to make sure we’re listening. I wouldn’t have expected something like that from her—she seems so disorganized.

The pop-up box appears again.
If you wanted to know something, you could’ve asked.

If I… What? I look at Sam, who’s engrossed in her game, then slowly peek over my shoulder at Z. His eyes flicker up once to meet mine, a tiny smile tugging the corners of his lips. Trying to look completely unaffected and doubting that I’m succeeding, I turn back to my computer, clicking on the “OK” button. Of course, no conversation box opens. That’d be too easy. I have a funny feeling he wouldn’t tell me anything anyway.

Sam should attack.

I stare at the message on my monitor. Sam should attack? Sam’s intent on her battle, looking like she’s about to attack a goblin. Her elven character is brandishing its sword right and left as she gets closer to the creature. I notice what looks like a statue of an archer in the corner that moves slightly as she advances.

Okay, fine, hotshot.

I lean over to Sam, obstructing Z’s view, and point to the archer statue. “He’s going to kill you if you attack,” I whisper.

She raises her eyebrows. Her character starts to walk toward the goblin, then turns and throws the sword at the archer statue. It collapses, and I can hear Z groan as his character dies. Sam turns to simultaneously give him the finger and me a quiet high five. I snort in laughter, but sober up when Ms. Walsh looks in our general direction. She goes back to her lecture like nothing happened.

Another pop-up box:
The statue was a weak link. So thanks.

I click “OK” and glance over my shoulder to see a grin on his face. Typical guy to make it look like his idea.

The bell rings and Sam logs out of the game. Z walks by without stopping to say anything to me. His aloofness leaves me standing next to Sam, surprised and a little annoyed. He could’ve at least said hello.

“Hey Sam, does Z ever say anything out loud? I mean, other than ‘yeah’ or ‘no’?”

“Sure. Well, not much, I guess, until you get to know him or if he wants to talk to you. He’s a loner, really. Has been since I’ve known him.”

“So he doesn’t date?” Now why did I ask that?

She smiles knowingly at me as I grab my backpack and follow her out of the room. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But it’s what I’d call ‘dating with a purpose.’”

“What do you mean?”

She doesn’t respond, but that he dates at all surprises me if he’s such a loner. Which makes me wonder…

“Have you ever been out with him?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not really into the strong, silent type.”

“So what’s his story?”

“He doesn’t have one. Not that he tells anyone, at least. In fact, I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can pry any personal information out of him at all.”

A snicker escapes me. “Do you even have a hundred bucks?”

“Not on me, but I can get it.”

She says it so casually, confidently, that I know she’s telling the truth. Yesterday when I asked her again if she had checked about a computer programming job for me, she was pretty vague, simply saying they were looking into it. She won’t tell me anything except that she figures out system weaknesses. Which to me translates into,
I’m a hacker for hire.
Something I’ve heard companies do to discover and fix their system issues. I could do it, too, if she’d just introduce me.

I switch subjects. “I thought you knew everything about everyone. You sure knew a lot about me on my first day.”

She grimaces. “I can find out anything about anyone except him. He legally changed his first and last names to Z. He’s got no known aliases, no past. All I really know about him is his current residence at Monroe Street and that he’s a genius when it comes to…”

“What?”

“The social side of the net, I guess you could say.”

Great, a social media junkie. Though he doesn’t strike me as that type of guy. And his name… “So let me get this straight. His name really is Z…Z? Isn’t that, like, snoring or something?”

She bursts into laughter at that. I laugh along with her, but now I’m even more curious. Who refers to a seventeen-year-old as someone with “no known aliases”? He dresses like a normal, smart kid—glasses, Polo shirt—but his demeanor is too confident, even arrogant. The word
asshole
occasionally comes to mind, until he smiles. Then my clueless heart skips a beat.

Like I said, he intimidates the crap out of me.

“Hey, check it out,” Sam says, grabbing a purple flier taped to the wall. I read over her shoulder:

RAVE Friday night

7pm- midnight

It all goes off tonight

“What does that mean, ‘it all goes off tonight’?”

Sam laughs. “It means it’s going to be a kick-ass party. Wanna go?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You don’t work on Fridays, and it’s just a dance. Not some crack house meeting.”

“I know, but…”

“That’s why it’s posted in the school, dork.” She tries to smack me with the paper. “Come on, you need a little fun.”

I snatch the flier away. “I don’t know…maybe.” I don’t want to tell her I can’t dance, don’t drink, don’t party, etcetera, etcetera. God, I’m so lame.

“Okay, you’re in. I’ll call you tonight to get your address.” She slaps my shoulder and heads off to her afternoon class.

I open the crumpled purple paper to read it again. It doesn’t say teens only or anything. But part of me does want to go. Beats going to bed after dinner to avoid weirdness with the Carters, anyway.

Screw it.

Sam’s car is kick-ass. It’s a red Chevy Camaro, shiny and new-looking, though she tells me she got it used.

“Yeah, but how could you
afford
this?” I ask. Kids who live in group homes just don’t own cars like this, if they have one at all. “Did you have a huge trust fund or steal it or something? Or does that company pay you crazy money?”
Or are you doing something else you’re not telling me about?

Sam laughs but doesn’t comment. I’ve hardly made anything at Slice of Happy, so it’ll take me a good year or more to save up for a down payment on even the crappiest car. The thought makes me feel panicky, so I push it away

I run my hand across the butter-soft leather seat. “Do you take Z to school?”

“No. He drives himself.”

“Is his car as nice as this one?” I need to know
something
about him. Anything. Then maybe I can stop thinking about him.

She snorts. “Not even close.”

Her words make me breathe a little easier. Z must have an old car, which I hope means at least he’s not doing anything illegal.

“So how’d you get them to let you out of the cage tonight?” Sam asks.

I grip the seat as she swerves around other cars like they’re standing still. “I told Derrick we were going to a school function. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to let me, but then I smiled and told him thanks before he could think about it, and he said okay. Ugh, I had to give him the address ‘just in case.’ Like, what’s he going to do, drive by every ten minutes to make sure I’m not getting plastered?”

“And what did Mrs. Pole-Up-The-Ass say?”

“I didn’t ask in front of her. I’m not that stupid.”

“Awesome!”

Sam pulls up to a warehouse building and swings into the packed parking lot, nearly clipping another car. I sink down a bit when its owner glares our way.

We park and walk to the building to join the line for the club. The thumping beat from within reverberates like an earthquake throughout my body, making me feel slightly nauseated. A quick scan of the line reveals that most people are our age, which is a relief, though I notice they’re dressed far better than me in my jeans and long-sleeved black shirt. Z isn’t in the line, which shouldn’t surprise me, considering Sam told me this isn’t his thing. I’m kind of bummed about that, though. I’m curious to see if he’s as quiet outside of school.

We finally make it to the front and pay ten bucks to pass through the doors.

The club is dark and packed with people on and off the dance floor. Strobe lights swirl around in drunken circles. I slide past a girl wearing what looks like a glorified bikini, practically strapped to some guy drooling all over her. Another girl is dressed in a slinky black dress cut up to the thigh, her hands all over her partner. I quickly avert my eyes.

Once we move to the center, I’m the klutz to Sam’s cool moves, doing not much more than shuffling back and forth. Sam’s really getting into it and a few guys start to notice her, one I recognize from my English Lit class. He starts to dance with us but only watches Sam. She swings closer to him and puts her hands on his chest, swaying her hips back and forth. Another guy I don’t recognize moves in and when he grabs her waist, she swivels around and gyrates with him.

I try to step up my game, but it’s stifling with so many bodies pressed close together. Dancing really isn’t my thing. I squeeze through the sexually charged crowd toward the bar to get some water before I pass out. A whiff of stale cigarettes and sweat makes me gag. Someone’s hands grope me as I pass, and I practically climb over the people in my path to get off the floor.

When I get to the cramped bar space, I wave my hand at the bartender, but he’s already preoccupied with the dozen or so people who apparently all decided at the same time that they needed a drink.

“Hey there! I knew you’d come.” I cringe at the familiar voice. Tyson is holding a plastic cup of something dark. “Here, take this. You look like you could use it.”

“What is it?” I ask, frowning.

“Coke. As in Coca-Cola. That’s all, I promise.” He laughs when I shake my head. “They don’t serve alcohol when it’s teen night. You have to bring it in yourself.” He flips open his jacket to reveal a silver flask in his inside pocket. From the way he’s swaying, I’d say he’s already enjoyed whatever’s in there.

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He sets the soda down on the counter. The bartender looks like he’s nowhere near finishing his current orders, and he’s completely ignoring me. I weigh the burning of my throat against the risk of spending time with Tyson.

Crap.
Thirst wins. I pick up the glass and sniff it, then take a small sip. Plain Coke. I drink it, my throat clutching greedily at the liquid.

Tyson is saying something about how he really likes me. I roll my eyes away toward the dance floor. It’s even more crowded now, and I can barely see the top of Sam’s blond hair bobbing in the sea of people. I don’t recognize many of the kids or even the couple adults, maybe chaperones? There’s a guy from my history class, a girl from English Lit, and a guy who looks like my foster father from behind. I scan the perimeter and see someone sniffing something off a table. I laugh inwardly, imagining what Mr. and Mrs. Carter would say if they knew what was going on here. It’s strange that this place is marketed to teens.

“So what do you think?” Tyson asks.

I have no idea what he’s asking about, so I give him the universal excuse for
go away.
“Sorry, I need to find the ladies’ room. Thanks for the drink.”

I try to step away but get a dizzying head rush. The room is even hotter than before, and I realize I need fresh air. Reaching out to grasp the edge of the bar, I take a few deep breaths to steady myself.

“You okay?” Tyson asks.

“I think so.” I rub my eyes to clear my blurring vision. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. Maybe some water?” Tyson orders water from the bartender while I fish out an ice cube from my nearly empty cup of soda. I flex my fingers to fight the weird tingling sensation in my hands.

“Hey,” a soft voice murmurs in my ear. I whip my head around, fighting against another rushing sensation in my head, and gape at the hot guy in a black leather jacket leaning on the bar next to me. His blond hair hangs long over his forehead, and the kaleidoscope of colors swirling through his eyes cut deep into mine. I lower my gaze, despising the genes that cause the heat to rise into my face so easily.