had. They went shopping on Newbury Street, or skated on Rollerblades down Commonwealth, or headed out Mass Av to Cambridge. He knew enough not to pronounce
Av Avenue
, but he had not actually taken the road himself. WSCK had absorbed him.
He picked his way around torn-up pavement and huge yellow equipment in front of his dorm. You couldn’t call it a construction site; nobody ever seemed to work here. It was more like a parking lot for bulldozers.
He skipped the dorm elevator and took four flights of stairs two steps at a time. Speed made Reeve feel better, too.
Three boys were getting off the elevator near his room. Nobody Reeve knew. Computer geeks. You were supposed to refer to your fellow students as men and women, but sometimes the words didn’t fit. These were boys.
“Hi,” said one boy timidly. “We’re Visionary Assassins.”
“
You
are?” said Reeve. This trio would have trouble looking both ways before they crossed a street, never mind being assassins.
“We’re here to thank you.” They were visibly delighted to meet him. He was Somebody. “You play us whenever you’re on. We’re your signature. Everybody’s talking about the janies now, and they think of us at the same time. We just got our first paid gig because of you.”
His radio show worked
. It meant something!
“Can you announce on the next janie that we’re going to be playing Saturday at Peaches n Crude?” they said anxiously. “We’d love it if you’d come, Reeve.”
Reeve did not want them to see how happy he was. Famous people were cool. So he didn’t leap into the air and smash through the ceiling panels with his fist. He said, “I might.” He gave a casual good-night salute and opened his door.
Cordell now had a steady girlfriend, and he had given Pammy a key to their room. Reeve was just as apt to find Pammy living there as Cordell. He was still getting used to girls in various stages of undress sharing his actual bedroom. College was definitely different from home.
Pammy draped herself around Reeve, who peeled her off like a sweater and set her aside.
“We were just talking about you,” said Pammy. “What was in the box in the attic? You never went back to that.”
How strange to be quoted.
“Come on, Reevey, tell.”
“If you call me Reevey,” said Reeve, “I’m going to put a hand grenade in your cereal.”
“But what
was
in the box?” asked Cordell. “I’m your roomie. You have to tell me. College rule.”
Reeve had a vision of his audience. The unwashed Cordells and the worthless Pammys. The dry, unpleasant taste filled his mouth.
“It would be easier to keep track of the story if you’d use last names,” said Cordell.
Last names Reeve omitted because that way it wasn’t the Johnsons and the Springs; it was generic; it could be any kidnap family in this situation.
Not that there was any other family in this situation.
Reeve busied himself with their shared computer. Maybe he had mail. He never went past the dorm letter boxes without checking for a written letter, but he preferred e-mail. Written letters were exhausting. They required written answers. Reeve hated handwriting. Steering that little stick with the ink at the bottom of it was a chore he had never conquered. When he had to handwrite, the words got cramped into the upper corners of the page, and his fingers hurt, and his brain went dead.
At the computer, there was no long, blank page like an accusation from a teacher that he hadn’t finished the assignment.
Another cool thing about e-mail was that for some reason spelling didn’t matter, and if you were a terrible typist, that didn’t matter either; you didn’t have to do it over. The first time was always good enough.
If I go into radio, thought Reeve, I can skip handwriting. My life will be wired.
YOU HAVE MAIL , said the cute little blinking postman icon.
Reeve smiled idiotically, the way people do when someone writes to them, personally. The letter was from
Av Avenue
, but he had not actually taken the road himself. WSCK had absorbed him.
He picked his way around torn-up pavement and huge yellow equipment in front of his dorm. You couldn’t call it a construction site; nobody ever seemed to work here. It was more like a parking lot for bulldozers.
He skipped the dorm elevator and took four flights of stairs two steps at a time. Speed made Reeve feel better, too.
Three boys were getting off the elevator near his room. Nobody Reeve knew. Computer geeks. You were supposed to refer to your fellow students as men and women, but sometimes the words didn’t fit. These were boys.
“Hi,” said one boy timidly. “We’re Visionary Assassins.”
“
You
are?” said Reeve. This trio would have trouble looking both ways before they crossed a street, never mind being assassins.
“We’re here to thank you.” They were visibly delighted to meet him. He was Somebody. “You play us whenever you’re on. We’re your signature. Everybody’s talking about the janies now, and they think of us at the same time. We just got our first paid gig because of you.”
His radio show worked
. It meant something!
“Can you announce on the next janie that we’re going to be playing Saturday at Peaches n Crude?” they said anxiously. “We’d love it if you’d come, Reeve.”
Reeve did not want them to see how happy he was. Famous people were cool. So he didn’t leap into the air and smash through the ceiling panels with his fist. He said, “I might.” He gave a casual good-night salute and opened his door.
Cordell now had a steady girlfriend, and he had given Pammy a key to their room. Reeve was just as apt to find Pammy living there as Cordell. He was still getting used to girls in various stages of undress sharing his actual bedroom. College was definitely different from home.
Pammy draped herself around Reeve, who peeled her off like a sweater and set her aside.
“We were just talking about you,” said Pammy. “What was in the box in the attic? You never went back to that.”
How strange to be quoted.
“Come on, Reevey, tell.”
“If you call me Reevey,” said Reeve, “I’m going to put a hand grenade in your cereal.”
“But what
was
in the box?” asked Cordell. “I’m your roomie. You have to tell me. College rule.”
Reeve had a vision of his audience. The unwashed Cordells and the worthless Pammys. The dry, unpleasant taste filled his mouth.
“It would be easier to keep track of the story if you’d use last names,” said Cordell.
Last names Reeve omitted because that way it wasn’t the Johnsons and the Springs; it was generic; it could be any kidnap family in this situation.
Not that there was any other family in this situation.
Reeve busied himself with their shared computer. Maybe he had mail. He never went past the dorm letter boxes without checking for a written letter, but he preferred e-mail. Written letters were exhausting. They required written answers. Reeve hated handwriting. Steering that little stick with the ink at the bottom of it was a chore he had never conquered. When he had to handwrite, the words got cramped into the upper corners of the page, and his fingers hurt, and his brain went dead.
At the computer, there was no long, blank page like an accusation from a teacher that he hadn’t finished the assignment.
Another cool thing about e-mail was that for some reason spelling didn’t matter, and if you were a terrible typist, that didn’t matter either; you didn’t have to do it over. The first time was always good enough.
If I go into radio, thought Reeve, I can skip handwriting. My life will be wired.
YOU HAVE MAIL , said the cute little blinking postman icon.
Reeve smiled idiotically, the way people do when someone writes to them, personally. The letter was from
Similar Books
