Computer Number Eighteen
Eeee, writing snuff.
I am currently sitting at computer number sixteen in the tech lab, resisting the urge to spin around in my wheeled chair. With my headphones sung and in place and sitting back comfortably, I pretended not to stare at the boy at computer number eighteen while listening to thirty-second sound bites.
Because of the position of computers fifteen through twenty, and the angle of lighting from looming fluorescent lights above, the tech ed. teacher could only see the monitors of said computers if she actually got out of her lay-z-bitch chair and came over to our deserted corner of the lab. But, of course, she wasn’t going to be moving anywhere other than to her supply cabinet that’s a millimeter away from her desk to grab more snacks.
“Fat bitch…” I mumble and click on a different sound bite.
Of course, the boy at computer number eighteen wasn’t listening because he was too into what exactly he was doing, and the cow herself was across the room, and anyone else who might have heard it would have agreed completely. Not that anyone would admit it, of course. Cause, y’ know, no one can agree with a crazy boy unless they’re crazy too.
I can’t wait to get out of here. Fuck me, this stinks.
Nevertheless, I was sitting at computer number sixteen, and there’s this boy sitting two computers down, just the two of us in the shitty little corner of the room, and I’m pretending not to watch him because I don’t have a clue what he’d do if he knew I was watching him and seeing what he was doing.
And what he was doing, was hacking into the school network. Fifteen minutes later, he’s through with the blocking system in the network and now he’s getting into grades of students, personal records of teachers, very firewalled stuff. He grins at something he reads, but quickly returns to what he was doing.
I imagine, in his head, he’s taking notes of all he stuff he’s reading, maybe putting little stars next to the important ones or the interesting stuff. I wonder how he resists the urge to change his own grades. Probably because he’s not an idiot, but I did see him change some other peoples’ grades. Poor Ashley Stillwell, she’s failed Calculus, Writing, and- gasp- Cheerleading. I guess she won’t be getting a new Lexus this Christmas from Daddy, with grades like those.
He minimizes the screen for a moment and types something in an instant massager. I see that he’s broken down the blockers for all instant messaging and e-mail connections in the computer’s system. I catch a glimpse of the screen name and make note to talk to him later. I briefly consider that maybe he’s trading tips with another hacker, or bragging to a student at how easy it was to get into the database.
Right now I should be on the fifth page of my Power Point presentation on the wondrous life of African animals. Ah well.
In about seven minutes the bell in going to ring for a change over of classes. Five minutes after that, he’ll be in his next class, not having a care, and I’ll be in mine, still thinking about the stuff he’s been doing on that computer.
If hackers aren’t careful, they can be tracked and punished with who-knows what.
I space out for six minutes apparently, because the next thing I know the fat bitch is attempting to stand and dismiss the class. She doesn’t win today either, and announces in a huff to please log out of our users and push in our chairs before we leave. I glance over to the hacker dude, but he’s already cleaned up his mess, and everything is back to normal on his computer, not a scratch to be seen in the system. He’s playing pong, bored again.
The bell rings, and I watch him stand up, stretch like a cat, look at me like I’m the one that’s been hacking in the network, then grin and leave, looking smug.
I guess I get why he didn’t mind hacking in front of me, then.
I am currently sitting at computer number sixteen in the tech lab, resisting the urge to spin around in my wheeled chair. With my headphones sung and in place and sitting back comfortably, I pretended not to stare at the boy at computer number eighteen while listening to thirty-second sound bites.
Because of the position of computers fifteen through twenty, and the angle of lighting from looming fluorescent lights above, the tech ed. teacher could only see the monitors of said computers if she actually got out of her lay-z-bitch chair and came over to our deserted corner of the lab. But, of course, she wasn’t going to be moving anywhere other than to her supply cabinet that’s a millimeter away from her desk to grab more snacks.
“Fat bitch…” I mumble and click on a different sound bite.
Of course, the boy at computer number eighteen wasn’t listening because he was too into what exactly he was doing, and the cow herself was across the room, and anyone else who might have heard it would have agreed completely. Not that anyone would admit it, of course. Cause, y’ know, no one can agree with a crazy boy unless they’re crazy too.
I can’t wait to get out of here. Fuck me, this stinks.
Nevertheless, I was sitting at computer number sixteen, and there’s this boy sitting two computers down, just the two of us in the shitty little corner of the room, and I’m pretending not to watch him because I don’t have a clue what he’d do if he knew I was watching him and seeing what he was doing.
And what he was doing, was hacking into the school network. Fifteen minutes later, he’s through with the blocking system in the network and now he’s getting into grades of students, personal records of teachers, very firewalled stuff. He grins at something he reads, but quickly returns to what he was doing.
I imagine, in his head, he’s taking notes of all he stuff he’s reading, maybe putting little stars next to the important ones or the interesting stuff. I wonder how he resists the urge to change his own grades. Probably because he’s not an idiot, but I did see him change some other peoples’ grades. Poor Ashley Stillwell, she’s failed Calculus, Writing, and- gasp- Cheerleading. I guess she won’t be getting a new Lexus this Christmas from Daddy, with grades like those.
He minimizes the screen for a moment and types something in an instant massager. I see that he’s broken down the blockers for all instant messaging and e-mail connections in the computer’s system. I catch a glimpse of the screen name and make note to talk to him later. I briefly consider that maybe he’s trading tips with another hacker, or bragging to a student at how easy it was to get into the database.
Right now I should be on the fifth page of my Power Point presentation on the wondrous life of African animals. Ah well.
In about seven minutes the bell in going to ring for a change over of classes. Five minutes after that, he’ll be in his next class, not having a care, and I’ll be in mine, still thinking about the stuff he’s been doing on that computer.
If hackers aren’t careful, they can be tracked and punished with who-knows what.
I space out for six minutes apparently, because the next thing I know the fat bitch is attempting to stand and dismiss the class. She doesn’t win today either, and announces in a huff to please log out of our users and push in our chairs before we leave. I glance over to the hacker dude, but he’s already cleaned up his mess, and everything is back to normal on his computer, not a scratch to be seen in the system. He’s playing pong, bored again.
The bell rings, and I watch him stand up, stretch like a cat, look at me like I’m the one that’s been hacking in the network, then grin and leave, looking smug.
I guess I get why he didn’t mind hacking in front of me, then.