“Hey Ryan, I was just in your room putting some clothes away when a picture of a press pass from downtown Cleveland popped up on the screen. Where are you?”
“I’m over at Jasper’s!” Ryan said, leaving the “where else would I be?” implied. He could live with not always volunteering the truth at all times, but it killed him to flat-out lie. “We’re working on our project.”
“Well what is this picture? And why is it on your frame? You only put like 5 pictures a year on that frame,” Sara said suspiciously.
“You know that guy Skylar McGhee from my class?” Ryan responded without pause. “He’s been bragging to everyone all week that he was going downtown to some high school basketball game today — like anyone really cares. It’s a high school game! And now he texts out a picture to everyone in the class that he’s got press access. It’s a high school basketball game! Jasper and I thought it was hilarious, so anyway, I uploaded it. It’s not like I’m going to keep it on there.” Skylar was definitely at the game, so at least superficially, his story would hold water.
“Hmm. Ok,” Sara responded slowly. Ryan was good, but she had a degree — and experience — in child psychology. And even though he had never given her a reason not to trust him, this didn’t feel right. She decided to keep him on the phone as she ran downstairs to her smartphone to track his location. “So what do you guys have planned for the rest of the night?”
“Not much,” Ryan said, now sensing something was amiss himself. His mom frequently called to check in, but never to chit-chat. He placed Jasper’s phone flat on the sidewalk and hunched over it, so he could continue talking while he enabled its map feature. “We might go see a movie if we finish our project early," he said as he keyed his name into the search box.
Sara dashed into the living room and scanned all the flat surfaces before squeezing her eyes shut, trying to remember where in the world she left her phone, as she kept up the small talk. “That sounds like fun. What are you guys thinking of seeing?”
Ryan was almost certain she was just trying to keep him on the phone at this point. Desperately willing the map to load, he cursed the solitary bar of service he was getting as tiny sweat droplets began to bead on his forehead. “Uh, I don’t know,” he said, “Jasper was talking about seeing some movie I’ve never heard of. It’s at some small art house theater. He said it was NC-17, whatever that means."
“Hmm, well don’t be out too late,” Sara responded, completely oblivious to what he’d just said, bolting over to the smartphone she’d finally spotted on the island in the kitchen. The map was still up, and it put Ryan’s location on the street just outside Jasper’s house. “So you’re over at Jaspers working on your project?” she asked pointedly and abruptly, now clearly attuned to the conversation.
Ryan’s map was still loading. “Were you even listening to me?” Ryan stalled. “I said we were going to an art house theater to watch an NC-17 movie, and you told me not to stay out too late?” Load!
“Oh, yeah. I knew you were joking,” Sara answered tersely. “Now what did you say you guys are up to?”
“Well,” Ryan drawled having no idea what the location of his phone was, trying to come up with a safe answer based on his best guess, but just at that moment the map mercifully zoomed in on his phone’s location — on the street outside Jasper’s house. Idiot! He was supposed to keep the phone on him! He’d probably left the phone in his car, parked outside his house. “Right now we’re outside working on some sidewalk art,” he said with the first thing that popped into his mind. “Have you ever seen that before? With the chalk? You can make it look 3D if you’re good at it. It’s actually pretty cool.”
“What does that have to do with your project?” Sara demanded.
“Well… Nothing” Ryan stammered, feigning trepidation about coming clean with what they were really up to. “We were most of the way done, and we just decided to take a quick break. We were just about to go back in. Sorry.” He figured even a small confession could potentially pass as the source of whatever had raised his mom’s suspicion in the first place.
“Ryan, that’s fine,” Sara said reassuringly, now convinced by both the content and the tone of his story. “You don’t have to be working the whole time you’re over there. But you do need to tell me what you’re up to, ok? You need to earn the freedom your dad and I have given you.”
“I know,” Ryan said ashamedly.
“Alright, now enjoy that NC-17 movie,” Sara said. “And don’t forget your fake I.D.”
“I won’t,” Ryan laughed, hoping he’d just dodged a bullet.
Half a block away, at the Renaissance Cleveland convention center, Dillon Higley was making plans to split up with his adoptive father who had accompanied him to the app-development conference. Dillon had manned his booth for most of the morning and early afternoon, so he was now free to explore the other exhibits.
“Ok, so I’ll meet you back here at 6,” Dillon agreed, gesturing to his booth. He then picked up his laptop and his phone and carved out a circuitous route toward the exit, making sure he wasn’t followed. The convention center was big and crowded enough that he would never be missed, and the hotel was conveniently connected to the arena through another building, so he wouldn’t even have to step outside, but it was still a good ten minute walk, and he had some work to do.
His first stop was the business center in the hotel lobby. Using his room key to pay, he sat down at one of the terminals and plugged in his laptop. In no time at all he’d grabbed the shot of the press pass and several other recent photos of Ryan off of the digital frame. Then with remarkably little effort, he fashioned Ryan a personalized press pass, changing the text and the photo but keeping the Fox reporter’s bar code on it. He then printed it out, cropped it, inserted it into the plastic sleeve from his “exhibitor’s pass” that he was wearing around his neck, and took off for the arena.
Just as the game was scheduled to start, Dillon arrived at the will call window to pick up his tickets — one in section 230 and one in 213. Then he walked out the northeast exit to look for Ryan.
Ryan was leaning against the rail at the top of the stairs just outside the arena, wearing a Hunting Valley Academy polo shirt, per the plan, when he saw Dillon exit the building.
Dillon looked like he was stepping into the sunlight for the first time in his life. His mop of coal-black hair accentuated the pallor of his complexion, and his gaunt limbs looked like white pipe cleaners with knees and elbows. He was almost three years older than Ryan, but he was a little shorter and actually looked younger. He was dressed in a plain black t-shirt and baggy jeans, hunched forward, struggling under the weight of his overstuffed backpack.
Ryan didn’t have time to register, much less modify, the gut reaction of surprise and disappointment that was painted across his face at first sight of his colleague before Dillon made eye contact with him. Dillon’s pale white cheeks blushed as the look of determination and resolve on his face gave way to searing embarrassment, and his gaze sunk back to the ground in front of him. He’d seen that look before — so many times. But he’d never gotten used to it — one of the many reasons he preferred to stick with electronic communication.
When Dillon looked back up, Ryan’s expression had overcompensated to an unnaturally effusive smile that came across as both condescending and emasculating. Dillon scowled at Ryan as he brushed by, his self-consciousness now turned to anger.
Ryan put it together immediately. He had to go through the same thing at the beginning of each school year, before saying or writing a word. He was the cute little kid with the can-do attitude. He realized he’d just given Dillon the same “Look at you, in the big kids’ classroom!” smile that he’d gotten every August at school. And unfortunately, he couldn’t take it back.