The Jump, page 2
ME: Thanks!
I jump and I’m off, sprinting around the side of the house to the front.
“Bye, Mama!” I holler to the front door.
“Jax, did you go out the window again?” asks Zaza, who surprises me by walking out from the other side of the house straining under the weight of a basket full of something else heavy, which reminds me about my deal.
“Hey, Zaza, can I bring three zucchinis to school?”
“Only if you promise you’ll remember the plural of zucchini is zucchini,” they say, grinning. They wink a brown eye at me and pull a folded reusable grocery bag from their pocket. “Go grab ’em off the counter.”
“Thanks.” I grin, bolting back through the front door to find Mama sitting at the table, crocheting again.
“Jax!” she says, jumping at my sudden burst into the room.
“Sorry, Mama,” I say, darting to the kitchen counter and stuffing three zucchini into my canvas bag. “Gotta bring these to Spider for a clue trade.”
Mama stands and folds her arms, which are covered from wrist to elbow in tattoo sleeves, and smiles at me.
“Tell Spider hi for me. You sure you don’t want to take some cucumbers, too? We just picked some out back—”
“You’re really bad at negotiating, Mama.”
She shakes her head and steps forward, resting a hand gently at the back of my head and pulling me into a warm embrace.
“Negotiation isn’t everything, Juju,” she says. “Life isn’t give and take. It’s give and give.”
“Yeah, you right,” I say with a nod. “Can I go to school now?”
She smirks.
“Sure, school, right. You’re this excited for ‘school,’ ” she chuckles. “Just make sure wherever you’re headed this morning, you make it to class on time, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, a little pang of guilt finding its way into my throat, knowing I’m lying to Mama’s face. I’m already guaranteed to be late, whether I make this bus or not. The question is, how late. I turn back to the door.
“And say goodbye to your zaza before you go, okay? They missed your goodbye yesterday and it ruined their whole day.”
“Not my fault they were taking a piss when I left!” I laugh.
“Juju!” she says, throwing a nearby dish towel at me.
“Fine.” I grin and toss it back. “But I gotta go!”
“All right,” she says, and once I’ve darted back out onto the porch: “I love you!”
“Love you too, Mama! Bye! Bye, Zaza!”
Zaza is bending down to water the herb pots on the porch, but extends a hand up to wave goodbye.
“Love you, Juju!” they say, wiping their beard with the scarf around their neck.
I turn and focus on trying to run with this zucchini bouncing at my hip. The E bus to school comes every ten minutes, but the C bus, which drops off right around the corner from Post Alley Court, comes every twenty, and it’s parked at the corner. I hear the hiss of it kneeling as a passenger in a wheelchair rolls through the back door, and the hiss of it standing again.
“Hold the bus!” I holler. I have to make it to Post Alley first. If Han figured out the abbreviation from the voicemail—as much of a genius as he is—others may have found it too, and how am I supposed to let a bunch of people beat me—Jax Michael—captain of Team JERICHO—lead admin of the Vault Cryptology Forum—in an amateur puzzle like this one?
The bus’s hazard lights shut off just as I reach the door. I grab the handrail and swing myself up through the door and it slams closed behind me.
My lungs are on fire, and I lean against the wall to catch my breath for a minute.
“You got two twenty-five?” demands the driver. I open my eyes and look at her. Her eyes are flashing at me like I definitely don’t have it, and that I’m trying to ride the bus for free, and that I’m costing them tax dollars. I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, I got it,” I say, feeling around in my pockets for my wallet, and then gasp as I realize I left it at my desk. I can picture it, next to my mouse.
We’re stopped at the light.
“I, uh…,” I say, “I swear I have an ORCA card in my wallet at home with thirty dollars on it, I just—”
“You know the rules, son, g’on.”
The doors hiss open. I glance over my shoulder at the passengers. The bus is mostly empty except for three: a tired-looking mom in a beanie, breastfeeding a baby and keeping her eyes on the window to avoid conversation, and two men sitting in the front rows across the aisle from each other, both typing away furiously on laptops. All refuse to look at me, so I look back at the driver.
“Please, ma’am, can I pay twice next time? I swear—”
“Off!” she snaps. “Light’s green, I gotta go!”
“Hey!” hollers a familiar voice from behind me, and a figure bursts through the door, caramel-colored arm outstretched holding… my wallet!
I grab it before I notice who’s on the other end, and I’m suddenly staring into the warm eyes of my zaza.
“That makes twice this month, Jax. Keep it up and I won’t need a gym membership,” they say, giving me another wink and stepping off the bottom step onto the sidewalk again.
“Thanks, Zaza,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. What would I do without them? Without Mama loading my card before I even remember I’m about to run out? “Thanks a million.”
Zaza is too out of breath to reply, but their smile says enough as they wave and the doors close. The bus hisses as it moves, back on the road to downtown. I swipe my ORCA card and find a seat toward the front, in the row behind one of the businessmen—techies. They’ve each got a blue badge dangling at their hip, so they probably work in South Lake Union. They’re both so glued to their laptop screens—working before they get to work—they didn’t even look at me when I walked past them. Probably thought I’d ask them for a handout or something.
I roll my eyes, slide my wallet into my pocket, and lean my head against the window.
And then I notice it.
A sticker clinging to the top left corner of the window with a picture of an eye. Not just any eye. I’d know that eye anywhere. It’s the same symbol as the one on my desktop. It’s the symbol of the Order.
My heart flutters, and I can’t help but smile. Anytime I see that eye, it reminds me that justice exists. That equity is possible. Why? Because the Order has power. No one knows who they are, or why they do what they do. But they first appeared several years ago, just a few years before I started the Vault.
Everything the Vault is, everything the Vault stands for, is modeled after the Order.
The rules of the Vault? Exactly the rules of the Order.
The law must be obeyed, especially by those in power.
Rules must be followed, especially by those in power.
Fellow humans must be respected, especially by those in power.
The Order are the OG cryptologists. They’ll hack into anything for any cause they deem worthy. My little corner of the internet could only dream of measuring up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
YAS: Race ya
Dammit. Of course, the parkour master herself is going to race me to this last clue.
ME: You’re on
I try to be a good sport when I’m about to lose, especially when it’s to a friend, especially Yas.
YAS: Too easy. You on the E line? I’ll meet you downtown after I win.
ME: Nah, I’ll meet you at school after I win.
I lean my head against the seat and sigh, staring at the ceiling the whole way there, willing this bus to move faster.
Yas
I’m about to jump off a building.
Literally.
Why? Because it’s fun.
But first, I say a quick bismillah and sprint down Pine Street toward the market, past Westlake Park, which isn’t really a park at all. It’s an empty stretch of concrete at 4th and Pine with a fountain through the middle. It’s beautiful, yes, but calling it a park just feels wrong. There’s not a blade of grass to be seen, not that one could tell today. I can’t see the ground, because it’s covered inch-to-inch in shoes—shoes that belong to protesters holding signs and hollering into the cold Seattle air.
“Renewables! Now! Renewables! Now! Renewables! Now!”
I know better than to run while distracted, but I can’t help it. I glance at a few signs when I can as I dodge pedestrians.
KEEP SEATTLE CLEAN!
NO REFINERIES!
NOT IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!
And one sign with a giant planet Earth being impaled by a fracking derrick, with a red circle and a slash through it and a caption underneath that reads, “Humanity is a plague.”
That doesn’t sit well with me. Sure, most of us use way too much plastic and don’t conserve water as much as we should, but there are people whose cultures are directly tied to protecting the earth. Like the Duwamish tribe. If it weren’t for them, ecosystems across Puget Sound would be in major jeopardy.
Into Pike Place Market I fly, weaving between clusters of tourists—people pushing strollers and holding hands with their sweethearts, clutching bouquets bursting with red and pink, and cups of coffee from the very first Starbucks.
I don’t run into a single one of them.
I’m on a mission, and I’ve done this too many times to make a mistake.
I dart into an alley and leap up onto a dumpster. From here, I jump and grab the lowest bar of a metal staircase, swing my feet up, and launch my body up over the bar onto the platform. I bolt up the stairs, my soft-bottomed shoes making so little noise, I’m not even concerned that I’m trespassing. I leap up onto the roof and sprint the length of the building, flying past all the tourists below. My white hijab and gray sweater camouflage me against the cloudy sky, and besides, everyone’s too busy shopping to notice me.
I race to the end of the building and hurl myself across the gap to the next roof.
Don’t think.
Just make the jump.
My feet find the wall on the other side, my hands find the very edge of the roof, and I bounce myself up and over and take off running again.
I count the alleys.
Just now, I ran up the staircase in the first alley, leapt over the second, and I slip down into the third via another staircase. I feel my phone in my pocket, which is why I wear semi-tight but extremely stretchy pants. I need ultimate flexibility, but I also need to be able to feel texts against my thigh.
PAC North Side, the voicemail said.
The staircase I’m standing on descends into Post Alley Court—a long strip of alleyway through the middle of Pike Place Market, the spot with the fresh produce, and the brewery that leads through to Third Street. Just out of smell-shot from the infamously minty, sickeningly sweet gum wall. My feet hit the ground, and I take a deep breath so I don’t look or sound like I’ve been sprinting across rooftops for the last two minutes. I step out into the crowds, and my eyes scan.
I’m looking for the mark.
The Vault—the cryptology forum I head up with Jax, Han, and Spider—bears a symbol that we all know well. A round vault door with a plus-shaped handle and a cobra wrapped around it.
It’s usually on a lamppost or a mailbox or some other piece of public property—always someplace that corresponds to the host team’s name. The DUCKLORDS team is hosting this week’s puzzle, so the sticker should be on something related to water.
Every team has its signature. JERICHO’s is—predictably—walls. Or rather, any surface derived from earth. Stone. Concrete. Brick. Clay. Soil.
That’s us. Naturally strong together.
My mind turns the next part of the clue over and over.
Chromedome.
Chromedome.
Chromedome.
Something related to R2-D2? Nah, too easy.
And then there’s the next part.
Clean up them thoughts.
CUTT.
Cutters? Like the expensive crab place down the street? Nope, that’s like ten minutes away, from even the northernmost part of Post Alley. It’s probably not an acronym, then. I sigh in frustration. I’m good at what I do—sprinting like a jungle cat through the city with ease—though I’m no cryptologist. But I glance around and see no sign of Jax anywhere.
Which is great, because now I stand a chance at beating him to the answer.
I navigate the crowds and keep my eyes moving for anything related to the terms “chromedome” or “Clean up them thoughts,” turning sideways to slide past tourists. Since so many Seattle residents are new arrivals, it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference between them and the tourists. But there are some dead giveaways. Protest getup, for one. Tourists don’t usually protest unless they’ve specifically traveled to Seattle to protest, in which case, I wouldn’t lump them in with everyone here to visit the Space Needle and hike Rainier. Two people my age walk past me with what looks like makeshift blue warpaint, with sleeveless white shirts that read “Fuck your refinery” in what looks like hot pink Sharpie.
Residents, pretty sure.
I smile at them, but I can’t see their eyes behind their sunglasses.
They seem distracted too—they ignore me. Maybe they just didn’t see me. In any case, I’m on their side. Abba’s store in South Lake Union is already suffering from rent hikes. The industrial truck delivery route included in the refinery proposal would jam up Westlake Avenue with traffic even worse than it is now, which would spell trouble for letting Abba’s customers through.
Two more protesters walk past me, one wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and a shirt that says “The Order sees.”
Okay, so this person clearly isn’t a member of the Order, the extremely secretive, exclusive group bent on bringing to justice the untouchable elite. The group that’s never been identified. They wouldn’t be caught in public with a T-shirt like that, even with a mask. What if they’re arrested or something? Mask confiscated. Cover blown.
Still, I wish the protesters success. I’m counting on them, since Abba would verbally tear me apart if he found out I was out there with signs, throwing tear-gas canisters back at law enforcement and dodging sprays of mace. Which I’m not. But he’d probably freak out if he knew I was out here climbing fire escapes and clearing gaps between buildings on foot too. So would Mama and Ranya.
Of course, we’re all scared of this refinery going up. We know what it would mean for the store. But then why am I the only one in my family out here wanting to do something about it?
I try to focus again. I have to if JERICHO is going to win this puzzle. It takes all of us. Chromedome. Clean up them thoughts.
I reach Pine Street, pull off to the corner, and stop.
As much as I’m used to sprinting across buildings, I’ve been doing this cryptology thing long enough to know that sometimes when you’re out of ideas, you need to just stop, breathe, and observe, and the ideas will come to you. What do I see?
I see brick and stucco buildings all around me and cobblestone on the ground. The Pike Place Market sign is far behind me, the open-air market tents and tables lined with fresh produce and flower bouquets bursting with reds and pinks and purples, and to my right, a place called Rachel’s Ginger Beer that I’ve never been to but seen a million times. I see a restaurant above it called Steelhead Diner, and I see the big blue Post Alley sign above my head, signaling that I’m at the northernmost point.
Chromedome, I think quietly, inviting an answer to come to me.
I see nothing chrome around here. In fact, the only metal in the area is this railing blocking off steps down to someone’s basement, and the little blue newspaper box next to me with nothing in it. A quick walk around them yields no Vault sticker.
Chromedome. Clean up them thoughts.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look over to see glistening brown eyes looking back at me.
“Sup, Yas,” says Jax, stepping past me and keeping his gaze moving, which tells me he’s no further along in this puzzle than I am, despite how calm and collected he tries to seem.
“Nice of you to join us elites, Jax,” I tease.
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun. Now, where were we with this ‘chromedome’ stuff? This mailbox looks kinda like R2, I guess,” he says, looking around it.
“I checked. Dead end.”
“Dammit. By the way, I could’ve been ahead of you guys if it weren’t for the bus hitting every light on the way here.”
I roll my eyes, even though I know he’s right. Jax pulls his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands and sticks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, like he always does when he’s thinking.
“Maybe we need to get creative with this,” he says to himself. I realize with each word he says next that I’m in for a long Jax-brand soliloquy. “What else could ‘chromedome’ mean? ‘Chromedome,’ assuming it’s all one word, has ten letters. Does that mean anything? Probably not. Backward, it’s ‘emodemorhc.’ Nonsense. Maybe it’s a euphemism? Chromedome? Metalhead? Is there a concert venue around here? All I know of is the Crocodile, but that’s well into Belltown, about a twenty-minute walk from here by sidewalk, or ten minutes by rooftop…”
Hearing the word “rooftop,” I look up and stare at the Steelhead Diner sign absentmindedly, letting my eyes glaze over as I dissect the word.
And then it clicks.
Chromedome.
Metalhead.
Or… Steelhead?
My heart thunders. This is why I do this. This feeling I get, once I’ve locked in on something.
Progress.
“Maybe it’s an acronym?” continues Jax. “Calling Home, Reeling Over Medical Emergencies—”
“Nope,” I say. “I’ve got the chromedome part.”
“You what?” he snaps. “How?”
Looks like the puzzle master has been out-puzzled. I know I got lucky his bus took forever, and that he was thinking out loud so I could follow along; otherwise this situation would likely be reversed.
“You wanna trade something for that intel?” I grin.
“Uh,” he says, flashing the most charming smile, “I’ve got this award-winning grin of mine.”
