Because the boys are finishing some project, Alex and I eat breakfast alone the next morning. Mrs. Bascombe—a soft-spoken woman from South Africa who takes off as soon as we come in—has left us oatmeal, pancakes, and enough coffee to keep me going for days.
Which is probably just as well because the study guides for my upcoming classes are already waiting for me and they’re crazy thick.
I heft the history guide onto the table next to my oatmeal. “I thought online studying was supposed to reduce paper waste.”
Alex shrugs. “Wait until you see the homework assignments. If you’re even a couple hours late, they email Norcut.”
I groan and reach for the coffee, pour one for Alex and one for me. She dumps a metric ton of creamer into hers and downs half of it in a few swallows. I can’t really blame her. I don’t think either of us slept last night. From two a.m. to dawn, her breathing was as shallow as mine.
“Is it always this quiet?” I ask, and pop two of my pain pills.
“Nah. Most of the time it’s noisy as hell, but no one’s a huge fan of breakfast around here. We keep late hours.”
Suits me. I pick at my oatmeal while Alex chugs more coffee and stares at the street below. I should say “tries to stare.” The clouds curled closer during the night. I doubt she can see a thing, but it doesn’t seem to stop her from trying.
“You ready?” Alex asks at last.
“Sure.”
We go climb one floor and push through the glass doors just like we did yesterday, and just like yesterday, the boys are already there, leaning against their desks in a way that’s probably supposed to look nonchalant, but fails miserably. Connor’s eyes are too bright when we walk in. Something’s up.
“She’s kind of hot,” Connor says, leaning down to study Kent’s screen. I can’t tell what they’re looking at, but a few steps later, I see the video. Porn. Lovely.
“Looks like a girl I knew freshman year of college,” Jake says. “She used to shake her can of pepper spray every time we passed.”
“You went to college?” Kent tilts his chair from side to side. “That’s so lame.”
“Seriously?” Alex waves Jake and Connor to the side and thumps Kent’s chair. “That’s what you’re objecting to?”
The guys turn to glare at her and notice me. Kent studies my hair for a long moment, sucking on his lower lip. “What’s with the hair?” he asks finally. “You think it makes you look like a superhero?”
“I dunno. Do those mirrors help you groom your Muppet eyebrows?” I motion to Kent’s desk, where he has two mirrors on either side of his cubicle walls. Most people like to personalize their cubes. I mean, Connor and Jake have the typical crap lying around—action figures, candy wrappers, Mountain Dew cans—but Kent’s cube is immaculate, just a sweating, plastic Big Gulp by the keyboard and the two mirrors hanging on either side of his monitors.
Odds are, they’re for seeing whoever’s walking around behind him, but judging from how many times he checks himself in the glass, Kent enjoys his reflection. He likes to watch himself work.
“Shut it, you guys,” Alex says. “She has to do her skill assessment test this morning.”
Kent snorts. “So?”
“So she doesn’t need your crap too.”
Kent takes his time looking me up and down. “If she can’t cut it, we need to know.”
The glass doors scrape open behind us and Kent minimizes his screen, replacing the window with an administrator dashboard instead.
“Gentlemen, ladies.” Norcut passes Connor a tablet. “Your calculus teacher emailed me. He says your last homework assignment is late. I hope you have a very good reason.”
Connor goes bright red and scurries to his computer station. Norcut turns to us. “You know what you’re supposed to be doing, so let’s get to it.” She looks at me, looks at my hair, then points to the setup on my right. “We’re going to put you here for now.”
I nod and drop into the chair, scoping the system. It’s way nice.
“This is a timed test,” Norcut says, pulling another chair close. She sits and passes me a sheet of paper with a printed web address. “Log on to this laptop, and once you’re in, use the laptop to scan for all wireless devices within the area.”
Norcut leans closer and points to a twelve-digit alphanumeric serial number below the address. “When you find this device, tell me.”
I take the paper and turn to my computer. “Then what?”
“Then you will turn it off and on at my command. Can you do that?”
Yeah . . . but why? What’s the point? I want to ask. I bite my tongue instead. Then bite it harder.
They have to see what I can do, and I agreed to be honest. To do my best. To try.
To not ask questions.