" I'm 17 years old. I'm not a straight-A student or anything. Even so, I figured out how to make an Internet that they can't wiretap. I figured out how to jam their person-tracking technology. I can turn innocent people into suspects and turn guilty people into innocents in their eyes. I could get metal onto an airplane or beat a no-fly list. I figured this stuff out by looking at the web and by thinking about it. If I can do it, terrorists can do it. They told us they took away our freedom to make us safe. Do you feel safe?
More journalists asked questions. Some were sympathetic, some were hostile. When I got tired, I handed my keyboard to Ange and let her be M1k3y for a while. It didn't really feel like M1k3y and me were the same person anymore anyway. M1k3y was the kind of kid who talked to international journalists and inspired a movement. Marcus got suspended from school and fought with his dad and wondered if he was good enough for his kickass girlfriend.
By 11PM I'd had enough. Besides, my parents would be expecting me home soon. I logged out of the game and so did Ange and we lay there for a moment. I took her hand and she squeezed hard. We hugged.
"I said I love you," she said. "What, you want me to send you a telegram?"
"Wow," I said.
"You're that surprised, huh?"
"Sure you were," she said, and bit the tip of my nose.
"It's just that I've never said it before," I said. "So I was working
"You still haven't said it, you know. Don't think I haven't noticed. We girls pick upon these things."
"I love you, Ange Carvelli," I said.
"I love you too, Marcus Yallow."
We kissed and nuzzled and I started to breathe hard and so did she. That's when her mom knocked on the door.
"Angela," she said, "I think it's time your friend went home, don't you?"
"Yes, mother," she said, and mimed swinging an axe. As I put my socks and shoes on, she muttered, "They'll say, that Angela, she was such a good girl, who would have thought it, all the time she was in the back yard, helping her mother out by sharpening that hatchet."
I laughed. "You don't know how easy you have it. There is no way my folks would leave us alone in my bedroom until 11 o'clock."
"11:45," she said, checking her clock.
"Go," she said, "run and be free! Look both ways before crossing the road! Write if you get work! Don't even stop for a hug! If you're not out of here by the count of ten, there's going to be trouble, mister. One. Two. Three."
I shut her up by leaping onto the bed, landing on her and kissing her until she stopped trying to count. Satisfied with my victory, I pounded down the stairs, my Xbox under my arm.
Her mom was at the foot of the stairs. We'd only met a couple times. She looked like an older, taller version of Ange Ange said her father was the short one with contacts instead of glasses. She seemed to have tentatively classed me as a good guy, I and appreciated it.
"Good night, Mrs Carvelli," I said.
"Good night, Mr Yallow," she said. It was one of our little rituals, ever since I'd called her Mrs Carvelli when we first met.
I found myself standing awkwardly by the door.
"Yes?" she said.
"Um," I said. "Thanks for having me over."
"You're always welcome in our home, young man," she said.
"And thanks for Ange," I said finally, hating how lame it sounded. But she smiled broadly and gave me a brief hug.
The whole bus ride home, I thought over the pressconference, thought about Ange naked and writhing with me on her bed, thought about her mother smiling and showing me the door.
My mom was waiting up for me. She asked me about the movie and I gave her the response I'd worked out in advance, cribbing from the review it had gotten in the Bay Guardian.
As I fell asleep, the pressconference came back. I was really proud of it. It had been so cool, to have all these bigshot journos show up in the game, to have them listen to me and to have them listen to all the people who believed in the same things as me. I dropped off with a smile on my lips.
Those were the good headlines. Everyone sent me the articles to blog, but it was the last thing I wanted to do.
