Lisa Gardner - Catch Me

Gave in to the impulse.

Quickly, he shoved aside Zombie Bear, popped open the top, hit the power button, and heard the computer whine wearily to life.

The old computer took a while to load. So, while it woke up, Jesse moved on to the next phase of his plan. He was going to feed himself breakfast. Then, he was going to fix his own lunch. Then, he was going to pack his own backpack.

That way, when his mother got up, and inevitably discovered him on the computer, she couldn’t get too mad. He’d eaten breakfast, right? He was all ready for school, right? He’d even helped her by fixing his own lunch, right?

Sometimes, rules could be bent a little. It was just a matter of proper mom management.

Jesse tiptoed into the tiny kitchenette. He cracked open the refrigerator, using its glow to guide him as he carefully climbed onto the kitchen counter, eased down a bowl, found the Cheerios, poured the milk. Breakfast took about five minutes. He resisted the urge to check on the computer, as the kitchen table was next to his mother’s bedroom and activity in there was more likely to wake her. Better to stay tucked away in the kitchen, getting through morning chores.

Next up, lunch. He was a bologna man. Liked it with a little mayo and one slice of Kraft American cheese. He preferred white bread, but his mother only bought wheat. White is like eating a piece of sugar, she told him, which only made him like white bread more.

Jesse got out two pieces of wheat bread. Struggled with the squeeze bottle of mayonnaise. He had to use two hands. First nothing came out, then half the bottle exploded out in a giant white blob. He did his best to smooth it with a knife, but when he finally added the cheese and bologna and put the two slices together, mayo oozed everywhere.

A wet, messy sandwich. The price to be paid for morning AthleteAnimalz. Jesse felt philosophical as he stuffed the gooey mess into a sandwich Baggie and plopped it into his lunch box. He added an apple and a snack-sized bag of pretzels. School would provide a carton of milk.

He zippered up his Transformers lunch box, loaded it into his backpack, and rocked back on his heels, feeling pretty good. He’d done it. Breakfast and lunch, all by 6 A.M. Not that hard, either.

Except then he glanced at his hands, still covered in greasy mayo. And the kitchen counter, which was dotted with even more mayo, pieces of cereal, and bits of bread. Better clean up or his mother would freak.

Back on the counter. Running the water thinly, doing the best he could with the sponge, smearing around the mayo, chasing the bread crumbs. Another quick rinse, and he hopped down, careful to land on soft feet before taking a deep breath, closing up the refrigerator, and finally creeping out of the tiny kitchen. His hands were maybe a little greasy. But not too bad, he thought. Close enough.

Laptop. Open. No longer wheezing. Waiting for him.

Jesse sidled up to it. He could already feel his heart race with anticipation. One last second, straining his ears for any sound from his mother’s room…Silence.

Jesse typed in www.AthleteAnimalz.com and hit return.

HE HAD MAIL. And not from Helmet Hippo, which surprised him. He was still figuring out the rules for mailing another player. From what he could tell, “talking” to another animal during a game was subject to a lot of restrictions; each animal could only pick from the Go Team Go list of expressions to appear in the conversation bubble over its head. But e-mailing…that seemed to be fair game. Helmet Hippo could write anything, a real letter to Jesse. And Jesse could write a real letter back, which he thought was pretty cool. Like a big kid talking to a big kid. This latest e-mail, however, wasn’t from Helmet Hippo. This morning someone else had found him: Pink Poodle.

Curious, Jesse opened the letter:

Nice playing! You’re getting really good, especially at baseball. That’s my favorite game. Is it your favorite, too?

I play every day. I use the computers in the Boston Public Library after school. I see you are a Red Sox fan. Does that mean you live in Boston, too?

You should come some time. We can play together. I’ll show you some tricks for hitting the curveball. No big.

If you feel like hanging out, come to the library. I’m easy to find: look for the Pink Poodle. Whatever.

C U on-line.

Pinky Poo

Jesse frowned. He read the letter again, then again. Some words he struggled with, but he thought he got it. Pink Poodle liked him. Pink Poodle lived in Boston. Pink Poodle could show him some tips if he came to the Boston Public Library.

Jesse sat down in front of the computer. His heart was beating hard again, though he wasn’t sure why. He rubbed his palms unconsciously on the worn legs of his pajamas. He studied the bright, cheerful e-mail again.

Stranger danger. His mother talked about that. Both in real life and on computers. If someone sent him an instant message, he was never to reply, but fetch his mother immediately. If someone sent him an attached file, he was never to open it. It might have a virus, which would destroy their already sickly computer. Worse, it might be something bad, not suitable for kids.

Scary? he’d asked his mom, because while he’d never admit this to his fellow second graders, Jesse didn’t like scary movies. They gave him nightmares.

Something like that, his mother had said.

So he wasn’t to “talk” to strangers online, or open attached files. But Helmet Hippo and Pink Poodle weren’t strangers. They were other kids on AthleteAnimalz. And they weren’t sending him scary videos. They were teaching him skills so he could win more points.

Jesse liked winning points. He could use more skills.

And he was allowed to go to the Boston Public Library, he reminded himself. He and his mother went often, a couple times a month. Libraries were good. His mother approved of them. If he asked to go after school, she’d let him. You were never to get into a stranger’s car, or follow a stranger into his house. That he understood. But meeting another kid at the public library…that didn’t sound so bad.

Jesse read the note again.

Pinky Poo. A girl. But a girl who was really good at baseball. Best hitter Jesse had seen. Even better than Helmet Hippo. And wouldn’t Helmet Hippo like that, when Jesse logged on later and could rack up even more points for his team…

Jesse made up his mind. Using his index finger, he began to laboriously type out his response, using Pink Poodle’s letter to help him with spelling.

Baseball is my favorite game, too. I will come. After school. No big, he added, because he liked the way it sounded. Older, confident. Like maybe a sixth grader.

He sat back. Reviewed his reply one last time.

Public place, he assured himself. The library.

Besides, stranger danger applied to creepy men. Pink Poodle was a girl . Jesse wasn’t afraid of a girl.

Jesse nodded to himself. He touched his carefully crafted e-mail on the computer screen. Admired his own typing, proper use of punctuation. Just like a sixth grader, he decided.

Jesse hit send.

While on the other side of the thin apartment wall, his mother’s morning alarm chimed to life.

HELLO. My name is Abigail.

Have we met yet?

Don’t worry. We will.

Hello. My name is Abigail.

D.D. WENT TO THE DARK SIDE. And fell in love all over again.

Coffee. Hot. Rich. Black. She cradled her cup tenderly, feeling the warmth spread from the beverage to the palm of her hands to the pulse points at her wrists. That first slow inhale. Savoring. Taking her time. Welcoming a long lost friend.