The Jump, page 12
THE NEXT CLUE IS UNSTEALABLE.
THE ORDER SEES.
FIND THE BAR ON THE GOPI.
GET YOUR PHONE AND SAY CHEESE.
My heart is racing. I’m so excited, specifically excited to share it with the team! How many other teams have figured out that the twelve-digit number is a Pokémon Go code? Nobody even plays that game anymore. Nobody my age anyway. Nobody except Spider. Which means I’m probably the only person who’s figured this out. Just me so far.
I’m first!
“Han, everything okay?” my dad asks, startling me. Honestly, I forgot he was in the room. I nod, not looking up from my phone, and he chuckles, “Whelp, I wanted you and your brother to be regular teenagers. Guess that means being on your phone all the time, huh?”
I can barely concentrate with him talking at the same time, but I fight it, opening my messages to find a few recent ones from the team.
JAX: Han, what the hell?
SPIDER: No idea where he is.
YAS: Leave him alone. We’ll just have to share the picture of the clue on the forum to prove we’re not here to cheat.
SPIDER: We’ll need an explanation for why a member of our team took it.
JAX: He took it because he chose to take it, not because it’s what Jericho does.
Rage rips through me. Who does Jax think he is? I took the clue because he was unclear. Actually, who do any of these people think they are? Without me, they might never have found the trash bin clue in the first place. Without me tagging Kyler, they never would’ve gotten footage of the first clue. And now, as I’m sitting here with the third clue in my hands, I purse my lips and click off my phone.
The phone goes back into my pocket.
I go back to my room.
And I decide that as soon as school is out tomorrow, I’ll be in my Camry on my way to a grocery store for clue number three.
In zip code 98004, like the Pokémon Go username said.
Alone.
Spider
I blink my eyes awake, and the first thing I see is the sky outside my window, turning orange with the sunrise. I left the window open, so there’s dew on my forehead, or sweat, can’t figure out which, but it’s hot under all these blankets. Or I’ve had night sweats. Yup. Yuck. Definitely night sweats. I peel the covers off and roll to my side, thinking about that number again.
I tried everything. I googled it, of course. I called it like a phone number. I called it with several different country codes in front of it. I plugged it into my phone’s calculator and looked at it upside down. I even checked it against public library records to see if anyone had that library card number. I checked inmate records. I checked dumpster codes—too easy. I matched up the numbers with the letters of the alphabet and tried to rearrange them.
All turned up empty.
I sigh, pulling out my phone, since I’ve got nothing else to do this early.
6:23 a.m. Wednesday. I don’t have to be up for school for another hour, since I showered last night and don’t need to this morning, so I get cozy and listen to the birds chirping outside as I read through the messages I missed last night.
JAX: Has anyone checked if the number is prime?
YAS: Tried already, 934589594853 is divisible by 3.
JAX: Dammit. Wait. What if they want us to divide it by 3? Since this will lead us to clue number 3?
YAS: That’s a reach.
JAX: You got a better idea?
YAS: That’s 311529864951. Any significance?
YAS: Jax?
JAX: Hold on! Give me a second to think!
Jesus Christ, why is everyone so on edge? Jax and Yas have been at each other’s throats since the last clue—I’m not getting into the middle of that—and Han is mysteriously missing. Although, I guess we can’t really blame him. Who would want to come back to their whole team angry them for a mistake they made? And I know it’s a misunderstanding. Han wouldn’t steal clues. Not intentionally. This shit Jax is spittin’ is straight-up character assassination, and I won’t hear it.
Just in time, a notification pops up from Pokémon Go that reads Jumpcutxx accepted your friend request! A warm, fuzzy feeling sinks into my chest. Jumpcutxx and I have been talking since we met in person at PAX West last year. He only joined Pokémon Go two days ago, so yesterday I gave him my twelve-digit…
My heart stops.
There’s a lump in my throat.
Is this what a stroke feels like?
I feel like everything I’ve ever eaten is rushing into my legs.
The twelve-digit code! Could it be…?
No way…
I plug it into Pokémon Go.
ThirtyFoods98004 accepted your Friend Request!
And then:
THE NEXT CLUE IS UNSTEALABLE.
THE ORDER SEES.
FIND THE BAR ON THE GOPI.
GET YOUR PHONE AND SAY CHEESE.
Messages fly between Jax and Yas so fast that I only catch a few.
YAS: You’re the logic guy on this time, and this puzzle was your idea in the first place! Why are you all pressed now that I’m telling you to move faster?
JAX: Oh, that’s what this is all about! You’ve been against this puzzle from the beginning!
YAS: I want to save Abba’s store from Roundworld just as much as you want to save your Mama’s garden. I’m just not willing to sell out to ANOTHER multinational power to do it, least of all a secretive, unverified vigilante group!
JAX: You know what? I’m dipping out. I need time away from you. Until you get your shit sorted, don’t talk to me.
YAS: FINE.
JAX: FINE.
Between the stress of realizing I’m the first one to this next clue, and being caught between the Days-of-Our-Lives-ass drama unfolding in my messages, my adrenal glands don’t know what the hell to do. So, I take a deep breath, try to center myself, and unravel what this rhyme might mean.
THE NEXT CLUE IS UNSTEALABLE.
How can a clue be unstealable unless it’s locked somehow? It must be locked digitally—online. My department. Or there must be multiples of the same clue…? Ooh, maybe they’re getting clever on us.
THE ORDER SEES.
Well, of course they do.
FIND THE BAR ON THE GOPI.
Like a bar bar? As in a twenty-one-and-older bar? I mean, I’m sure I could cook up a fake ID for one of us. Maybe Yas, since she’s the oldest. And maybe the most mature. But on the other hand, after her drama with Jax, neither of them are acting more mature than I am. At least I still have my head in the game.
Focus, Spider, focus!
Some quick googling tells me that “Gopi” is both a Sanskrit word referring to one of the wives of Gopa of Braj, and the name of a character from Saath Nibhaana Saathiya!—an Indian TV drama series.
Speaking of drama, I get a private text from Jax.
JAX: Yo, man, I’m sorry Yas can’t set aside her superstitions enough to focus on this puzzle that’s so important to all of us. Did you find anything? I’ve looked at this number backward and forward, and the logic man has come up empty. :(
Oh god, what do I say? Yes, I found something? And then what happens when Yas finds out I told Jax and not her? Before I even have time to think this through, I get another message.
YAS: Spider, Jax is clearly going through some personal things. Can you see if any sequence in the number pulls up online?
Fuck.
They’ve both made it very clear that they want to work solo with me. I’m now split between a private chat with each of them. They can’t possibly expect me to pick a side here….
What if I just… announce my findings in the group chat? We’re a team, after all! But Han might take that info and run with it on his own. Jax and Yas wouldn’t work together under these circumstances, which would mean each of us four would be working alone.
And I’m no puzzler.
The worst-possible scenario.
I have to choose.
But then I think of a third option.
ME: Hey, Han, you okay? I know what happened back there—it was a big misunderstanding. Sorry about everything that’s going on. Do you want to work together?
Minutes go by, turning into what feel like hours.
No texts.
No read receipt.
Nothing.
I’m back to Jax and Yas, texting me separately.
JAX: Well?
YAS: Spider?
I shut my eyes.
GET YOUR PHONE AND SAY CHEESE.
All I’ve deduced so far is that we’re going to a bar with fake IDs and taking a selfie. No idea which bar. No idea what kind of selfie, or what to do with the picture once we’ve taken it.
I need help.
From a puzzler. Not a parkourist. My heart hurts. Everything hurts. Yas is my best friend. She’s been there for me through my worst days, when I felt like no one else understood me. But I need Jax’s help to logic all of this out. Which bar? What selfie? What the hell does the clue mean by “Gopi”?
I heave a deep sigh, and with unsteady fingers, I type.
ME: It’s a Pokémon Go trainer number
JAX: What?
ME: The number. I sent a friend request to that number in the app, and I got an accepted notice. Told y’all that game is still relevant!
JAX: Bet. You win. Did the Pokémon trainer with that number have a name?
ME: Actually, yeah.
I pull it up.
ME: ThirtyFoods98004.
JAX: Thirty Foods like the grocery store? In zip code 98004?
ME: Any grocery stores you know with a bar?
JAX: A salad bar maybe!
Ooh. See? This is why I need him.
ME: That’s in Bellevue! Think we’ll find a clue about a “Gopi”?
JAX: That’s the part I can’t figure out. But at least we know where to look. Meet me there today after school?
I feel a lump form in my throat.
ME: We inviting Yas?
Jax takes a while to reply, those three dots appearing and disappearing over and over and over before I finally get a response.
JAX: She clearly isn’t into this puzzle like we are.
I blink in surprise to hear Jax be so cutthroat about it. He’s usually… I don’t know… softer. I’m not so sure this puzzle isn’t bringing out the worst in him, either. I start typing out “Wow, really?” But before I can:
JAX: I hate to be so harsh, but this puzzle is serious. Only the most deserving, remember? If Yas didn’t want to do this, she should’ve sat this one out. Besides, do we really need a parkourist in a grocery store? Over a logician, a hacker, and a… well… basically a shape-shifter?
ME: Do we even know if Han will be there?
Another long pause.
JAX: It’s a Pokémon Go friend request code. He might have figured it out.
He’s probably right. But this still feels wrong. A table needs four legs to stand at its strongest. Keeping Yas out of this makes something in my stomach turn sour. I send the text before I can convince myself this is a bad idea.
ME: See you at 3:30.
I flop back on my bed and shut my eyes, thinking.
I hope Yas will understand.
And then a thought flies in from left field and hits me in the face. Something about Pokémon Go. I love the game, still, even though it feels like I’m the only one sometimes. But… wouldn’t the Order know about its decline in popularity? Hiding a clue in Pokémon Go is like putting clues in an episode of Lost. Nobody’s going to find that.
Why would a group like the Order bury such a thing? Are they really that out of touch?
Just as I pick up my phone to do some research into the popularity of Pokémon Go, how long the Order has been around, and maybe even try one more time to dig up some dirt on the people behind it, I hear a soft voice from the other side of my door.
“Marco.”
Tae-Jin Hyung?
“Polo,” I say, sitting up in bed as the door swings open.
“Hey,” says Tae-Jin Hyung. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, then leans against it. He sighs, and I study his face. His eyes look a bit red, and his cheeks a bit paler than usual.
“Okay, are you going to make me ask?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says, “especially so early in the morning.”
He’s so serious. Way more serious than usual. Did somebody die? Did something happen?
“Is it Umma?” I ask, feeling my body tense up. I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, but before I can hop down and dart out the door, Tae-Jin Hyung raises his hand.
“No no, she’s fine! It’s my sister.”
“Tae-yeon? Is she okay?”
The last time I saw Tae-yeon, she was tiny. Tae-jin Hyung and his mother had just come in from the train station, one suitcase each. Umma called me down from my room and explained that they needed some food, a place to stay, and a job for Tae-jin Hyung while he studied for his computer programming degree.
By the end of the day, Tae-jin Hyung had papers, his mom had a room with another family across the street who worked for us, and little Tae-yeon had new clothes, bottles, and a crib. It wasn’t too hard. I’m part of an online no-buy group that gives away baby stuff all the time.
“Is Tae-yeon okay?” I ask, hoping it’s nothing dire.
“My umma took her to the hospital last night. Stomach problems. Didn’t say a word to the staff. Then she left her there.”
“Your mom left Tae-yeon at the hospital? Alone? Why? Which hospital?”
“Rainierview,” he says, staring at the floor, shaking his head. Then his voice begins to break. “She said she was afraid they would get reported to immigration if they found out her name. Now I don’t know how to get Tae-yeon back. She’s a patient without a name or history, as far as the staff are concerned. I tried calling, but they wouldn’t give me information over the phone, since I’m just some guy claiming to be her brother. I didn’t even know if I could give them my name without them reporting us. I… I don’t know what to do.”
He looks up at me.
“I don’t know anyone more clued in to immigration laws around here than you. How… how easy would it be to forge a birth certificate?”
Before I can jump in with You absolutely don’t want to do that, Tae-Jin Hyung holds up his hands to ask me to let him finish.
“I know it’s illegal. I’m not asking you to make one—I’d make it myself—just… how much time am I looking at if I get caught?”
“Tae-Jin Hyu—”
“Please, Daeshim, just tell me,” he says. “I have to get her back.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, pulling out my phone and opening the internet app. Some quick searching pulls up an article about Rainierview—specifically, the CEO, Dreeny Finch, explaining Rainierview’s resistance against ICE.
“ ‘We work to provide patients care,’ ” I read out loud. “ ‘Not to enforce immigration laws.’ ”
Tae-Jin Hyung doesn’t look convinced.
“You don’t have to worry,” I say. “Hospitals everywhere are resisting having to report info to the feds.”
“You trust them?” he asks.
“No,” I explain, “I trust incentives. Hospitals have no reason to report you. It’s extra work they wouldn’t get paid for, and it would deter patients from seeking care. I promise you won’t have a problem. Besides, you still have that Washington license, right?”
He nods. “I just haven’t used it anywhere. Anywhere that would have it recorded anyway. Just to get ID’d at bars and stuff.”
“So it’s been working,” I say with a grin, latching onto that bit of pride. Something I made has been working! I never get tired of that feeling.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Should I use a different one at the hospital, though?”
“If it’d give you some peace of mind,” I say. “Pick a name. I’ll make you one.”
He pauses for a moment and then nods at me, but before he can say anything, I cut in.
“Take your time and think about it. Picking a name is important. Even if it’s just for an, um… interim license.”
“Thanks, man,” he says.
I nod and smile, and then I sigh and realize he’s still shaken from this whole thing. And who wouldn’t be? His sister, who’s only three or so by now, is alone at a hospital surrounded by strangers, and he doesn’t know if he has the right to go pick her up because of our fucked-up immigration laws.
“Hey,” I say. “You know Ah-young?”
Nice girl. Washes dishes and keeps to herself, doesn’t say much.
He nods.
“She came with no papers. I won’t tell you much more of her business, but… if I can get papers for her, I can get papers for you. And for Tae-yeon. Promise.”
He smiles and nods again. I know the kitchen staff talk when I’m not there, and I hope they all know…
“You can trust me.”
* * *
Thirty Foods is like Disneyland but for food. When we step in through the spotless sliding glass doors, there are about two hundred identical yellow shopping carts—also spotless—advertising organic cucumbers for $1.49 each.
Each.
I could get a whole McDonald’s cheeseburger for that. A deluxe cheeseburger if I wanted. Or I could just get a whole bag of ’em from Jax for a little extra intel.
“Can you believe this shit?” I ask him. “You know, if this all goes under, Mama could always open up her own Thirty Foods. Call it ‘Mama’s Garden Party.’ ”
“Because the rich hate it when we party?”
“Exactly,” I say, lowering my voice a little as we walk past a woman pushing a cart out through the door in Birkenstocks, harem pants, and a shirt that says Don’t ask me why I’m a vegan, ask yourself why you aren’t. Her curly blond hair is tied into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her huge round glasses look… expensive.
Meaning she probably paid hundreds of dollars to look that bohemian.
Her chubby toddler is kicking his legs in the seat at the front of the cart with both fists between slobbery gums and lips, but he’s smiling at me as he’s wheeled past.
The mom isn’t, though.
She’s looking at Jax—in his gray hoodie, jeans, and sneakers—like he might be lost. Like he might be in the wrong store. Like he might be here to steal something because, frankly, neither of us are dressed like we can afford anything here anyway. She has no idea she’s looking at a fellow vegan, who’s just as passionate about animals as she is, if not more so, who volunteers at an animal shelter and is walking into this store to progress further in a game in which the prize is the possible overthrowing of an oil refinery and the salvation of his mother’s community garden.
