XGeneration 1: You Don't Know Me (7 page)

Around Scott, the flow of students tapered to trickles. He craned his neck, hoping to spot Craig or Chun, even Wayne. But whatever plans they had made for lunch hadn’t found Scott’s ears—by design, of course.

Things had gone badly that morning in their computer programming class. When Scott had attempted to sit beside him, Wayne threw his backpack over the seat and refused to look up. “Reserved,” was all he would say. And when Scott proceeded to try and warn him about the phone tap, Wayne closed his smudged-in eyes, plugged both ears and began humming the tune to
Dr. Who
. Scott ended up spending the period on the far side of the room, drafting his warning on a piece of paper and then passing it to him. But no dice there, either. Wayne’s mustache had curled into a snarl and, with one hand, he crumpled the paper into a wad. Then, on his way out of the classroom, Craig and Chun following like obedient lap dogs, he’d spiked it into the trashcan.

Now, with the last cries of the lunch rush tailing off, Scott gave up his search for his friends and watched his gray Velcro tennis shoes scuff over the concrete. He followed an outdoor hallway that ran perpendicular to the school’s four wings and led to the auditorium. Above the metal doors, a banner with purple lettering read: WELCOME TINY TITANS – CLASS OF ’88!

Scott’s mind crunched the numbers.
Four school years. One hundred forty-four weeks. Seven hundred twenty days. Five thousand forty class periods.
He dropped his gaze from the banner, swallowing his despair.

Twin pay phones stood off to the right of the doors, and Scott scuffed toward them. Reaching back, he fished his hand into the smaller pocket of his backpack and, amid the loose change and odd Blue Chip Games token, found a quarter. He lifted the receiver on the rightmost phone and dropped the quarter into the slot. He dialed a random 376- number, listened until the line began to ring, and hung up. The phone coughed his quarter into the change receptacle. Scott started over, this time with another random 376- number. He did this twice more.

Finally, he dialed his own number, another 376- number. Scott listened and replaced the receiver promptly.

Damn.

All of the numbers he had just called were located on the same exchange. And as he’d expected—and as
should
have been the case—all of the delays before the start of the ring lasted roughly the same. Except for the delay on his own home number. Just like last night, the difference could have been measured in milliseconds, but it was there, just long enough for him to notice.

Someone was still listening.

You need Wayne.

Scott hesitated before nodding to himself. Wayne had hacked Bell South’s switching control system before. Using a clean line—Craig’s or Chun’s, maybe—Wayne could do it again. He could discover when the order for the tap had been placed and by whom exactly. Only one teensy little problem. The last time Wayne had accused Scott of holding back info, he’d gone a month without speaking to him.

“Must be wanting to talk to someone pretty bad, calling so many times.”

Scott’s fingers jerked, and the quarter he had been drawing from the change receptacle spilled to the ground. It wasn’t just the suddenness of the voice, but the sense that the person had been behind him the whole time. Scott peeked around. Hands the color of dusty teakwood drew up a pair of blue pant legs. The man had been pushing a cart with a metal trashcan. Several garbage bags hung like drapes from the mouth of the can while a broom and a long pick for stabbing stray trash leaned against it. The man reached for the quarter, which was rolling in dying circles near his paint-spattered work shoes.

Breathe, Scott. Just a custodian.

With a chuckle like dry wind, the custodian captured the quarter between his thumb and third finger. His upper back remained slightly hunched when he straightened. A flat-topped straw hat shaded his black-weathered face, where a row of teeth shone white and straight. Dentures, probably. The man held the quarter out, the tails side showing. And now Scott recognized him.

“Mr. Shine?”

Mr. Shine was their yardman—the yardman for several families in Oakwood, in fact. Scott was so used to seeing him in cuffed brown trousers and suspenders that his mind was still trying to reconcile that image with the coveralls. But the rich brown gaze was unmistakable, the gaze of someone from another era, an era of sun-bleached dirt roads and wooden porches.
Old Florida
. That’s how Mr. Shine struck him.

Mr. Shine smiled as Scott reached for the quarter. “Better hol’ to her tight, or next time I’m liable to keep her.” His eyes squinted when he chuckled. “Course, maybe I already kept her.”

Mr. Shine snapped the fingers holding the quarter—a fast, dry sound—and Scott watched the quarter disappear. Mr. Shine showed his large, calloused palm, then the knotted darkness of the back of his hand, also empty.

“How did you—?”

When Mr. Shine snapped his fingers again, the quarter reappeared right where it had been, except now with the heads-side showing. A laugh of disbelief escaped Scott’s throat. He pressed his glasses to his face and stooped toward the coin, still trying to figure out what Mr. Shine had done.

“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna make her jump again.”

Mr. Shine handed the quarter to Scott, who took it between his own thumb and third finger. Scott began to execute a slow snap, watching the quarter rise between his first and middle fingers.

“Now
you
don’t go makin’ her jump.” He nodded past Scott. “You need her lots worse than me, seems.”

Heat scaled Scott’s cheeks. “Oh, I was just, um”—he turned his face toward the pay phones and then back to Mr. Shine—“just trying to call home.”

“You forget the number?” Light twinkled from his eyes.

Before Scott could come up with another half-truth, Mr. Shine leaned into the cart, setting the wheels into wobbling motion. “You have you’self a fine day, sir,” he called over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Mr. Shine. You too.”

“Oh, and ’round here they call me Geech. Ain’t my name, but just so’s you know.”

Scott looked from Mr. Shine’s limping, receding figure down to the quarter. He turned it from heads to tails and back. All the years Mr. Shine had worked in their yard and that marked the first time they had really talked. Scott considered this as he pocketed the quarter and wandered off in search of lunch.

* * *

Janis reached fifth period typing between the warning bell and final bell, out of breath and with the first stabs of a stomach cramp. Eating off campus was liberating, sure, but she’d never had to sprint to get to her next class at Creekside Middle School.

The desks sat in pairs, and the sight of twenty-odd sets of eyes peering over the enormous Smith Coronas unnerved Janis. She scanned the room for a place to park herself, thankful her hair had darkened a shade over the last years. She still harbored adrenaline-spiked memories of other kids, boys especially, taunting her on the first day of elementary school each year, calling her Strawberry Shortcake. Not that she hadn’t eventually straightened them out with her fists. Her temper had once been as storied as her bright hair.

Now, a pair of sniggers made the nape of her neck bristle. Her gaze darted toward the source, a boy with a pug nose and shades parked on the top of his head of tight, blond curls. But his sniggers weren’t meant for her. He was leaning toward the punk-rock girl seated in front of him, poised to set a wad of gum atop one of her blade-like spikes of black hair.

“Hey!” Janis called.

The guy jerked his arm back. The girl, who had been oblivious, turned from the window, one knee hugged to her chest. Janis looked on her gaunt, pale face painted with black lipstick and funeral-dark eye shadow. It was a face Janis had seen once that day already, though she couldn’t remember where. She approached the empty desk beside her.

“Seat taken?” Janis asked.

The girl shrugged a shoulder. “Knock yourself out.”

Janis thanked her and shot a warning look at Blondie, who had popped the gum back into his mouth and dropped his shades. Janis stowed her books under the desk and glanced around. When the final bell rang, the teacher’s desk remained empty.

Janis cleared her throat. “I’m Janis.”

The girl lifted her dark, hooded gaze. “Star,” she said.

And then Janis remembered. “Right, you’re in my American history class. Second period.”

That would be
Advanced Placement
American history, Janis. And here you’d figured her for a burnout.

Star tensed her lips and eyes into something like a smile, then looked away. Janis’s gaze fell to the black Chuck Taylor perched on Star’s chair. Messages and little pictures covered the high top’s graying rubber.
Question Everything!
the toe commanded. It seemed her typing neighbor was into skulls and ravens as well.

“Used to be called Americanism versus communism,” Star said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Our history class.”

Star dropped her foot from the chair and smoothed her ruffled skirt. Beneath the black skirt, she wore black tights. A green-checked flannel shirt hung from her rail-thin torso. Janis wondered what her own father would do if she ever tried to leave the house like that. And it went beyond the clothes and makeup. Janis, who had been allowed her first piercing only last year, counted eight black studs around Star’s right ear.

“Florida legislature passed a law back in the sixties forcing the high schools to teach anti-communism. They were afraid we’d reject American consumerism if they didn’t. Isn’t that something? Using the same kind of indoctrinating as the Soviet Union—the
evil empire—
to cheer our system and crap all over theirs.” She snorted and began nipping at a black-painted pinky nail.

Janis frowned and tried her best to appear thoughtful.

“They only repealed the law last year,” Star went on. “Said it was outdated, and they’re probably right. We’ve got MTV now. And ‘Where’s the beef?’”

Janis nodded, thankful she’d tossed her Wendy’s cup on her way in from the senior parking lot.

“Do you watch MTV?”

“Um, I’ve
watched
it,” Janis said, “but I wouldn’t say I watch it.”

“Cable’s first nonstop commercial. The new opiate for the masses. And it’s not just music they’re pushing. Take a look around. It’s clothing, accessories. Telling you what to eat, what to smell like, how to act. How to
think
.” She snorted again. “Everyone wants their MTV. Can’t get enough of it.”

Janis was beginning to regret her decision to open her mouth.

Star narrowed her eyes. “Do you carry plastic?”

“Huh?”

“A credit card.”

“Oh, no.”

“I’m surprised, they’re everywhere. You can get one, she can get one, he can get one.
I
could probably even get one, and look at me.” She gave a wry smile and went back to work on her hangnail.

“Yeah,” Janis said lamely.

“They’ve swapped cash for debt. Not enough savings to buy those six Swatches you’ve been told you have to have? A little low on Giorgio Beverly Hills? Never fear. Credit is here.” She opened and closed her hands like flashes. “Oh, and that’ll be twenty percent plus principal.”

Margaret had a credit card that she used responsibly and paid off every month, but Janis doubted this would impress Star.

“And you want to know the best part? Every transaction is recorded, right down to your last box of Tampaxes.”

O-o-okay.

“Wanna know why?”

No, actually.

“They’re building a profile of you: what you buy, what brand, how much, when you buy it. Before long, they’ll know you better than you know yourself. And then—boom—they own you. Manipulating desires that are no longer yours in order to fleece money you never had to begin with. And guess who’s on the hook?” She aimed her finger at Janis, then herself. “And here we are, just bopping our heads along to the music.”

Janis glanced around at the other desks she might have taken.

“And everyone thought Big Brother was going to be government. Turns out it’s big business.”

“Seems a tad dramatic,” Janis said, channeling her father’s pragmatism.

Black flames seemed to burst behind Star’s eyes, burning away any lingering impressions of despondency. “Oh, really?” Her gaze searched all over Janis before latching onto her pants. “Guess jeans. What did those cost you? Better yet,
why
did you buy them?”

Heads turned at Star’s raised voice, and Janis fought to not bring her hair around to her nose, wishing she hadn’t said anything. She wished, too, she hadn’t let Margaret dress her that morning.

“My older sister,” she answered honestly.

Star’s black-rimmed stare remained large and frightening. Janis tried to think of something better to say but couldn’t. After several seconds, the black flames relented. Star’s makeup grew dark around her eyes again. She gave a tired smile and looked down.

Just as their typing teacher arrived, a short woman with a round, pleasant face, Star mumbled, “Yeah, I had one of those once.”

* * *

Scott balanced the paper plates of pizza on hand and wrist, and found a seat inside the sprawling root system of an oak tree. The day had warmed to ninety degrees, easy, the air above the food trucks shimmering with heat. He scooted back until he was against the tree and beneath its shade. With the breeze, it was almost pleasant. He cracked his grape soda, slurped the foam, and set the can atop a flat knot on the root to his right. Long banners of Spanish moss swayed overhead.

This isn’t so bad.

At Creekside Middle School, lunch had to be taken inside their sour-smelling cafeteria every day, no exceptions. That’s where Scott fell victim to the most humiliating “pranks.”

Ha ha! Look, everyone! The dork’s dropped his tray again!

Scott took a large, cheesy bite of pizza and glanced down at his lap. This shirt was clean, but the stains that had never come off his others told the story: faded squiggles of spaghetti sauce, spots of broccoli juice—the sloppy joe stains were especially gory, making it look like he had given gastric birth to an alien fetus. The steak and gravy only left mud-like impressions. And that’s what he had told his mother on that occasion, that he’d fallen in mud, because he didn’t dare tell her he was being bullied. He’d already learned that lesson.