Simon Says (22 page)

A photograph of the flowers in acrylic paint Engineering-perfect lines of sight A draftsman's still life. No impressions, no soul—no problem.

"I knew you'd get over that adolescent urge to distort things, Mr. Weston. I can see quite a future for your talent."

Check off Still Life. One certain pass.

***

"The road goes ever on, eh, Charles?" Ms. Katz cocks her head to one side and studies my landscape. A dusty road, the only hint of people in a pastoral setting. No
screaming birds in the trees, no glittering windows to break the light into kaleidoscope fragments. Just leafy bushes, and a weeping willow beside a trickling stream.

"What's beyond the trees?" Ms. Katz asks suddenly.

The road disappears behind trees. There's nothing there. Emptiness, maybe. Oblivion.

"You make me want to follow the road and find out," she says thoughtfully.

Or bubbling tar pits, perhaps.

"Your composition draws the eye completely through the foreground, then inexorably down the road. Very nice."

She looks faintly troubled when I don't answer.

Earlier, in the weeks following the funeral, the teachers talked to us about death and grieving. Special counselors were available for the students. We were urged to go. I didn't What counsel could anyone offer me? Only Adrian offered anything that made sense. The teachers looked troubled, the way Ms. Katz looks now.
Simon says ... smile.
I make my mask curve upward in a smile to show her I'm pleased she likes my landscape, and she looks almost convinced. At least she turns away.

Check off Landscape. Another pass.

***

"Interesting the way you elected to paint the model with the eyes closed, Charles. But you show us so much in the angle of the head and the line of the neck. You've certainly grown since starting here." Mr. Thornton smiles. "Where do you propose to study when you graduate?"

I grudgingly offer him a slight shrug.

"That's right—you're only a junior." He shakes his head. "What a future!"

Check off Portraiture.

***

"I didn't think you two could beat that
Lord Jim
program, but your
Les Miserables
game is terrific."

Alona wrote it Who knows why she shared the credit with me for just writing down ideas and passing them to her. But Ms. Cooper loved it I decided we should give the player extra points if he succeeded in helping Javert track Jean Valjean down and arrest him before the stand at the barricades. It seemed only fair. You could argue that Javert was just doing his job in tracking down a criminal. You've always got to pay for the crime in the end.

Check off Introductory Programming. And English (extra credit for those literary computer games). And French (more extra credit for
Les Miserables).
And Government (no extra credit, just simple memorization). Check off junior year. Promote the ghost But will Charles Weston come back to Whitman?

Get through final projects and it won't matter....

***

The studio, cool in the humid June afternoons. The only place I paint anything that matters anymore—ever, perhaps. I study the canvas, streaked with yellow ocher wash.
What does the road lead to, Ms. Katz? Perhaps this.
I concentrate on the sky, heavy with smothering clouds. I want you to feel the rain about to pelt when you look
at the canvas.
Want who? "It sounds as if you've shown your work to the wrong people," Adrian said. But it's too late now. I can't show this to anyone. I should never have shown Graeme.
The ground is churned up, scruffy crabgrass matted between gnarled tree roots. I'll paint the tree later, bending its crippled branches in memory of a once and future wind.
Once wolves, now wind...

Images swirl through my brain, as colors swirl in a pot of water after you plunge a handful of brushes into it, and I lose myself in them. In spite of the long afternoons, twilight fills the window before I notice the fading light I clean my brushes slowly. I wish I could just stay in my studio, but at the same time I find myself almost looking forward to being back in the dorm room.
Someday I'll have an apartment all my own, a short hallway between studio and home, a cave to hide out in that I never have to leave.
But the old familiar wish carries only a shadow of its former comfort.

The birds scream in their leafy branches overhead as I make my way back to the dorm—they're skittish in the fading light. They'll settle down later and watch for passersby. For now, they ignore the silent ghost.

I hear the music before I open the door. "Stravinsky?" I hazard, letting myself in. "
The Firebird?
"

Adrian looks up, pleased. "You're learning."

I've learned to recognize the music he likes best, and I tell him to play it without his headphones. I say I like to listen to it.
And I do.
Small enough gestures of thanks for a friendship I don't deserve (
for not playing the game, not mentioning that night, not pressing the conversation I dreamed we had
). Sometimes I wonder if
he just gave me what I wanted that night (
the way Rachel tried to fix me because I wished someone could fix me, and Graeme tried to be the creator I wanted him to be
), except that the last thing I wanted was Adrian holding me. But when I tried to push him away, he wouldn't go. I'm gratefid for that, as well as for the answers he offered, even if they didn't make any sense.

That doesn't matter anymore, though. I've stopped trying to make sense of anything. One evening I saw Rachel across the grass, heading toward the student center. She looked all right, and I felt a stab of relief that I hadn't hurt her—even though I knew I had. And then I wondered if I had been wrong about her that day. What if she really had accepted me—even liked me (
if she did
then,
that is—not that she could ever like me now, after what I've done to her
), not just acted like she cared for me because I wanted someone (
her
) to care. I used to be so sure who people were—what they were thinking. But now they seem to be more than one thing at once. Rachel only liked me because she thought I wanted her to—or Rachel liked me because she really did like me. Graeme had no self inside the mirror—or Graeme's self had always been there, he just couldn't see it Which choice is the truth? Did the people around me change, or had I changed in what I saw? Or were they always one thing, and I saw a deception? I couldn't make sense out of any of it.

I drop my pack. "What's that?"

Adrian follows my glance to the thick envelope on my bed. "They were trying to cram it into your box downstairs, so I brought it up."

"Thanks."

He turns back to his desk, smiling, knowing I mean it.

I push the envelope to the floor beside my pack, lie back on my bed, and let the Stravinsky sweep over me. The envelope doesn't matter. It could be anything from a summer job offer as cartoonist in a local paper to an official notice that I've been expelled, and I could care less. Stravinsky writes in vivid colors—sweeping blues and oranges and vibrant reds that dance in the air. You can't listen to Stravinsky and not hear something you could paint.

I tense and blink at sudden movement, but Adrian only waves when he heads out to his studio, not interrupting the music. When it ends, I sit up regretfully, my stomach growling. I painted through supper, and I'm touched to see a sandwich and a sweating can of ginger ale waiting for me on my desk I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite, then tear open the envelope.

A squat paperbound book drops out, along with a computer CD and a folded sheet of paper. I spread open the paper.

Charles Weston,

Along with his final manuscript, Graeme Brandt left a sheet of to-do notes that he never got a chance to act on. Among the items on the list was a reminder to himself to send you a copy of the galleys for his new book.

Because of the circumstances surrounding Graeme's death, his publisher decided to fast-track the release of the hook, scheduling it for September, when young
people will be returning to school. Rather than wait for the fall, however, I wanted to be sure you got the galleys this spring, as soon as they were available. I do not know whether you plan to return to Whitman next semester.

Graeme had also set this data disc aside for you, to accompany the galleys. I must tell you that I have tried to open the files on the disc, but apparently they are locked. I do not know if he gave you the key. If there is anything on the disc that you feel I should see, I would appreciate it if you would share the contents with me.

I trust you will find his last novel as important as I have.

Sincerely,
Edmund Adler

I turn away from the cold letter. Mr. Adler clearly hopes I won't come back to Whitman. Fair enough. I'm a ghost here, anyway. I look at the compact disc, then at the paperbound book. No slick cover, just nubbly stiff paper with a plain title in block letters:

BREAKING THE MIRROR

a novel by
Graeme Brandt

UNCORRECTED PROOF

I open the cover—stiff, like childhood construction paper folded over the printed pages inside. The title
page is the same. I turn the page numbly, the sandwich forgotten, and see the dedication: "To C." My stomach lurches, and I shut my eyes.

He dedicated it to me.

I slowly flip through the book, staring blankly at pages as though they're written in code, afraid to turn the spidery black letters into words, afraid to commit myself to the responsibility of reading it.
But you owe him—this is your penance.

I pick up the metallic disc and stare at it. Locked files? I don't even know what that means.

No. Not true. No room for lying here. Ms. Cooper said something about locked files, I just didn't listen. I switch on my computer and watch the icons light up, one by one. Patterns, like puzzle pieces, across the screen. What puzzle is locked in the disc? I don't want to know.

I insert it and double-click on the icon. Only a message in a dialogue box, telling me that the disc is locked and asking me to enter the key. What key?

I stare at the blinking cursor. Why would Graeme lock the disc?
Because he didn't want anyone to see it but you.
Why didn't he just send it with the letter?
Because he wanted you to have it when you read the book.

What is a
key,
anyway?

Alona answers her phone on the second ring.

"What's a key?"

Silence. Then, "Charles? He speaks!"

How long has it really been since I've spoken to anyone except Adrian?
Since the funeral, and after...

"Yeah."

"Hi. How are you? I'm fine."

I dear my throat "Hi. I'm lousy. What's a key?"

"As opposed to the piece of metal that gets you into your room, I suppose you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Hey—you really lousy?"

"Basically. Look—I've got a data disc that's locked. It says for me to enter a key. What's it talking about?"

"Probably the files are encrypted. Do you have an encryption program?"

"A what?"

"Describe the screen."

I tell her, and she gives a pleased sigh. "Cool. You're home free. You've got the right program. Your computer is willing to unlock the files—all you've got to do is type in the key. That's a series of characters, could be numbers or letters."

I stare blankly at the pulsing cursor. "Which? How many?"

Alona laughs. "If the person who wrote it was determined to keep everyone out, it could be up to a hundred. And they could be mixed together."

"Thanks a lot."

"Hey—it's not as bad as it sounds. Who encrypted the files? Think about a word, or a date, or a phrase that would mean something to them. People don't usually think of a key that doesn't make any sense. I mean, they might forget it For instance, I used 'Cosette' as a key for the
Les Miserables
game while I was working on it."

"Oh."

"If all else fails, I've got some dis-encrypting programs that might crack the code for you. But use logic first."

"I'll do that."

Alona's voice changes. "Hey, Charles—it's good to hear you. I've missed you."

I tear my eyes away from the screen and stare at the phone as if it's turned into a poisonous scorpion. "Uh—thanks."

"Yeah, well. The games were a blast—but the questions you asked me about sequencing while we were planning them out those really helped me in my own writing." She pauses. "I've been worried about you. Don't disappear into your studio forever, okay?"

I don't know what to say, and the silence stretches.

"Well—call if you can't think of the key."

"Alona—thanks. I owe you."
Why did I say that?

"Cool. I'll collect" She sounds more cheerful as she hangs up.

What would Graeme use? The day we met? The night in his studio? I try the dates, in numbers and digits, backward and forward, but the computer bleeps at me:
INVALID PASSWORD.
I try my name, his name, Alan Travis, variations on all of them, but nothing comes up except
INVALID PASSWORD.
What was he thinking?

He didn't want Mr. Adler to unlock the files.
Why?
So he wouldn't use something his mentor would recognize. It has to be something I'd know, only me. He meant this for me, or for no one.
A secret, like the letter.
Swiftly, I type in his suicide secret:
HYPODERMIC NEEDLE,
LETHAL SOLUTION, INJECTION,
all the permutations I can think of—nothing but
INVALID PASSWORD.
What would I know that no one else would think of?

I try
DEATH.
I try
SUICIDE.

I try
MURDER.

INVALID PASSWORD.

I think again of that morning on the roof and feel tears burn my eyes. I try
MIRROR.

INVALID PASSWORD.