Going Under (16 page)

“Bull. Shit.”

“I’m serious. Why don’t you believe me? You
think I’m stupid or something?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid, but come on.
What are the chances I’d ask you about a hacker and you are
one?”

“Well, you got lucky. Now what’s this all
about?”

I couldn’t believe I was about to let Terry
in on some of my secrets. I had no choice, though. Not if I wanted
to learn more about that conversation I overheard in the stairwell.
I needed him.

“Wright?”

“You have to swear on your life you won’t
tell a soul,” I said.

“What? You think I go around blabbing about
doing hack jobs for people?”

“Just swear it.”

“I swear,” he said, rolling his eyes.

I took a deep breath and settled into the
seat across from him. “I think there’s something fishy going on at
my school.”

“Oh God. Okay Veronica Mars.”

“Shut up. I’m serious,” I said, but I
couldn’t help laughing.

We were sitting alone under one of the few
lights still on in the restaurant. It looked like a scene from some
cheesy detective movie. All we needed was the smoke from our
cigarettes curling its way up to the ceiling, highlighting the
jazzy refrain playing in the background.

“All right. What do you think is going
on?”

“I overheard a conversation in the stairwell
the other day.”

Terry clapped his hand over his mouth to
stifle a laugh.

“You know what? Forget it,” I snapped.

“No no! I’m sorry. Look, I just didn’t know
you moonlighted as Nancy Drew in your spare time.”

“How many more do you have?”

“Well, those are the only two . . . wait!
Jessica Fletcher from
Murder She Wrote
!”

“I don’t even know who that is.”

“Kids these days,” Terry lamented, shaking
his head.

“Whatever. Are you gonna stop making fun of
me and let me continue?”

“Be my guest.”

I took a deep breath. “So I overheard this
conversation—”

“Can I ask how?”

“I was hiding underneath the stairs,” I
explained.

Terry burst out laughing. I got up from my
seat and grabbed the condiment caddy.

“Hey! Stop right there!” Terry ordered,
grabbing my arm. “Stop being pissy. Now I’m allowed to laugh a
little because this is fucking funny, okay? Get over yourself and
sit back down.”

I slammed the caddy on the table.

“That’s the thing, you moron! It actually
isn’t funny. I think some guys at school are raping girls as part
of a sick game!”

That got his attention. I sat back down,
watching his face as he processed the information.

“All right. All kidding aside, tell me what
you overheard,” Terry said.

“I heard these guys talking about a secret
club and how this other guy wanted to join. Someone mentioned that
the only way he could join was if he slept with a virgin. There was
a mention of a score sheet or something.”

“This is all you heard?” Terry asked.

“Pretty much.”

“And how do you know they’re raping girls?
It could all be consensual,” Terry argued.

“I know one of the guys who’s involved in
this club. Well, if it is a club. I know he raped someone. I think
others are doing it, too. Maybe not all of them, but some.”

“How do you know this guy raped
someone?”

“I just do,” I said.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that if
you expect me to get involved in this,” Terry said.

I looked into Terry’s brown eyes. It was the
first and only time I’d ever do it. I had to make sure I could
trust him. I searched them, but they only told me that he was
honest, would always tell me the truth, even if it ended up hurting
my feelings.

“He raped my best friend,” I said. “She
killed herself over it.”

Terry was quiet for a few minutes.

“Why didn’t she go to the police?” he asked
finally.

“She . . . had a bit of a sexual history,” I
said. “She thought no one would believe her.”

“Hmmm.”

I rubbed my forehead. “No one knows about
that except for you.”

“She never told her parents?”

“You think that jackass would still be in
school if she had?”

“So why do you need my help?” Terry
asked.

“I want you to hack into one of their
computers. I want to know about this club. I want to find out if
more of these guys are forcing girls to have sex with them,” I
said. “Who knows? It may only be Cal, but this Parker dude I met
really rubs me the wrong way. I think he’s a predator, too.”

“You think they’re gonna keep a list of
girls they’ve raped on their computers? Get real, Wright,” Terry
said.

“No, but they email each other those score
sheets. I know that much. Maybe the score sheet will tell me
something.”

Terry shook his head. “You out for
revenge?”

“You bet I am,” I said.

Terry breathed deeply. “Well, I’ll need some
more information before we break the law.”

Ten

Obtaining Parker Duncan’s email address was
easy. It was right on his Facebook page. Once I sent it off to
Terry, the real fun began. Terry explained his plan. He would email
Parker and make it look like a message from Cal. Within the email
would be an image for Parker to click on. Terry asked me what the
image should be, and I offered the idea of some nude chick. “Fun
for me,” Terry had said, and I gagged. Unbeknownst to Parker would
be a “Trojan,” a type of computer virus, hidden within the picture.
Once Parker clicked on the image, he would enable the Trojan, thus
allowing Terry unlimited access to Parker’s every move: sites he
visited, passwords he typed into his various online accounts,
ability to view his files and folders. Terry was confident he’d
have news for me the following day.

He pulled me aside at work that evening.

“I’ve got a bunch of shit for you,” he
said.

“Yeah?”

“Come to my house after work,” Terry
said.

“You’re out of your mind,” I replied.

“Get over yourself, Wright,” Terry said.
“You wanna know what I’ve found or what?”

I grunted. “Fine. But if you try anything on
me, I’ll mess you up.”

“Please. I’m so over you,” Terry said, and I
laughed.

I was shocked when I entered Terry’s
apartment. I assumed it would look like a frat house: mismatched
furniture with rips and beer stains, old food cartons and pizza
boxes littering the surfaces of tables, the smell of something
stale and sour. Terry didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had
his shit together. I should have known better once he told me he
was going to school for computer programming. I should have known
to expect a clean, orderly house. Programmers. Total nerds.

His brown leather furniture matched. He had
end tables with lamps on them. Nice lamps that matched and balanced
the space. The kitchen was spotless. There were freaking tea towels
hanging on the oven and dishwasher handles. I burst out laughing at
the magazines fanned out on the coffee table, lying next to scented
candles.

“Who
are
you?” I asked, walking about
the living room.

“I’m many things, Wright,” Terry said.

I rolled my eyes. “May I use your bathroom
before we get started?”

“Right down the hall.”

I sauntered down the hallway in no rush. I
was more intrigued with the pictures hanging on the walls. They
looked like Terry’s family, and I suspected the kid who sported the
same nose and mouth as my hacker friend was his brother. I
discovered in one picture that Terry surfed, and thought I should
try something new: not stereotyping people the second I met
them.

I really just asked to use the restroom so
that I could investigate. I wanted to see if it was as clean as the
rest of Terry’s house. He had some scented plug-in going on. It was
vanilla mixed with lavender, I think. I gingerly lifted the toilet
seat, expecting to see pee stains and God knows what else, but it
was clean. Remarkably clean. I couldn’t figure this guy out. He was
such an asshole at work—gruff and loud and full of curse words. I
figured he owned a Harley on the side and hung out at dive bars on
the weekends.

“No, I hang out in the labs on the weekends,
you brat,” he said when I came back into the living room and asked.
“You’re too young to be so judgmental.”

He was lying on his couch flipping through
television channels.

“Actually, teenagers are the most
close-minded. Don’t let all our talk about acceptance fool you,” I
said.

“Oh, I’m not fooled. I’ve worked with enough
of you people to know how you act. It’s pathetic,” Terry replied,
landing on Comedy Central. “The hostesses are the worst. I keep
telling Francis to stop hiring 16-year-olds.”

“How many have you made cry?” I asked,
grinning.

“Three.”

“Did you get in trouble for it?”

“What do you think?”

I giggled. “You’re such a jerk.”

“I didn’t make you cry, did I?” he
asked.

I shook my head.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good. I never wanna
see you cry, Wright.” His eyes stayed glued to the television. I
don’t know why he said it, but he looked like he meant it. It
sounded protective, but not in a romantic way. In that moment I
thought I could have an older brother. I almost asked him if he
wanted to be mine.

“All right. You came here for information,
and I’ve got it. You ready to learn?” Terry asked, opening his
laptop.

I nodded and plopped down in a club
chair.

“Come over here so you can see the
screen.”

I moved next to Terry on the couch, and he
pulled up a document.

“Observe Exhibit A. Your score sheet,” Terry
said.

I looked it over, heart racing with
adrenaline at the realization that what I was doing was wrong. I
didn’t care, though. I thought it was a greater good situation, so
Parker’s individual rights had to be violated. Oh God, I thought.
If my conservative father heard me say the words “greater good,”
he’d disown me.

The score sheet listed various sexual acts
and how each act was scored. Kissing earned the least amount of
points. Blow jobs were a high scorer. Sex was at the top. But
scores were broken down even more than that depending on the type
of girls. A blow job from a virgin fetched a hefty number, the
largest score out of all of them if she went all the way. Girls who
were already considered promiscuous and easy targets earned lesser
scores, even if they had sex with the guy. It was confusing at
first, but I figured it out fairly quickly.

“I found this score sheet under a file
folder labeled ‘FSL’,” Terry said. “Didn’t take me long to figure
out what that meant.”

“What does it mean?” I asked, tearing my
eyes away from the score sheet.

“Lemme show you this first, and you might be
able to figure it out,” Terry said.

He pulled up Exhibit B, labeled “Game 2.” It
was an Excel spreadsheet with six boys’ names listed. Under their
names were the names of four girls. Some girls already had numbers
beside their names. Others did not.

“What on earth?”

“They’re teams, see?” Terry said. “Each of
these guys has a team of girls. Like Fantasy Football.”

“Fantasy Football?” I asked.

“Jesus, Wright. Get with the program.
Fantasy Football,” Terry said.

I shrugged, waiting for an explanation.

“God, you’re such a girl,” Terry said.
“Fantasy Football. You play against people in a league. You draw
names to decide who gets to pick first. You pick any professional
football player you want for your team, and then you keep score of
how they perform in their games. You try to win, see? By having the
top score.”

I nodded.

“Looks like they play four games a year.
Well, according to old documents I found.”

“Only four?” I asked.

“Well, think about it, Brooke. If they’re
working with a team of four girls, they’ve gotta give themselves
enough time to go on dates and woo each of them.”

“Okay. That makes sense,” I said. “Do they
play the school year or the entire year?”

“Looks like they play in the summertime,
too,” Terry said. “And I’ll venture to say these girls don’t have a
clue what’s going on.”

“What a bunch of assholes,” I said with as
much feminine indignation I could portray to hide my complete and
utter fascination.

He pulled up another document.

“Here they’ve rated each girl from the
start. You’ve got four categories to cross-reference with the score
sheet. There’s ‘Virgin’ which yields top scores for anything she
does. A ‘Virgin’ is classified as any girl who hasn’t done a thing
except kissing. A ‘Good Girl’ yields the second top scores—”

“What defines a ‘Good Girl’?” I asked.

“Allow me to show you Exhibit D,” Terry
said. “This is a document that explains all four categories. Each
member of the league signed it. I suppose so that there wouldn’t be
any disputes. I guess they all decide which category each girl
falls into as well. Very democratic.”

“Very fucked up,” I said.

Terry smirked. “So a ‘Good Girl’ is one
who’s done a little more than kissing. Light petting. No oral
anything, though.”

“Jeez.” I scanned the document looking for
explanations of the last two categories.

There was the ‘Bad Girl’ category for ladies
known to have participated in all acts including intercourse. But
they couldn’t have had sex with more than one person. The ‘Whore’
category was for all those girls who’d given it up to multiple
guys.

I laughed disdainfully, shaking my head.
“This is outrageous.”

“This is what you wanted to learn,” Terry
replied.

I ignored him. “Show me that spreadsheet
with the teams again.”

Terry pulled it up, and I noticed letters
next to each girl’s name.