The Jump, page 11
On the first day of high school, Spider draped an arm around my shoulder and asked if I’d seen anyone I liked, and when I told him I didn’t know, the conversation went from who I might like to what I might like.
“What’s your type?” he asked, “Curls? Brown eyes? Long fingernails?”
“Um…,” I said, and after giving it some more thought, “Nice eyes, I guess. Eyes that are… kind?”
Spider raised an eyebrow.
“What’s your favorite body type? Athletic? Slender? Curvy?”
How do you answer “cuddly” without sounding weird?
“Well,” says Mama, still smiling knowingly, as if she knows anything about what’s going on, “I’ll leave you to it. You know my rules. Say them, please.”
“Aw, Mama—”
“Come on. Humor me.”
I sigh.
“Take protection everywhere. Wrap it up, no matter what. Come to the house before staying somewhere dangerous.”
“And?”
“Get tested if something ain’t right.”
“Very good,” she says, turning toward the stairs and resting her hand on the banister. Her eyes warm, and I can tell she’s about to have a mama moment. But I have to smile as it happens.
“I love you, Juju-bean.”
“Love you too, Mama.” I smile.
I hope that however this puzzle goes, whatever happens, she’ll be proud of me. New fire flares up in my belly. I have to save this garden. Whatever I gotta do—besides cheating—I’ll do it.
I feel a buzz in my pocket and pull out my phone, sitting at the kitchen table to look at the text conversation that’s been flying by without me, and I see a line that stops me cold.
SPIDER: Jax would never approve of this!
I sit up straighter and scroll up until I see a photo.
From Han.
Of what looks like a crumpled-up, rectangular sticker, white, with the corner of an eye peeking out from a folded corner. The symbol of the Order. And it’s sitting in the palm of a white hand peeking out from a worn brown sleeve.
I’d know that brown sleeve anywhere.
Panic sets in as a million questions fly through my mind, least of which being:
What the hell, Han?
and
How could you?
Han
Sometimes it takes me extra time to read emotions, especially in faces.
I’ll look for subtleties in faces that everyone else seems to find with ease. Text messages can be just as tricky. But this time? No subtleties needed. I know.
Everyone’s angry.
I got us the second clue, and I stopped ROYAL from having access to it, like I thought Jax would want, and everyone’s pissed.
At me.
Why?
It all made sense at the time. Made so much sense.
Did you get the real clue, Han?
I had a choice. I could’ve interpreted that so many different ways, and I chose the one that protected the team the most. He asked if I got the real clue, so I got the real clue.
I look down at my bowl of macaroni noodles swimming in cheese that’s too thin to stick to them, and I raise another spoonful to my mouth and look up at the TV. It’s C-SPAN, broadcasting footage of an earlier press conference between the mayor of Seattle and the people. No idea who “the people” are. Which people are they talking about exactly?
I keep watching and find out. Diya Mohan, the mayor, stands up and leans into the mic.
“Thank you all for your attendance and your patience as we bring a quite important topic of discussion to the table. As you are likely aware, we are available now to hear your comments, questions, and concerns surrounding the land use approval for the property at 2424 Gilman Road. The property is six acres. Currently, a community garden. First, we will hear from three representatives of the Duwamish tribe, protectors of natural waterways and ecosystems, and advocates of environmental justice. We welcome your words.”
And then Diya leads those present in applause, relinquishing the mic to a woman with thick, shoulder-length white hair, a navy blue sweater, and a white-and-red beaded necklace.
I eat another bite of macaroni and lean in closer, interested now.
“Good morning,” she says. Disjointed little murmurs of “Good morning” ring out through the room. “My name is Celea Beale, Tribal Council member. The Duwamish people have long advocated for environmental justice. When the Shill Oil Arctic Sea exploration was made public in 2015, we were there to protest. When plastic litter began to affect our waterways and threaten the ecosystems along the Duwamish River, we were there to preserve our ancestral lands. Now our friends and endorsers, the owners and stewards of Love Garden, need our help to protect land that feeds not only communities in Ballard, but eco-communities that nourish Lake Union, Portage Bay, and Union Bay—ecosystems that must be maintained by us—the people. And here we are.”
I can barely hear her over the applause of the crowd, and Mayor Mohan raises a hand for respectful silence.
“We, the people of the Duwamish tribe, have been offered an opportunity to speak with the executives of Roundworld about their plans to protect the environments surrounding this land, and to express our deep and intense concerns about their intentions concerning the ecosystems that their land purchase and use will inevitably disrupt.”
Groans ring out. Dismissive hands fly up in the audience, waving away the idea.
“There can be no peace without justice,” she says, “and there can be no justice without change. There can be no change without action. And the first action we are taking, is this discourse.”
“Fuck Roundworld!” exclaims someone. The mayor seems to tense up at that.
“Why the hell are we talking to them?” comes another voice.
“They’re the enemy!” hollers someone else. My hair stands on end as I realize the audience is angry. All of them. A chorus of voices rises up around the first three into a scrambled mess of sounds. I feel my temperature rising. My hands feel sweaty around my bowl and spoon.
Celea holds up her hand for silence.
“The enemy,” she begins, as calm as ever somehow, “is ignorance.”
The crowd goes silent.
“The enemy is entitlement,” she continues, “and the only way those enemies can win is if we. Stay. Silent.”
Quiet settles into the room for so long that I wonder if the TV’s audio is malfunctioning. But then I hear the shuffling of papers as Celea gathers her speech materials under her arm, leans into the mic one final time, and says, “So we will not…” And then she stares out at the crowd like a teacher rallying her students who have so far shown that they grossly misunderstood the assignment. “We. Will. Not. Stay silent.”
Finally, as calmly as she approached the stand, she leaves.
Another spoonful of macaroni goes into my mouth. I… don’t know how to feel about this. I mean, I’m glad the Duwamish have a say in all of this. They should. It’s their land. But it’s Roundworld they’re up against. What could they possible have to gain by talking with the Duwamish other than to make it look like they actually give a shit about the Duwamish? I feel warm all over, in a bad way. Not in a warm, fuzzy kinda way, but more like a… warm salad. I don’t know. Every time I see the anti-Roundworld protesters, they seem to get angrier and angrier, like a kettle whistling, like it’s needed relief for so long and soon it might explode. I swallow the noodles before muting the TV. It’s just a little too loud in here. But now that the TV’s muted, I realize why. This whole time, my dad’s voice has been on the other side of my door and down the hall, yelling into the phone about something I hadn’t bothered to listen to until now.
“If I lose my spot on the waterway, Jerry, I’m finished, do you hear me?” he practically hollers. I push myself to my feet and crack the door, peeking down the hallway at him. He’s standing with his back turned, in his green flannel shirt and cargo shorts, barefoot, hair a little disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it. The clock on the wall behind him says it’s 10:02 p.m. The door behind him is an olive green, but it looks like brass in the yellow light of the kitchen.
“Well, where the hell am I supposed to get a permit for Lake Washington? Do you know how expensive that is? You want me to just pack everything up and move bodies of water? You think it’s that easy?!”
The hair on my neck prickles. Even though he’s not yelling at me, he’s yelling so loud, it feels like it’s getting warmer and warmer in here. My skin feels uncomfortably hot. The knob on the front door next to him twists and the door swings open, startling me. Kyler steps into the room and sets his backpack down on the kitchen table that’s made of cedar and was a gift from Grandma and Grandpa from their second honeymoon when they went to Anchorage, Alaska, on a cruise that cost $647 per person, flights included—
“You know what, Jerry, fuck you,” Dad spits before jamming his index finger against the screen and tossing the phone toward the couch.
He misses, apparently.
Clang! Bang! Thump!
It eventually lands on the carpet, but not before sending my senses into overdrive. I want to plug my ears, scream, and take a cold shower all at the same time.
“Sounds like you need one of these bad boys,” comes Kyler’s voice as I hear the fridge open somewhere outside my vision, hear bottles clinking together, and see an amber bottle fly into my dad’s hand. Then I hear Kyler’s bottle click and hiss open, and he steps into view, tipping the bottle up almost vertically.
“You know you shouldn’t be drinkin’ that shit,” says Dad, cracking open his own bottle and tipping it up to match him. Unsurprisingly, Kyler downs the whole thing. He’s only nineteen, so he shouldn’t. But he does.
All the time.
Calls it his “medicine,” even. But he knows Dad won’t let him touch his beer, so he gives Dad one while he takes one of his own. It’s smart, but something about it seems… wrong.
Manipulative.
Dad takes a sip and lets out a huge sigh, and enough silence passes that I start thinking about that number again.
934589594853.
Twelve-digit numbers aren’t super common, even in obscure places. A standard calculator has twelve digits. Some gift card codes are twelve digits long. Most UPCs—Universal Product Codes—have twelve digits. I dissect the number format in different ways to see if I can think of anything. I can see them all in my head.
93-45-89-59-48-53. No obvious pattern there.
“So seriously, Dad, are we going to be okay?” comes Kyler’s voice. Dad sighs again and is silent for such a long time.
Such a long time.
So long that Kyler keeps talking.
“I overheard a little. You thought about that loan?”
I listen even closer. What loan?
I hear Dad sigh again, as if he’s thought about it. A lot.
Kyler fills in the silence.
“It wouldn’t be anything crazy. Just enough to get the business back on its feet. A pick-me-up.”
Dad straightens up. I see his hands clamp around his bottle.
“I don’t do loans,” he mutters. But his words are rattling even as he says them. I don’t think he means it. Why don’t people say what they mean?
“But there’s no interest!” explains Kyler, leaning in, his eyes wide and pleading. “It’s an employee benefit, Dad.”
“And I certainly don’t want no loan from Roundworld.”
Dad takes a swig.
I take a deep breath.
A loan. From Roundworld. How did the thing attacking my dad’s livelihood just become the one thing that might save it?
Is Roundworld really the enemy? For my family, I mean?
They’re horrible, I know. They barely pay taxes, push out small businesses, gentrify neighborhoods, and rearrange neighborhoods. But… they also have resources.
Which means Kyler has resources.
I used to think I—and JERICHO—could take down Roundworld with minimal consequences. Kyler might lose his job, but he could easily get another one anywhere. He’s a security wizard. Every company needs one of those.
But… not every company gives their employees interest-free loans.
Dad holds up his hand to Kyler.
“You boys just focus on your studies and your work. That’s your job. You shouldn’t have to worry about mine. I’m a grown man, with grown-man problems.”
“But if you lose this business, you lose this place. And if you lose this place…” He goes quiet, and Dad rests his hands on the back of his head in thought. “Think of Han. Think of what will happen to him.”
“You don’t think I think about Han all the time? About what Catherine would do to that boy? She’s got the patience and compassion of a rabid hyena. I’m not letting my flesh and blood anywhere near her.”
My heart is thudding so fast, I’m afraid I’ll have a heart attack right here in this doorway. At the thought of Mom. At all the memories I have of her. All the… unkindness.
“There has to be something we can do. Something I can do. I could take up some instructor shifts for free on the weekends and—”
“Kyler,” says Dad, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table. He claps his hand on Kyler’s shoulder and rocks it back and forth—his idea of affection. “Don’t you inherit my problems, okay? You just be a kid. If the numbers don’t add up, the numbers don’t add up.”
The numbers.
I look down at the twelve digits again and wonder if I really want to be doing this.
934-589-594-853.
“You’re supposed to be focused on school and fun. That’s it. Let me worry about the rest, okay? Please.”
I shift my weight in the doorway and bump the door, which makes it creak loudly in my ear, which makes Dad turn around in his chair and look down the hall. We lock eyes.
“Hansel, you’re up!” he says with a smile.
I don’t talk right now, so I step out into the hallway and prepare to join them, unable to pull my mind away from those numbers. There has to be some rhyme to them, some reason. But do I even want there to be rhyme or reason to them anymore?
Maybe it’s six and six?
934589-594853.
“Sup, lil’ bro?” asks Kyler, tipping back the last of his beer and getting up to grab another.
“Hey, slow down,” says Dad, but it’s relaxed and soft, not commanding. I don’t think he really cares if Kyler drinks, but he cares that he’s supposed to care.
“Fine,” he sighs in defeat, shutting the fridge again and stepping through the door of the kitchen to the den, where the TV’s playing cartoons.
“Have a seat, son,” says Dad, pulling out Kyler’s chair for me. I sit and slide my phone into my sweatshirt pocket, flipping it over and over in my palm. I stare at him as he takes another swig. He doesn’t drink too much, but he drinks at the wrong times. Happy people drink at special occasions. Dad drinks to feel better.
And that’s probably a bad thing.
“What’s up with you lately?” he asks me. The emphasis is on the word “you,” not “up,” and he’s smiling, so I’m going to assume he means to ask “What’s up with you lately?” as in “Tell me what’s going on in your life,” and not “What’s up with you lately?” as in “Something’s weird about you these days.”
It matters, because I know to smile back instead of looking confused.
His smile falls a bit, probably because he realizes I’m nonverbal right now.
“Still not talking,” he says, drinking again. That hurts. He said it like it’s a choice.
I look down at my lap and wish I hadn’t come out here.
“Sorry,” he says. “I meant… well, it doesn’t matter what I meant. It matters what I said. I’m sorry.”
I say nothing.
9-3-4-5-8-9-5-9-4-8-5-3.
“Listen,” he says, suddenly pushing the half-full bottle just a few inches away from him. The sound of the scraping jolts my mind away the numbers and back to the moment. “I’m sure you overheard some of what your brother and I were talking about, and I just wanted to tell you that you have nothing to worry about.”
I stare at him, expressionless, intentionally. Dad’s business is going under, but I have nothing to worry about? My dad and brother might have a drinking problem, but I have nothing to worry about? I haven’t seen or heard from Mom since she left six years ago after she decided Kyler and I weren’t worth her freedom, but I have nothing to worry about?
If Dad’s business goes under, I have to go live with her, but I have nothing to worry about?
“So, listen,” he says. “I know things are tight right now. But just try to be a kid, okay?”
I can’t tell my dad that I do cryptology, because of my role in it. If I were logicking out clues like Jax, or hacking into things like Spider, or even swinging across scaffolding like Yas, it might be different.
How do I tell my dad that I’m into creeping around in the shadows of Seattle—the underground—and not the touristy underground? The air vents, the sewers, the subway tunnels, the hidden doorways and abandoned buildings most people don’t know about. As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about.
“Promise me you’ll focus on being a kid, okay?” he asks, resting his warm hand on my forearm. “I want you to watch TV and hang with your friends and eat processed food and play Pokémon Go.”
I nod at him, but my mind is elsewhere.
9345-8959-4853.
And then it all clicks, like a beautiful twelve-piece puzzle in my head. Three sets of four numbers. That looks like…
No way.
I pull my phone out of my pocket so fast, it almost slips out of my hand. I can’t get the app re-downloaded fast enough. My fingers are shaking as I type the twelve-digit number into the Pokémon Go trainer code friend-request box, and a message pops up almost instantly.
ThirtyFoods98004 accepted your Friend Request!
Then a private message that says:
