by Sara Wolf
“So this is where we come in,” I say. She nods.
“We have strong evidence that two people closely connected to the Gatekeepers recently transferred into Ohio State University as sophomores.”
Ohio State. The name catches in my brain like a large fish in a too-small net. During my stay at the Ranch, and after I was well enough, I had a laptop. Gregory lent it to me, with one request: that I find a goal. It was a simple task to anyone but me; I’d lost everything with Sophia’s death. Things like goals seemed stupid when I no longer wanted to live in this hell we call a world, but I couldn’t deny Gregory. He’d saved me. So I focused on the only thing I felt I’d left unfinished, the only thing I felt I could do for the people I’d left behind.
Will Cavanaugh—Isis’s abuser and ex-boyfriend, the guy she called “Nameless.” I picked up where I left off before Sophia’s death and found his trail, which consisted mostly of stalking his social media. He didn’t post much, mostly complaints about basketball teams and games, but it was enough. I hungrily devoured everything he shared, looking through his old photos. One of them even had Isis in it, the old Isis smiling timidly. Seeing that picture only fueled my stalking higher. I tried to trace Will’s IP address but never got very far; he stuck to his old methods of routing himself around the world to throw off tracers like mine.
One day, though, as I watched his family’s Facebook feeds, his aunt gave me a vital piece of info. She tagged Will in a picture of her holding up an Ohio State University sweatshirt, beaming. The hashtag was #mynephewgotin. The picture disappeared shortly after—I assume Will got her to take it down, one way or another. But I already had the info in my hands.
Will Cavanaugh is going to OSU in the fall.
So Vanessa’s words about OSU perk up my ears, and I listen closer. Could it be him she’s after? He’s a good hacker—Isis herself said he won hacking tournaments in middle school.
“The goal,” Vanessa continues, “would be to maintain surveillance on these two without rousing suspicion. The ultimate goal would be to gather evidence, preferably hard copies and byte logs of their hacking activities, or their correspondence with the Gatekeepers themselves.”
“How long?” Charlie grunts. Vanessa raises an eyebrow at him.
“Excuse me?”
“How long would the contract last?”
“For as long as you can feasibly maintain your cover at the university.”
“So, it’s open-ended,” I say.
“Until you gather what we decide is solid enough evidence to incriminate both of them, yes.”
I look to Gregory, who shrugs.
“It’s not our type of gig, Vanessa,” he says. “Surely you understand.”
“It could be,” I say quickly. “Charlie and I are the youngest in Vortex. We could feasibly fit in.”
If I could get into OSU without rousing suspicion, I might be able to find Will there, too.
Gregory shoots me a quick look. “You could. But why would you want to? This is information work, not bodyguarding. We don’t do that.”
“But we could,” I press.
“You’re asking us to sit on our asses and go to college with a bunch of privileged kids for a year?” Charlie scoffs.
“The tuition would be paid,” Vanessa interrupts. “You would have to put up a show of attending class and maintaining decent enough grades to continue your enrollment. But your primary concern will be surveillance and secrecy. No one can know why you’re there.”
“Ms. Vanessa,” Gregory says, “I’m sure you’re aware Vortex Enterprises is a for-hire bodyguard company, not a stable of spies.”
“I know that well enough,” she says. “But you came very highly recommended from several politically connected friends of mine who’ve used your service. And no other company has such a”—she fixes me with a stare—“diverse range of ages among their employees. It’s imperative we employ informants who look the part of college students.”
“These two college students who are connected to the Gatekeepers,” I muse. “Do you have names?”
“None that I can disclose prior to your acceptance of the work.”
“You really think you can do this?” Gregory asks me.
I nod firmly. “It would be simple.”
“For you.” Charlie snorts. “But the rest of us are here to guard, not get ass-deep into some James Bond shit.”
Gregory ponders this for a moment, then nods at Vanessa. “We’ll do it.”
“What?” Charlie looks incredulous.
“It’s the beginning of the school year. You’ll blend in fine,” Gregory says, a steely edge in his voice. “I know you two can do this. You especially, Charlie. You’ve got the charisma for it. You always have.”
Gregory pulls Charlie’s arm and motions for me to lean in.
“Listen, it might not be our usual gig, but it’ll pay well. Whoever wants this, they’re big-time. Maybe even government. It’ll be good to have them in Vortex’s debt. Do you understand?”
Charlie’s eyes glint with slow realization.
“When would we leave, sir?” I ask.
Gregory shrugs. “As soon as possible, I’m guessing. I’ll forward you the details when I get them. All you have to do is agree to it.”
“I agree to it, sir,” I say.
Charlie inhales, chest puffing. “I-I’m down for it, too, boss!” he says quickly, glaring at me. “I’m not gonna let Batman fuck it up.”
“I have a name,” I drawl.
“Jack, right. Jackman. Jackoffman,” he corrects. The insults are so familiar they sting with a bitter sweetness, but I brush them off.
“All right, enough playground antics.” Gregory straightens and smiles at Vanessa, extending his hand. “My boys here say they’ll do it.”
“Fabulous.” She takes his hand and shakes it. “I’ll be in touch with the details. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
It takes only a second before she’s gone behind a Matson container. She moved so quickly I could barely follow her stride. She must’ve had her exit planned minutes in advance. Charlie shivers a little.
“Damn spooks.”
“She doesn’t seem so bad,” I say.
“Of course she doesn’t seem bad to you. You’re practically one of them already, all robotic and cutthroat. I’d bet you’d kill your girlfriend if the boss asked you to.”
My hand shoots out to his suit lapels before I can stop myself. The world becomes horrible white static again, blurring Charlie’s face, dulling Gregory’s assertive voice that tries to convince me to let him go. I shove him higher against the Matson container, the smell of dust and sweat and steel turning to ash in my nose. He’s awful. An awful puppet. I could crush him so easily, snuff his life out like I did to Joseph that night by the lake, like I almost did to Leo, like I did with Sophia.
Because, after all, I let her die.
I killed her.
There is fear in Charlie’s dark eyes, and it’s the only thing that keeps the roar from consuming my brain. I shove him away and stride back to the car. Gregory keeps up with me, motioning for me to roll down the driver window. I do, reluctantly.
“Look at me,” Gregory says, voice suddenly dark and commanding. I meet his gaze. “Are you going to be able to do this? Or do we need to revisit our training?”
My body flinches out of instinct, out of the physical memory from the training sessions with Gregory. The memory of blood oozing from my ears and my fingernails black and falling off. No. I don’t need to learn the hard way again.
“I have myself under control, sir,” I say slowly.
Gregory stares at me, through me, and then nods and pats the hood of my car.
“Get packing, then. You’ve got college to attend.”
We return to the motel Gregory is paying for us to stay in—two serviceable twin beds and nothing much else, but it’s better than sleeping in our cars. Better than the gravel he made us sleep on during training. Charlie grumbles obscenities and j
umps in the shower immediately. I order Chinese takeout and open my laptop. Gregory, ever punctual and eager to get started, forwarded us the dossiers. The two student faces stare out at me from their files. One of them is tan, jockish, with a fair face and dark eyes like a cat’s. Kyle Morris from Lakeside City, Michigan. The other—handsome-looking, brown hair, and a symmetrical face with eyes like frozen steel.
Will Cavanaugh from Good Falls, Florida.
I was right.
I was right, and now the game has truly begun.
Chapter Four
3 Years, 44 Weeks, 6 Days
Sometimes when life kicks you in the ass, you have to kick it back.
In the nuts.
With steel-toed boots.
Essentially, if someone, anyone, kicks you, it is very mature to take the high road and not kick them back. But it’s not fun. And I’m all about fun. One hundred percent fun. One fundred percent.
I smirk at my own pun. One pundred percent. My father groaning across the breakfast table is the only indication that I’ve been thinking out loud for the past five minutes.
“Isis, eat your food,” he pleads.
“No, Dad, I gotta go.” I stand up quickly from my chair. The twins pelt each other with oatmeal.
“You’ll sit down and eat your breakfast with the rest of us, Isis, or so help me—”
“Where are you going?” Kelly interrupts him and smiles sweetly at me.
“Home.”
Kelly’s eyes light up at the prospect. Dad’s darken.
“Isis, your ticket doesn’t have you going back until the thirtieth—”
“Dad,” I whine. “My friend died and I gotta go kick life in the nuts.”
“We’re all going to die. The Lion King said so,” one of the twins pauses in her oatmeal-throwing to say, her bright blond braids contrasting with her blue eyes as she blinks.
“Exactly!” I motion at her. “See, Dad? She gets it!”
Dad’s face turns red in his about-to-explode manner when Kelly grabs his arm and coos.
“Oh, darling, she must be so eager to get back to Ohio and start college. Remember when we were that age? I was so excited to leave the house and get on with my life! She’s just feeling that good old independence bug. Delta loves me—I’m a gold flier. They’ll let me change the date for nothing.”
Dad lets out a frustrated sigh, his red face going with it. “Aren’t you—aren’t you happy here? This was supposed to be your summer vacation, with me. I haven’t seen you in two years, Isis. Two years.”
“I’m having loads of fun here,” I lie vigorously. “And I’m gonna miss you.” Another lie. I don’t even know you. “I’m just, you know. Like Kelly said. I’m ready to go!”
Dad eyes me over his glasses, and after what feels like eternity, sighs. Kelly smiles. I’ve won. As I pack my bags, I realize there’s really nothing for me here except borrowed BMWs and a family that was never really mine. And it took me nine years to figure that out.
You really are slow, aren’t you?
The voice echoes so clear I’d swear Jack was standing nearby. But there’s no one there. A lopsided picture of Kelly and Dad and their new family stares at me through the open doorway. There are no pictures of me anywhere in the house, not even as a kid. I guess Dad just didn’t have any. Or maybe Kelly didn’t want them up.
I’m surrounded by people here, but I’m completely alone.
I snap my suitcase shut and sit on it.
I cry a little at the airport two days later. Dad doesn’t cry at all. This tells me everything I need to know about everything I never wanted to know. The airplane takes off and I helpfully throw peanuts at the bald guy in front of me who won’t stop farting. The stewardess thanks me with her eyes, but then he gets up and goes to the bathroom and leaves the door open afterward and we perish. For two slow hours.
Mom is waiting for me at baggage claim. I smell like man-farts, but she hugs me anyway, and that’s how I know I’m really home.
Packing for college is like packing for war. You’re not coming back. You don’t know what’s out there. There’s a chance you may die (exams) and/or suffer life-changing injuries (hangovers, STDs). And if you do come back, you’re lucky. But the enemy territory is just begging to be explored, and I’ve gotten all the training I need from basic (high school). I’ll be okay.
I can’t fit Ms. Muffin into my suitcase.
I’m absolutely not going to be okay.
Mom hears my wails of distress and comes like a tired hound to the slaughter.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Everything is over forever!” I throw myself onto my pillows. Mom waits patiently for a translation. I thrust my finger toward Ms. Muffin half hanging out of the bursting suitcase.
“Isis, she’s a doll.” Mom sighs. “You’re going to college. Maybe it’s time to get rid of her.”
I bolt upright, my eyes as big as saucers and my mouth as big as a flying saucer.
Mom corrects herself. “Okay, okay. Ms. Muffin stays. But keep in mind, first impressions are everything, and the only people Ms. Muffin will impress are six-year-olds.”
“Precisely, Madre. I don’t want to be friends with people who aren’t six. At heart. Only at heart. Because it’s also fun to legally drive.”
Mom shakes her head, laughing a little, and goes back downstairs to her pancakes.
I sneak into her bathroom with all the grace of an anime ninja and check her pill stock. She’s full up—antidepressants, mostly. It worries me because they make some people kill themselves. But it also doesn’t worry me, because they stop some people from killing themselves. It’s the shittiest fifty-fifty gamble in the world, but it’s all we have. It’s all that’ll keep Mom safe while I’m gone.
“What are you doing, Isis?”
I immediately slam the mirror shut. “Checking for rats! And mold. Both of which kill people. Did you know rats can leap more than ten feet horizontally? And they always aim for the jugular.”
Mom tenses, her lips pursing like she’s going to chastise me, but then she moves in, enveloping me in her arms. Arms that are a little thicker than they used to be.
“I’ll be all right, sweetie,” she murmurs into my fading purple-streaked hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay to stop worrying now.”
“I can’t,” I say. “If I stop, something bad will happen. If I stop, I won’t see it coming, I won’t pay attention, and something will happen to you—”
Mom’s grip tightens. “You’ve been so strong for me, for so long. Thank you.”
I feel a familiar prickle in my eye and promptly deny it exit. Mom holds me at arm’s length, looking me up and down as she strokes my cheek.
“And now, it’s time for you to be strong for yourself. Not me. Not anyone. No one else but you.”
I laugh, but it’s watery. “I’m not—I’m not so good at that.”
She smiles, eyes like gray mirrors full of love. “Then it’s time to learn.”
In the very back of my closet, I find a pink chiffon shirt Kelly sent me as a gift. But it’s more than that now. It’s the pink shirt Jack said I was— I was— I can’t even bring myself to say it, and how lame is that, that I can’t even say a word? Mouths are meant for saying words, and I have one, and I know words, but this one is hard. This one means something, so it’s hard.
In this pink blouse, someone called me beautiful for the first time. Someone I respected. Respect. Someone I loved.
Love.
Love?
I shake my head and jam the shirt into the farthest reaches of my suitcase. You never know when you’ll need a new curtain. Or a toilet rag.
Mom helps me load stuff into the car. I’ve got my trusty blue suitcase and my beat-up backpack from high school. High school. Hi, school. Bye, school. I shiver a little as I realize I’m not in it anymore. I’m officially out. Half of me wants to drink nineteen Red Bulls and dance the motherfucking hokey pokey nonstop for twenty-four hours, and the other part of
me wants to crawl back into school, wrap it around me like a security blanket, and never come back out. I settle for rolling on the lawn and moaning with dread like a grubby caterpillar refusing to get out of its cocoon.
Kayla pulls into our driveway just as Mom loads the last bag. I jump up from groaning on the lawn and rush over. She’s right on time for our dinner date. Our last and final farewell dinner date. She gets out of the car in a blindingly beautiful white dress and sandals, her dark hair combed out to chocolate sheetlike perfection. She greets my mom with the graciousness of seven French queens and drags me into her car with the strength of seven Viking warriors. When we’re on the road, she huffs.
“Is the stuff in the trunk really all you’re taking? The Romanies travel with more stuff than you!”
“Ah”—I raise a sage finger—“but Romanies don’t have an entire suitcase pocket devoted to Haribo gummy bears.”
Kayla rolls her eyes. “You’re so nuts.”
“I prefer gummies to nuts.”
“Oh do you?” Kayla arches her brow in that terribly cheesy double-entendre way, and I suppress the urge to pluck it off her face. Her face is a work of art, cheesy eyebrow or no. I don’t ruin art. Except when I do. And then I get yelled at.
“Anyway,” I say. “This is the last time we’ll see each other until Christmas break, so we'd better crash a party or something equally entertaining yet memorable.”
Kayla grins and merges onto the highway. “I know just the place.”
I recognize the street before I do the restaurant. The Red Fern looms before us. The same place I arranged Jack and Kayla’s first date. The one I stalked them at. But Kayla doesn’t know that, of course. She picks a booth by the window and we settle in; she orders iced tea, and I order a root beer.
“If we were in Europe, we’d be able to order wine.” Kayla sighs dreamily. “God, they have it so good there.”
I frown, remembering the ticket Jack left me. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“Oh yeah. Everybody loves the plague.”
“That was centuries ago, Isis. No one has the plague anymore.”