“This stupid gadget of yours is broken, goofball,” Megan reprimanded, unusually chipper and upbeat for a phone conversation from her house. “I tried it as soon as I got back home. Nothing. Dead as a doornail.” She laughed.
“Sorry,” Jon said. “I think I might know why—”
“’Cuz you slipped me a mickey?” she asked, giggling. “Slipped some acid in my Kool-Aid or hypnotized me?”
“You didn’t have any Kool-Aid,” Jon replied, and Megan laughed again. She was in such a good mood. He had never minded her phone calls before—torturous and depressing though they were—because he had, at least, been talking to her. This, though, was sheer delight. She was at home, had no doubt been into it with her mom and step-dad, yet there she was, happy as could be. She almost sounded giddy. Although he could hardly take credit for it, he couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. She was happy. And he had at least been a catalyst for that.
Before answering the phone, he still hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. What he had read so far in the black notebook hadn’t exactly clarified anything, either. Now, fifteen seconds on the phone with Megan, and he had his answer. They were going to be fugitives. Because Megan was laughing.
Before answering the phone, he still hadn’t been sure what he was going to do. What he had read so far in the black notebook hadn’t exactly clarified anything, either. Now, fifteen seconds on the phone with Megan, and he had his answer. They were going to be fugitives. Because Megan was laughing.
“I think—” he was about to say Dr. Bernhard’s name, then thought better of it. “I think it takes my magic touch.” Having had second thoughts about mentioning Bernhard on the telephone, he decided that he might want to skip saying things like I think they are all keyed to my fingerprints as well.
“Magic fingers, huh? We’ll see about that.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’d come over tonight, but I guess your mom—was your mom really pissed?”
“Nah, she’s all right,” Jon said, absently flipping the pages of the notebook. He touched them, a watched the type change. Finger up, finger down, watching the type change back and forth. Such a busy, busy bee. “It didn’t have anything to do with you. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“’kay. Wait—hang on.” There was a muffled sound of Megan’s hand covering the mouthpiece on the phone, and what had to be Carla’s voice, unintelligible, in the background. “No, I’m using the phone,” Megan said. “You’ve been on the phone all night. I’m just making one call.” More muffled whining from Carla. “Okay, dammit, just give me five minutes, okay?” Muffled cursing, and then a door slammed. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Makes me glad all over again my sister has gone up to Memphis,” Jon replied. “So, look, I’ve been thinking about what you said—”
“Me, too,” Megan said. “Sorry about wigging on you with the—you know, razor blades and stuff. I know you don’t like it. Mom says Dad was bipolar and I got it from him. Although sometimes I think I got it from her. I wasn’t trying to say I was going to cut my wrists if you didn’t do what I wanted. I thought about it when I got home, and—well, you’re not the only person who opens their mouth and then dumb shit just comes out, I’ll say it like that.”
“No, jeeze, Meg, I didn’t think you were trying to threaten me, I just hate it when you get so . . . morose.”
“Hah!” Megan laughed again. “Morose. That’s a good word. I love that word. You always pick the best words.”
“But I thought about what you said, and what I said—”
“Me too, I said,” she interrupted again. “Let me make my case one more time.” She sounded positively giddy. Maybe a little drunk. Knowing Megan, it was probably a pretty good bet that she was a little drunk. “In person.”
“Uh, okay—”
“Great! I’d plead my case tonight—and thanks again for last night, it really was a life-saver—but I’m guessing maybe I already pissed off your mom—”
Yeah, Jon thought. You might actually like me. It offends her sense of the natural order of things. “Nah, she’s cool, really. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Anyway, I was kind of hoping to get over there again, but Carla’s pissed off at me—her boyfriend bailed on her tonight so now it’s my fault, somehow—and I don’t think I’d be able to get out of here without her raising hell with Larry. She knows how to make trouble for me.”
“That’s what big sisters are best at,” Jon agreed. “It’s okay. It’s been a long day. I didn’t sleep for shit last night. I’m beat. You probably could use some rest yourself—”
Megan laughed. “I don’t know if I can sleep! I don’t believe you can actually go to sleep—I mean—”
“I know,” Jon said. “It’s something else. I’ll probably wake up in the middle of the night, but right now I am beat. I’m pretty sure mom is going to be out all day tomorrow, and I think it’s going to be pretty busy—you want to call me in the morning?”
“When does your mom leave?”
“She goes to church at nine—”
“I’ll just come by then,” she said. “I’ll hang back if I see her car. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.”
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be busy. You might really want to call. She might change her mind, but—”
“Yeah, yeah. God, I’m so excited. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited. I mean, it’s so perfect.”
“Mmm,” Jon hummed. He wasn’t sure what to say. Perfect was hardly the word he’d use. But Megan was clearly delighted by the situation. Hell, not just delighted. She was ecstatic. And her mood was infectious. Jon couldn’t help but feel good because Megan so clearly did. Perfect, no, but there wasn’t much doubt that Jon’s trepidation and, yes, outright fear was turning into a similarly giddy excitement. The most prominent concepts in his own anticipation were alone together with Megan and hotel room, and other things obviously animated Megan. Still, his present decision—the exact opposite of the decision he had reached so clearly not twelve hours ago—seemed self-evident, newly illuminated by Megan’s sweet laughter and almost manic delight. The idea of running from the government, the police, their parents—and who knew what else—while trying to hide or destroy some incredibly powerful alien artifact—seemed perfectly reasonable, in the warm glow of her pleasure. Why the hell not?
“Magic fingers, huh? We’ll see about that.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’d come over tonight, but I guess your mom—was your mom really pissed?”
“Nah, she’s all right,” Jon said, absently flipping the pages of the notebook. He touched them, a watched the type change. Finger up, finger down, watching the type change back and forth. Such a busy, busy bee. “It didn’t have anything to do with you. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“’kay. Wait—hang on.” There was a muffled sound of Megan’s hand covering the mouthpiece on the phone, and what had to be Carla’s voice, unintelligible, in the background. “No, I’m using the phone,” Megan said. “You’ve been on the phone all night. I’m just making one call.” More muffled whining from Carla. “Okay, dammit, just give me five minutes, okay?” Muffled cursing, and then a door slammed. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Makes me glad all over again my sister has gone up to Memphis,” Jon replied. “So, look, I’ve been thinking about what you said—”
“Me, too,” Megan said. “Sorry about wigging on you with the—you know, razor blades and stuff. I know you don’t like it. Mom says Dad was bipolar and I got it from him. Although sometimes I think I got it from her. I wasn’t trying to say I was going to cut my wrists if you didn’t do what I wanted. I thought about it when I got home, and—well, you’re not the only person who opens their mouth and then dumb shit just comes out, I’ll say it like that.”
“No, jeeze, Meg, I didn’t think you were trying to threaten me, I just hate it when you get so . . . morose.”
“Hah!” Megan laughed again. “Morose. That’s a good word. I love that word. You always pick the best words.”
“But I thought about what you said, and what I said—”
“Me too, I said,” she interrupted again. “Let me make my case one more time.” She sounded positively giddy. Maybe a little drunk. Knowing Megan, it was probably a pretty good bet that she was a little drunk. “In person.”
“Uh, okay—”
“Great! I’d plead my case tonight—and thanks again for last night, it really was a life-saver—but I’m guessing maybe I already pissed off your mom—”
Yeah, Jon thought. You might actually like me. It offends her sense of the natural order of things. “Nah, she’s cool, really. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Anyway, I was kind of hoping to get over there again, but Carla’s pissed off at me—her boyfriend bailed on her tonight so now it’s my fault, somehow—and I don’t think I’d be able to get out of here without her raising hell with Larry. She knows how to make trouble for me.”
“That’s what big sisters are best at,” Jon agreed. “It’s okay. It’s been a long day. I didn’t sleep for shit last night. I’m beat. You probably could use some rest yourself—”
Megan laughed. “I don’t know if I can sleep! I don’t believe you can actually go to sleep—I mean—”
“I know,” Jon said. “It’s something else. I’ll probably wake up in the middle of the night, but right now I am beat. I’m pretty sure mom is going to be out all day tomorrow, and I think it’s going to be pretty busy—you want to call me in the morning?”
“When does your mom leave?”
“She goes to church at nine—”
“I’ll just come by then,” she said. “I’ll hang back if I see her car. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.”
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be busy. You might really want to call. She might change her mind, but—”
“Yeah, yeah. God, I’m so excited. I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited. I mean, it’s so perfect.”
“Mmm,” Jon hummed. He wasn’t sure what to say. Perfect was hardly the word he’d use. But Megan was clearly delighted by the situation. Hell, not just delighted. She was ecstatic. And her mood was infectious. Jon couldn’t help but feel good because Megan so clearly did. Perfect, no, but there wasn’t much doubt that Jon’s trepidation and, yes, outright fear was turning into a similarly giddy excitement. The most prominent concepts in his own anticipation were alone together with Megan and hotel room, and other things obviously animated Megan. Still, his present decision—the exact opposite of the decision he had reached so clearly not twelve hours ago—seemed self-evident, newly illuminated by Megan’s sweet laughter and almost manic delight. The idea of running from the government, the police, their parents—and who knew what else—while trying to hide or destroy some incredibly powerful alien artifact—seemed perfectly reasonable, in the warm glow of her pleasure. Why the hell not?
Megan took his non-committal response to be negative. “Look, just let me make my case. This time, I promise, no talking about razor blades and blood and gunk. I just thought about it and—well, things were moving so fast and I could have put it a lot better. I know that.”
“Sure. Look, I just wanted to tell you—”
“Hang on a sec.” There was the sound of Megan’s hand covering the mouthpiece, and then a muffled exchange. “Okay, okay,” she said, returning to the phone. “I’ll get off. Look, my stupid sister wants to call somebody. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. I’d say go ahead and call—”
“Gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Too late for that, Jon thought, thinking of Dr. Bernhard. His mother had always told him not to talk to strangers. And there he had been, playing Crazy Kong at the Super Bee on the corner across from Cedarbrook Apartments and some old man wanted to play against him.
“Sure. Look, I just wanted to tell you—”
“Hang on a sec.” There was the sound of Megan’s hand covering the mouthpiece, and then a muffled exchange. “Okay, okay,” she said, returning to the phone. “I’ll get off. Look, my stupid sister wants to call somebody. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. I’d say go ahead and call—”
“Gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Too late for that, Jon thought, thinking of Dr. Bernhard. His mother had always told him not to talk to strangers. And there he had been, playing Crazy Kong at the Super Bee on the corner across from Cedarbrook Apartments and some old man wanted to play against him.
They had started talking about video games, then programming, then math. You know, I’m pretty good at math, myself, the old man had said, in his vaguely European but otherwise unidentifiable accent. Calculus is where it really gets exciting. If you’ve got a gift for numbers, I really think it’s where they should start you off. It shouldn’t be the last place they take you. Have you taken trigonometry?
The conversation had gone on for two hours. Bernhard had mostly asked questions and Jon, normally fairly reserved even with people he knew pretty well, had practically given a lecture. About video games, and then math, then programming. How bad his chemistry—excuse me, health sciences—teacher was. Then he had explained to the old man what was wrong with the education system and the evils of standardized testing and so on. Not once during that conversation did Bernhard mention that he had taught at Berkley—indeed, Jon had been going over to Dr. Bernhard’s to “help out” for weeks before he had mentioned his work at Oak Ridge, several more before Jon learned the good doctor had taught at Berkley and worked at Los Alamos.
After Jon had soundly beaten the old man at Crazy Kong—and no surprise there, as Jon had spent a fair amount of time over the previous two years giving the Crazy Kong machine a good, solid workout—they had both introduced themselves properly and Bernhard had bought Jon a Coke, and had listened as Jon continued to rant about school and programming and math and English. It has been delightful meeting you, Jonathan, Bernhard had said at the end of it. I know school is about to start again, but would you be interested in possibly doing some work for me, after school? With your parents’ permission, of course.
Then the good doctor had written his phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jon. What sort of work, Jon had wondered? I need someone to deal with the yard, especially the leaves in the fall, Bernhard had said. He had paused, looking at Jon. And I’ve got a lot of computers at the house, some of which could use some work. I think you might be able to help me there. And thus Bernhard had baited the hook.
You’ve got computers? Jon had asked.
Computers? the old man had asked back. Indeed I do. Ask your parents sometime if you can visit—I have a mini-computer in my house. I keep it in a room with a window unit, it gets so hot. I have a second terminal I could probably get working. Are you familiar with CP/M?
Jon had possessed only a passing familiarity with CP/M, but had nodded anyway. A mini! Multiple computers! And this old fart might pay him to work on them! How cool was that?
Jon sighed. It was definitely too late for not doing anything stupid.
“I’ll try not to,” he said. “Look, Megan—”
There were muffled curses in the background. “I’m getting off!” Meg snapped. “Yokay, make it quick.”
“Just—be careful. And I—” Jon stopped. What was his mouth trying to say? You’re really special to me? I really care about you? That was great. Why not just tell her that the sound of her laughter made him feel complete? Perhaps he could just read her a Hallmark card. Jon shook his head. Apparently, he was taking her admonition not to do anything stupid as a command to say something monumentally stupid. The compulsion to say something sickeningly sappy welled up in him, making him dizzy. Hormones, he thought. It’s the hormones again. Has to be. He grabbed the edge of his bed, doing his best Captain Kirk pantomime while cradling the phone receiver against his shoulder. Must . . . not . . . speak . . .
The conversation had gone on for two hours. Bernhard had mostly asked questions and Jon, normally fairly reserved even with people he knew pretty well, had practically given a lecture. About video games, and then math, then programming. How bad his chemistry—excuse me, health sciences—teacher was. Then he had explained to the old man what was wrong with the education system and the evils of standardized testing and so on. Not once during that conversation did Bernhard mention that he had taught at Berkley—indeed, Jon had been going over to Dr. Bernhard’s to “help out” for weeks before he had mentioned his work at Oak Ridge, several more before Jon learned the good doctor had taught at Berkley and worked at Los Alamos.
After Jon had soundly beaten the old man at Crazy Kong—and no surprise there, as Jon had spent a fair amount of time over the previous two years giving the Crazy Kong machine a good, solid workout—they had both introduced themselves properly and Bernhard had bought Jon a Coke, and had listened as Jon continued to rant about school and programming and math and English. It has been delightful meeting you, Jonathan, Bernhard had said at the end of it. I know school is about to start again, but would you be interested in possibly doing some work for me, after school? With your parents’ permission, of course.
Then the good doctor had written his phone number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Jon. What sort of work, Jon had wondered? I need someone to deal with the yard, especially the leaves in the fall, Bernhard had said. He had paused, looking at Jon. And I’ve got a lot of computers at the house, some of which could use some work. I think you might be able to help me there. And thus Bernhard had baited the hook.
You’ve got computers? Jon had asked.
Computers? the old man had asked back. Indeed I do. Ask your parents sometime if you can visit—I have a mini-computer in my house. I keep it in a room with a window unit, it gets so hot. I have a second terminal I could probably get working. Are you familiar with CP/M?
Jon had possessed only a passing familiarity with CP/M, but had nodded anyway. A mini! Multiple computers! And this old fart might pay him to work on them! How cool was that?
Jon sighed. It was definitely too late for not doing anything stupid.
“I’ll try not to,” he said. “Look, Megan—”
There were muffled curses in the background. “I’m getting off!” Meg snapped. “Yokay, make it quick.”
“Just—be careful. And I—” Jon stopped. What was his mouth trying to say? You’re really special to me? I really care about you? That was great. Why not just tell her that the sound of her laughter made him feel complete? Perhaps he could just read her a Hallmark card. Jon shook his head. Apparently, he was taking her admonition not to do anything stupid as a command to say something monumentally stupid. The compulsion to say something sickeningly sappy welled up in him, making him dizzy. Hormones, he thought. It’s the hormones again. Has to be. He grabbed the edge of his bed, doing his best Captain Kirk pantomime while cradling the phone receiver against his shoulder. Must . . . not . . . speak . . .
There was a click as someone picked up the other line. “Off my phone!” Carla commanded.
Megan—sweet, wonderful Megan—saved Jon from himself. “Gotta go. Catcha later!” she said, sing-song, into the phone, and hung up.
“Stupid whore,” Carla spat, and then hung up herself, and Jon was left talking to a dial tone.
“Whore?” he repeatedly thoughtfully to himself. “Stupid whore?”
Anger pricked at the back of his skull. Deep anger. As quickly as the urge to say something stupid and sappy had come up, it was now replaced a sudden black rage. Who the hell was Carla to call Megan stupid? Who the hell was Carla to call Megan a whore?
Stealing her car would serve her right, Jon thought. Stealing her car would be, in fact, the least she deserved. He glanced toward the briefcase in the closet. Then he shook his head.
You were one of the few people I had met that I knew I could trust, Dr. Bernhard’s holographic head had told him. That I felt for sure that I should trust. Even with great power. Perhaps especially with great power.
Again, Jon shook his head. He wasn’t the only one for whom it was too late not to do anything stupid. If Dr. Bernhard had thought Jon could be trusted not to do anything stupid—with great power or just in general—he had been sadly mistaken.
Jon sighed, picking up the black notebook again. He was tired, and he did think he would probably sleep, but thought he might read a little further before calling it a night.
Putting Carla out of his mind—she was, after all, a product of Megan’s parents, and although Megan had turned out pretty damned good, as far as Jon could tell, it had nothing to do with her parents whatsoever—he opened the notebook again. Touching the page he had dog-eared, the political rant neatly penned on it vanished, replaced by text addressed not to Imperialist America in general but to Jon Edmonds in particular.
Jon rubbed his temples, settling down into his bed. A smiley face, he read again. This was the guy who thought Jon could and should be trusted with great power. Some incredibly super powerful mysterious artifact and Dr. Bernhard had cracked the code—and he had made it draw smiley faces.
Jon adjusted his pillow, and began to read.
Megan—sweet, wonderful Megan—saved Jon from himself. “Gotta go. Catcha later!” she said, sing-song, into the phone, and hung up.
“Stupid whore,” Carla spat, and then hung up herself, and Jon was left talking to a dial tone.
“Whore?” he repeatedly thoughtfully to himself. “Stupid whore?”
Anger pricked at the back of his skull. Deep anger. As quickly as the urge to say something stupid and sappy had come up, it was now replaced a sudden black rage. Who the hell was Carla to call Megan stupid? Who the hell was Carla to call Megan a whore?
Stealing her car would serve her right, Jon thought. Stealing her car would be, in fact, the least she deserved. He glanced toward the briefcase in the closet. Then he shook his head.
You were one of the few people I had met that I knew I could trust, Dr. Bernhard’s holographic head had told him. That I felt for sure that I should trust. Even with great power. Perhaps especially with great power.
Again, Jon shook his head. He wasn’t the only one for whom it was too late not to do anything stupid. If Dr. Bernhard had thought Jon could be trusted not to do anything stupid—with great power or just in general—he had been sadly mistaken.
Jon sighed, picking up the black notebook again. He was tired, and he did think he would probably sleep, but thought he might read a little further before calling it a night.
Putting Carla out of his mind—she was, after all, a product of Megan’s parents, and although Megan had turned out pretty damned good, as far as Jon could tell, it had nothing to do with her parents whatsoever—he opened the notebook again. Touching the page he had dog-eared, the political rant neatly penned on it vanished, replaced by text addressed not to Imperialist America in general but to Jon Edmonds in particular.
Jon rubbed his temples, settling down into his bed. A smiley face, he read again. This was the guy who thought Jon could and should be trusted with great power. Some incredibly super powerful mysterious artifact and Dr. Bernhard had cracked the code—and he had made it draw smiley faces.
Jon adjusted his pillow, and began to read.
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