Latitude Zero (8 page)

14

BREATHING HARD,
I half limped, half lurched into my mom’s studio. The guy at the door had left, and my mom was glued to her computer. She didn’t even seem to hear me come in. She was going through proofs of seniors’ graduation pictures; the packages had to be delivered to clients soon, and she’d been stressing about it. Now it pained me to see all those smiling kids in their caps and gowns. Kids sailing on to their promising futures, without a care in the world.

What would my graduation portrait look like next year? Would I still look haunted from being the cause of Juan Carlos’s death? No amount of Photoshop could remove that scar.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” my mom said, still clicking on proofs. “How are we feeling?”

“Better. I took the ibuprofen you left me.”

She turned in her chair and looked at me with real concern. “And emotionally? I know you took the news of that crash hard yesterday. I heard you crying in your room late last night.” She scooted her office chair over to me and held my hand. Squeezed it. “It’s hard. I know. You knew this guy. And he was so young . . . oh, Tessa. I’m sorry you have to deal with all this. It’s an enormous burden.”

You have no idea
. “I’m okay,” I managed to say, extracting my hand from hers. I didn’t feel like sharing an emotional moment with my mom over this right now. I couldn’t explain to her why el Cóndor’s death had hit me so hard. “The back door to the garage was open.”

“What? Are you sure? That’s strange.”

“I know. Do you think Dad might have opened it this morning? Or recently?”

“I don’t know if we even remember where the key is. But maybe. I’ll ask.” She sent him a quick text on her phone. “Did you hear anything unusual outside last night?”

“No. Nothing.”

My dad’s reply chimed in, jolting me, an instant reminder of the creepy texts I’d gotten yesterday afternoon.

“He says he didn’t touch the door,” said my mom. “Gosh, I hope we don’t have a neighborhood prowler. Did anything seem to be missing?”

“Nothing. But you should check, too, just in case.”

“I’ll do it now. And I’ll call the police and report a break-in.”

As she did so, I took a seat at the extra desk across the room and twirled in the swivel chair, gazing at all the portraits of babies, kids, and families on the walls.

Who could have come by and worked their way in? And why the garage, of all places?

Why not the house? Or this studio, with its expensive camera and computer equipment?

I thought of my usual nocturnal visitor. Jake wasn’t the type to break and enter. Or was he? I’d also never pegged him as the type to leave his girlfriend by the side of a road, stuck between a madman in the woods and an approaching cyclone of cyclists.

But what would Jake be looking for? All I had of his were some CDs, two shirts, and some cycling books, and he knew those were all in my room. I didn’t even have my own car yet. There was no reason for him to poke around in our garage.

I rubbed my forehead, as if to erase these crazy thoughts. We’d been randomly targeted for a break-in, just like that text spam I got on my phone was random. Bad luck. And everything was rattling my nerves since the crash.

My mom squeezed a little squeak toy she used to make babies laugh. “Hey! I’m talking here.”

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“The police will come by this afternoon to take a report.”

“Great.” I felt dizzy. Police would be coming. Why did I feel like they were going to lead me away in handcuffs, for killing Juan Carlos?

“Also, I’m sending in a check to Chain Reaction today, to cover your fundraising minimum.”

“Wow, that’s really generous of you. Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s not a gift. You’re going to be paying me back in weekly installments. Time to start looking for a summer job, kiddo.”

I kicked the floor and spun the chair around. “I have a summer job. With
KidVision
.”

“That money all goes to your college fund. You’ll need to find something on top of that. Maybe we can brainstorm a list of places you can apply to work.”

I stopped spinning. I stared at her. It was like she was talking in another language. I had
killed
Juan Carlos, for God’s sake. I didn’t care about getting a job.

It took me a moment to remember she didn’t know the whole story.

I looked away from her intense gaze and stared at the photo above the desk instead, a picture that had always fascinated and disturbed me. It was a black-and-white image of ramshackle homes—slums, really—clinging to a steep hill. I never understood why she hung something like that in a children’s photography studio. It was kind of depressing.

“I have an idea,” my mom said in that bright, chirpy voice that usually signaled an idea I would not like. “Why don’t you work for me this summer? Don’t give me that look. I really could use an assistant. You could pay off your debt to me. With your time.”

I pictured a summer spent making silly faces at kids to get them to smile, tickling babies with feather dusters, cleaning up Cheerios and puke, all the while tormented by endless replay memories of my bike crash, of Juan Carlos sprawled on the ground. “Thanks. But no, thanks.”

“Why not? It’d be fun. You and me. Working together. Bonding.” My mom patted my unhurt leg. “I’m just happy you’ve ended it with Jake and you’ll have more time. I’ve missed—”

At that moment, a car pulled up in our driveway, tires crunching on gravel.

“It’s Kristen,” my mom said, looking out the window. “What’s she doing here?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re not filming a show today, are you?”

“No. Next week.” I followed my mom outside and to the front porch, a pit of dread in my stomach. If Kristen was here making a house call, when she was supposed to be at her summer house, I knew it couldn’t be good.

15

KRISTEN STRODE
up the walkway. Instead of her usual business attire, she wore her Don’t Anyone Bug Me I’m Off to My Beach House uniform: white capris, a lime-green tank top, flip-flops with little palm trees on them, a belt with tiny lobsters. A ponytail was firmly cinched high on her head, a sign of her further determination to have fun.

“Off to the Cape?” my mom guessed, smiling weakly.

“Eventually. I needed to see Tessa in person first. We have a situation.”

My mom glanced at me, then got Kristen a wicker chair. My mom and I sat on the porch swing opposite her. Kristen took a tablet out of her canvas tote bag and pulled up an online newspaper.
The Daily Commonwealth Online News
. “You’re familiar with this?” she asked.

My mom and I both shook our heads.

She scrolled down to the headline of an article.
KIDVISION HOST CAUGH
T BANDIT RIDING!
This was followed by an image of me in the medical tent, my hair wild, my expression surly.

I read the article with a deepening sense of dread.

In addition to being an off-the-beaten path, ear-to-the-ground, renegade reporter, I’m also a former nanny. The kids I took care of are addicted to the popular GBCN show
KidVision
. I’ve been subjected to countless hours of watching this relentlessly cheerful teenage host spouting perky tips for saving the world, and introducing us to an endless string of young talents and altruists.

I must admit, even though I’m twenty-four and well out of the show’s demographic,
KidVision
has always elicited a sense of skepticism in me. With all these aMAzing kids with aMAzing ideas, and all their well-intentioned social responsibility, the world should be a much better place, right? But the world still seems pretty messed up to me. That’s not necessarily the fault of the host or its subjects. Yet there is a note that rings false in this show.

So I wasn’t entirely shocked when I saw host Tessa Taylor in the medical tent and heard an argument going on with one of the ride sponsors. Looks like she’s not the golden girl she appears to be on TV. This girl had not registered to do the ride or raised any money for cancer. Unconvinced? Have a listen.

An audio file icon followed. When Kristen clicked on it, we could hear the entire conversation I’d had with Gage about the hazards of bandit riding. She’d recorded every word.

All I could think of was the injured Team Maureen rider next to me in the medical tent. She must have recorded the whole conversation on her phone. The camera angle was strange on the photo, though. I could see the back of the EMT working on me, not the side. It was like the photo had been taken by someone else in the tent, someone in front of me.

“This is ridiculous,” my mom snapped. “It’s not even real journalism. It’s a blog post masquerading as a tabloid article. Thank goodness nobody really reads these things.”

“Oh, but they do.” Kristen showed us a sidebar. “This electronic rag’s got quite a following. Nearly four thousand subscribers, not to mention their followers on social media.”

My mom sighed. “Tessa’s father is an attorney. I’ll have him send a cease and desist letter. They can’t throw her image and voice up there without our consent. She’s a minor.”

“Yes. By all means, have him do that,” said Kristen. “But I’m afraid it won’t erase the thirty-plus comments so far. Or the retweets and links to the article that are already out there.”

“Comments? From whom?” I asked.

“Cancer survivors. Parents.
KidVision
fans. Well, former fans.”

She showed me a few. That was enough. Each one popped a hole in my soul and let the air out. All this stuff about how I’d let them down, I was a hypocrite, I didn’t really care about people, I was a complete and total fake. I was mean-spirited. Selfish. Narcissistic. Cold. I was a symbol of everything that was wrong with teenagers today. I was using
KidVision
for self-promotion and self-gain. I didn’t live by the values the show sought to promote.

I took a deep breath. “I want to respond. I want to record something we can put up on the
KidVision
website right away.”

“No need,” said Kristen. “Our Community Relations representative will issue a statement on behalf of the show.”

“So I don’t get to speak up about my own behavior? You think I should continue with the show like nothing happened? Show up for taping next Tuesday and not address it?”

Kristen gave me a long look. “You know, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”

Panic rose in my throat. “What are you saying? That I’m a weak link?”

“What I’m saying,” she said gently, “is that a show with controversy doesn’t look good for the network. Under the circumstances, we feel you should take a little hiatus from the show.”

“A hiatus? Like, a break? For how long?” I asked, gripping the edge of the seat. The whole porch seemed to be spinning.

“Her contract’s up for renewal,” my mom added. “There’s that meeting next week.”

Kristen pursed her lips. “Actually. We were thinking. It might not be best to renew.” Her eyes shifted, averting my stony glare.

Kristen wasn’t talking about a hiatus. I was being
fired
.

“
We
?” I burst out. “Nobody asked me how I felt about it. I’m the host of the show. I’ve been the host for five years! Don’t I have a say in this?”

“Ratings have been down lately,” Kristen went on. “And given that GBCN is a prominent Chain Reaction sponsor, we feel this is a controversy we should steer clear of.”

“But this is totally undemocratic! Don’t I even get to defend myself? To explain?”

“Tessa,” my mom said, laying her hand gently on my arm. “Raising your voice won’t help. Let’s talk about this rationally. I’m sure we can find some compromise.”

“We really feel this is the best decision for all involved,” Kristen said smoothly.

I shrunk into the chair, teeth clenched. Sure, I had my frustrations with the show at times. True, lately it had nagged at me that I’d gotten the show because of my dad, who knew someone at GBCN. But
KidVision
was what I was known for. And now everyone would know why I’d gotten kicked off.

Turning to Kristen, I ventured a wild idea. “You know, I’m a huge fan of
Watchdog
, and I want to be an investigative journalist someday. Maybe I could work for Bianca Slade, as an intern?”

“That show?” My mom frowned. “It’s so negative, don’t you think? That’s a big turn from
KidVision
.”

I ignored this. “Could you help me work something out?” I pleaded with Kristen.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kristen said, through the thinnest of smiles.

I knew, from her tone, that she wouldn’t help. I was radioactive. A teen star screwup.

“So how does someone recover from something like this?” my mom asked Kristen. “That footage is out there, for anyone to see, forever. Those college admissions committees, they Google kids now.”

College admissions committees. The least of my problems. But maybe Kristen had some idea of what I could do to make up for the mess I had caused. “I just want to make this right,” I said, fighting back tears. My mom nodded, assuming I was talking about bandit riding, but I was really thinking of the pileup and of Juan Carlos. “What can I do?”

Kristen pondered this, lips pursed, manicured nails tapping on her white pants. “Going to the opposite extreme to restore a good image might help.”

I leaned forward. “Okay. How?”

“Run a guerrilla campaign of community service. Visit sick kids in cancer hospitals. Do some cancer fundraising on your own. I’m sure you’ll find the right path.”

/////

AS SOON
as Kristen left, I went up to my room to get my phone from the wall charger. I found three more messages from Jake, sent late last night, wondering why I wasn’t responding.
Delete, delete, delete
. I’d have to deal with him at some point, but right now wasn’t the time.

Suddenly a new text buzzed in. From that number with all the zeros again.

WHERE IS THE BIKE.

Fear zapped through my body, as a new message sent the phone vibrating again.

IT’S NOT IN YOUR GARAGE. WHERE ARE YOU KEEPING IT?

I dropped the phone onto my bed and stepped back, as if the thing might explode. This was no spambot. These texts, like the one yesterday accusing me of being a liar, were from the guy in the woods. The fence. He’d tracked me down. He’d broken into our garage.

The guy, the bike in the woods, yesterday’s creepy texts, the open garage door—all these things were linked. The fence must have memorized my name and number when he looked at my phone in the woods. From that information, maybe he could figure out where I lived.

But why would he think I had Juan Carlos’s bike?

I picked up the phone and typed back, with trembling fingers:

I don’t have that bike. I told you where I’d seen it.

The reply came fast.

NOT THERE. YOU MISDIRECTED ME. YOU WENT BACK AND REMOVED IT.

What? If this guy thought I’d deliberately set out to mess up his plan, he really was crazy!

I typed back, more boldly now:

You have the wrong person. I’m just a high school student. Please stop texting me.

There was a pause, then a text that I swear buzzed in with even more insistence:

YOU’RE NOT JUST A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT.

YOU’RE IN THE MEDIA.

WE KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU.

We?
So he wasn’t acting alone. And did he know I had some connection to Juan Carlos? Had he seen us talking on Great Marsh Road? Oh my God. Maybe that’s why he thought I had Juan Carlos’s bike—because we’d spoken, privately, just minutes before! And I’d been texting Juan Carlos just before the fence took my phone. Texting him about that bike. I’d even started to type something about arranging for someone to go pick it up.

I should shut off my phone right now. That would stop these insane texts from coming. But it might not stop the fence. He’d already been to my house. I didn’t want to see him in person again.

I looked up at the signed 8×10 photo of my idol, Bianca Slade, taped to the wall above my desk. Bianca, in the photo, wore a black blazer as well as her game face: pursed lips, a gleam in her eye. Her glossy dark bobbed hair, with a silver streak on one side, was shellacked into obedience. She was the perfect mix of glamour and grit.

My eyes flicked to the printout from her blog. Qualities of Good Investigative Reporters #4: Never Stops Asking Questions.
If you hit a dead end, find fresh questions.

A new text buzzed in.

WELL????

I texted back, trying to channel my inner Bianca Slade.

Who are you? I won’t write back unless you tell me your name.

After a pause, his reply came:

YOU CAN CALL ME DARWIN.

BRING THE BIKE TO THE MEMORIAL SHRINE ON GREAT MARSH ROAD BY 6:OO PM ON THURSDAY. ONE OF MY ASSOCIATES WILL BE WAITING FOR IT.

Memorial shrine? What was he talking about?

“Tessa?” My mom tapped at the door. “Ready to go see Dr. Ellis?”

“Um . . . yeah. Mom?” I had to tell her what was going on here. The police were coming later to check out our garage. I could show them these texts and tell them to go get this guy. They could look for footprints in our yard and the garage, and then find ones that matched in the woods in Cabot, connect them to my crazy texter, show up at the memorial, whatever that was, and haul him into custody.

“Yes, sweetie?”

I stared at my phone as one more message buzzed in.

DO NOT MENTION ME OR THE BIKE. NOT TO PARENTS, NOT TO THE MEDIA, NOT TO COPS. IF YOU DO, OR IF NO BIKE ON THURSDAY, YOUR MOM WON’T BE SITTING PRETTY IN THAT STUDIO OF HERS.

Then an image appeared: a photo of a kid who looked to be my age. The same guy I’d seen standing outside my mom’s studio door.

My grip tightened around the phone. Had Darwin—or some associate—been lurking around our house, with a camera? I rushed to my windows and slammed my shutters closed.

“Sweetie?” my mom said again, anxiously. She tapped at the door again. “You all right?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a sec.” I studied the picture Darwin had texted.

My mom was talking to the kid in the picture, but she’d been caught in a weird gesture, as if beckoning him inside. And winking. I knew it was totally innocent—my mom always squinted one eye when she smiled—but in the wrong context, it could look really bad. Like she was kind of coming on to this kid.

“Mom, did some guy come by your studio this morning to pick up a graduation portrait packet?” I called through the door.

“Not to pick up a packet. To ask about senior portrait prices for the fall.”

“Did you get his name or address or anything?”

“No, just gave him a brochure and a price list. Why?”

A text buzzed in.

SEE THIS KID? HE WORKS FOR US. HE LOOKED AROUND YOUR GARAGE BEFORE PAYING A VISIT TO YOUR MOM. HE’S NOW IN A POSITION TO FILE A COMPLAINT AGAINST HER, ALLEGING MISCONDUCT WITH A MINOR. DON’T MAKE US ACTIVATE HIM.

Then the picture and the messages—my entire correspondence with Darwin—got wiped away. Erased. As if our whole conversation had never happened at all.