the period on the far side of the room, drafting his warning on a piece of paper and then passing it to him. But no dice there, either. Wayne’s mustache had curled into a snarl and, with one hand, he crumpled the paper into a wad. Then, on his way out of the classroom, Craig and Chun following like obedient lap dogs, he’d spiked it into the trashcan.
Now, with the last cries of the lunch rush tailing off, Scott gave up his search for his friends and watched his gray Velcro tennis shoes scuff over the concrete. He followed an outdoor hallway that ran perpendicular to the school’s four wings and led to the auditorium. Above the metal doors, a banner with purple lettering read: WELCOME TINY TITANS – CLASS OF ’88!
Scott’s mind crunched the numbers. Four school years. One hundred forty-four weeks. Seven hundred twenty days. Five thousand forty class periods. He dropped his gaze from the banner, swallowing his despair.
Twin pay phones stood off to the right of the doors, and Scott scuffed toward them. Reaching back, he fished his hand into the smaller pocket of his backpack and, amid the loose change and odd Blue Chip Games token, found a quarter. He lifted the receiver on the rightmost phone and dropped the quarter into the slot. He dialed a random 376- number, listened until the line began to ring, and hung up. The phone coughed his quarter into the change receptacle. Scott started over, this time with another random 376- number. He did this twice more.
Finally, he dialed his own number, another 376- number. Scott listened and replaced the receiver promptly.
Damn.
All of the numbers he had just called were located on the same exchange. And as he’d expected—and as should have been the case—all of the delays before the start of the ring lasted roughly the same. Except for the delay on his own home number. Just like last night, the difference could have been measured in milliseconds, but it was there, just long enough for him to notice.
Someone was still listening.
You need Wayne.
Scott hesitated before nodding to himself. Wayne had hacked Bell South’s switching control system before. Using a clean line—Craig’s or Chun’s, maybe—Wayne could do it again. He could discover when the order for the tap had been placed and by whom exactly. Only one teensy little problem. The last time Wayne had accused Scott of holding back info, he’d gone a month without speaking to him.
“Must be wanting to talk to someone pretty bad, calling so many times.”
Scott’s fingers jerked, and the quarter he had been drawing from the change receptacle spilled to the ground. It wasn’t just the suddenness of the voice, but the sense that the person had been behind him the whole time. Scott peeked around. Hands the color of dusty teakwood drew up a pair of blue pant legs. The man had been pushing a cart with a metal trashcan. Several garbage bags hung like drapes from the mouth of the can while a broom and a long pick for stabbing stray trash leaned against it. The man reached for the quarter, which was rolling in dying circles near his paint-spattered work shoes.
Breathe, Scott. Just a custodian.
With a chuckle like dry wind, the custodian captured the quarter between his thumb and third finger. His upper back remained slightly hunched when he straightened. A flat-topped straw hat shaded his black-weathered face, where a row of teeth shone white and straight. Dentures, probably. The man held the quarter out, the tails side showing. And now Scott recognized him.
“Mr. Shine?”
Mr. Shine was their yardman—the yardman for several families in Oakwood, in fact. Scott was so used to seeing him in cuffed brown trousers and suspenders that his mind was still trying to reconcile that image with the coveralls. But the rich brown gaze was unmistakable, the gaze of someone from another era, an era of sun-bleached dirt roads and wooden porches. Old Florida . That’s how Mr. Shine struck him.
Mr. Shine smiled as Scott
Now, with the last cries of the lunch rush tailing off, Scott gave up his search for his friends and watched his gray Velcro tennis shoes scuff over the concrete. He followed an outdoor hallway that ran perpendicular to the school’s four wings and led to the auditorium. Above the metal doors, a banner with purple lettering read: WELCOME TINY TITANS – CLASS OF ’88!
Scott’s mind crunched the numbers. Four school years. One hundred forty-four weeks. Seven hundred twenty days. Five thousand forty class periods. He dropped his gaze from the banner, swallowing his despair.
Twin pay phones stood off to the right of the doors, and Scott scuffed toward them. Reaching back, he fished his hand into the smaller pocket of his backpack and, amid the loose change and odd Blue Chip Games token, found a quarter. He lifted the receiver on the rightmost phone and dropped the quarter into the slot. He dialed a random 376- number, listened until the line began to ring, and hung up. The phone coughed his quarter into the change receptacle. Scott started over, this time with another random 376- number. He did this twice more.
Finally, he dialed his own number, another 376- number. Scott listened and replaced the receiver promptly.
Damn.
All of the numbers he had just called were located on the same exchange. And as he’d expected—and as should have been the case—all of the delays before the start of the ring lasted roughly the same. Except for the delay on his own home number. Just like last night, the difference could have been measured in milliseconds, but it was there, just long enough for him to notice.
Someone was still listening.
You need Wayne.
Scott hesitated before nodding to himself. Wayne had hacked Bell South’s switching control system before. Using a clean line—Craig’s or Chun’s, maybe—Wayne could do it again. He could discover when the order for the tap had been placed and by whom exactly. Only one teensy little problem. The last time Wayne had accused Scott of holding back info, he’d gone a month without speaking to him.
“Must be wanting to talk to someone pretty bad, calling so many times.”
Scott’s fingers jerked, and the quarter he had been drawing from the change receptacle spilled to the ground. It wasn’t just the suddenness of the voice, but the sense that the person had been behind him the whole time. Scott peeked around. Hands the color of dusty teakwood drew up a pair of blue pant legs. The man had been pushing a cart with a metal trashcan. Several garbage bags hung like drapes from the mouth of the can while a broom and a long pick for stabbing stray trash leaned against it. The man reached for the quarter, which was rolling in dying circles near his paint-spattered work shoes.
Breathe, Scott. Just a custodian.
With a chuckle like dry wind, the custodian captured the quarter between his thumb and third finger. His upper back remained slightly hunched when he straightened. A flat-topped straw hat shaded his black-weathered face, where a row of teeth shone white and straight. Dentures, probably. The man held the quarter out, the tails side showing. And now Scott recognized him.
“Mr. Shine?”
Mr. Shine was their yardman—the yardman for several families in Oakwood, in fact. Scott was so used to seeing him in cuffed brown trousers and suspenders that his mind was still trying to reconcile that image with the coveralls. But the rich brown gaze was unmistakable, the gaze of someone from another era, an era of sun-bleached dirt roads and wooden porches. Old Florida . That’s how Mr. Shine struck him.
Mr. Shine smiled as Scott
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