sweater, then went downstairs to Ishmael’s room. He lounged on his bed, eating a bowl of cereal.
“Is that your dinner?” I asked.
“What else am I supposed to eat? Dad still refuses to cook.”
It had been nearly a week, and Father’s strike was in full swing. Aside from his involvement in Maggie’s softball games, he’d pulled back from all his responsibilities. As far as I could tell, he spent most of his time at the gym.
“Did you get everything?” I asked Ishmael. My own backpack was packed, double- and triple-checked, and ready to go.
“Yeah, hold up,” he said.
He put down his bowl and stood. He wore black jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, but as I watched, he shrugged into a black trench coat.
“What do you think?” he asked. “I definitely look like a spy, right?”
He looked like someone who was trying to look like a spy. “Where’d that come from?”
“I borrowed it from Xavier.”
“I sincerely hope you didn’t tell him why you need it.”
“Dude, give me some credit.”
“What about masks?”
“Got ’em,” Ishmael said, holding up his own backpack.
“I guess we’re ready, then.” But I hesitated. “Well. Maybe I should check my supplies one more time.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Ishmael said.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re totally nervous. But don’t worry, this is gonna be great.”
Right. It would be great. It would go off without a hitch. The radio jammer would work flawlessly.
I straightened my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go scramble some radio signals.”
Legalities
According to the FCC (Federal Communications Commission) website:
Federal law generally prohibits radio broadcasts without a license issued by the FCC. Anyone found operating a radio station without FCC authorization can be subject to a variety of enforcement actions, including seizure of equipment, fines, and other criminal penalties.
And that, of course, was just the tip of the iceberg.
There were possible legal ramifications from the initial explosion. The hoax itself fell under reckless endangerment. When Ishmael and I made crop circles in Mr. O’Grady’s field, we’d committed criminal trespassing and destruction of property.
I was racking up misdemeanors left and right—all of which came with potential long-term consequences.
So you see, at that juncture, I couldn’t quit even if I’d wanted to. The hoax had come too far. I had to control it, remain on top of the situation. Otherwise, instead of leading me to MIT, the hoax might land me in a jail cell.
Event: Radio Jamming (Cont.)
I hated the woods. If we could have gotten away with driving to our desired location, I would’ve done it in a second, but we couldn’t risk anyone spotting our Jeep. So we drove as near as we dared, parked in the empty Shop-n-Save lot, and cut through the forest.
I’d chosen the spot for three reasons:
1. It was isolated.
2. There were no streetlights.
3. It was the only road leading from St. Francis, where the monthly Bingo Extravaganza was taking place.
But as we trekked through dense thickets of trees, I began to wish I’d chosen a spot that was easier to get to.
“Wait,” I called to Ishmael.
He stopped and glanced back, a bizarre figure in his trench coat.
“I want to check something.”
I unfolded my map and compared it to the satellite view on my phone.
“Dude,” Ishmael said. “It’s just up ahead.”
“I want to be one hundred percent sure.”
“How can someone so smart be so bad with directions?”
I bristled. “As I’ve told you before, intelligence comes in many forms. Spatial awareness has never been my forte. That doesn’t mean—”
“But I’m great at directions,” Ishmael said. “Can’t you just trust me for once?”
Of course I couldn’t trust him. But it was cold, my nose was running, branches kept scratching my face, and I was getting bitten by bugs.
I despised the outdoors so, so much.
“Okay,” I agreed. “Lead the way. But if we’re close, we should put the masks on first.”
“Good call.”
Ishmael unzipped his bag and fumbled inside for a moment before pulling out two items.
“Which do you want?” he asked.
“Aren’t they the same?” I used my cell phone to shine light on them.
And froze.
My brother held two plastic Halloween masks.
“Ishmael. What is this?”
“Masks, dude. Do you wanna be Elvis, or this guy?”
He shook the second mask.
“That guy is John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States. But I don’t want to be either of them.”
Ishmael looked truly baffled.
“Ski masks, Ishmael,” I hissed. “I wanted you to get ski masks.”
Understanding dawned. “Oh! That actually makes a lot of sense.”
I rubbed my eyes. It hadn’t even occurred to me to be more specific with him.
“With Halloween so soon, there’re masks everywhere,” Ishmael said.