Hacked Read online

  She turned to the assortment of gift bags and checked out a couple, rustling the tissue paper as she peered inside. “Ah, yes.” She picked up a small blue bag. “Logan, this is for you. Your father said you enjoyed electronic games.”

  Logan hesitated for a second, then took the bag from her and dug in. “No way.” When he looked up, his face had transformed, the scowl replaced by the biggest smile I’d seen from him in a long time. He pulled a brand-new Nintendo 3DS from his bag, along with a couple of boxed games. The top box was some kind of FIFA soccer game. It figured. When we were in Spain, Logan and our friend Mateo had completely shut me out when they talked football (or “footie,” as Logan called it). Now he’d be able to tune me out whenever he wanted by playing a game. Perfect. “That version hasn’t even been released yet,” Liz told him proudly, and then she held out a large bag to me. “Cassidy, for you.”

  I rustled through the tissue to find a seriously adorable pink canvas Marc Jacobs cadet bag. I ran my fingers over the cool metal of the logo plate. Even though I didn’t usually go for designer labels, I couldn’t deny the bag was awesome.

  “Open it up,” Liz prodded. Then to my mom, “It’s from the Marc spring line. Very hot item.”

  Inside were three different styles of Marc sunglasses, a cool Miss Marc scarf, different colors of flower earbuds, and several pairs of boxed earrings.

  “They’d like Cassidy to wear some of their items during the shoots,” she explained. “Down the line, we anticipate spreads in some of the teen magazines—‘What Is La Chica Moda Wearing,’ that sort of thing.”

  Mom’s facade finally cracked. She shot a scathing look at Logan’s dad. “Magazine spreads? Cavin?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s all speculation at this point. But the network feels, given Cassidy’s marketing potential…” He let the words trail off because he didn’t have to remind us of Lecture Number One. He was always talking about “striking while the iron was hot.” It figured the network would want to milk my little burst of celebrity for all it was worth.

  Now not only was the muscle in my mom’s jaw full-on twitching, but she had folded her arms tight and crossed her legs facing away from Cavin and Liz. Not good body language for discussing new ideas.

  “Well, now.” Despite Mom’s attitude (or maybe because of it), Liz dialed up the perky about four notches. “Let’s see what else we have in here, shall we?”

  When she was done doling out the gift bags, I had enough earrings, scarves, and makeup to last me a year, a collection of designer sweaters and tanks, and a new military-style cargo jacket. Logan had scored a bunch of designer jeans and tees, a pair of cool sound-canceling headphones, and a FAI soccer jersey—signed by the team.

  The final gift was the one that did me in, though. Liz handed Logan and me identical silver bags and practically bounced out of her seat waiting for us to open them. “They’re matching smartphones!” she announced, as if we couldn’t see for ourselves.

  I glanced at Logan, wondering if he appreciated the irony of the timing. We’d never been able to text each other before because Logan didn’t have a cell phone. Now that he did, and we could call and text anytime, we were hardly speaking.

  If that thought crossed his mind, Logan sure didn’t show it. He was too busy checking out the phone’s features and messing around with the apps. I watched him sitting there in his new footie jersey, playing with his phone, and shook my head. Talk about being easily bought.

  “Now then,” Liz said, clapping her hands. “Are we all on board?”

  Logan looked up from the phone. “Will I hafta act that I like something when I don’t?”

  “Oh, no.” Liz shook her head, and the blunt line of her haircut quivered above her shoulders. “What we want are genuine reactions. You don’t have to act at all. We’ll edit out the negative.”

  “But that’s not genuine, then, is it?” he asked. “If it’s edited, I mean.”

  “I see what you’re saying.” She furrowed her brows, as if she was giving the question serious thought. “I tell you what. You can have final approval of the edited version before you do the voice-over, how’s that?”

  Logan put down the phone. “What kind of voice-over? I thought it was unscripted.”

  Liz’s lips tightened around her smile until it looked like a grimace. “The footage will be unscripted,” she said. “We’ll craft a few lines after the final cut to introduce the episode, and to remind viewers to watch When in Rome.” Before he could ask any more questions, she quickly turned to me and changed the subject.

  “Cassidy, you’ll want to add teasers to your blog. Give your fans a hint of what’s coming. We can provide you with clips from the shoots to post if you’d like.”

  “Oh. Uh…thanks, but I sort of like to use my own video.” I had always filmed my vlog entries by myself. As much as I liked the idea of including actual show clips, I didn’t want to lose that kind of personal connection.

  “Good idea,” Liz agreed. “When you post them, be sure to mention that you took the videos with your new phone. The sponsors will love that.” She made a note on her tablet and then turned to my mom. “If it’s all right with you, we’d like to switch up the kids’ shooting schedules a bit. While you’re filming your longer segments, we thought perhaps we could hit some locations that will capture the younger demographic, such as zip-lining through the rain forest canopy, mountain biking, that sort of thing. Exactly when will depend largely upon the weather.”

  Mom said they would need to discuss supervision and security, but before they could do either, Liz declared the meeting was over. “Is anyone else starving?” she asked. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

  She and Cavin headed toward the dining room, my mom trailing close behind. “One more question, Liz,” I heard Mom say before they disappeared around the corner.

  And left me alone with Logan.

  I sat awkwardly for a moment, feeling the weight of our earlier argument and trying to think of something to say. Not that he would have cared; when I turned to him, he had already loaded one of the game cartridges into his new game console and was thumbing the buttons, staring at the screen.

  “I’m sorry,” I said anyway.

  Logan looked up at me like he hadn’t even realized I was still there. “Huh?”

  “I should have asked you before I talked to your dad about doing the spots with me.”

  “Okay,” he said. And that was it. No apology for what he’d said earlier. Nothing. I toyed with the handle of one of the gift bags. He went back to his game.

  “So…we’re good?” I asked.

  “Hmmm,” he said.

  Well. On the one hand, I was glad Logan had apparently accepted his fate as cohost, but I kind of expected that I’d say sorry and he’d say sorry and it would be like we were starting over. But where was my sorry? I pushed away from the couch and stalked out of the room.

  Victoria met me in the doorway. “You forgot Man Fact Number One,” she said. “Never try to talk to a guy when he’s watching sports or playing a game. It never ends well.”

  Sure enough, Logan was still absorbed in his game. He hadn’t even noticed I’d left him sitting there. “Guys can be so annoying,” I grumbled.

  Victoria laughed and slipped her arm around my shoulders, steering me into the dining room. “That,” she said, “is Man Fact Number Two.”

  Travel tip: Costa Ricans are warm, friendly, and quick to smile. It is not uncommon for them to start a conversation, even with foreigners.

  The table in the dining room was long enough that the entire cast and crew could sit together. That was something I really missed when I was shooting the travel special in Greece. I worked with a different crew there, and they hardly did anything together. They never came to feel like family to me the way our When in Rome crew did.

  Logan managed to drag himself away from his game long enough to join us at the table. (Although I’m guessing that had something to do with his dad threatening to t
ake the thing away from him if he didn’t.)

  Once we were all gathered, Cavin stood and pinged his spoon against his water glass. “May I have your attention, please!”

  He waited for everyone around the table to quiet down, then held up his glass. “A toast,” he said. “To us, to another successful show, and to our hostess, Señora Araya-Calderón.” He gestured with his glass toward a smiling lady with short dark hair and a warm smile who was standing by the kitchen’s swinging doors. She nodded back at him and gave the rest of us a small wave.

  “Sláinte!” Cavin said.

  Around the table, everyone repeated, “Sláinte!”

  Britt whispered to Marco, “It’s a traditional Irish toast. It means ‘to your health.’”

  Marco nodded his understanding and then he stood. “I would like to add a toast to welcome you to Costa Rica. Here we say ‘Pura vida.’ The words mean ‘pure life,’ but the better meaning says, Don’t worry. Enjoy your life and be happy.” He raised his glass. “Pura vida!”

  We said it back to him. I liked the way the words moved in my mouth as they rolled out together: poorah-veedah. It felt comfortable and happy.

  “And now,” Cavin said, “let’s dig in!”

  Marco took his role as guide seriously, explaining to everyone what the dishes were as each one was passed around the table. It probably wasn’t necessary, but I was glad he did. I’ve traveled with my parents enough that I’ve gotten pretty good about trying almost anything, but I still like to know what it is I’m putting in my mouth.

  Our meal, Marco explained, was comida tipica, typical Costa Rican food. The black beans and rice, for instance, would likely be served with most meals. There were also some corn pancakes called chorreados, a green bean and beef dish called picadillo de vaincas, and a bunch of other dishes whose names I forgot as soon as he said them. One of the most interesting was baked plantains with white cheese, because the flavor was so unexpected. Plantains look kind of like bananas, so I anticipated something sweet and smooth, but when I took a bite I was surprised to find the texture more like a potato. It might have been a little sweeter than a potato, but it was definitely not as sweet as a banana, especially with the cheese.

  I snapped a quick picture of the plantains with my new phone to post on my blog.

  When we were through eating, Señora Araya-Calderón started to clear the table, but Cavin asked the crew to stay where they were. They were going to review the itinerary for the next two weeks, he said. Since Logan and I were going to be on a different shoot schedule than the rest of the group, I figured I didn’t need to stick around, so I grabbed a few of the empty dishes and cups and followed Señora Araya-Calderón into the kitchen.

  “Muchas gracias,” she said. “Thank you very much. But you are a guest. You should not work.”

  “It’s okay.” I set the dishes by the sink where she was rinsing out a pan. “I don’t mind, señora.”

  She clucked her tongue at me. “You must call me Mama Tica,” she said. “I am your Costa Rican mama while you are here, eh? No need to say ‘señora.’”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Her directness reminded me a lot of my gramma in Ohio. Señora Araya-Calderón didn’t look anything like Gramma; she was much shorter—about half an inch shorter than me—and her black hair was only peppered with gray, while Gramma’s was almost white, but her deep brown eyes—even though they looked completely different than Gramma’s faded blue ones—held the same humor and warmth in them. I didn’t know her at all, but being around her felt comfortable and familiar. “Mama Tica,” I repeated.

  “Yes. Very good. And you are Cassidy. I recognize you from your pictures. I am very happy to have you in my home, Cassidy.”

  “You live here, in the lodge?” I asked, surprised. I had thought the lodge was like a hotel or something.

  “I live in the house up the hill with my husband and sons, but I think of the entire finca as my home.” One more thing Señora Araya-Calderón—Mama Tica—had in common with Gramma.

  I was about to tell her that when Victoria pushed through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. “There you are,” she said to me. “I wondered where you went. Mama Tica, fabulous meal.”

  Victoria offered more help with the dishes, but Mama Tica chased us from the kitchen. “You girls go relax,” she said. “The television says the rain will clear tomorrow, so you will have much to do before the clouds come again.”

  Victoria helped me to gather all my gift bags to carry them up to my room. Logan’s had already been cleared away. He must have grabbed his stuff while I was in talking to Mama Tica. He was probably off playing his game again. A hollow feeling swelled in my chest. By now he and I should have been off somewhere together, talking, laughing, playing tricks on the crew.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” Victoria asked. “You look like you could use some fresh air, and Marco offered to show some of us around the farm before it gets dark.”

  Nothing against fresh air, Marco, or the farm, but a walk with the crew was the last thing I wanted just then. “That sounds cool,” I said, “but I’m kind of tired. I’ll probably just update my blog and go to bed early.”

  “Internet’s down,” Bayani said from the entry. “Apparently, the satellite connection goes out a lot with the rain.”

  Well, that explained why I wasn’t able to get a signal earlier. And if the signal was still down, it also meant that I had no way to talk to Zoe. “Great,” I muttered.

  “I’m going into town to use one of the Internet cafés.” Bayani pulled on his favorite Yankees varsity jacket, the truck keys jangling in his hand. “You can come along if you want.”

  I was about to say yes when I remembered I had just told Victoria I was tired. “Thanks, but—”

  “Go on.” Victoria nudged me forward. “Your public awaits.”

  In the time it took for our bumpy ride into town, the clouds had begun to lift, but ghostly trails of mist still drifted among the ferns and grasses along the sides of the road. I took pictures of the mist through my window as Bayani slid another one of his old classic rock CDs into the changer and cranked up Lynyrd Skynyrd on the stereo. He sang along to “Sweet Home Alabama,” and I joined in with the chorus (it’s the only part I know). Everything was going great until the song ended and the next song came on. “Free Bird.” My stomach did a complete gainer. Last time I heard that song, Logan had been with me. Bayani had cranked up the music, and the three of us had air-guitared and head-banged all the way through.

  If Bayani noticed my change in mood, he didn’t say anything. He did turn the music down a little, though, as we got closer to town. “Help me keep a lookout,” he told me. “Monteverde’s a tourist town, so you know they’ve got to have a lot of Internet hangouts. Some places don’t look like they would offer Internet service, but they do.”

  Sure enough, as we rounded a bend in the road, Bayani spotted a sign for an Internet café in—get this—a converted yellow school bus tucked back in the trees. “Oh, we gotta go here,” Bayani said. “This is epic. And check out the name. Isn’t that the thing Marco toasted at dinner?”

  Along the entire length of the bus hung a bright blue banner that read, INTERNET CAFÉ AND LAUNDRY PURA VIDA The laundry part must have been in the little building behind the bus, I guessed. I snapped a couple of quick shots of it to post on my blog.

  I read the sign aloud, feeling those words roll through my mouth again. “Pura vida.”

  “Pura vida,” Bayani repeated. His pura sounded more like purrrrrrra. Show-off. He knew I couldn’t roll my r’s very well.

  “Don’t you have a word in the Philippines that means the same kind of thing?” I asked as he parked the truck. “‘Mubahay’ or something?”

  “That’s not exactly the same,” he said. “Sounds like this ‘pura vida’ is more like that Lion King ‘hakuna matata.’ You know, no worries, enjoy life, make the best of it. That sort of thing.”

  He turned off the engine and his regular smar
t-aleck grin disappeared. “It might not be the same word as we use, but it’s something I can relate to. We didn’t have much where I grew up, but we never let it beat us. Whatever you call it, you gotta live life, you know? You don’t like it? You fix it. Just be happy…like me.” He waggled his eyebrows, and the serious moment was gone.

  I liked what he said, though. You don’t like it, fix it. The thing with Logan was partially my fault. Okay, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have volunteered him to do anything without asking him first. I didn’t like what he said about the fake acting, but he probably didn’t mean it personally. He’s not like that.

  By the time we walked up to the open door of the bus, I had convinced myself that everything was going to be fine. I could smooth things over with Logan. I could quit being so sensitive. As long as I was in Costa Rica, I could give the pura vida thing a shot.

  But that was before I knew what was waiting for me when I signed in to my blog.

  Travel tip: Costa Ricans have a deep sense of honor, and care should be taken not to say anything that could in the slightest be interpreted as disrespectful.

  The interior of the bus had been converted into a long, narrow room with a line of computer booths down one side and a few chairs and café tables down the other. Most of the booths were already taken, so Bayani went to sit at one of the empty spots near the exit end of the bus. I settled into a chair closer to where the driver’s seat would have been.

  The connection was pretty slow, but I supposed if Mama Tica’s Internet was down because of the weather, it made sense that the rain could have affected the café’s service as well. I tapped on the desk impatiently while I waited for the Pura Vida café home page to load. I had to repeat the process two more times to bring up my e-mail site and then to sign in to chat. After all that waiting, Zoe wasn’t even online. Her icon sat there dark and unresponsive. Which made sense since it was, like, two in the morning in Greece, but that didn’t stop me from being disappointed.