Breaking Point (12 page)

The password for Mom's computer wasn't hard. “Everyone uses pets' names,” I'd told Charlie. That was something I'd learned in chat rooms. I tried it. We'd had a cat, Verdi, in North Carolina.

I typed
VERDI
.

Access denied.

I tried my own name, first, then middle, then both. Then Mom's maiden name. Finally, I remembered a page from a photo album, a cat my parents had when I was too little even to remember. His name was Macoco, from some old movie.

Macoco
was the password.

I needed another password to enter the student-record databases. A school password. That took longer, running it through different combinations, thanking God or whoever for all the time I'd had on my hands those years, to learn everything computers could do. Finally, I found it. Wait 'til I told Charlie the password was
PiratePrde
. Maybe this wasn't a big deal.

S
TUDENT NAME:
the program prompted.

I hesitated, then typed,
CHARLES GOOD JR.
Enter.

Charlie's name, address, and reference number flashed on-screen. I exited the window, repeating the number, “1091, 1091, 1091.” I typed it in.

Charlie's entire record came up. Near-flawless academics. National Honor Society. Tennis team, captain, honor awards in English, math, social studies, P.E. Perfect attendance six years running. Citizenship award.

The D in biology stuck out among all those A's. I moved Mom's mouse onto it, hit delete, and typed another A, completing the monotonous pattern. Then, I remembered Charlie's caution. “Give me a B. Zaller'd remember an A.” I changed it again.

I felt less careful leaving. The deed done, it was simple. Why had I worried? I slammed doors, jumped to hit the red-lit
EXIT
sign so hard my hand hurt and the sound reverberated through the silent breezeways. I ran through the halls to the parking lot to commune with the moon. I'd done it. I'd cast aside everything Mom or Binky had ever thought about me. I wasn't a good kid, a good, boring kid. I wasn't some good sucker who'd live slow and die old. I was wild. I was like Dad—Dad who didn't care about, didn't love, anyone.

I scaled the gates this time and free-fell eight feet to the ground like stepping across a mud puddle. Charlie's lights were off. But even in the darkness, I saw him seeing me, seeing me whooping and leaping in the dew-drenched grass. He let me go on. Then, his motor sprang to life. He beckoned to me. I got in, and we roared into the night.

“You did it?” he asked, about a block away.

“You bet, baby!” My voice, my words, like someone else's.

“No one saw?” For once, Charlie looked scared.

“No one to see.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea.” Charlie's eyes never left the road, but his hands clenched white on the steering wheel. “Maybe we should—”

“Bad idea? Bullshit. You're not going chicken on me now, are you, Charlie?”

“No, it's just…” We were blocks away, and Charlie hit his lights. “We may have to do other stuff now, things to cover our tracks.”

But I was too euphoric to ask what things. I threw my head back and kicked my legs onto the dashboard. “Whatever it takes, man! Whatever it takes!”

Monday, at school, I waited. For
what
? I didn't know. But that day, I sat in chapel and in class, expecting to hear about the person who'd freaked out their computer system. And when someone from the office came to my class, third period, I figured he was coming for me. It was only a message from some guy's mother. That's when I realized: They weren't coming for me. I'd gotten away with it. Binky had been right. I
was
smarter than they were. It felt good. It felt really good.

Everyone seemed to know I was Charlie's friend now, and that changed everything. When I walked into history, a girl called my name. I recognized her as one of Charlie's group, Kirby, who had blond hair and looked cool even with glasses. A cheerleader. She gestured toward the seat beside her. I sat, cautious, in case she was screwing with me. But no. She leaned on my desk and started describing the concert they'd gone to over the weekend. “You should come with us next time,” she said. And later, when Mr. Roundtree had us choose lab partners in chemistry, I didn't have to wait around to see who was left. People wanted me.

I changed in those next weeks. I picked up things from Charlie's crowd. Like St. John's way of walking, thumbs hitched in pockets so his elbows stuck out. And Meat's talk, using words like
gel
and
jacked
, saying
later
instead of
goodbye
.

Now I had lunch at McDonald's with Charlie's group. For months, I'd been less than a peon, pushing a tray in the cafeteria. Now, I'd arrived.

I'd learned to call it Mickey D's as Charlie's friends did. The Monday after Charlie and I broke into school, we arrived at ten after, three carloads, including Amanda, Kirby, and Emily. We took St. John's Bronco, him eyeing Amanda pulling into the space beside us. I tried not to. St. John still liked her, which about killed my chances. Not that I had much chance anyway. Still, I held the swinging door while all three girls stepped through. Charlie, St. John, and Meat walked ahead of me to the counter.

“We'll sit outside,” Charlie announced when we'd gotten our trays.

“There's only one table left out there.” St. John gestured toward the play area. “And all those kids.” He pretended to shudder. I was busy getting ketchup. I pressed the dispenser top, and ketchup dribbled out, like blood from a paper cut.

“Well, I'm sitting outside.” Charlie turned. Meat and I followed him.

Outside was crawling with kids, like St. John said. And moms, arms dripping with babies and Happy Meal toys. Ball-pit balls sailed through the air. Kids screeched. One woman breast-fed, hunched over, trying and failing to cover her nipple with her kid's head. Meat gave her a long look until she turned away. The others glared at us. Still, I followed Charlie. When we reached the lone table, one of those round concrete ones I'd only seen in Miami, Charlie sat.

“Sit here, Einstein.” Charlie motioned to the seat beside him.

I took it, sliding Big Mac and fries off my tray to take up less room, trying not to grin.

“Now you.” With his hand, he beckoned to Amanda, whose auburn hair and plastic-encased salad both shimmered in the noonday sun. “Sit by Paul.”

Amanda obeyed, thigh brushing mine on the narrow bench. My hand jerked. Fries skittered across the table.
Be cool
. I stared into white-hot sun, not daring to look at St. John. After all, I was just following orders.

Charlie continued that way. Meat, he assigned the seat on Amanda's other side, then Kirby, Pierre, Emily, and Ryan, squeezing seven onto benches meant for four. When no one else would fit, Charlie smiled. “The rest will have to sit on the ground.”

The others shuffled a little but obliged. All but St. John. He glared at Charlie, eyes like cold marbles. Charlie looked back.

“Sorry,” Charlie said. “Hadn't realized you were still with us, buddy.”

“Maybe I'm not.” St. John walked to the overflowing garbage pail, shoved his lunch, tray and all, inside, then stalked from the restaurant. Seconds later, his motor roared.

Then, silence.

Charlie broke it. “Oops.” He smiled, like a kid who's spilled milk but knows he won't get in trouble. Everyone laughed.

Amanda tipped her head, eyes meeting mine, then Charlie's. “He can be so … you all can squeeze into my car.”

That's when I noticed it for the first time. Her retainer. It rested against her top teeth, challenging anyone to think she wasn't perfect. I couldn't speak. Charlie took over. “Great.” He blessed Amanda with a smile. “And Paul here will repay the favor. You said you were having trouble in computer-science class.”

Amanda's smile vanished. “Wilburn's just waiting to flunk my ass.” In her voice, even the word “ass” sounded pretty. “Now why'd you have to go mention that? You spoiled my lunch.”

Kirby interrupted. “You never eat, Amanda. Or you puke it out when you do.”

“That's a lie.” Amanda's green eyes were on me now, pleading. “Paul barely knows us, and now he'll think bad things about me.”

My face felt nuked. I wanted to say that was impossible. But I'd lost my ability to speak.

Charlie leaned across me to Amanda, like coconspirators. “The reason I mentioned it is, Paul here is a computer genius. He could help you out. Right, Paul?”

I tried my tongue. Nope, still not working.

“Would you?” Amanda asked.

“Sure,” I managed.

She was only agreeing with Charlie, I told myself. I glanced at him, and he smiled back, angelic. I watched Amanda's fingers, sunned and slender, tipped in white with one gold ring. It was a heart.

I opened my bedroom door. Mom stood, holding a sweatshirt. My sweatshirt. The black Carolina Panthers one I'd draped over her computer monitor Saturday night. I must have forgotten it there.
Oh, crap
.

“I found this.” She held it with accusing fingers. I didn't meet her eyes. She knew nothing, I reminded myself. The sweatshirt proved nothing. Besides, she wasn't so pristine, wasn't so pure. I'd only thought that because she locked me away from the world and kept me for herself. I made a mental note to tell Charlie about this later. Charlie would be proud I'd figured her out.

“Paul?”

I stared at her, at the sweatshirt until it all blurred together like a Rorschach inkblot. I closed my eyes. They were still there.

I opened my eyes. I said nothing.

“Please answer me.” She still held the sweatshirt, face serene, like Binky's weeping Madonna.

I said nothing.

“I don't like this behavior, Paul.” Her face crumpling. “Are you … on drugs or something? I don't like how these friends have influenced you.”

“I bet you don't. You don't want me to have friends.” I heard, almost
saw
the words streaming from my mouth. My voice sounded unfamiliar, confident. Charlie's voice.

Mom stood, mouth slightly open. Then she closed it. “Paul, don't be silly. Of course I want you to have friends. I want you to be happy.”

“Yeah, you were dying for me to have friends. That's why you kept me locked up all those years like… Skinner.” Somehow that came to me. We'd read about Skinner, a scientist who tried out his behavioral experiments on his own daughter, keeping her in a box like a rat. That was exactly what my mother had done. Exactly. “You just used me.”

My blood was pumping. It felt so good. Why hadn't I known how good it would feel?

I'd thought she'd shut up then, but she didn't. She came closer, still holding the sweatshirt, gesturing with it.

“Don't change the subject, Paul. How did this get there?”

“What do you care?” But thinking,
How much does she know?

“What do I care? It's my computer, my job. Were you there, Paul?”

“How would I have gotten there?”

“I don't know. You tell me. After school, maybe? Did you sneak in after school Friday and use my computer for something?”

“No.”

“To look at porn or something? Or play those awful games?”

“No.”

She'd backed me into a corner. I pushed past her, brushing against the sweatshirt, making it drop to the floor. She tried to block my way, but I walked right through her to the door and down the stairs to the parking lot. She followed me to as far as the elevator, but when I yelled, “I can't believe you don't trust me!” she retreated back into the apartment.

I found the pay phone in the parking lot and called Charlie.

“Why do you hate your dad so much?”

We'd been spending more and more time at Charlie's. Afternoons, we'd do homework in his room, watch the Cartoon Network, or just fool around on his computer. That was what we were doing that day. We'd found some cool websites, tricks to play, like putting sugar in people's gas tanks. Weird satanic stuff Mom would have hated. Even instructions on how to make a bomb. When he didn't answer, I tried again.

“Big Chuck,” I said. “Why do you hate him so much?” Even as I said it, part of me couldn't believe I'd asked something so personal. Charlie'd never said he hated his father. But somehow, I knew he did.

Charlie shrugged. He wasn't going to answer. I glanced at the computer screen, trying to find a safer subject. I scrolled through my search result, entered one site, then exited. Charlie drew a long breath. The sound startled me. Then, his voice.

“We were always, like, this perfect family,” he said. “Mary quit the fast track a few years to do the PTA crap. Chuck was brownnosing for partnership with this big-deal firm downtown. Every winter, we vacationed in Vail; Carolina mountains every summer. And in between, they were the perfect parents with the perfect kid.” He thumbed his chest.