Code (11 page)

CHAPTER 19

“T
ory! Get down here for dinner!”

Blargh.

I slipped the iPad into a drawer. No progress, though I’d scanned and uploaded the image. Shelton was combing the Internet for a match.

“Tory!” Kit’s voice had reached level two.

“Coming!”

Gathering my hair with chopsticks, I hurried downstairs. Whitney was there, of course. I hadn’t been informed she was dining with us. Of course.

Coop padded over and nuzzled my hand.

“Good boy.” I pointed to his corner. “Place.”

Coop yawned, then retreated to his doggie bed in the living room. Whitney eyed him, wary of a wolfdog sneak attack. Please.

Recently, I’d been working on Coop’s begging. Kit had put his foot down—no four-leggers tableside during meals. No exceptions.

Coop obeyed me most of the time. When it suited him.

I
didn’t mind if Coop ruffled Whitney’s feathers—she was a self-important, dog-hating whiner. But it put Kit in a tight spot. Best not to make waves.

Another accommodation for the bimbo.

Kit had come home early that night, surprising us both. Grocery bag pressed to his chest, he’d announced he’d be grilling. Whitney had practically squealed with delight.

The menu was a given. Kit cooked a mean cheeseburger, and that’s about it.

I’d watched him hustle down to the communal grill, charcoal in tow. Mr. Devers had joined him with a trio of steaks, followed by Hi’s father with marinated chicken breasts.

The temperature was a pleasant seventy-five degrees, one of those perfect October nights in the Lowcountry. The men had shared a few beers, waiting for the meat to cook.

I was happy Kit could still relax with the neighbors. He was their boss now, but it hadn’t changed things back on Morris Island. They’d laughed and swapped stories, three dads hosting an impromptu barbeque, at ease in one another’s company.

Kit makes that happen. He doesn’t set himself apart, and they sense it.

“Dinner is served.” Kit set three plates on the dining room table.

Whitney
ooh
ed and
aah
ed like a moron. I dug right in.

Kit cooked his burgers a true medium-rare. Pinker than Mom used to make, but I was coming around. Juice dribbled down my chin as I took large bites.

“Tory darling, have you made a decision?” Whitney sipped pinot grigio from a crystal-stemmed wineglass that she probably brought from home. “Who will be the lucky boys?”

“Do what now?”

“Your marshals, Tory.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “This is only the
third
time I’ve asked you about it. The ball is next Friday.”

Shoot. I’d managed to block that out.

In the last few days, I’d been to Loggerhead twice, accidentally detonated a bomb in Battery Park, stopped by Claybourne Manor, and watched Ben explode like an Indonesian volcano.

But Whitney wanted an update on my cotillion plans. FML.

“Still working on that.” Chomping ground beef. “Lots of factors in play. Don’t want to make a poor choice, right?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, champ.” Kit gave me a disapproving head shake. “Whitney needs those names ASAP. You know that.”

“What about that nice Taylor boy, from Mount Pleasant?” Whitney tapped her lip with a cherry red fingernail. “James? No, Jason! The lacrosse player with the blond hair.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “He’s
cute.
”

Gross.

Whitney discussing my friends was straight-up creepy.

Though he
is
cute. No denying that.

“I dunno, maybe.”

“Would you like me to speak to his mother?” Whitney leaned close. “If you’re uncomfortable inviting a boy, we could arrange for him to ask you.”

I wanted to punch her face.

He already offered, you dolt. Everything’s not as simple as you are.

“I can handle it.” Crunching the last of my pickle. “May I be excused? Big chem test tomorrow.”

Kit nodded. “Whitney needs an answer tomorrow night. No more delays. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Slapping my leg for Coop to follow, I scurried upstairs and flopped onto my bed. Fought off an anxiety attack. I’d been avoiding this decision since learning I’d have to make it.

Whom to invite? Upon which gallant young men should I bestow the honor of walking me across a ballroom three times?

Such a hot ticket. I don’t want to start a riot.

I decided to make a list. I like lists. They help me frame an issue. Plan a strategy. Sort the possible from impossible.

Grabbing paper and pen, I wrote Chance Claybourne. Immediately crossed it out.

Get real.
My subconscious was an idiot.

First, Chance didn’t like me after what I’d done. Second, he knew too much about the Virals, and suspected more. And third, I wanted to
avoid
the spotlight, not do the Dougie on center stage. Chance was the worst possible person I could ask.

And yet, that’d be pretty badass, right?

Moving on, I recorded my default trio. Hi. Shelton. And Ben.

I circled the third name, then drew a question mark beside it.

Lately Ben had been a live wire. I loved hanging out, but the
last
thing I needed was a scene at my debutante ball. These days, the slightest blip seemed to set Ben off. Could he control his temper?

I wrote Jason’s name beneath Ben’s. Totally unfair, but Whitney’s approval was a huge strike against him. I racked my brain for other options, came up empty. Then I snorted at my own silliness.

What other options, exactly? This was always the complete list.

I knew the easy route—take the other Virals and hide in a corner all night. Whitney and Kit would be there, but they couldn’t force me to branch out. A few hours killing time with my friends, then a quick spin down the runway. Boom. Over.

So why was this difficult?

Because Jason is the perfect choice.

Jason had attended debutante balls. Knew the drill. My crew would have to conduct research on YouTube. Jason was popular on the cotillion scene. My guys weren’t even on the radar. Asking Jason would get Whitney off my back. Inviting only Morris Island boys might plummet her into a depression.

Jason
would
add credibility to the Tory Brennan Debutante Ball ticket. And
he’d
already asked
me
for the gig.

And he might be, you know, a real, actual date.

I sat up abruptly. Where had
that
thought come from?

My eyes returned to Ben’s circled name.

On one count I had no illusions: Ben would be hurt if I choose Jason over him. He’d never show it, but I knew Ben Blue well enough to be certain.

Back to square one.

Frustrated, I fired up my Mac. I needed help from Google. A few searches later, I’d made my decision.

My list contained four names.

According to the Internet, four was an acceptable number.

“Jason and Ben as marshals.” I jotted an
M
by each of their names. Older, they’d get the higher honor. “Mumbo and Jumbo as my stags.”

I wanted Hi and Shelton there. As always, safety in numbers. I scribbled a big
S
beside those two.

Running the choices through my head, they appeared sound. Whitney would be so happy that I’d chosen “a boy from a fine Southern family” that she’d accept the Virals filling out my entourage. Everybody wins, right?

So why was I still as tense as a banjo string?

I wish Mom were here.

Tears spilled before I knew it. Sobs threatened to follow. Somehow I managed to hold the grief at arm’s length.

It happened like that sometimes. The pain struck out of nowhere.

“Enough.” I backhanded moisture from my cheeks.

Mom would’ve hated the frivolity of a deb ball, but she’d have loved helping me pick my dates. We’d have laughed about it. Together.

I probed the space in my heart where her love used to reside. Found only a void. And nearly went down again.

I miss you, Mommy. Every day.

Coop was on me like a Velcro Snuggie. Planting paws on my knees, he catapulted into my lap, nearly toppling my chair.

“Easy!” I rolled to the floor and wrapped him in a bear hug. “You’ll kill us both.”

Coop rested his head on my chest. I closed my eyes and stroked his muzzle.

“Thanks, dog breath. I needed that.”

CHAPTER 20

T
he next morning I waited by my locker.

I hadn’t taken the shuttle. Dentist appointment. Six a.m. Kit drove.

After forty excruciating minutes of scraping, poking, polishing, and flossing, I’d finally been paroled. My tongue kept probing my teeth, making sure all were still in their sockets.

I had a plan. Invite Jason first, just to make sure he’d still go. If he said yes, then I’d go down the line. Ben. Then Shelton and Hi.

If Jason said no, I’d die from embarrassment. After that, I’d ask Ben to be my only marshal. Perhaps that would make him feel better. But I didn’t want to talk with Ben about Jason if I didn’t need to.

Luck was with me. Jason appeared in the hallway before the others.

I waved awkwardly. “Got a sec?”

“Yeppers.” Jason pivoted and sauntered my way.

“Yeppers?”

“I was trying it out.” Jason leaned against the locker next to mine. He was wearing the standard Bolton uniform, but with one of the recently approved alternate ties: midnight blue, dotted with tiny white Griffins. “Wanted to see how it felt.”

“I’d go in a different direction.”

“Agreed.”

My mouth opened, a prepared speech at the ready.

Jason spoke before I had the chance. “I want to apologize for how I acted in the cafeteria.” His face grew serious. “I don’t know what Ben has against me, but it’s gone too far. We need to squash it. Fighting like this is pointless.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Ben was being a jerk.”

“Yeah, but I took the bait.”

“He set the hook.” I sighed. “I’ll talk to him. Ben’s a good guy, I’m sure we can figure this out.”

“Figure it out.” Jason shook his head. “Right.”

That
look again. What?

Jason changed the subject. “I left that CPD guy a message and gave him your cell number. That okay?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thanks so much.”

“Like I said, it might be a few days.” Jason glanced at his watch. “Bell coming. What did you need?”

Shoot! With Jason bouncing between topics, I’d had no opening.

I adjusted my backpack. Hid a deep breath. Unfortunately, my brain chose that moment to short circuit.

“Debutante ball,” I blurted.

Nice job, genius!

“I kno
w, right? It’s so soon. Should be a blast.” Jason’s tone became oh-so-casual. “Who you taking? Anyone I know?”

No sir! You will not wrest control of this invite from me.

“I was hoping your offer still stood.”

Jason blinked. His mouth dropped open. A beat, then, “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

His reaction alarmed me. Did he still want to go?

Half the blood in my body flooded into my cheeks. Words tumbled out. “You don’t have to. I mean, if you’d rather not, or if you’re planning on escorting someone else, then—”

“No, no! I’m just . . . surprised. When I offered, you didn’t seem too excited.” He grinned like a chimp. “I’d be delighted.”

Whew.

“Great! You’ll be a marshal, of course. Ben will be the other, and Shelton and Hi will sing backup. My stags,” I clarified lamely.

“Ben, huh.” Jason’s grin twisted at the corners. “Should be interesting.”

“They’re my best friends, Jason. I couldn’t leave them out.”

He nodded firmly. “Nor should you. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

Jason’s mature outlook reassured me. This would be okay. Right?

The bell rang our five-minute warning. Jason and I said good-bye and headed to our respective classes. I slid into my desk just as Shelton and Hi filled the two beside me.

Calculus dragged. Mr. Terenzoni’s pinched, nasal voice droned on and on about an equation scrawled on the dry-erase board. Though I tried to pay attention, my mind wandered.

The Gamemaster’s clue was still a mystery. No matter how I attacked it, the arrangement made no sense. Shelton was testing different coding systems, but so far had struck out. Hi was equally baffled, and Ben didn’t seem to be trying.

The timer was counting down to midnight. For the first time, I began to doubt we’d actually solve the puzzle.

What would happen if we failed? Who would pay the price?

“Miss Brennan?”

My eyes shot to the front. Mr. Terenzoni was stroking his thin, black beard, irritation etched on his face. “We are waiting.”

“Twelve?” Stock answer. I had no idea what the question was.

“No, Miss Brennan. The answer is not twelve. The answer is Green’s theorem.”

Snickers floated around me. Mr. Terenzoni wagged his head slowly.

Red-faced, I pushed aside my concerns and focused on not sounding like an idiot twice.

I caught my next target just before lunch.

“Ben?” Pulling him aside. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“My debutante ball is next Friday night.”

No reaction. Ben sometimes made conversation difficult.

“I’m supposed to invite escorts. Marshals for the ceremony, and stags, too.”

Still nothing.

“Would you like to be one?” I said. “A marshal, I mean. Escort me.”

For a moment, Ben just stared.

“Don’t strain yourself,” I snapped. “You’ll need a tux, and you’ll have to behave around dozens of Bolton trust-funders. Can you handle that?”

Not the approach I’d planned, but his apathy got under my skin.

Ben remained quiet for another long moment. Then, “Sure.”

“Okay, good.” I nodded once, as if agreeing to a treaty. “That’s settled then.”

We began walking toward the cafeteria.

“Who else is going?”

“Shelton and Hi will be my stags. And Jason. He’s co-marshal with you.”

Ben stopped. “Jason?”

“Kit’s girlfriend likes his family,” I said swiftly. “She’s the one making me debut. Plus, Jason knows the ropes, and he’d already asked if he could escort me, so—”

“Hold on.” Ben’s eyes were dark. “Jason asked if he could go? When?”

“At a cotillion thing this summer.” What did that matter? “I never responded, but Whitney’s pushing me hard, so I had to choose.”

I threw my hands up, exasperated. “I don’t even wanna go to this stupid thing!”

Ben’s lips parted, but then he seemed to reconsider. Without a word, he strode off in the opposite direction.

“Ben, wait!”

He halted, but didn’t turn.

“Will you be my marshal or not?”

“Yes.”

Then I was alone outside the cafeteria doors.

“Juuuust great.”

“I need a tux?” Shelton’s eyes widened behind their thick lenses. “What about dancing? I don’t have to dance if I don’t want to, right?”

We were at our usual table, secluded in the far corner by the emergency exit. The area closest to us was empty, which is just how we liked it. Hi and Shelton munched sandwiches while I ate a bowl of she-crab soup. Whitney had started preparing my lunches, an insult I couldn’t bring myself to reject.

Curse her effective bribes! And me for taking them.

Ben was nowhere to be seen.

“Of course not,” I said. “You two don’t have any official functions. Basically, you just show up and hang out. And I’d
really
appreciate if you did.”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Hi wiped his mouth with a napkin before continuing. “Free food, free party. What’s not to like? I can break out the robot.” He gave a quick demonstration while sitting at the table.

“Very nice,” I said. “I wasn’t aware break dancing was back in style.”

“Now you are.” Hi tore open a bag of Bugles. “I also do a killer mime.”

“So Ben and Jason are coming, too?” The wide eyes looked naked as Shelton removed and wiped his glasses. “That could get . . . messy.”

“Jason seems cool, but Ben . . .” I trailed off. What more to say?

“We’ll smooth him out,” Hi said. “Plus, Ben would never embarrass you on the biggest, most special night of your life. Your one shot to marry well.”

“You’re a riot.” I flung a carrot stick, but Hi dodged.

Shelton leaned forward. “How much time do we have left?”

Looking left, then right, I checked the iPad. T-minus twelve hours, and counting.

“If we don’t solve this by midnight, we lose. Whatever
that
means.”

“The Gamemaster
told
us what it means.” Shelton hugged his body with both arms. “
Boom.
Somewhere. Could be anywhere. Innocent people are gonna get hurt.”

His words chilled me. I’d lost focus on the danger. On what failure could mean.

We have to take this seriously. We have to win.

“Meet after school?” Hi suggested. “Unless you wanna ditch English and leave earlier. I’m fine with skipping old lady Mixon’s dramatic interpretation of John Milton.”

“It’s not worth the risk.” I bagged my trash and set the tray aside. “We don’t want to draw any extra attention. We have all afternoon. That should be enough time.”

“I don’t know, Tor.” Shelton eyed the iPad with apprehension. “I’ve tried a dozen ciphers. None worked, and I’m out of ideas. It might be time to tell the cops. If we can’t break the code, shouldn’t we give them a shot?”

Hi nodded reluctantly. “He’s right. We can’t just twiddle our thumbs while the clock runs out. What if the iPad
itself
is a bomb?”

“Agreed.” I’d come to the same conclusion. “We’ll give it one last shot at the bunker. If we strike out again, we’ll call the police.”

I glanced back down at the screen.

12:01:57. 12:01:56. 12:01:55 . . .