had to have a photo ID to get into the building, and Austin & Scote had their own elevator, run by a uniformed person, not buttons. If you didn’t have a pass, you didn’t go up.
Alice could not get into Dad’s office to find out anything, and in any case, she had not the slightest idea what to look for, nor how to look.
Dad enjoyed his work, but that did not mean his co-workers were honest. These men and women had access to corporate plans, strategies, patents, formulae, sales figures, mailing lists. Suppose there was more money in selling these secrets than in protecting them?
Suppose that Dad had a secret to sell and—
No.
Alice refused to think even for a moment that Dad was the one doing something wrong.
She had to get to a computer and read what was on the disk that mattered so much.
She plodded on. The buildings ceased to be houses and became doctors’ offices. Accountants and lawyers. And then, blessedly, a main street. It had the look of a small town. All in a row were a hardware store, drugstore, flower shop, boutique. A traffic sign said ROUTE 145. Alice knew the other end of this road well; her high school was on 145. So she had been correct about the diagonal; she was circling the city through its suburbs.
Alice could not take another step. She sat on a bench. It was pretty here, with a row of flagpoles, each pole with a small circle of red, white, and blue flowers. Alice’s mother knew flowers and could have named them.
The tears came back when she thought of her mother.
When Alice was little, she had thought of her mother as a goddess: a beautiful, sparkling woman of perfection and strength. It had been so awful, so painful, when her mother turned out to be somebody Alice didn’t always like. Okay, other girls moaned and groaned about their mothers, but Alice figured hers would be different; her mother would stay flawless.
No.
Not only did Mom have flaws, but she had left Dad, and for Alice this was a gap in Mom’s character that Alice could not forget.
Alice busied herself sorting out the contents of her backpack, tossing the dead snack into a trash container, and taking the price tag off the nerd glasses.
Way down the block, from behind a brick building in whose front yard a fruit tree blossomed, came a police car.
Alice put the glasses on. The corrective lenses made objects shimmer and curve, like heat spots on the road. The police car drove toward her; she could feel the cop’s presence, his uniform, his loud voice, his gun, his handcuffs—
But it drove by.
Through the distorting lenses, Alice could not tell whether the officer was a man or a woman. It was simply a person not looking left or right.
Alice had to wait until her heart had stopped jumping around before she could move, and then she had to move, because sitting still was too scary.
Definitely a case, thought Alice, of Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side. I’m that chicken. Short on reasons to do anything.
Gathered outside a secondhand boutique with plaid shirts, prom gowns, beaded bags, and camo pants all in the same window, was a group of girls older than Alice. She thought they were about eighteen. They were loud and very full of themselves. Alice drifted near, keeping their bodies between herself and the traffic on 145.
“So do you like your new roommate any better?” said one girl.
“I hate her guts; she’s a jerk,” said a girl wearing a State University sweatshirt.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I dunno. What am I supposed to do about it? I told the dorm supervisor and she shrugs, she says ‘Sometimes people have to try harder.’ ” The speaker was disgusted with the concept of trying harder.
Down the street, driving slowly, came a car Alice knew. Oh, yes! she thought, overjoyed. Mom stayed by the phone, weeping, praying I’d call again, and she sent Richard Rellen out to find me.
For that dark green Volvo wagon, square, solid, and practical, belonged to the
Alice could not get into Dad’s office to find out anything, and in any case, she had not the slightest idea what to look for, nor how to look.
Dad enjoyed his work, but that did not mean his co-workers were honest. These men and women had access to corporate plans, strategies, patents, formulae, sales figures, mailing lists. Suppose there was more money in selling these secrets than in protecting them?
Suppose that Dad had a secret to sell and—
No.
Alice refused to think even for a moment that Dad was the one doing something wrong.
She had to get to a computer and read what was on the disk that mattered so much.
She plodded on. The buildings ceased to be houses and became doctors’ offices. Accountants and lawyers. And then, blessedly, a main street. It had the look of a small town. All in a row were a hardware store, drugstore, flower shop, boutique. A traffic sign said ROUTE 145. Alice knew the other end of this road well; her high school was on 145. So she had been correct about the diagonal; she was circling the city through its suburbs.
Alice could not take another step. She sat on a bench. It was pretty here, with a row of flagpoles, each pole with a small circle of red, white, and blue flowers. Alice’s mother knew flowers and could have named them.
The tears came back when she thought of her mother.
When Alice was little, she had thought of her mother as a goddess: a beautiful, sparkling woman of perfection and strength. It had been so awful, so painful, when her mother turned out to be somebody Alice didn’t always like. Okay, other girls moaned and groaned about their mothers, but Alice figured hers would be different; her mother would stay flawless.
No.
Not only did Mom have flaws, but she had left Dad, and for Alice this was a gap in Mom’s character that Alice could not forget.
Alice busied herself sorting out the contents of her backpack, tossing the dead snack into a trash container, and taking the price tag off the nerd glasses.
Way down the block, from behind a brick building in whose front yard a fruit tree blossomed, came a police car.
Alice put the glasses on. The corrective lenses made objects shimmer and curve, like heat spots on the road. The police car drove toward her; she could feel the cop’s presence, his uniform, his loud voice, his gun, his handcuffs—
But it drove by.
Through the distorting lenses, Alice could not tell whether the officer was a man or a woman. It was simply a person not looking left or right.
Alice had to wait until her heart had stopped jumping around before she could move, and then she had to move, because sitting still was too scary.
Definitely a case, thought Alice, of Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side. I’m that chicken. Short on reasons to do anything.
Gathered outside a secondhand boutique with plaid shirts, prom gowns, beaded bags, and camo pants all in the same window, was a group of girls older than Alice. She thought they were about eighteen. They were loud and very full of themselves. Alice drifted near, keeping their bodies between herself and the traffic on 145.
“So do you like your new roommate any better?” said one girl.
“I hate her guts; she’s a jerk,” said a girl wearing a State University sweatshirt.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I dunno. What am I supposed to do about it? I told the dorm supervisor and she shrugs, she says ‘Sometimes people have to try harder.’ ” The speaker was disgusted with the concept of trying harder.
Down the street, driving slowly, came a car Alice knew. Oh, yes! she thought, overjoyed. Mom stayed by the phone, weeping, praying I’d call again, and she sent Richard Rellen out to find me.
For that dark green Volvo wagon, square, solid, and practical, belonged to the
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