Ethan: I found him.
The text message wakes me up at 5:30 a.m. I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes.
I don’t want to remember anything, but I do.
What Nightmare did.
What Rev did.
What I did.
It takes me three reads before I realize what Ethan’s saying.
Emma: You found him??
Ethan: It took me all night.
Emma: You’ve been working on this all night?
Ethan: Well, after you took down your game, I had nothing else to do …
I had to take down my game. It was the first thing I did. The damage was rampant. Everywhere. Nightmare must have spent all day digging through my code.
I have backup files, so it’ll be easy enough to put it back the way it was, but I won’t be able to shake the feeling of violation so easily.
Thank god I never told my father about this. I imagine his comments.
Great game, hon. Love the peep show in the tavern. Way to build security.
I wince and look back at my text messages.
Emma: HOW?
Ethan: I told you. I know people.
Emma: Who is he?
An image appears on my phone. It’s a student ID. The kid’s name is William Roll. I don’t know him at all. I look at the graduation year.
Emma: He’s a sophomore?? At South Arundel?
Ethan: Yeah. I sent his mom all the screenshots.
I choke on air and have to read that again.
Emma: You did WHAT?
Ethan: His principal, too. That crap is crazy.
I stare at his messages, torn between relief and disappointment.
The one major problem in my life, and I couldn’t even solve it on my own.
Ethan: Don’t worry. I fuzzed out your information.
Emma: Thanks.
Ethan: NP
I don’t know what else to say.
Ethan: Sorry. I should have asked what you wanted to do. But I hate when these punks harass good people. You worked hard on that game.
Emma: No. Thank YOU. I never would have been able to find him.
Ethan: You’re welcome. And now I need to figure out how to convince my mom I’ve been sick all night so I can crash today.
Emma: Go get some sleep. You’re my hero.
Ethan: ☺ ♡
I stare at the heart for a full minute. It’s just an emoji. It doesn’t mean anything.
I should text Rev. My heart emoji to him did mean something.
Now I’m blushing. Maybe breakfast first.
Mom is in the kitchen when I come downstairs, which is a huge surprise. No yoga, no country music. Instead, papers are spread across the kitchen table, and they look like bills or financial statements. A pen sits in her hand, suspended over a legal pad. A mug is steaming beside her, but she must have gone through a pot already, because the coffeemaker is chugging away on the counter.
My mother? An entire pot of coffee?
She looks up when I appear in the doorway. The skin below her eyes is baggy, but she doesn’t look like she was crying. She looks tired.
“Hi,” I say cautiously.
“Hi, Emma.”
I can’t read her voice. If anything, she seems subdued, and Mom is never subdued.
On any other morning, I would ignore her, grab a huge mug of coffee, and head back up to my bedroom. But I keep thinking about Dad at breakfast, how his attention was solely focused on his iPhone and the new game release.
For the first time, I wonder if Mom is lonely.
I sit down at the table. “What are you doing?”
She looks back at the notepad. “I’m trying to put together a picture of our financial situation for the attorney. I don’t want to leave anything out.”
“Oh.”
She glances at the clock over the stove. “You’re up early.”
“I have to go to school.”
“I know that, Emma. But the bus doesn’t pick you up for another forty-five minutes.”
A shadow of her usual attitude has slipped into her voice, and I have to force myself not to react to it. For the first time, I wonder if her agitation is a reaction to mine.
“I thought maybe I’d make breakfast.” I pause. “For us. Do you want some?”
Silence hangs in the kitchen for a brief moment that somehow seems interminable. “Yes. Thank you.”
So I make scrambled eggs. It’s usually quiet at this hour, but the whisk in the bowl has never been so loud. My back is to her as I push the eggs around the pan, but it’s not uncomfortable. I don’t feel like she’s watching me. I feel like she’s adrift, like her chair is a rowboat without oars, and I’m standing on a distant shore.
I dump the eggs on a plate, pour some salsa on top, and place the dishes on the table. “More coffee?” I say.
“No, you made breakfast. I’ll get the coffee.”
Once we’re seated, the scrape of forks on china is louder than the whisk was.
Midway through her food, she sets her fork down and looks at me. “I know you hate me for this, Emma. I’m sorry. I couldn’t do it anymore.”
I freeze, the fork suspended in midair. “I don’t—” My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat. “I don’t hate you.”
“I deserve to be happy, too.”
“I didn’t know you weren’t.”
But I did. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel how untrue they sound. Mom does, too, because her eyes lift and lock on mine.
“I did,” I say. Emotion forces its way into my chest, making everything tight. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your job to make me happy.”
“It was Dad’s.”
She shakes her head. “No, not his either. It was mine.” She looks around. “You know how they say money can’t buy happiness? I sure tried.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I scoop more eggs. So does she. We lapse into silence again.
Eventually, she sets her fork down again. “I’m sure breakfast with your father was more fun than this. I’m not much company right now, Emma.”
“He was worse,” I say.
Her eyebrows go up. “What?”
“He was worse.” I pause. I can’t look at her for this. “He wouldn’t look away from his phone. I had to call Cait’s mom to come pick me up so I could make it to school on time.”
“Emma.” She puts her hand over mine. “You could have called me.”
I stare at her hand, the perfectly even fingernails, and realize I don’t remember the last time my mother touched me. “I didn’t—you were already so mad at him. I thought you were mad at me, too.”
“I’m not mad at you, Emma.” She pauses. “And I’m sorry breakfast was a disappointment. You’ve always idolized your father.”
I have to swipe at my eyes, and I wish they would knock it off. “I never realized he was like that.”
Because I was always buried in my own devices, my own projects. I wanted to be just like him. I never looked away from a screen to see what was going on around me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I should never have let this go on so long.” She looks around the kitchen again. “I don’t even know what we’re doing with this house. We don’t need all this space. We don’t need all these things. I remember when we were looking in this neighborhood, your father said, ‘It’ll be tight for a while. I don’t want to have a big house and a miserable family.’ And that’s just how we ended up.”
“I’m not miserable,” I whisper.
“You’re not?” She sniffs. “I am.”
I flinch.
She looks around again. “I’ve always wanted the best for our family, Emma. I was raised to work hard. I worked hard in medical school, I work hard at my job. I thought your father was this free spirit, that he’d give me some balance. I didn’t realize it meant I would always be the one working hard.”
I tense. “Dad works hard, too.”
She looks at me. “Do you really think so, Emma?”
“I—I know so, Mom. He’s always working—”
“He’s always gaming.” Her voice is very quiet. “There’s a difference—”
“I know there’s a difference.” I shove my chair back.
“Emma.” Her voice is very quiet. “Let me tell you something.”
I don’t want to wait—but I don’t want to bolt, either. I take a breath. “Fine. What.”
Her eyes lift to find mine. “Your father has been laid off. Again.”
The words hit me like two separate bullets, and I can’t decide which hurts more.
“Again?” I whisper.
“He’s always had trouble keeping a job long term. But when he completes the release of this game next week, his company is letting him go.”
“But—but Dad’s always had a job.”
“No. Emma. He hasn’t. He’s always had a game to play, but he hasn’t always had a job.” She pauses. “Part of that is the nature of his job. He does a lot of contract work. But part of that is the nature of him. Which is why I try to pull you away sometimes.” Another pause. “Why I want you to have a career that will give you some stability.”
I swallow.
She puts her hand over mine. “We’ll be okay. We’re always okay.”
I don’t know what to say. We’ve grown so far apart that I’m not sure a map exists to bring us back together.
She gestures at the plates. “I mean, look at this. You made us breakfast.”
“It’s scrambled eggs.”
“It’s breakfast.” She pauses. Her eyes lock on mine again, and I’m struck by the fact that I can barely remember the last time I had her attention—or when I gave her mine. “I’m sorry, Emma. I’m sorry we’re going through this.”
I look back at her. “I’m sorry I haven’t been a good daughter.”
“Oh, Emma.” Her voice breaks, and for the first time, I think it’s genuine. “I’m sorry I ever made you think that. I love you so much.”
The emotion in her voice brings my own to the surface. I have to put a hand to my eyes. “I love you, too.”
“I only want the best for you.”
“I can do better, Mom.”
She smiles. “Me too.”
I stake out Rev’s locker. I put on eyeliner and a little blush this morning. When Cait saw me on the bus, her eyes almost bugged out of her head.
Then she offered me some lip gloss.
Rev’s not hard to spot. The dark hoodie is back. He’s hiding again. I think of the way I chased him away and wonder if I have something to do with that.
But then again, he texted me this morning to ask if I still wanted to meet before class.
Nervous energy explodes in my abdomen.
He stops in front of me and smiles, though it’s tentative. “Emma.”
I blush. I could roll around in the way he says my name. “Hey.”
He reaches out to brush a piece of hair away from my eyes. His fingers brush along my cheek and I shiver.
I want to tackle him right here in the hallway.
Then he says, “Everything work out with your game?”
“Oh! Yeah. Yes.” I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, and I babble. “Ethan found the kid who was doing it. He sent screenshots to his principal.”
He goes still. “He did?”
“Yes. He said he knows someone who can get into 5Core and—”
“I thought you said you wanted to solve it yourself.”
“I tried. I don’t know how to hack into the system to find someone’s identity. I’m not that kind of computer geek.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a heartbeat of time, but it feels like an hour. “Hey, I need to change out my books.”
I move aside and watch him swap out whatever he needs. His movements are quick and efficient, and he doesn’t look at me at all. With the hood obstructing most of his face, it’s impossible to gauge his mood—though it feels like we’ve moved away from face stroking.
He pushes his locker closed gently, then shrugs his bag over a shoulder. “I have Pre-calc. Can we head that way?”
His voice has gone cool. I nod quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”
It’s weird to walk down the hall with him. People have never gotten out of my way, but they get out of his. And he’s right—they do stare at him. Or maybe they’re staring at us. I see plenty of eyes flicker over me. I wonder what they think.
I glance at him to see what he makes of the attention, but I still can’t see his expression.
“Can you put the hood down?” I ask him. “Unless you don’t want to …?”
“It’s fine.” He shoves it back, then glances at me. “Better?”
He looks different in the bright lights of the hallway. This is the first time I’ve seen him with the hood down in decent lighting. His hair is a shade lighter than I thought, his skin not quite as pale as I imagined. “Yeah.” I swallow. “Thanks.”
I’m so off balance now.
“You’re mad about the Ethan thing?” I guess.
“I’m not mad, Emma.”
“You don’t sound happy.” I rush on. “I just told you I couldn’t solve it myself—”
“I know.” His jaw looks set. “And last night I told you that you didn’t have to solve it yourself. And then you got in my face and said you didn’t want help.”
“I didn’t!” I say. “And I didn’t want it from him either.”
“So you told him not to interfere, and he did anyway.”
“No—he was helping—” I’m losing track of this conversation. This argument. I feel like one of us is wrong here, and a small part of me worries that it’s me. “Ethan just fixed it because he could. He thought he was helping.”
“Sounds great. You know a lot of really stellar people online.”
“What is wrong with you? I don’t even know Ethan! How can you be jealous of a guy I don’t even know?”
He flinches, then frowns. “You think I’m jealous? Do you have any idea what it sounds like when you say, ‘I told him not to and he did it anyway’?”
Now I feel like I’ve been punched.
The first bell rings, and he steps back. “I have to get to class.”
“Wait.” I don’t understand how these threads of my life keep unraveling so quickly. “Please don’t just walk away. We can meet at the church tonight. We can talk. Okay?”
He hesitates, and time zooms down to this breathless moment where I’m convinced life will keep kicking me in the teeth.
But then he nods. “Okay.”