and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. She’s a little girl lost beneath the bedding, and I crawl in next to her and fold myself around the empty spaces, knowing she won’t be here when I wake up.
121
WHEN THERE’S NO MORE RO OM IN
HELL, THE DE AD WILL WALK TO THE
HORSE BARN
“R ule number one.” A whisper from behind sends chills across my scalp. “Never apologize to the masses.”
I skipped coffee this morning on account of Black
& Brew being dead to me and I’m not prepared for an (e)VIll assault. Yet Asher Hollowell isn’t aware of my non-caff status, so here he is, all hush-hush from his wheelchair command post like we’re on a code name basis.
“Cool out, Black Ops.” I close my locker and turn to face him. “That letter was a direct order from Zeff. In case you haven’t noticed, I need to get off her radar.” 122
“What if I said I could help?”
Suspicion engaged. “I’d update my status from ‘majorly annoyed’ to ‘mildly intrigued, but cautious.’ So. Who’s the artist?”
Ash fidgets with a manila folder in his lap, forehead creased. “Wait. Is that all part of your status update, or just the intrigued part?”
Right before I got sucked into this Twilight Zone convo, I found another flyer stuffed into my locker, and now I drop it into his lap. “Who’s in charge of these?” LOG OUT AND WAKE UP!
IS LUCY VACARRO REALLY A SENIOR AT
LAVENDER OAKS HIGH? OR IS SHE AN ANDROID
CREATED BY THE NSA TO COLLECT DATA ON
OUR WHEREABOUTS? OUR CONVERSATIONS?
OUR UNHEALTHY SNACKING HABITS? OUR
PARTIES? DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU’RE
TOLD! QUESTIONING AUTHORITY ISN’T UNPA-
TRIOTIC—IT’S YOUR PATRIOTIC RESPONSIBIL-
ITY!
SHOW US YOUR BIRTH CERTIFICATE, MISS
VACARRO!
On the back is another Lucy drawing, still with the 123
poufy dress, only now there’s antennae sprouting from my head and dials across my chest.
Ash presses a hand to his standard-issue black T-shirt.
“I refuse to apologize for being a true patriot.”
“In that case, oh-say-can-you-see your ass outta my way? I’m not getting a tardy on your account.” Ash has impressive instincts, blocking my forward motion with a one-armed spin of his wheels. “I really can help,” he says. “But I need something from you.”
“You’re not getting my birth certificate.”
“Forget that. It’s . . .” Ash taps the folder. The sound seems to ignite his passion. “Join us! Together we can fight this thing! Strength in numbers—something we’re seriously lacking. Uh, numbers, not strength.” I slip the new iPhone from my pocket and wriggle it before him. “Sorry. Automatic disqualifier.”
“We have a program for that.”
“Program?”
With just a few minutes before homeroom, the halls are filling up, and Asher rolls in tight to avoid the foot traffic. “Like AA for device addicts,” he says. “Except it’s not actually anonymous .” Asher laughs. “The regime is tracking your cell calls—how could it be?”
“There’s a cell-tracking regime?”
He nods solemnly. “Knowledge is power, Miss Vacarro.” 124
“Skank alert! Woop-woop!” Quinn and Haley, Olivia’s prom night sprites, howl at me as they pass. A few nearby students laugh.
“Don’t associate with Juicy Lucy, Asher,” Quinn says.
“You’ll end up on a government watch list.” Haley hums the X-Files theme song, both girls erupting into giggles as they disappear into the early-morning mob.
“Did she call me Juicy Lucy?” I say.
Asher’s eyes are full of fresh sympathy. “See? Who better than you to speak out about the dangers of social networking? Of online trials in a world where ‘like’ is a noun and sentencing is passed with the click of a mouse?” There’s a headache creeping in behind my eyes and its name is Asher Hollowell. Also, Asher Hollowell has a point.
Maybe I do have some allies in this. Maybe the Lucy illustrations are supposed to be ironic.
Then again, one time Jayla gave an interview
121
WHEN THERE’S NO MORE RO OM IN
HELL, THE DE AD WILL WALK TO THE
HORSE BARN
“R ule number one.” A whisper from behind sends chills across my scalp. “Never apologize to the masses.”
I skipped coffee this morning on account of Black
& Brew being dead to me and I’m not prepared for an (e)VIll assault. Yet Asher Hollowell isn’t aware of my non-caff status, so here he is, all hush-hush from his wheelchair command post like we’re on a code name basis.
“Cool out, Black Ops.” I close my locker and turn to face him. “That letter was a direct order from Zeff. In case you haven’t noticed, I need to get off her radar.” 122
“What if I said I could help?”
Suspicion engaged. “I’d update my status from ‘majorly annoyed’ to ‘mildly intrigued, but cautious.’ So. Who’s the artist?”
Ash fidgets with a manila folder in his lap, forehead creased. “Wait. Is that all part of your status update, or just the intrigued part?”
Right before I got sucked into this Twilight Zone convo, I found another flyer stuffed into my locker, and now I drop it into his lap. “Who’s in charge of these?” LOG OUT AND WAKE UP!
IS LUCY VACARRO REALLY A SENIOR AT
LAVENDER OAKS HIGH? OR IS SHE AN ANDROID
CREATED BY THE NSA TO COLLECT DATA ON
OUR WHEREABOUTS? OUR CONVERSATIONS?
OUR UNHEALTHY SNACKING HABITS? OUR
PARTIES? DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU’RE
TOLD! QUESTIONING AUTHORITY ISN’T UNPA-
TRIOTIC—IT’S YOUR PATRIOTIC RESPONSIBIL-
ITY!
SHOW US YOUR BIRTH CERTIFICATE, MISS
VACARRO!
On the back is another Lucy drawing, still with the 123
poufy dress, only now there’s antennae sprouting from my head and dials across my chest.
Ash presses a hand to his standard-issue black T-shirt.
“I refuse to apologize for being a true patriot.”
“In that case, oh-say-can-you-see your ass outta my way? I’m not getting a tardy on your account.” Ash has impressive instincts, blocking my forward motion with a one-armed spin of his wheels. “I really can help,” he says. “But I need something from you.”
“You’re not getting my birth certificate.”
“Forget that. It’s . . .” Ash taps the folder. The sound seems to ignite his passion. “Join us! Together we can fight this thing! Strength in numbers—something we’re seriously lacking. Uh, numbers, not strength.” I slip the new iPhone from my pocket and wriggle it before him. “Sorry. Automatic disqualifier.”
“We have a program for that.”
“Program?”
With just a few minutes before homeroom, the halls are filling up, and Asher rolls in tight to avoid the foot traffic. “Like AA for device addicts,” he says. “Except it’s not actually anonymous .” Asher laughs. “The regime is tracking your cell calls—how could it be?”
“There’s a cell-tracking regime?”
He nods solemnly. “Knowledge is power, Miss Vacarro.” 124
“Skank alert! Woop-woop!” Quinn and Haley, Olivia’s prom night sprites, howl at me as they pass. A few nearby students laugh.
“Don’t associate with Juicy Lucy, Asher,” Quinn says.
“You’ll end up on a government watch list.” Haley hums the X-Files theme song, both girls erupting into giggles as they disappear into the early-morning mob.
“Did she call me Juicy Lucy?” I say.
Asher’s eyes are full of fresh sympathy. “See? Who better than you to speak out about the dangers of social networking? Of online trials in a world where ‘like’ is a noun and sentencing is passed with the click of a mouse?” There’s a headache creeping in behind my eyes and its name is Asher Hollowell. Also, Asher Hollowell has a point.
Maybe I do have some allies in this. Maybe the Lucy illustrations are supposed to be ironic.
Then again, one time Jayla gave an interview
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