Playing Tyler (2 page)

 

 

CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

ANI

Have I been having fun at college so far? Not so much. The only thing worse than being the only sixteen year-old freshman at Yale is being a sixteen year-old freshman
girl
at Yale. Every time I walk into class I feel like I have a big red
16
stamped across my forehead. I wish I looked at least a little bit older, so not everyone would look at me and assume I'm some kind of girl genius. It makes meeting people next-to-impossible: no one likes to think that they might not be the smartest person in the room. Little do they know how much I'm going to suck at Philosophy. If only I could paint that across my forehead, too, then maybe someone would actually
say
something. Instead, they give me awkward, halting smiles and look away.

Just like in high school.

Yale's campus sits inside the city of New Haven, Yale's beautiful old architecture secreted away in a city ravaged by urban decay. Stray too far off campus and the streets become a jumble of abandoned storefronts and forgotten towers. It would make a cool backdrop for a level of
Behemoths of War
but not such a great place for, say, an unarmed girl to take a stroll. I hold out my phone, double-checking the address of the building in front of me. The restaurant's sleek lines and soaring windows exude everything modern and chic on a street that walks the line between the acceptable and the derelict.

I swallow and tuck my phone back into my backpack, rubbing my palms down the sides of my jeans. I'm not dressed for this; when I got the text from my boss I came straight over after class. What a fantastic impression I'm going to make.

I've only met him in person a few times. Once was during my job interview, and the other time was when he came to my house to make the offer. I heard from the other members on my team at my summer internship at Althea back in LA that he had come around to ask about me, but I wasn't there at the time.

I haven't even heard from my boss at all since the day I sent him the program. He sent me a quick message saying that the prototypes are ready for testing and to wish me luck at school. No word from him for over a month.

Which isn't so bad, actually, since it looks like classes here are going to be insane. I have to read two novels a week for freshman Lit? Who can read that fast? Not to mention take four other classes and hold down a job. Why am I even trying to make friends? I'm not going to have any time to leave my dorm room for the next four years.

Pushing the door open, I see him at one of the tables over by the window. He smiles and raises his hand in a gesture that I suppose is meant to be friendly but looks a bit stiff. “Miss Bagdorian, it's lovely to see you.”

“Hi, Mr Anderson.” I nod and swing the backpack off my shoulders. Should I try and stuff it under the chair or leave it in the aisle? It's not like there's that many people eating dinner this early, but there are a few tables full of business-types swilling glasses of whiskey in front of piles of papers and plates of fried calamari. I stuff the bag under my chair and sit. He watches me like an analyst, scanning my face so that he picks up every twitch of every muscle. I squeeze the sides of the water glass. “So, am I in trouble? Did the software not work?” I ask. I've never written that complicated a program before, took me about a month. It was really similar to what I did on my internship, and that helped, but it's the first time I ever got paid to do something so massive by myself. I hate it, having all the pressure of the success or the failure coming down on my head. But it's only fair, I guess.

Having a job that covers most of my tuition for Yale is definitely better than what could have happened if I chose not to work for Haranco. I shiver.

He tilts his head to the side and I look away, focusing on the smell of the calamari. I'm so hungry I could probably gnaw on the tablecloth. I read the class schedule wrong and missed lunch.

“No, no the program is working perfectly,” he says, giving me that smile again. I don't like his smile, I can't get a good read on its intent. “Wait until you see the final product, I think you'll be impressed.”

The hardware we got to use over the summer was fierce, so I can only imagine. I wish we were at the office looking at the final product now instead of hanging out in a place like this. “So why are we here?”

The waitress comes over and he orders a plate of calamari and some sort of appetizer pizza to share.

“How are classes?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Fine.”

“Making any friends? I remember my first year of college was quite the learning experience. Whole dorm full of people I didn't know.”

My throat tightens. I don't need this, I don't need someone trying to pretend that they care. Especially not my boss. “Look, if there's some kind of problem with something I've written or you need me to test something out, just tell me and I'll do it.”

He sits back in his chair. “The system is fine. We're here to celebrate, to talk about how school is going. I want you to know that you can come to me with any sort of problem you may have.”

Lots of old guys saying that line would make it sound creepy. But not him. He has this aura about him like he came out of his mother in a uniform of one sort or another. When he came to talk to Mom about hiring me, he mentioned the word “honor” no less than fifty-six times.
It would be an honor to have her on staff. I would be honored to check up on her progress at Yale
.
My stomach clenches. Mom just ate it up. Lapped up every word like he was some kind of fatherly-inclined superhero. But I
have
a father, something that I wish that she would remember.

“I'm not sure the start of the semester is really a cause for celebration,” I say.

“Maybe not.” He leans back in his chair as the waitress sets down steaming trays of incredible-smelling food in front of us. “Miss Bagdorian, I've been stationed overseas for ten of the past twelve years. If being away from home has taught me anything, it's to celebrate each new starting point, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time.”

“Why is that?”

“Because endings can break a man.” His eyes drift off, shaded for a moment. He raises his glass. “So at Haranco, we choose to focus on beginnings.”

 

Is that Christy doing shots? At least she doesn't stop and stare at me when I walk in the room like everyone else does. It takes all of three seconds before they give me the collective sweep, assess and dismiss. “Christy!” I call out and she tips her head back in unison with two other girls. The floor seems to pulse along to the death metal blasting from the sound dock as I shuffle through the crowd. The boys move out of my way, like if they even accidentally bump into me they'll be jailed for statutory rape or something. The girls are just as bad: standing around all perfectly preppy and pretending that I'm not even there. Even the other power nerds ignore me.

I push to the table with the drinks, but Christy has disappeared. I need her; I somehow managed to lock myself out of our room. Hordes of sweaty jocks talking finance and beer pong are in one corner, arms wrapped tightly around smart girls wearing very flimsy, very expensive clothes.

Have I been having fun at college so far? Not so much. It's different and filled with unexpected problems. A last-minute party on my floor on a school night? Didn't really see this coming. Keeping track of my keys? Not so good at that, apparently. I mean,
keys
. Who even
uses
keys anymore? Even Mom changed the house over to a keypad. And then there are the more disgusting problems, too, like finding a used condom in my slipper this morning.

“Hey, you, kid.” A guy, tall, skinny, preppy-ish and really drunk, by the looks of him, calls to me from the frame of an open door. “You're like that super-genius girl, right? The one who's like ten?”

I sigh, my hands wrapping around my soda. “Sixteen,” I say.

“Right, cool. Come on in here.” He giggles, cheeks red and his eyes clouding over as they move up and down my body. I shiver. So does he, oddly enough. “Yeah, you should like totally come in here.”

I take a step back, but his hands wrap around my waist and he's pulling me into his room.

“We need someone for our friend, Frank, here.” I look over to Frank. I assume he's the really skinny guy over in the corner with the thick black glasses and bag of pork rinds.

“Someone to do what with Frank, exactly?” I ask, missing Julie, my sister, who is really, really good with situations like this. Mainly by helping me not get into them.

“You know.” He leers. Leers at me. Frank smiles a smile that only the truly stoned can give while waving around a PS3 controller.

“I can show you the secret level.” Frank giggles. Holding onto the word
level
like it's a new vocabulary word.

“Level for what?
Age of the Demigods
? No such thing.” The first guy pulls me into him, reeking of pot and man-fumed body wash. “Let go.”

“Please, like you could possibly know more about
Age of the Demigods
than our Frank, here. He's the best in the dorm.”

“I doubt it,” I say, shoulders tightening, voice falling.

“Why don't you go over there and prove it?” They laugh.

Cheeks burning, I need to get out of here. “Get off!” I push him away. The other guys in the room laugh as their friend hits drywall.

He smiles at me. Smiles! Then says, “Relax, babydoll, I was just playing with you.”

Idiots. Drunk, stupid, horny idiots. I grit my teeth, eyeing the other guys in the corner as they giggle.

“Oh, wait, you're that, like, super-gamer, right?” Frank dissolves into a puddle of laugher. “What was your handle, again? SexKitten20? Jailbait15? Damn, you gotta come over here and play. Show me how it's done.”

I walk out of the room, not wanting to hear him, not wanting to be here. I push past the mobs of kids laughing and making friends and enjoying themselves, flying down the cramped old stairwell and burst out of the front door and into the night. I put my hands on my knees and breathe, hoping no one sees me.

Wiping my eyes with the bottom of my sleeve, I stand up and look around campus. It's not such a bad night for a walk, really, it's warm, with a nice breeze. It's definitely better than being back in there. I do a few laps around campus, hoping to run myself clean.

 

CHAPTER 3

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

TYLER

Rick's here. We're watching the movers. You can totally tell that Rick used to be in the military. Looks like one of my old GI Joes. Standing in the kitchen. Wearing jeans.

Think I still have some of my old GI Joes in the basement. Bet I could sell them on eBay. Or give them to some kid.

The men come in carrying all sorts of boxes into my room. Good thing Mom's not here. She'd freak.

They pile in, the men. They don't look like movers, not really. But they're loaded down with boxes. Men in khaki pants and white polos carrying box after box into my room. Some of the boxes are damn big, too.

Two guys come in, each holding one end of some oblong black package covered in plastic wrap. “Good thing you have a ranch,” Rick mutters, checking the time as he takes a bite out of the Pizza Pocket I gave him. Watching me, he asks, “Something wrong?”

I shrug. “Went to see Brandon. No big deal.” Another guy walks in carrying a long, skinny box that is almost as tall as I am.

Rick puts his hand on my shoulder, like he wants to comfort me but he doesn't really know what to say that will make it better. Or maybe it's just that he knows that there isn't really anything he can say that will make it better. But he tries. “You're doing everything that you can for him, Ty. No one can ask more than that.”

I let the heavy feel of his hand on my shoulder give what comfort it can, then wipe my hands on a napkin I grab from the countertop. Motioning to the boxes, I say, “Looks expensive.”

He meets my eyes for a minute, sighs and says, “There's no shame in loving your brother, you know.”

I look down at the tile floor. Damn, I need something to drink. Where'd I put that bottle of Mountain Dew?

“A brother is definitely worth the concern. Now, if you had a rotten ex-wife like mine, well, somebody like
that
sure isn't worth all the time or the pain… and definitely not worth all the damn money.”

Finding the extra bottle at the back of the fridge, I pour a glass of Dew. “How much are they spending giving me this thing?”

“As a rough guess I would say a hell of a lot. Did you know that you're one of only five people in the country to qualify for it?” His thin lips pull into a genuine smile and he shakes my shoulder a little before letting go. Like he's proud. Of what? Of me? Well, at least somebody is.

“Out of how many kids?” I ask. I shouldn't ask. I know it's not really important.

“Thousands.” He stands and grabs his briefcase, digging out a file and glancing at his watch.

“Why do you keep looking at your watch?” I ask as I open the freezer and dig out another Pizza Pocket. “They not moving the stuff in fast enough for you?”

His eyes are bright, sharp, like an owl's… only not as yellow. Rick's are more of a green, but still, owl-like. Maybe it's his hair, sort of shapes his head in an owl-like way. “No, they are doing a fine job. I'm just waiting for our installer, the person that designed the unit. She goes to Yale, her classes ended over an hour ago and she should be here by now.”