Dylan scanned the screen asking, “Since when is this password protected?” Shruggingoff her own question, she handed me a pen and a piece of paper and asked me to copy down the code. She clicked on a few more documents, grabbed her thumb drive, and turned off the computer.
“What’s that?” Dylan asked, pointing to something above my head.
I turned and pulled down the announcement pinned to Michelle’s bulletin board. “Funeral for Kirk-the-Jerk. This Saturday at ten a.m.”
Dylansnapped a picture of it and slid her phone into her pocket. “Cool. We’ll be there.”
Before I could argue, we ran into our second problem. Wheels squeaked against the office carpet, accompanied by the faint sound of music.
“Duck!” Dylan whispered, pulling me down with her.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She put a finger to her lips and slowly peeked around the desk. Then she leaned againstme and said, “Cleaning lady. She has headphones on.” Dylan cupped her ears for emphasis.
“What do we do?” I asked. If the cleaning lady came around the desk and saw us, we were screwed.
“We get out of here before she sees us,” Dylan said. Then she turned back to peer around the desk, banging her head against the cleaning lady’s knee. “AHHHHHH!” Dylan screamed, throwing her arms up.
The womanscreamed back, spraying something at Dylan.
“Ow! My eyes!” Dylan shouted, knuckling them as she turned away.
A stream of angry-sounding Russian words preceded more spritzes of something that smelled like vinegar, spurring me into action. I grabbed Dylan’s hand and we went barreling for the exit while the cleaning lady continued her angry tirade behind us. We made it to the stairs, pushed openthe door, and the alarm sounded.
“Shit!” I shouted, covering my ears against the blaring racket.
“Keep your head down,” Dylan said, still rubbing at her eyes. We linked hands again and half sprinted, half slid down all four flights of stairs before pushing our way out into the cool January evening. Sirens sounded in the distance, coming ever closer, so we kept running. My lungs were burningand there was a stitch in my side, but Dylan dragged me on, muttering something about not going back to jail.
Since there was no way we could get back on the MAX with our faces all painted up, she shoved me into a gas station bathroom where we were careful not to touch anything as we caught our breath. My feet were killing me.
“Next time, no heels,” I said between gasps of air.
“I tried totell you,” Dylan said.
Feeling gross and sweaty, I glanced in the broken mirror above the sink long enough to confirm that black face paint was sliding down my face. “No face paint either.”
“What are you talking about? Face paint was an excellent idea. There is no way that maid will be able to pick us out of a lineup.”
She had a point. “Your proficiency at this is kinda starting to scare me,”I said.
Dylan laughed. “Stick with me, kid, I’ll learn ya all I know.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m afraid of,” I retorted.
We took turns scrubbing our faces until they were pink and mostly paint-free, before reemerging into the night.
Dylan gestured at my outfit. “You need to put your hoodie back on.”
“No way.” Despite the chilly air, I was still burning up from running. “It’s too hot.”
She tilted her head. “Please? I don’t want to go back to jail.”
“What does my hoodie have to do with you going back to jail?”
“Because dressed like that in downtown Portland in January, someone is going to think you’re selling something and they’re going to proposition you. Then you will freak the hell out and start beating them over the head with your purse and I’ll have no choice but to joinin. Cops will be called, and I will go back to jail.”
She had a point, so I pulled my hoodie out of my tote and put it back on.
