“I don’t know,” I say, shutting the computer and sliding it back into my bag. “The one confrontation we had led to exactly no usable information. But it stands to reason.”
Mike checks his watch and gulps his remaining coffee. “Got to check in with the wife. But I’ve short-rented the room down the hall from you. If you get in any trouble, scream.”
“Thanks,” I say, sarcasm sharpening the response.
At the door, he says, “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll figure it out.”
After he’s gone, I Google him on my phone. There’s a website, nothing remarkable—a home page with a picture, some history, his specialties, and his license number. I check the IDFPR license lookup, and his license number is legit—registered to Mike Ramirez for the last ten years. That’s enough confirmation for me that he’s on the level. Besides, Sam would have done his homework.
I head back to my apartment, ignoring the feeling of eyes hot on my back. It’s probably my imagination, but I keep my pace brisk just in case.
When I get home, confronting the mess again nearly overwhelms me. The idea of cleaning makes me feel like I’m moving on, letting my dad go, giving up the rescue. I can’t clean until he’s here to help me. Besides, it’s his fault there’s a mess in the first place. It’s only fair that he help me put Humpty back together again.
Anyway, I have too much to do to stand around like a stunned pigeon. Driver’s licenses don’t forge themselves. It’s going to be a long night. Luckily, sleep’s about as inviting these days as swimming in cement shoes.
My St. Aggie’s–issue black tights make my legs itch, so they’re usually the first things I take off after my shoes. But it’s cold in the apartment tonight. I’m not sure if it’s the temperature or the chill of the unremitting silence. Either way, the tights stay on as I sit at the kitchen table and open my computer. I pull up my half-finished history paper on the effects of American involvement on the Atlantic U-boat campaign of World War I. I generally find history entertaining, but tonight it’s hard to focus.
About an hour later, I fish myself out of the Atlantic, having done my duty for god and country and Mr. Matthews. I save and close the document, only to have Stalker Girl’s picture pop up. I study her malevolent expression, her unruly hair. I wonder if the ink staining the skin above her shirt collar is a gang tattoo, and if having it means she’s killed someone.
Her Russian-sounding accent is telling. It may mean she works for an Eastern European gang. Or it may not. She could have contracted out to one of the other families. And even if she is connected to the Eastern Europeans, she could be working for any of a number of factions. I’m not aware enough of the organized underworld to pin her to a specific group.
Whatever her history, she knows who’s after me, what they want, and where my dad is. She’s the key to this whole mess.
My dad’s bread crumbs will lead me to him, or to whatever it is he’s hiding. If what my gut is telling me is true and he’s already been taken, and if I can get my hands on the thing the bastards want, I can use it as leverage to get my dad back. But I’d be a fool to think that I’ll be able to negotiate a simple trade. By then, I’ll know too much, and any crime organization that knows what it’s doing doesn’t leave loose ends like me lying around.
That’s where Stalker Girl comes in. She’s my backup plan. If I can figure her out, I can get a jump on who’s behind this.
Speaking of getting a jump on things, I’ve got about a bazillion IDs to create, a crapload more homework, and a clue to unravel.
Forging a believable driver’s license is not as easy as it used to be. The advent of holograms and magnetic strips has made my job harder than it was when my dad first taught me using a typewriter and an iron. It’s a more time-consuming process now, with diffractive film, online templates, and laminators. But sometimes I still use the iron for old times’ sake.
After sixteen IDs, I look up from the painstaking task of clogging the diffractive sheet with varnish and roll my shoulders to get the kinks out. I glance at the clock, which is still lying on the living room floor, partially obscured by the shower curtain, and am not surprised to see that another three hours have passed. My stomach grouses, and I decide to call it quits for the night.
I root around in the cupboard for the jar of extra-crunchy peanut butter. Grabbing a spoon from behind the toaster, I dig into dinner. I’m already tired and I haven’t even touched the rest of my homework. I take my peanut butter to the table and stick the spoon in my mouth while I rummage in my bag for my pre-calc book. Not there. Must be in my room.
I drag myself to my room and try not to gaze too longingly at my pillow while I rifle through the pile of stuff on my bed. I find the book, but in the process, my hand bumps the cold weight of my mom’s gun. Forgetting about pre-calc, I perch on the bed amid papers, a hairbrush, textbooks, clothes, and the laminator and pull the sidearm into my lap.
For the first time in months, I intentionally call up memories of my mother. After she left us, I buried all the things I remembered about her. Other than the conversation my dad and I had at the St. Aggie’s arch, we never talked about why she left. Maybe he knows more about her reasons than I thought.
She’s nothing like my father and me. She’s mercurial, musical. She always brought my dad to life when she was around. I remember her smell the most. Roses—her favorite.
I’m struck with the sudden urge to dig through the trunk she left behind. Maybe it will provide some sort of enlightenment. Maybe it’ll still smell like her. Assuming, of course, that the crooks who tossed my apartment didn’t scatter everything to the wind.
When I drag the trunk from the back of my dad’s closet, it’s clear that someone’s been through it, but nothing appears to be missing or broken. Of course, there’s nothing of any real value to steal, and not much that’s really breakable. Just remnants of a life lost: discarded bits of a wardrobe suited for the wife of a high-rolling con man gambling in the big leagues of jets and caviar; a jewelry box; some old makeup; a few scribbled grocery lists; a hair dryer; some faded, unlabeled photos of people I don’t recognize. No journal, no stack of letters, no explanation of who she is, why she’d have a gun, why she left.
But it does still smell like roses. So I refold, rearrange, and replace everything carefully and then seal up the trunk, the gun still on the floor next to me. Some memories are better left stacked in the back of a closet.
I should call it a night. It’s still early, only eleven or so, but I’m not doing myself any favors sitting in a sea of broken things with nothing to show for my time but gritty eyes and family baggage.
I’m halfway to the bathroom when someone knocks on the door. It’s a testament to my tiredness that I’m not more alarmed at the prospect of an unexpected visitor.
“Who is it?” I say, my hand paused at the chain.
“It’s Tyler.”
THE FILE
He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and he’s holding a pizza box with the most tantalizing smell wafting from it. “I know it’s late, but I—What’s wrong?”
He brought me pizza.
Down the hall, Mike pokes his head out, checking on me. I wave to let him know Tyler’s okay.
“Who’s that?” Tyler says.
“Neighbor. Come in.”
He enters, setting the pizza on the sofa, and I lock the door behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again. “It looks like you’ve been crying.”
Oh, jeez. Was I?
“It’s nothing.” I rub self-consciously at my cheeks. “I was looking through my mom’s stuff, hoping to find something useful.”
“Did you?”
I shake my head. “Just a generous helping of ouch.”
Tyler takes my hand and leads me to the sofa, shifting the pizza to the coffee table so we can sit. I let him pull me, mostly because I’m too tired to calculate the risk-benefit ratio but also because it feels nice. Really nice. His eyes sweep the mess withou
t comment, but his grip on my hand tightens.
A tiny part of me is worried I’m being too open about my melodrama with him. The only person I let see me ruffled like this is Sam, and him only rarely. But that part is the girly bit of me, and is therefore suspect. I ignore it in favor of relishing the warmth of his hand around mine.
“Well, I have the perfect remedy,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
Out of curiosity, I humor him.
“Okay, open them.”
When I do, he’s making a ridiculous face—eyes crossed, head tilted forward, one finger stretching his mouth into a clownish grimace. I laugh reflexively. His face snaps back to its normal gorgeousness, his delighted smile echoing mine.
“Works on my little sister every time,” he says. “Ready for another one?”
I nod and close my eyes.
“Okay, now.”
This time he’s sticking out his tongue and pushing his nose up so his nostrils look huge. I laugh again, even without the element of surprise. He goes back to Tyler and takes my hand again, loosely enough that I don’t feel trapped.
“You have a good laugh,” he says. “You should use it more often.”
I study him in the comfortable silence that falls between us. I can’t for the life of me figure out why it’s so easy being open with him. And for once, I don’t care that I can’t figure it out. Because here he is, at eleven on a school night, trying to cheer me up, of all the useless, adorable things. My guard crumbles to dust, and I grip his hand actively instead of letting him cradle mine.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his fingers soft against my palm.
Guard or no guard, I’m not ready to tell him what I’m feeling. I have my limits.
“I’m wondering where your parents think you are right now,” I say. “Even seniors have curfews, right?”
“No one in my family sleeps. My dad is always out at state functions, and when my mom isn’t with him, she’s catching up on current events and drafting speeches. Even my sister stays up till two or three reading or doing homework. I told my mom I was helping a friend.”
“A friend?” I say.
“A good friend,” he says, squeezing my hand.
“Oh,” I say. And then, because it’s true, and because I don’t have anything more intelligent to add, I say, “I’m going to die of starvation if I don’t get a slice of pizza in the next five seconds.”
“Well then.” He hands me the biggest slice and settles back into the sofa.
I take a giant bite of pepperoni deliciousness, and say, with a drop of hot oil dribbling down my chin, “Aren’t you going to have some?”
“Nah. I’d rather watch you.”
I swallow and take a smaller bite this time. After finishing the slice, I wipe my chin on a napkin. I’d lean back, but the cushion that is normally here was too destroyed to keep. Seeing my dilemma, Tyler scoots closer to the other end of the couch so I can share his cushion without sacrificing my personal space.
“Such a gentleman,” I say, and move a few inches in his direction.
“It’s how my mama raised me.”
I sigh and lean back against his cushion. “I wish I could forget about all this for one night.” Once I realize what I’ve said, I stammer, “I—I don’t, I mean, I know my dad’s in trouble—”
Tyler pulls me into a comforting half hug. “There’s nothing wrong with being tired. If he wanted you to find him right away, he’d have left better clues. You’re doing great, Julep.”
I shift in his hold and lean my head on his shoulder. I don’t bother to argue. I know what I’m doing and, more important, what I’m not doing. I’m my father’s wingman. I should be with him.
“You’ve earned a break,” Tyler says into my hair.
And whether or not I agree that I’ve earned it, I decide to go with it.
“Tyler?”
“Yes?”
“Can you do some more faces?”
The next day at school is utterly wretched. Having stayed up till four in the morning with Tyler, I feel like my head is a drum kit and some no-talent hack is going to town on it. Days like this are what keep the sunglasses industry booming.
I take another envelope from my bag and slip it through a locker vent.
With Tyler’s help, I managed to fill all the ID orders last night. It was fun, actually, teaching someone else how to craft a decent forgery—once I got past my initial hang-ups about giving away family trade secrets. We laughed a lot, smearing each other with liquid latex. And any time the conversation strayed to my dad, Tyler would make a ridiculous face to derail it.
Go ahead, judge me. For being weak, for caving to my adolescent urges, for leading an innocent lamb down the path of wickedness. You’re right about all of it. But the truth is, something shifted last night. I’m sure I’ll have regrets, but even if I wanted to, I can’t go back now and undo it. And I don’t. Want to, that is.
“You look happy,” Sam says as he comes up to me. I look up from the next envelope. “Yikes, and hungover.”
I glare at him, but I fear the effect is lost through the sunglasses. “I’m not hungover. Just blitzed from staying up all night.”
“Want me to help deliver?”
“I don’t want to risk you getting pinched for it. I’m almost done, anyway.”
I move down the hall toward the next locker, Sam following.
“I started working on the picture project you asked me about yesterday,” he says.
I steer us past a group of kids huddled around a phone, watching clips of the latest celebrity wardrobe malfunction. “Already? What about the history assignment?”
“Did you do the history assignment?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. And I’m a degenerate. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m a degenerate’s yes-man.”
“Touché.”
“Anyway, I haven’t managed to crack the firewall yet, but I poked around and may have found a partial back door. It will require building a batch file, which will take some time, but—”
“You do realize that I only got about a third of that, right? In Julep, please.”
“I’ve got a lead.”
“Fantastic,” I say, smiling as much as my aching head will let me. “How about the form?”
“Already up and running on the usual IP.”
“Keep this up and I might nominate you for best minion of the year.” I punch him lightly on the arm. “I’ll send out a follow-up email.”
“You sure you want to encourage people? You seem pretty overloaded.”
“I’m still short on cash, Sam.” I don’t bring up the Volvo, but it hangs in the air between us.
The bell rings.
“One more thing,” Sam says. “I translated the inscription on the nine-millimeter. ‘For A.N.M., my blue fairy.’ Any idea what it means?”
“Beyond the literal, no. I’ve never heard of anyone calling my mom a blue fairy. My dad never did. And even if he did, I can’t imagine how it would get me any closer to finding him.”
I realize belatedly that I should keep my voice down. People are clogging the hallway in their rush to get to their lockers and then to class before the second bell rings. The dean is making her rounds as well, stopping occasionally to issue reprimands to those students not subtle enough in their uniform alterations.
“You’d better get going,” I say.
“See you at lunch,” he says, and takes off in the opposite direction.
I weave around students, ducking the dean’s watchful eye by slipping into classrooms whenever her gaze sweeps in my direction. By hopping from room to room and using other students as shields, I manage to steal past her without incident.
The rest of the day passes quickly as I deal with the administrative side of my one-person forgery ring. If orders keep pouring in at this rate, I’m going to have to start a sweatshop. Or at least hire a delivery service.
I catch glimpses of Tyler in the halls. He doesn’t lo
ok any the worse for wear after our night of lawbreaking abandon. Lucky jerk. But he always has a smile for me when we pass each other, so I can’t be too irritated with him.
After my last class, I head to the Ballou to catch up on something I’ve been meaning to do but haven’t had time for.
When I walk in, Mike winks at me and heads to the bar to make me a drink. Maybe having a bodyguard playing a barista has its perks. I wave and take a seat in the corner with my back to the wall. If the dean catches me, she can’t technically do anything about it since the Ballou isn’t on school property. But if you’re going to be absorbed in illicit activity, you might as well position yourself so that no one can sneak up behind you.
Once I’m settled—coat draped over my chair and phone checked—I pull out the unlabeled manila folder Heather handed me in the music room the other day.
“A little light reading?” Mike says when he sets my triple-caramel macchiato down at my elbow.
“Depends on what’s inside,” I say. “Could be dark, foreboding, and dangerous. But only to me.”
“Your student file?”
“How’d you guess?” I ask, smiling.
He flips the hand towel he’s holding over his shoulder. “I got into my fair share of scrapes when I was in school.”
“See, that just makes me like you more,” I say.
He laughs. “I’ll let you get back to it. But don’t take it too seriously. Whatever’s in there isn’t going to kill you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I have other avenues for that.”
He returns to the bar to take another customer’s order as I open the folder and start reading. The first few pages are no surprise—statistical data, transcript, class registration receipts. Then there are a few incident reports—the rat, an IT account of the damage done to Dr. Franklin’s computer, some scraps of circumstantial evidence for other jobs I pulled last year, and even a couple of references to incidents that had nothing to do with me.
But then it gets weird.
There are full-length dossiers on each of my parents. My dad’s is considerably shorter than my mom’s, and there’s not much in it that I didn’t already know. Apparently he did a three-week stint in the air force that I knew nothing about and had a girlfriend in Vienna before he met my mom. But everything else I pretty much know.
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