Access Denied (and other eighth grade error messages) (43 page)

TYLER CALLED MARK AND ASKED him if it was okay if he went out with Kara. Mark called me right after.

“I started laughing,” Mark said to me. “I mean, it was so weird.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That he didn’t need my permission and it had been a zillion weeks since we broke up.”

“Good answer,” I said, thinking about how broken up Kara had been; how I’d caught her kissing Tyler. I’d never told anyone.
I figured it was their business.

“Well, I guess this means I’m definitely free to ask out other girls.” Ah ha. He had just been waiting for Kara to be with
someone else so he could go out with Carla.

“Definitely,” I said, surprised at how easily Mature Erin came out, almost like it was natural.

“Really?” Did he have to sound so excited to ask Carla to go out with him? But what right did I have to be bummed? I should
be happy we were back to being good friends. We were proving that Harry and Sally thing wrong. That was a good thing, right?

“Sure.” I rolled my basketball on the floor with my foot.

“What about you?” he asked. “You got your eye on anyone?”

“Maybe,” I said, lying through my teeth.

“But not the guy with the car? The one you went to see at the party?”

“No,” I said. “It’s someone else.”
Someone I used to like, then didn’t anymore, but now I think I do again. An undercurrent of liking.

There was a pause. I could hear him breathing through the phone. I had a memory of his Goldfish breath. I wondered if he had
eaten any today.

“Will you tell me first?” he asked finally. “Before you start, you know, going out in public?”

“Sure. Will you tell me about yours?”
Even though I already know?

“Deal.”

My Mature Erin Smile couldn’t have been any bigger, even though he couldn’t see it.

And my heart couldn’t have felt any heavier.

MAKE A CONNECTION WITH SOMEONE you haven’t seen in awhile or with whom you’ve had a falling out.

I stared at the crumpled Tootsie Pop message from Mr. F’s service.

“Fine,” I said aloud. “But don’t blame me if it doesn’t go well.”

Reede had always been sort of vague about where she lived and every time I suggested we go to her house, she always had an
excuse.

Now I knew why.

I sat in our car on Wednesday, staring up at an apartment complex, the brick cracking in spots, the paint peeling. This wasn’t
the big house I’d pictured her living in with her genius computer dad and perfect, beautiful mother. The bus stop was across
the parking lot and I saw why she knew the bus system so well. That’s how she got around. To school, to the mall, to my house—everywhere.

“Do you want me to go up with you?” my mom asked, but I shook my head. She patted my arm. “Well, then wave to me so I know
she’s home,” she said. “I’ll run across to the grocery store for a few things and come back for you.”

I walked up the two flights of stairs to Apartment 340 and stood in front of a door in need of paint as badly as the rest
of the building. I reached out and pulled off a piece of paint, staring at the faded blue in my fingers before dropping it.
Then I took a deep breath and rang the bell.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Nothing. They must be out. If their phone hadn’t been disconnected, I
could have called first. But now I’d wasted time coming here and—

Footsteps behind the door—fast, angry. The door swung open and a tired, annoyed woman stared at me. She was wearing black
pants and a stained white shirt with a “Hi! My name is Cammie!” nametag pinned to it. Her hair was pulled back in a messy
bun and her makeup was heavy. I could see hints of Reede in her, though, and knew this was her mother.

“Yeah?” Mrs. Harper narrowed her eyes and clutched the door tightly against her side, as if I might barge in at any moment.
She smelled like the party had—stale beer, cigarettes, and leftover pizza—with a heavy dose of perfume to try to cover it
up.

“Is Reede here?” I asked. “I’m Erin Swift. A friend from school.”

Mrs. Harper raised an eyebrow. “She’s around here somewhere, except when she isn’t.” She looked over her shoulder. “Reede!”

I cringed. Part of me wanted to vault over the side wall, falling the three stories down and taking my chances with broken
bones so I could be back in our safe, familiar car. But I didn’t. I turned to wave over the wall at my mom, then faced Mrs.
Harper.

“You a friend from last year’s school, this year’s first school or this year’s second school?”

I frowned. “This year’s first school, I guess.” I looked past her. “So, you’re not moving back to San Jose?”

Mrs. Harper snorted. “I don’t know why she keeps telling people that every time she screws up and has to change schools. We
haven’t lived there for years. Not since I divorced her sorry excuse for a dad when she was six.” She cocked her head. “She
also told you he worked with Bill Gates, right?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Not exactly.”

“He fixed computers,” she said. “Repaired them. Swapped out parts, replaced hard drives, that kind of thing. That was the
extent of his computer knowledge.” She jerked her head over her shoulder. “Reede!” Mrs. Harper didn’t move to let me in so
I stood on the landing, my arms wrapped around me against the cool April afternoon.

“What!” Reede’s voice rose from somewhere behind Mrs. Harper, sharp with annoyance.

Mrs. Harper opened the door just wide enough to show Reede that I was standing outside. I was struck by how pale she looked.
Her face seemed sunken and bland without her makeup, though her eyes blazed at me.

“Get out of here!” she shouted, before turning on her heel, practically running from the room.

I stared after her, shocked. “I’m s-s-sorry,” I stammered to Mrs. Harper. “I would have called first but—” I looked away,
embarrassed. “—your phone is disconnected.”

“That would be because her sorry excuse for a dad is behind on child support,” Mrs. Harper said. She cocked her head at me,
rubbing her red lips together.

“Maybe I should come back another time.”

“Whatever you want,” Mrs. Harper said. “I’ve got to get to work.” She strode back toward the hallway. “Reede! I’m going to
work!” she shouted. “Do whatever for dinner. I’ll be late.” As she returned to the door, she patted my shoulder. “If you try
to talk to her again, you’ll need more than that jacket to protect you.”

I looked down at my thin jean jacket as she slipped past me, the heavy scent of her perfume lingering behind. Then I looked
through the open doorway into the apartment. The easy thing would be to reach out, close the door, and run down the stairs
to my mom. Reede didn’t want me here. I didn’t want to be here. The whole place gave me the creeps.

But something kept my feet planted on the cracked cement.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The carpet was bare in spots, the couch sagging in the
middle, with coffee stains and cigarette burns on one side. I saw a stack of Internet and web design books from the library
on the floor next to the couch. No computer. Maybe it was in her room. But somehow, I doubted it.

Music blared from behind the closed door. I knocked twice. Then louder. I was about to knock again when the door flew open.

“Leave me alone!”

I caught sight of the room behind Reede—clothes all over the floor, makeup scattered across a dresser. There were no posters
or pictures on the wall, just peeling paint.

Her gaze wavered when she saw it was me, then her face hardened again. “I told you to go away.” She slammed the door.

“Reede,” I said, knocking. “I just want to talk.”

The door flew open again. “You want to talk?” Her face screwed up in an ugly sneer. “About what? What a horrible person I
am like you said in your e-mail? Or maybe you’d like to move on to something different like the fact that I live in a dump.
That I lied to you. That my dad isn’t a bigwig Internet guy and the only thing I know about web design is what I learned in
books and when I can get online at the library. That my whole life is a lie.” Her eyes were bright, her fists tight at her
sides. “Is that what you want to talk about?”