Just One of the Guys

I try to imagine it. To save someone’s life, to rescue someone from danger, just to help…to be the one who did things right, instead of the one who freaked out and dropped the bag. “I wish I could do something like that,” I say in a near whisper. “Save someone.” I look my dad in the eye. “To be more like you and the boys.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Anyway. Back to your mother.”

Of course. “Back to your retirement, you mean,” I say, taking a swig of beer.

Dad scowls, looking a lot like Dylan. “I don’t want to retire just yet. That’s all there is to it.”

“You don’t want to be divorced, either. You don’t want your wife to be with someone else.”

“She won’t really go the distance with that guy,” Dad says, oozing alpha-male confidence. “She’s just trying to teach me a lesson. To torture me, Chastity. It’s the essence of marriage.” He leans back in his chair and scrubs his face with his hand. “Speaking of firefighters and their crappy marriages, have you spoken to Mark? He’s wound tighter than a piano wire these days.”

“I know. He and Elaina are practicing the essence of marriage, apparently. Lots of good torture back and forth.”

Dad groans, and Buttercup echoes him. “Well, shit. So what else is new, Porkchop?”

My legs are losing blood flow under Buttercup, so I wrestle myself free, get up and start folding my father’s shirts. “Well, I’m seeing someone. Sort of. We just started dating.”

“So you can be miserable just like the rest of us?”

“Yup. That’s always been my goal.”

“He’s not a firefighter, is he?” Dad asks, scowling.

“No, Dad,” I say with exaggerated patience. “No firefighter would dare date your little angel baby, okay? He’s a surgeon.”

“Well, good for you, Chastity. A doctor! Nice.”

I roll my eyes.

“You know what I mean.” Dad stands also, comes over and gives me a hug. “Hey, look,” he announces, “a gray! You have a gray hair.” He tugs on a strand, then moves in to separate the gray hair from the normal blacks. “Quite a few, actually.”

I swat his hand away. “Gosh, thanks, Pop. They’re probably from you and Mom and all your bickering.” He grins. “I have to go. You have a good night.”

“Keep an eye out on your mother, okay? Let me know about this Harry.”

“No. I’m not playing Spy vs. Spy for you and Mom. Besides, you said it yourself. She’s just torturing you. And if you make me pick, I’ll pick Mom. Seventeen hours of hard labor, remember?”

“Of course I remember. I was there. Best day of my life.”

“I love you, Dad,” kissing his cheek. “And no more Jameson’s, okay? One’s your limit.”

“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too, Porkchop,” he says. “Don’t worry about your mother and me. We’ll be fine. We love each other. And I’m not drinking too much, either.”

“Glad to hear it.” I grab my coat and Buttercup’s leash, clip it to her collar and begin hauling her off the couch. She doesn’t deign to open her eyes, just pretends I’m not there.

“Is that dog still alive?”

“I think so,” I answer. Buttercup finally topples off the couch with a thud and blinks sorrowfully. Since she refuses to stand, I have to slip my arm around her shoulders and try to encourage her into a standing position. With great reluctance, she finally acquiesces.

Dad opens the door for me. “Be careful. You want me to walk you home? Or ask Trevor. He lives just down the block.”

“I’m fine, Daddy. See you around.”

He waves. “Keep me up to speed on the doctor. Way to go, honey.” He closes the door, still smiling.

Walking down the stairs, I try not to be irritated with my father. He’s old school, after all, and marrying a doctor used to mean a lot back in his day. Back when doctors made more than plumbers and women quit their jobs upon the conception of their first baby. Still, it rankles a little. Twice tonight, I’ve been congratulated on the accomplishment of dating a doctor. Big deal. Maybe he’s the one who should be congratulated on being with me. Didn’t anyone ever think about that?

“Settle down,” I tell myself. Buttercup’s tail lashes against my thigh. “Sorry, honey,” I tell her. “I’m just…I don’t know.”

I walk down the block, right past Trevor’s building, and I’m not even going out of my way. So it’s only natural that I look up at his windows, just like I do to everyone else’s, right? And sure enough, there’s someone standing in front of the window of the fourth floor. Someone blond. Someone like Angela. Or possibly Perfect Hayden. Clearly, Trevor likes blond women.

I look away before I actually start spying, but my heart feels a little heavy just the same.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“GET IN HERE!” PENELOPE BARKS the next morning with uncharacteristic sharpness.

“What’s going on?” I ask, going into her office and dropping my knapsack onto a chair.

She whips her computer monitor toward me. My mouth falls open. “Oh, shit!” I squeak.

There on the screen, in full color, is one of those moving computer cartoons. Of Aragorn. And Legolas. In a rather compromising position, though Legolas seems to be having a good time.

“What the hell?” I ask. My heart is thumping wildly, my throat dry. “Someone must have hacked in! I’ll…I have to…I’ll get it off.”

“Yes! Do that!” Penelope says.

I fly over to my desk and turn on my computer. While it’s booting up, I notice that everyone else is studiously not looking at me. Lucia is answering the phones, which are ringing off the damn hook with angry citizens, no doubt. Carl is talking in a low voice with Danielle in layout. He glances at me in consternation…What the hell? Who could have done this? Penelope and I are the only ones with the password that can access the Web site design.

“Nice abs on Aragorn,” Pete murmurs without glancing up.

“Not funny, Pete,” I say. My eyes are burning. God, this is bad, bad, bad.

Alan looks furious. Well, he should! Our Web site has g*y p**n on it, for heaven’s sake! How many people have seen it? How many kids? Oh, shit!

My computer is finally booted. I start up the Web site design program, type in the password—my hands are shaking and I get it wrong twice—and there it is, Aragorn screwing Legolas.

“Bleecch!” I can’t help saying. I click on the image and delete it and it’s gone, thank God. Then I quickly save the changes and publish the site to the Internet.

“Is it gone?” I ask Pete.

He clicks on his screen. “Yeah. Too bad. I was getting a little turned on.”

“Not funny. Still.” For the next hour, I check all the pages and links to make sure Aragorn and Legolas aren’t getting it on somewhere else. They’re not, mercifully. Though I’m adept at setting up a Web site, I know very little about hacking. How someone got in is a mystery. We have firewalls, the password, which is a long series of random numbers and letters…I just don’t know. Then I call the company that supplies our domain and ask them to change the password, explaining what happened.

“Well, if someone can hack into the Department of Defense, they’re gonna be able to get into a little newspaper,” the drone at the other end of the phone says.

“Great. Thanks for your help,” I snap.

Angela cruises in ten minutes later. “Hi, everyone! I have muffins from a new bakery in Lake George. Help yourselves!” The mood of the office hits her, and she comes over to my desk. “What’s going on?”

“Someone hacked into the Web site and put up porn,” I mutter.

“Oh, no!” she says, her face falling. “How could that happen?”

“Got me.” I look up at her. “Lord of the Rings porn. Aragorn and Legolas.”

She goes white. “Oh, no,” she says again.

“I know,” I whisper.

A few minutes later, Penelope sticks her head out of her office. “Staff meeting!”

Like penguins, we all toddle into the conference room. The Web site is my responsibility. I’m sweating by the time I sit down. Even Lucia looks nervous.

“As everyone is quite aware, we’re in deep shit,” Penelope announces. “Chastity. Tell us what happened.”

“Um, well, someone obviously hacked into the Web site,” I say, looking around. “Someone who wants us to look bad.”

“Who would want that?” Lucia asks, nibbling a cuticle.

We all pause. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m trying to figure out how they did it, but the truth is, anyone who can hack past the security we have in place is a lot more clever than I am. I’ve changed the password and ordered another firewall, Pen. If anyone has more suggestions, please speak up.” My cheeks are burning.

“We’ve had over fifty calls this morning, Chastity,” Pen says, her usually friendly face grim.

“I’ll be happy to field them,” I say, swallowing. “This is my responsibility. I wish I could do more.”

“Maybe you need to check the Web site every night,” Angela suggests.

“Definitely,” I say. I know that I’ll be checking it not just when I go to bed, but in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning, too.

“Damage control?” Pen asks.

“I’ll run a story, of course,” Alan says. “We can drum up some sympathy, explain about hackers, security, that kind of thing.” He sighs deeply, shaking his head, then looks at me, his angry expression softening. “Sorry this happened, Chastity.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Anything else?” Pen asks. No one says a word. “Chastity, in my office, okay?”

She lets the door close before leaning on her desk. I sit uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. “This is bad, Chastity. Do you think it’s a coincidence, it being Lord of the Rings and all? Because it’s kind of common knowledge around here that you’re a big fan.”

“So is Angela,” I mutter. “But yes, it seems a little coincidental, doesn’t it? Honestly, Pen, is there someone who might do this? Someone who wants the paper to have a black eye? Or just me in particular?”

We look at each other, both of us worried. After a minute, she looks away. “I know Lucia was really pissed when she didn’t get your job,” she begins, “but I don’t think she’d ever do anything to damage the paper’s image. She loves the Gazette.”

I nod. “And honestly, if she knows how to hack into a Web site, she’s hidden it well. She can’t even forward me attachments, even though I’ve shown her four times.”

“Yeah, she’s a bit slow when it comes to computers,” Penelope acknowledges.

“I know, Pen. I can’t imagine…” My voice trails off.

“What about someone you know, Chastity? Does someone have a vendetta against you or something?”

I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”

The rest of the day is grim and quiet. We do what damage control we can. The local news station sends a camera crew over, ensuring that every computer geek teenager in town will try his or her hand at hacking in tonight. I spend another hour on the phone with a Web site consultant and download more security. And I constantly check the Web site, all its pages, dreading what I might find. But it’s clean.

I’ve never been in trouble at work before. This feeling of sheepishness, of letting down the team, is new and not at all welcome. I stay late, check the new firewalls and passwords, then head for the river. Though I rowed this morning, I need to burn off the bad karma that’s been floating around me all day. Besides, this morning had been Ernesto’s lesson, and I didn’t get my usual workout.

I keep a change of clothes at Old Man McCluskey’s shed. Pulling them on, I lift Rosebud out of her sling and carry her out to the water. A few pulls on the oars and I’m out on the Hudson. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the river is clear of any traffic, and I dig in. Feather…and square. Feather…and square. I don’t bother warming up today. I need the punishment. The image of Aragorn and Legolas refuses to be deposed, though. Damn it. Was it personal? Who hates me that much? Could it be a brotherly joke? I dismiss the idea as I pull on the oars, leaning back with all my strength. No, the boys wouldn’t—and probably couldn’t—hack into our system. Lucky might have the technical knowledge, but my brothers would never jeopardize my work. And there’s no way this can be seen as anything but sabotage.

Feather…and square. Feather…and square. Catch and drive…catch and drive. I bury the blade of the oar in the water and pull back, but my stroke is off tonight. My movements are jerky, the run of my boat not nearly as long as it usually is. First I’m rushing, then I’m slow, my seat threatens to jump the track. A shitty row, all in all.

Just then, I commit what is referred to as a crab. Because I’m distracted and off tempo, I don’t pull my portside blade out of the water in time. It drags, acting as a brake, and my oar jolts back at me. I struggle for a minute, trying to keep the boat from tipping, then wrestle the oar back into position. I pause, catching my breath. Even if this has been a crap outing, I’m panting like a Labrador in August. Glancing at the shore, I can see that I’ve drifted to about twenty feet from the riverbank, right by the park that runs along the river. Anyone watching me would have seen my graceless gaffe, which doesn’t do any more for my self-esteem.