How to Lead a Life of Crime

by Kirsten Miller

  The room was so dark that I could have slept with my eyes open. And yet I could still feel them watching. Fortunately, Peter Pan made good on his promise. He didn’t visit me during the night. Maybe he tried and couldn’t find a way in. But I know he hasn’t forgotten me because he sent me a dream.

  I saw myself sitting on the steps outside the public pool in Hamilton Fish Park. It was a warm morning at the beginning of May, and I was desperate for a dip, but the pool was still closed for the season. Weeks had passed since I’d last been truly clean. I washed up in restrooms whenever I had the chance, but there are parts that need more than a wipe with a damp paper towel. And you can’t pick pockets if your marks smell you coming a mile away.

  I heard sandals slapping the sidewalk and spotted a girl walking toward me. I’m not sure what caught my eye first. The wild black hair that floated behind her—or the long, lean body clad in an ankle-sweeping sundress. When the breeze pinned the fabric to her body, she might as well have been naked. She wasn’t beautiful. At least not in the model prom-queen pageant-winner way. She was absolutely magnificent.

  “The pool doesn’t open till Memorial Day,” the girl stopped to inform me. I’d seen her before. She lived somewhere in the neighborhood, but I didn’t think she’d noticed me. My grubbiness rendered me invisible to almost everyone.

  I checked over my shoulder, just to make sure I was the only person around.

  “Why don’t you come with me,” she said.

  “Where?” I asked, and instantly regretted it. It didn’t really matter where.

  “You’ll see.”

  We walked side by side without saying a word. Most females get fidgety when no one’s talking. This girl seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence. We cut across Tompkins Square Park and turned left on Tenth Street. I kept inching closer to catch the scent she was trailing. Halfway down the block, she stopped outside the Russian Baths, and I realized we’d reached our destination.

  “I don’t have any money,” I told her, patting my empty pockets.

  “If you come before business hours and tell them Joey sent you, they won’t ask you to pay.”

  “Who’s Joey?” I asked.

  “That’s me. Spelled J-o-i.”

  “Are you French?” I asked. I’d been wondering where they grew girls like Joi. I’d never seen anyone who looked quite like her.

  “No.” She laughed. “Not even a little bit.”

  I took a shower first and gave my clothes a light wash. Then I grabbed a robe from the pile stacked up for patrons and set out in search of Joi. When I reached the ice-cold plunge pool, I found her. Goddesses have been known to murder mortals who catch sight of them naked. Joi just smiled as though she had nothing to hide. There was something so innocent about it that I knew she wasn’t trying to seduce me. But she did.

  When I woke, I felt warm, wet skin under my fingertips. The sensation slipped away, but I could still see Joi treading water. Then the lights in my cell came on with no warning. Joi faded, and another day began.

  I thought I knew what I was doing when I came here. It all seemed so simple. Take a few classes. Graduate in nine months. Get the proof Mandel promised. Destroy my father and join my brother. I thought it would be easy to leave Joi behind. This morning I found out I was wrong.

  • • •

  I’m glad I worked up the energy to shower and dress because the door of my cell just slid open. There’s a woman standing outside in the hall, waiting to escort me to the first experiment of the day. She’s attractive. All the women who work here are attractive. The men are too, come to think of it. But it’s hard to look at any of them. Whenever one of the employees meets my eyes, I can tell she’s staring straight through me.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Lights on is at seven. Breakfast is at eight. Starting tomorrow, you will not have an escort. So please pay attention. You’ll be expected to find your own way.”

  “Maybe you should give us maps.”

  “You won’t need a map. I’m going to show you everything you need to know.”

  There are signs on the doors now. The woman reads them all, as though I’m incapable of doing so on my own. She starts with room 6. My room.

  “Room five, room four, room three, room two, room one,” she says as we walk down the hall. These are the other students’ cells. We turn a corner. “Classroom one, classroom two, classroom three.” We turn another corner. “Media room, gym, cafeteria.” The gym is in the center of the square formed by the hallway. It’s got to be huge. The woman stops at the cafeteria, but I take a peek around the next corner. I see the elevators and two unmarked doors. I’m guessing the first one hides a stairwell to the glass catwalk that passes above my head and into the gym.

  “What’s down this way?” I ask.

  “Those rooms are for employees only,” she states.

  The woman pushes a metal button that opens the cafeteria door, and I step inside. It’s the same place where I taught Ivan his little lesson, but a new set seems to have been constructed during the night. The bottom half of the room has been transformed into a ritzy brasserie. The restaurant has four walls but no ceiling. Instead of the self-service food bar, there are five tables with crisp white tablecloths. Antique mirrors with gilded frames reflect the warm light shed by brass sconces. When I look up, the illusion ends. The brasserie’s walls are only ten feet high. Above that mark, the room still resembles a soundstage. The catwalk’s glass is clear. I’m the first to arrive.

  A waiter approaches me. Not a waiter, I remind myself. One of them in a black vest and white apron.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” he says. “Table for one?”

  “Oui,” I respond, deciding to play along. “Je voudrais une table près de la fenêtre, s’il-vous plaît.”

  It’s one of the four or five phrases I ever managed to memorize. I knew better than to expect a laugh, but my joke seems to catch the faux waiter completely off guard. Mandel should have hired someone who speaks a little French.

  “Oh, never mind,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “Just give me the very best table you have.”

  I take my seat. I’m placing my napkin in my lap when Ella arrives. I feel the urge to applaud, so I do. Her hair has been cut and restored to its natural color. Now that there’s nothing to distract from her face, I can see how stunning she is. They’ve put her in a simple gray shirtdress and confiscated most of her diamonds. The only ones left are the tasteful studs in her ears. When Ella gives me the finger on her way to her table, I notice that her acrylic nails have been removed. I wish I could assure her that she doesn’t seem any less fierce without her claws.

  Felix is next. He looks like a J. Crew model with his coral-colored oxford shirt tucked into a pair of olive chinos. Not much of a difference, truth be told, but he doesn’t seem particularly pleased. Probably because someone told him to button his shirt all the way to the top. He’s followed by Ivan. It’s hard to focus on anything other than the white bandage across his nose and his two swollen eyes, but I can see he’s been given a respectable haircut, a shirt custom-made for his brawny torso, and a pair of black pants. He smiles at me as he passes. I’m not sure if it’s a peace offering or a threat. But I’m impressed by the quality of his new veneers.

  Aubrey arrives last. The transformation is remarkable. They’ve darkened her hair and cut some bangs. The blue eyes peeking out from beneath them are framed by long, black lashes. Her lips don’t need any liner to form a true Cupid’s bow. She’s wearing heels, a pencil skirt, and a diaphanous blue shirt that matches her eyes. The same eyes that haven’t left my face since the moment she walked into the room. I hope she hasn’t gotten me mixed up with Prince Charming. That wouldn’t be good. Not good at all. I rescued her once, but I may not be willing to do it again.

  Our waiter glides between the tables, delivering a menu to each of us. Another man arrives and wordlessly makes his way around the room. He’s different from the other academy employees. He actually s
eems to see us. His sense of style makes me suspect that he might be Italian. It feels formal and casual all at once. Red check shirt carefully rolled up to the elbows. A striped tie with a double Windsor knot. Sleek navy pants that are tapered at the ankle. Glasses with fashionable frames that probably don’t hold corrective lenses.

  “Excellent,” the man announces when he reaches my table. I stand corrected. He’s American. “Ivan, where is Flick’s napkin?” I can tell he’d prefer to call us by our surnames if we had any.

  “Huh?” Ivan grunts.

  “Flick’s napkin is in his lap. Folded lengthwise with the fold facing toward him,” the man says, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Ella, where are Flick’s elbows?”

  I turn to see that Ella has one elbow on the table. Her head is propped up by her palm. “Who gives a f—?” she sneers. I have a feeling somebody isn’t too thrilled by her makeover.

  The man’s nostrils flare, but his voice remains calm. “That’s the last time you—or any of your classmates—will use that word while you’re inside these walls. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” I chirp. I think I may be on my way to becoming the teacher’s pet.

  He pats me on the shoulder but keeps his eyes locked on Ella. “Do I?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “As for why you should care, to be perfectly frank, you look vulgar and ignorant. Should you ever find yourself in a restaurant like this, your fellow diners won’t be impressed by your disdain for the rules. They’ll be too busy snickering at your crudeness. Now sit up straight and keep your legs closed.”

  Ella does what she’s told. In fact, there’s no longer a single bent spine in the room.

  “My name is Mr. Jones. I will be joining you for all of your meals this week. I know many of you have come here with only the haziest knowledge of etiquette. But rest assured, by the time we’re finished, you’ll be ready to break bread with presidents and royalty.”

  I’m not sure Mr. Jones realizes what kind of challenge he’s set for himself. Having lunched with my classmates yesterday, I’m convinced that Ivan has been eating out of a pig trough for the past seventeen years. Ella is only marginally more refined. Even Felix grips his fork like a garden spade.

  “Flick,” Mr. Jones says. “I’m appointing you to be my teacher’s aide.”

  • • •

  I spent two dull hours tutoring the troglodytes this morning, and now I’m playing the same role again. We’re in classroom 1, which the academy’s set designers have decorated to resemble the library of an elite Manhattan club. Leather armchairs. Wood paneling. Shelves with sliding ladders. But the fireplace is fake, and all the books are just props. There’s nothing printed on their pages. When we entered, the catwalk above was empty. As soon as Ms. White, our elocution instructor, asked each of us to stand and give a short speech on a subject of our choosing, the catwalk’s glass began to fog up.

  I decided to introduce my classmates and observers to Schrödinger’s Cat—Europe’s first zombie and scientific proof that it’s possible to be dead and alive at the very same time. I’m not sure what she made of the topic, but Ms. White was duly impressed by my clear enunciation and understanding of grammar. I had an excellent teacher growing up, I almost informed her. When my father delivered a lesson, he made sure you never needed another.

  Now Ms. White is dedicating herself to training Ivan to speak in something other than grunts, and I’ve found myself paired with Aubrey. I hadn’t actually heard her voice until the rambling speech she just delivered on the subject of Smoky Mountain fireflies. As it turns out, she speaks with a maddening twang. Not the kind of southern drawl that calls to mind mint juleps and cotillions. Aubrey’s accent is of the possum-eatin’, cousin-kissin’ variety.

  We’re both given a single sheet of paper with the same long list of phrases. I read one, and Aubrey repeats it, trying to enunciate the words properly. It would probably help if she watched my lips as they form the sounds. But she keeps trying to catch my eye. When she finally does, I know in an instant that I’m not her Prince Charming. This isn’t how girls look when they’re love struck. This is how they look when they’re petrified. And if she’s already scared, she shouldn’t be here. It will probably be dangerous, but the first chance I get, I’m going to give Aubrey Joi’s address and advise her to get herself kicked out of school.

  I don’t know why, but I want Aubrey to know that she’ll be okay. But my smile only seems to convince her that she’s not getting through to me, and she’s almost twitching with frustration. Finally she leaps to her feet, rips up the sheet of paper, and tosses the pieces into the air. Except for one little scrap that she’s kept in her hand. While everyone’s watching the confetti flutter to earth, she presses the scrap into my palm. There’s one word on it: GO. I let it fall to the floor.

  “Before it heals,” she whispers without realizing that the teacher has come up behind her.

  Act fast, my brain urges. Make a scene! “Goddamn it!” I bellow, directing my rage at the catwalk. “Why am I teaching some stupid hillbilly how to talk? What’s next? Teaching goats how to slow dance? Pigs how to play the piano? This is not why I’m here, Mandel! When are you going to teach me something useful?”

  It’s worked. If Ms. White heard Aubrey’s warning, she’s already forgotten it. She is captivated by my performance now, and I’m doing everything I can to make it truly spectacular.

  I’m hurling insults at everyone in the room when the door opens and Mandel appears. He doesn’t need to say a word. I follow him outside. He waits until we’re in the hallway to crack a smile.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Flick,” he says. “I should have realized that these courses would be far too remedial for you. Most of our students tend to be rough around the edges when they arrive. They wouldn’t fit in without a few weeks of training.”

  “So can I go upstairs now?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not. We follow a strict schedule here. But starting tomorrow, you may have breakfast in your room and then report to the gym. We won’t waste your time with classes you don’t need.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’s about to open the door and send me back inside. Then he pauses. “Do you know what the alumni are saying about you?”

  “Am I supposed to guess?” I ask.

  “They’re already calling you the prodigy,” he tells me. Then his lips stretch into another friendly grin. “Let‘s see how long the label sticks.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  ANGELS AND DEMONS

  I’ve learned only one thing since I got here. I’m not quite as smart as I thought. It took a couple of days before I realized that being excused from all classes wasn’t a reward. It was a punishment—for losing sight of my goal. For getting off course. I’m not here to make friends or rescue damsels in distress. I’m here to win the prize I’ve been promised.

  I forgot my mission. And I’ve been sentenced to solitary confinement for my crime.

  The gym has every type of exercise machine ever built. I spent the first two days torturing muscles I’d never used before. Running marathons on the treadmills. Shadow-boxing on the enormous red exercise mat. When the other students showed up in the gym at 5:00 p.m. for their self-defense class, I was annoyed that they’d invaded my private space. But soon I began looking forward to their arrival each day. I even asked the instructor for permission to take part in the lessons. By the end of the first week, five o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

  You’d think that watching someone work out for ten hours a day wouldn’t be terribly entertaining. But I seem to be the most popular show in town. The catwalk glass is always transparent first thing in the morning. It fogs and clears at least a dozen times throughout the day. If I’m completely still, I can hear the sound of footsteps. I resist the urge to shout curses at the ceiling or fling weights at the walls. I’m not sure I’d survive if Mandel took my single hour of human contact away. And I doubt that’s the wors
t that could happen. He can do whatever he wants to me down here. There’s nothing I could do to stop him. And that must be the lesson he’s trying to teach me.

  After the solitude had turned into torture, I tried holding imaginary conversations inside my head. Sometimes with Jude. Sometimes with Joi. Then one afternoon I heard the sound of my own voice. I’d been speaking out loud. The catwalk glass was clear. No one was watching, but I had no idea how long my lips had been broadcasting my thoughts. The watchers couldn’t know about Joi, and I didn’t want them eavesdropping when I spoke to Jude. So I tried to fill my brain with nothing but static. The effort made me angry. That rage became my constant companion.

  Every night, I pace my cage. Anything, anything, I tell myself. You have to do anything. I no longer care if anyone’s watching behind the mirror. I have to keep Jude and Joi from visiting me in the darkness, so I stage executions inside my head. I murder my father the way he murdered his. Or I beat him until his face is as broken as Jude’s. Every morning, I emerge from a dream in which I’m drenched in his blood. Mandel must have known this would happen.

  • • •

  If my calculations are correct, when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll have two days left in the Incubation Suites. Forty-eight hours that might as well be forever. At least today appears to be drawing to a close. It’s already five o’clock, and my fellow newbies have filed into the gym for self-defense training. I have no idea what’s happened to them over the past weeks, but the difference is startling. Their accents are gone, and their posture is perfect. Even Ivan speaks in clear, well-formed sentences that make me wonder if he might actually be sentient. They removed the bandages from his nose yesterday, and I can see they made a few improvements. It’s straighter. More refined. Ivan the Terrible has the schnoz of a Roman emperor. I guess it helps to be handsome if you’re completely insane. Ella is poised and deadly—like a princess with a pistol and a PhD. I haven’t heard Aubrey talk in days, but for a while she spoke like a television news anchor. Felix doesn’t smile as much anymore.