Goddess Boot Camp
Page 38
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“Like this.” I lift one hip and pull two pieces of paper from my back pocket.
Nicole snatches them from my hand.
After unfolding them, she says, “They’re blank.”
“I know.” I slide the butterscotch against my cheek so I can talk. “They’re not supposed to be blank. They’re supposed to be e-mail printouts.” I slip the butterscotch back onto my tongue and mutter, “Thtupid, curthed e-mails.”
“They wouldn’t print?” Troy asks.
I shake my head. When I received the second e-mail last night, almost identical to the first, I wanted a printout so I could I analyze them. Maybe find a clue to who sent them.
Forty-seven attempts later, all I had was blank paper.
“Huh.” Troy’s brows scrunch together. “Who were they from?”
“The same person who sent the note,” Nicole suggests.
“Probably.” Unable to resist, I crunch the butterscotch. Someday my teeth will be dust. “The sender’s address was blocked.”
“Blocked?” Troy’s eyes get all wide. “This was to your Academy e-mail?” When I nod, he shakes his head. “The Academy e-mail system doesn’t allow blocked senders.”
I shrug. As if I can change what happened.
“Show me.” He leaps up from his desk chair and waves me over. “Log on to your e-mail.”
With a heavy sigh, I push off the bed. It’s not that I don’t want to find out who sent the message, and how they managed to block the sender and keep it from printing. I am just running low on motivation.
When I’m slow to move, Troy takes my shoulders, urges me into the chair, and shoves me closer to the desk. Grabbing the mouse, I click the Academy e-mail logo and enter my user name and password.
“See.” I point at the blocked messages, still at the top of my inbox.
Troy leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “I can’t believe it. Academy e-mail is impenetrable. No one can bypass the security system without major repercussions.”
“What about last year,” I ask, “when Griffin messed with my e-mail? Every time I deleted his message a new one popped up.”
“That’s different.” Troy rubs a hand back and forth over his short hair. “Anyone can create a simple hack on their own computer to automatically resend a message. But this messes with the Academy server. It’s impossible.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking, Clearly not. “But that doesn’t change the fact that—”
“Let’s take this to Urian,” Nic says. “He’ll figure it out.”
“She’s right. The kid’s a genius.” Troy jerks the desk chair back, with me in it. “Let’s go.”
He hurries out into the hall. Nicole shrugs, like we both know he’s overreacting, but follows him through the door. When I get into the hall, I see Troy knocking on a door three rooms down. When there’s no answer, he rolls his eyes and knocks again, this time with a knock-knock . . . knock . . . knock-knock-knock pattern.
“Password?” a muffled voice says through the door.
“Chimera.”
No answer.
“Shoot,” Troy whispers. “That was yesterday’s password.” To the door, he says, “Scylla’s strait.”
Nicole rolls her eyes.
The door swings open silently.
“Don’t,” Troy whispers through clenched teeth, “laugh.”
We walk into a room straight out of Star Wars. Complete with crossed lightsabers over the desk, black curtains blocking out the window, and a life-size Han Solo cutout in the corner.
A giggle bubbles its way to the surface. Troy cuts me a harsh look and I stifle my humor. But seriously, a life-size Han Solo?
“State your purpose?”
Turning toward the voice, I see a short, dark-haired boy pushing the door closed. I can’t tell for sure—like I said, the window is blacked out and the only light in the room is coming from the glow of a computer monitor—but I don’t think I know him.
“Academy e-mail,” Troy says.
“Familiar,” the dark-haired boy says, leaving his post at the door and sliding into the chair in front of his computer. “Situation?”
“Blocked sender.” Troy moves farther into the room and sits on the unmade bed, on the edge nearest the desk.
“Impossible.” Dark-haired boy clicks rapidly on his keyboard.
“Not impossible,” Troy says, leaning forward so he can see the monitor. “I’ve seen it.”
Nicole leans close to my ear and whispers, “Urian’s a little psycho, but he knows computers better than anyone.”
Dark-haired boy stops typing. “Additional inconsistencies?”
“The message won’t print.”
Dark-haired boy grunts and starts typing faster than ever. Images flash across the monitor at warp speed.
I feel like I’ve entered nerd-ville.
I stick to my spot just inside the door. From what I can see in the flickering light, the rest of the room looks like a hurricane, tornado, and tsunami took turns messing with the contents. I’m suddenly very glad I had to wear pants and closed-toe shoes for camp today. Who knows what’s living in those piles.
“Access codes?” dark-haired boy finally asks.
“Phoebe,” Troy says, “tell Urian your user name and password.”
“No way,” I say. I don’t know this guy. I’ve read about those identity thieves who hijack your e-mail and use it to send spam about discount prescription drugs and pirated computer programs.
Nicole snatches them from my hand.
After unfolding them, she says, “They’re blank.”
“I know.” I slide the butterscotch against my cheek so I can talk. “They’re not supposed to be blank. They’re supposed to be e-mail printouts.” I slip the butterscotch back onto my tongue and mutter, “Thtupid, curthed e-mails.”
“They wouldn’t print?” Troy asks.
I shake my head. When I received the second e-mail last night, almost identical to the first, I wanted a printout so I could I analyze them. Maybe find a clue to who sent them.
Forty-seven attempts later, all I had was blank paper.
“Huh.” Troy’s brows scrunch together. “Who were they from?”
“The same person who sent the note,” Nicole suggests.
“Probably.” Unable to resist, I crunch the butterscotch. Someday my teeth will be dust. “The sender’s address was blocked.”
“Blocked?” Troy’s eyes get all wide. “This was to your Academy e-mail?” When I nod, he shakes his head. “The Academy e-mail system doesn’t allow blocked senders.”
I shrug. As if I can change what happened.
“Show me.” He leaps up from his desk chair and waves me over. “Log on to your e-mail.”
With a heavy sigh, I push off the bed. It’s not that I don’t want to find out who sent the message, and how they managed to block the sender and keep it from printing. I am just running low on motivation.
When I’m slow to move, Troy takes my shoulders, urges me into the chair, and shoves me closer to the desk. Grabbing the mouse, I click the Academy e-mail logo and enter my user name and password.
“See.” I point at the blocked messages, still at the top of my inbox.
Troy leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “I can’t believe it. Academy e-mail is impenetrable. No one can bypass the security system without major repercussions.”
“What about last year,” I ask, “when Griffin messed with my e-mail? Every time I deleted his message a new one popped up.”
“That’s different.” Troy rubs a hand back and forth over his short hair. “Anyone can create a simple hack on their own computer to automatically resend a message. But this messes with the Academy server. It’s impossible.”
“Maybe,” I say, thinking, Clearly not. “But that doesn’t change the fact that—”
“Let’s take this to Urian,” Nic says. “He’ll figure it out.”
“She’s right. The kid’s a genius.” Troy jerks the desk chair back, with me in it. “Let’s go.”
He hurries out into the hall. Nicole shrugs, like we both know he’s overreacting, but follows him through the door. When I get into the hall, I see Troy knocking on a door three rooms down. When there’s no answer, he rolls his eyes and knocks again, this time with a knock-knock . . . knock . . . knock-knock-knock pattern.
“Password?” a muffled voice says through the door.
“Chimera.”
No answer.
“Shoot,” Troy whispers. “That was yesterday’s password.” To the door, he says, “Scylla’s strait.”
Nicole rolls her eyes.
The door swings open silently.
“Don’t,” Troy whispers through clenched teeth, “laugh.”
We walk into a room straight out of Star Wars. Complete with crossed lightsabers over the desk, black curtains blocking out the window, and a life-size Han Solo cutout in the corner.
A giggle bubbles its way to the surface. Troy cuts me a harsh look and I stifle my humor. But seriously, a life-size Han Solo?
“State your purpose?”
Turning toward the voice, I see a short, dark-haired boy pushing the door closed. I can’t tell for sure—like I said, the window is blacked out and the only light in the room is coming from the glow of a computer monitor—but I don’t think I know him.
“Academy e-mail,” Troy says.
“Familiar,” the dark-haired boy says, leaving his post at the door and sliding into the chair in front of his computer. “Situation?”
“Blocked sender.” Troy moves farther into the room and sits on the unmade bed, on the edge nearest the desk.
“Impossible.” Dark-haired boy clicks rapidly on his keyboard.
“Not impossible,” Troy says, leaning forward so he can see the monitor. “I’ve seen it.”
Nicole leans close to my ear and whispers, “Urian’s a little psycho, but he knows computers better than anyone.”
Dark-haired boy stops typing. “Additional inconsistencies?”
“The message won’t print.”
Dark-haired boy grunts and starts typing faster than ever. Images flash across the monitor at warp speed.
I feel like I’ve entered nerd-ville.
I stick to my spot just inside the door. From what I can see in the flickering light, the rest of the room looks like a hurricane, tornado, and tsunami took turns messing with the contents. I’m suddenly very glad I had to wear pants and closed-toe shoes for camp today. Who knows what’s living in those piles.
“Access codes?” dark-haired boy finally asks.
“Phoebe,” Troy says, “tell Urian your user name and password.”
“No way,” I say. I don’t know this guy. I’ve read about those identity thieves who hijack your e-mail and use it to send spam about discount prescription drugs and pirated computer programs.
