miles apart, so he spent a lot of time on the road. From his shape, Peter figured he spent much of that time eating doughnuts. The mom, though, was a slender whippet of a woman who ran marathons regularly and helped coach the middle school track team. Peter’s dad had said to him once, “If you want a glimpse into a woman’s future, look at her mother.” From the mom’s appearance, Christy would not have to fight off the pounds as an adult.
Peter wondered why he shouldn’t also look at the dad to see Christy’s genetic inheritance. After all, she could just as easily favor her dad. Peter filled his plate with a second helping. Evidently, worrying about the gun hidden in Christy’s backyard didn’t affect his appetite. It could be nervous eating, Peter thought. Christy had changed out of her Poms uniform into a button-up flannel shirt and a pair of fuzzy, red pajama bottoms with yellow ducks. It looked more to him like she thought he was coming over for a sleepover instead of a study session. She’d done her hair in a ponytail and scrubbed off her makeup.
The dinner felt surreal. He hadn’t been in Christy’s house for years, and he’d never sat at their dinner table. What a weird coincidence that that morning he’d gone into Christy’s backyard to hide the duffle bag, and now he was in her house for dinner. It felt like fate taking a hand, like one of those stories from mythology where the gods arranged everything.
“Do you think it’s a prank?” said Christy’s dad. “Some of these kids are too darned smart for their own good about technology. I heard that it doesn’t take but an hour or two after they change the password for a student hacker to break the code.”
Peter refocused on the dinner. They’d been talking about the e-mail threat. He imagined that Christy’s dad pictured a brilliant but bent teenager hunched over a keyboard, wending his way through the heart of the school district’s security system. The kid, fueled with Red Bull and Twizzlers, was surely destined for a career in the dark side of information technology. However, Peter knew for a fact that the principal’s secretary taped the passwords to the top of a pullout leaf in her desk, and that the student aids copied them to share with their friends as soon as she left the office, which meant that the whole school had them on the same day they were changed. This was low-tech hacking. The system might be well-designed, but the security sucked. The kings of hacking, the kids in the Computer Geek Club, specialized in hitting the keystrokes that made people’s screens display upside down, or they changed the auto-correct so that every time someone typed “the,” the computer changed it to “boobs.” This would alter the opening sentence of Peter’s Of Mice and Men essay to “Boobs tragedy of Of Mice and Men is that boobs men, Lennie and George, never had a real chance to achieve boobs American dream of ‘living off boobs fat of boobs land,’” which would strike the Computer Geek Club as the pinnacle of wit since as far as they were concerned, nothing could be more interesting than “boobs land.” The surprise was that even with the password being well known there wasn’t more obvious computer mischief. The most nefarious plot Peter had heard was to use the password to send e-mails home announcing a snow cancellation the first time the weather changed enough to make the message believable.
There were no geniuses in the Computer Geek Club.
Christy took him to her bedroom to work on the essay. Her mom refused to let him help with the dishes. “Homework trumps dishes,” she said. The last time Peter had been in Christy’s room, when she was nine, the walls were pink and covered with My Pretty Pony posters. Now, she’d switched to blues and greens, and the posters were of Lady Gaga, Lita Ford, the Ronettes, Joan Jett, Blondie and Heart. She’d hung a beat up electrical guitar over her door. Peter felt like he’d
Peter wondered why he shouldn’t also look at the dad to see Christy’s genetic inheritance. After all, she could just as easily favor her dad. Peter filled his plate with a second helping. Evidently, worrying about the gun hidden in Christy’s backyard didn’t affect his appetite. It could be nervous eating, Peter thought. Christy had changed out of her Poms uniform into a button-up flannel shirt and a pair of fuzzy, red pajama bottoms with yellow ducks. It looked more to him like she thought he was coming over for a sleepover instead of a study session. She’d done her hair in a ponytail and scrubbed off her makeup.
The dinner felt surreal. He hadn’t been in Christy’s house for years, and he’d never sat at their dinner table. What a weird coincidence that that morning he’d gone into Christy’s backyard to hide the duffle bag, and now he was in her house for dinner. It felt like fate taking a hand, like one of those stories from mythology where the gods arranged everything.
“Do you think it’s a prank?” said Christy’s dad. “Some of these kids are too darned smart for their own good about technology. I heard that it doesn’t take but an hour or two after they change the password for a student hacker to break the code.”
Peter refocused on the dinner. They’d been talking about the e-mail threat. He imagined that Christy’s dad pictured a brilliant but bent teenager hunched over a keyboard, wending his way through the heart of the school district’s security system. The kid, fueled with Red Bull and Twizzlers, was surely destined for a career in the dark side of information technology. However, Peter knew for a fact that the principal’s secretary taped the passwords to the top of a pullout leaf in her desk, and that the student aids copied them to share with their friends as soon as she left the office, which meant that the whole school had them on the same day they were changed. This was low-tech hacking. The system might be well-designed, but the security sucked. The kings of hacking, the kids in the Computer Geek Club, specialized in hitting the keystrokes that made people’s screens display upside down, or they changed the auto-correct so that every time someone typed “the,” the computer changed it to “boobs.” This would alter the opening sentence of Peter’s Of Mice and Men essay to “Boobs tragedy of Of Mice and Men is that boobs men, Lennie and George, never had a real chance to achieve boobs American dream of ‘living off boobs fat of boobs land,’” which would strike the Computer Geek Club as the pinnacle of wit since as far as they were concerned, nothing could be more interesting than “boobs land.” The surprise was that even with the password being well known there wasn’t more obvious computer mischief. The most nefarious plot Peter had heard was to use the password to send e-mails home announcing a snow cancellation the first time the weather changed enough to make the message believable.
There were no geniuses in the Computer Geek Club.
Christy took him to her bedroom to work on the essay. Her mom refused to let him help with the dishes. “Homework trumps dishes,” she said. The last time Peter had been in Christy’s room, when she was nine, the walls were pink and covered with My Pretty Pony posters. Now, she’d switched to blues and greens, and the posters were of Lady Gaga, Lita Ford, the Ronettes, Joan Jett, Blondie and Heart. She’d hung a beat up electrical guitar over her door. Peter felt like he’d
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