The Droid.
I can suddenly breathe. While I don’t know what to do about Bay, I do know what I’m going to do with this. I mash the power button, waking the phone from sleep mode. No security code. Candy, meet baby.
Dropping onto my bed, I surf through the phone’s settings until I get to its name: Matthew’s Phone. I have the sudden urge to giggle. It’s Bradford’s cell. Oh, this is going to be good!
I switch to the contact lists. Girls from school. Guys from school. Other names I don’t recognize. Nothing useful. I check his email and it’s a little more interesting. Might be fun to infect his parents’ computers with a virus. Something nasty. If they think the email’s coming from Matthew, they’ll click without thinking.
Promising. Still not grabbing my interest though.
What about text messages?
I flip through another set of screens. Ah, yes, someone’s a disgusting pig. I scroll through the conversations. Matthew’s been sexting with his girlfriend. I wonder if his mommy would be bothered by that? I check her email address and realize Matthew’s mom works for a restaurant chain known for its Christian values. That could be fun. I wonder if her coworkers would be bothered by Matthew’s texts?
Her work email is listed under the contacts. Maybe I could send an email blast of darling Matthew’s requests. Again, promising, but I want this to hurt.
On to the video files. He has four or five. The first few are worthless—just Matthew and his friends goofing around. The last one makes me smile.
Bingo.
For exactly four minutes and thirty-six seconds, Matthew Bradford, Eric Williams, and Sutton Davis pass the phone around, filming themselves drinking.
And smoking.
I replay the video, peer a little closer at the screen. That’s not just smoking. That’s pot.
I can’t help my grin. Holy shit, this is going to be good.
The guys are still in their lacrosse jerseys and they’re passing a bottle of Jack back and forth. We’re not talking HD clarity here, but every time they turn around, you can see the names printed across their shoulders. So much for their reputation as good boys.
I watch the video twice more, and each time, the knot in my stomach twists harder. This is going to be awesome.
I take my new computer out of the bag and spend a few minutes hooking it up to the rest of my peripherals. It’ll still need updates before I’m fully functional, but I’m more than ready for this little job. I plug in the last cable, noticing Milo burned some sort of symbol into the plastic casing. It looks like the Cheshire cat’s smile from Alice in Wonderland, the toothy grin after the cat has disappeared.
I like it.
After the CPU powers up, I plug the phone into the USB and wait for the video file to download. In terms of what to do, I have a few options. Honestly though there’s only one place that’s perfect for such a windfall: our high school’s YouTube channel.
I settle into my chair and start working on obtaining access to the school’s account.
Next morning, I wake up late again and Bren drops me off just before the first bell rings. We don’t talk much on the ride over. I fiddle with the scarf around my neck. Bren switches radio stations. She pulls into the school’s drop-off lane, and just as I’m about to slide out of her car, Bren grabs my hand, holds it tight.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you, Wick. I completely screwed up. I feel terrible.”
“I’m sorry about the car.”
“It’s not your fault.” Except I know she thinks it kind of is. If I weren’t such a freak, if I weren’t such an outsider, if I weren’t so . . . me, this stuff wouldn’t happen.
“It’s not your fault,” Bren repeats, and I smile like I believe her. “I know you said you don’t want to make a statement, but I’ll support you if you change your mind.”
I shake my head. No need to change my mind. “I appreciate the ride, but I can drive the Mini like it is. No big deal.” It’s totally a big deal. I’m just not going to admit it. Thankfully, though, Bren shakes her head. “Okay . . . I could walk then.”
“You’re not walking. What would people say?”
“That I like to exercise?” Or that after her husband went to jail Bren had a hard time making ends meet. I know that’s what she’s thinking. Worse, I know that’s what the neighbors are thinking too. It’s weird to live in a world where not having an extra car for your teenager is considered poverty.
Wish I could acquaint her with what not having enough money really means.
Then again, no I don’t. I would never want Bren to worry like that. She’d probably stroke out. She’s annoying, but she’s mine.
“I really am sorry, Wick. This mom stuff . . . it’s a lot harder than I thought.”