Becoming The Code

Becoming the Code: Part 3

He sat in a small, locked room with tinted glass windows for hours. When someone finally entered, it was the worst person he could imagine at that moment, his mother. Her eyes were red, and her face was drawn. She shuffled into the room, taking small steps. He said nothing, and she said nothing.

She sat across from him and glanced from his face to his blue, painted hands. "Why, Jamal? Why?"

"Mom, I didn't do it. It was some girl in jeans and a black leather jacket."

"Really, around here? There was some girl in an old-fashioned costume spray painting the wall outside your grandmother's apartment. Where did you even hear about clothing like that?"

"Gran's got some old movie posters."

"It always boils down to your grandmother."

"It's not her fault."

"No, it's not. It's your fault for getting demerits at school and staying late. It's your fault for filling your head with impossible things instead of grabbing the opportunity in front of you. And, it's your fault for graffitiing. Maybe in our neighborhood it's something that boys do at a certain age -- a rite of passage. But no one, I mean no one, is dumb enough to try that in Tree Park."

"I didn't."

"Same paint on the mailboxes in Tree Park, the hallway and your hands. Tree Park School is not going to have you back. Not to mention, you had a book and a pencil in that bag of yours. For what? It's work camp for you, and I can't do anything about it. The only reason you even got the chance you did was because of your father being a computing officer. They didn't want to take you because I'm a laborer, but they did and now look what you've done. Well, come on. You start at the dump first thing in the morning. It is back-breaking, hard work. The lowest of the low. I could have at least gotten you onto a cleaning crew, but this is mandated by the judge. Seven days a week with no pay for twelve months. If you do well, then they might consider an upgrade, but you have kissed that easy computer job goodbye.

Jamal sat up in his bed and listened to his mom cry in the room next to him. Knots in his stomach tightened with each noise she made. He would report to the dump at six am, which meant he needed to leave his house at four to catch the bus out of the city. He hadn't slept. Had they not confiscated his book, he could have at least found some solace being lost in the ocean with Captain Nemo.

He couldn't even make sense of what happened to him. The pattern in his lesson was spray painted all over the city by some girl dressed in a Halloween costume. He remembered the way her eyes met his, a deep brown with long lashes. His face burned warm. Why would she be tagging the city with square numbers. It was a clue to something. He had to calculate the square of eight. But it couldn't be a whole number. He pulled out his pocket calculator. If 3 groups of 3 is 9 and 2 groups of 2 is 4. His number had to be in between. He punched in his calculations trying numbers.

2.2 x 2.2.

2.3 x 2.3.

Until, 2.828 x 2.828 = 7.997. That's it. I won't get any closer. He stood up and quietly pulled on his clothing and shoes.

He arrived at the graffiti-covered statue in the park. No one knew or cared about who the statue represented any longer, but Gran knew and so did Jamal. She took him to it once when he was younger, the only time she ever left the books in her apartment.

First, they stopped at the corner store to buy a snow cone. Gran wanted the ice with no syrup. The cashier looked at her and then at his keyboard. "I don't have a button for that."