There were three holes to jump before we’d reach the single rope that had to be climbed in order to reach the quiver and bow that were placed on top of a wooden platform sticking out from the side of the wall.
After we got a hold of the bow and quiver, we’d have to race behind a black line, where we’d have three chances to shoot at a red button that was fastened underneath a screen that was counting down the ten minutes we had to complete the task.
The challenge was to make it through all those steps before the countdown stopped—the real challenge for me was to try to get close to beating my father. The CIA agents had to repeat the exercise over and over until they got it. I tried it once whenever I was with Logan, but I’d never even made it past the third hole: I always fell down.
We had to warm up before we started the challenge, which consisted of punching a big, red boxing bag followed by hand-to-hand combat with my father. I quickly wound a wrap around my hands to protect them from the punching bag.
“What does the winner get?” I asked as my fist connected with the punching bag. My father, who was holding the bag, took a step back and steadied himself so my next punch didn’t take him by surprise.
“The loser tells mom he or she broke that lamp in the sitting room yesterday,” he said with a teasing smile.
“But you broke it,” I argued, taking another punch at the bag. “You were that one who knocked it down.”
“It was an accident.” He defended himself.
“Sure, if you call flying through the air at top speed just to be the first one to get the TV remote an accident, then yes.”
“Still an accident.” He winked while I counted punching the bag, this time three direct punches in a row, before I took a breath. “You punch heavier than you look. Logan must have been teaching you well,” he complimented as my hand collided with the bag again.
I continued hitting the bag for almost half an hour as my father commented on my moves and made suggestions on how to improve, and he handed me a water bottle when I finished. Right after the short water break, we moved to combat training. It was here that I’d be able to show off any self-defense skills Logan had taught me.
My father tossed me a pair of boxing gloves and tightened another pair on his own hands—at the intensity with which we trained, we’d be bruised all over if it weren’t for a little bit of padding.
“Your arm needs to be lower.” He took hold of my arm and bent it into the position he meant.
I didn’t say anything in response. I learned this trick from Logan the last time I’d begged him to cancel one of our training sessions; because I wanted to hang out with my friends, he’d bargained, saying that if I could knock him down during one-on-one combat, he’d give me the day off. He’d started off by letting me beat him until the last minute, at which point he took me down, and I’d earned myself an extra session for losing.
I didn’t want to lose and disappoint my father or brand Logan as a not-good-enough teacher.
“Lower your elbow.” He didn’t wait for me to do this myself: he did it for me. “Now, try and block my arm.”
When my father swung his arm, it didn’t hit me in the stomach; instead, I blocked it.
“Good,” he said as I blocked his fist once more. I could see from the way he threw his arms that he was going easy on me.
“Twenty bucks if I take you down,” I said as I blocked his fist from hitting my jaw.
When I said this he laughed, and then he stopped fighting. “Seriously?” he asked, shocked. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to take your twenty bucks.”
“But I wanna take yours.” And with that, I ran my fist straight into his jaw, taking him by surprise.
He groaned in pain, and then his fist passed by my chin, inches away from contact. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know the enemy would wait for me to be ready before he beat me to death or shot me,” I said with a fake smile.
“You asked for it!” and just like that, I was groaning with my hand on my stomach. I knew my best friend Sarah’s father came to her cheerleading competitions and cheered her on; mine took me to abandoned buildings and beat the crap out of me.
“You do realize that I’m your daughter and also a girl, right?” I asked, as I stood upright and swung my hands toward my father’s face.
“You don’t hit like a girl, and the enemy is going to hit you even harder when he learns you’re my daughter.” Touché.
This time around when I blocked my father’s fist, he blocked mine too, and we continued like that for about five more minutes. Sometimes he managed to swing a blow at me, and other times I got him. None of us looked ready to give up and declare the other a winner.
“You tricked me into thinking you were bad, didn’t you?” my father asked when my next blow landed on his stomach.
“No, I would never.” I crouched down so that his fist flew over my head, and then I threw another punch at his stomach. I didn’t wait for him to pull himself back up when I struck a punch that landed on the side of his face. He pulled up and swung his fist toward my face. I assumed he’d do that, so when I blocked his blow, I didn’t let go of his hands; instead, I immediately placed my foot forward for leverage and pulled him toward me so that he tripped on my legs and then bang, he fell, and I won.
“Yes!” I rejoiced, suddenly getting a little hopeful. Maybe I could win this, maybe I could do this after all.
“Have you considered a future here?” my father asked as he stood up.
“What happened to Princeton, Yale, or Harvard?” I asked. He and my mother had already mapped out my future—the very future they were afraid I wouldn’t even have.
“Those are still part of the plan,” he said, and then he started moving toward the rope. I trailed him and gently took a pair of gloves he held out to me.
Looking at the fishnet rope stretching above us, I inhaled deeply. I could climb: I’d done it more than enough, but I was shaking because of the tiny, little known fact that I was afraid of heights. I hated anything that involved heights. The thought of sleeping with a gun didn’t even scare me as much as the rope in front of me did.
“Justin, start the countdown,” my father said, staring at one of the cameras behind us. I knew there was someone there, watching us. There had to be someone watching the building and the agents at all times, because sometimes the agents needed quick medical care.
I managed to take one more deep breath before a gong went off, signaling the start of the challenge. I couldn’t see the big screen because it was further up ahead.
My father had almost reached the middle of the rope by the time I got the courage to start climbing.
“You’re not letting me win, are you?” he asked, stopping so that I could reach him. “And I’m serious, loser gets mom’s angry stare.” I knew that stare, the one that said more than words could.
Suck it up, Abigail. I breathed in and started climbing. When I reached the top of the rope, my father was already descending on the other end. I inhaled again quickly and told myself that I wasn’t going to collapse, and then I went down again with no problems.
I felt so happy when my feet touched the ground. At this point my father was already using the metal spikes on the wall to climb up.
“You are too slow, Abigail,” he said when I managed to make it halfway up the wall. He was standing underneath me, having already gone down. What my father seemed to be forgetting was that I hadn’t gotten the years of advanced training and field training like he had. I was only just starting.
“Are you trying to make me win?” I asked nonchalantly to cover my sadness that he was talking to me in his not-so-impressed voice.
“You wish.” And then he started climbing up again. This time around, I pushed myself and made it to the ground before he did, but when he reached the hole, he jumped right to the other side, leaving me standing still.
“Are you letting me win now?” he teased.
I went back a few steps. “Yo
u wish.” Then I sprinted and jumped. I was pretty sure I would land on the net below like last time, so when my feet actually touched solid ground, I was more surprised than my father.
“You did it,” he said, and then both of our eyes flickered toward the next hole, and we started running toward it. We both jumped at the same time: he landed perfectly, and I almost fell, but luckily for me, my father reached down and caught me.
“Twenty more bucks to whoever wins!” he said, and then we started running again for the final hole.
The moment both our feet touched solid ground at the end of the last jump, we rushed toward the rope and started climbing.
My heart felt like it was nearly jumping out of my chest because I was dangling on a rope in mid-air, but I refused to stop now.
My father and I both reached our quiver and bow at the same time. We both threw the bow and quiver to the ground below and started climbing back down.
He was fast going down. He had his bow and arrows and was rushing toward the black line before I reached to grab mine.
“Shoot all three arrows into the red button on time and you win,” my father said, and then he lifted his bow up with an arrow loaded.
I finally saw the timer, which flashed twenty seconds until the game was over.
My father’s first arrow went straight into the red button. I quickly shot my own and felt delighted when it also hit the red button. My second arrow shot into the center of the red button moments after my father’s landed perfectly beside his first one.
“Five. Four…” my father’s last arrow landed in the red button, and he rejoiced. “Three. Two…” I shot my last arrow, but the timer buzzed right before my arrow landed in the red button.
“I am awfully disappointed in you for breaking your mother’s beautiful lamp,” my father said. He proceeded to place his bow and arrow on the floor and do a victory dance that I hoped for both our sakes he didn’t do with people around.
“You know, children pick up on what their parents do, so if you’re asking me to lie, I might just lie at some point…”
He cut me off with a “don’t even go there.” Then he walked over to me with a smile on his face and took the bow from me.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said as he put my bow on the ground. “I’m really, truly proud of you,” he said again as he threw his arms around me. It was now that I realized my body hurt from the combat training.
“My little girl.” He pulled away. “Look at you, all grown up.” I believed from the tone of his voice that he was proud of me.
“Logan is a good teacher,” I told him. “And I’d take care of Mom, so don’t worry when you leave. Nothing will happen to us.”
“I’m worried about you, too, honey,” he said. “And I never wanted you in my crazy world. When you were born, I dreamed of riding ponies and having princess tea parties with you. And now, you’re not my little girl anymore.” My father sounded sad, and I knew he regretted the life that we were forced to live.
“Dad.” I forced a smile. “I’m all right. Besides, ponies and princesses are overrated.”
He smiled. “I’d still have loved to attend a tea party with you,” he said, pulling me into another hug. I winced against his chest.
“Maybe next time,” I said, hoping those three days he’d spent with my mother and me weren’t the only time we had with him.
“It’s a date,” he whispered, still holding on to me. I wanted to pull away from him because my body ached, but I didn’t, because hugging him was something I wished could happen daily. “I’m on a break for two months, so I’ll be popping in often.”
I felt my spirit light up with happiness. “Can’t you just stay with us?”
“You know I can’t.”
I knew that would be the answer the moment I opened my mouth to ask the question, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking it anyway. I couldn’t let go of the hope that he would one day say yes.
“Come on, let’s clean up and get you home to confess,” and with that we went to work cleaning up after ourselves.
The ride back home was much more fun and relaxed. We talked about different ways I could tell my mother that I broke her lamp. He talked about some of the places he’d been, and I told him about my friends and things my mother and I did while he was away.
When we got home, my mother took one look at me and started telling my father never to take me anywhere near the CIA training center again, but of course, she always said this. I took the opportunity to tell her that I broke her lamp, but she didn’t even care, she just continued to grill my father.
I hung out for a while with my parents and then said goodbye so they could have time alone together. My mother was always happiest when she was around my father, so I made sure she was able to spend time with him alone whenever he visited. When my parents were together, their happiness was infectious. Everyone around them smiled because they looked so in love. I loved seeing them together because whenever my father was around, our lives felt complete.
I was glad my father was going to be dropping in and out for two months. I would be able to spend more time with him, and my mother would smile without pain in her eyes.
The only time I saw my mother happy—besides the times my father came to visit—was when she was with me. I was the center of her universe. She lit up when she talked about fashion because she loved it, but whenever I smiled or laughed, she automatically did the same.
It was the same for my father when he was with me. He loved when I was happy. Every time he came to visit, he constantly tried to make me laugh. I loved seeing them happy, too, so I attempted to do whatever would bring them happiness. Going back into my room, I didn’t think much of my pain. Instead, I was delighted with my father’s pride in my training skills.
I’d trained with Logan for years. The first time Logan handed me a gun, although it had been empty, I freaked out. We started my training with paintballs and empty guns until I was ready to train with a real gun. I didn’t understand then why I had to learn to use those weapons just because of my father’s work, but now I did—the world was a battlefield, and I was born right in the middle of it.
Now I could hold any weapon without flinching. Training with Logan wasn’t something my mother was happy with, especially when it came to guns, but she couldn’t forbid me to learn because she agreed that I needed to be able to defend myself. However, she herself never trained. I suspected it was due to her aversion to weapons.
The scariest thing about knowing how to use all those weapons was how much I was always tempted to put my knowledge of them to the test. I didn’t share this desire with my mother. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.
INNOCENCE
“We live and learn to share good laughs.
We try and we cry to play sad songs.
We stay and we go to say goodbyes.
And we hate and love to share memories.”
Melody Manful
“Abby, is everything all right up there?”
Crap. “Yes, Mom, I’m almost done!” I jumped off my bed and hurried into my walk-in closet. For some reason, my body wasn’t hurting anymore from training the previous night.
My mother was launching her pre-spring collection, an addition to her fashion line Cells. Although I knew she was still sad that my father left, she wasn’t about to miss the after-party. She asked me to get ready for the party, but instead I took a shower, called my friends, and rushed into bed to read Romeo and Juliet for the millionth time.
I grabbed the first dress I saw upon entering my closet. I was in luck; I had retrieved a red, short Alexander McQueen dress. I tugged it on and then snatched a pair of black Christian Louboutin pumps from a shelf and rushed into my bathroom. I quickly brushed my hair, slipped into the heels, and dashed out of my room as fast as I could.
“I know you don’t like crowds, honey, but please smile for me tonight,” my mother said when I came downstairs. She stood together with o
ne of my bodyguards, Ben, who was a dapper thirty-three-year-old with thinning blonde hair. Ben clutched a camera in his hand.
“Mom, I’m happy for you,” I said, repeating a response I’d said so many times before. I hated being famous and having to smile and pose for the paparazzi, not to mention being an accomplice to their cheesy fake stories. Sometimes I wished I could trade places with a regular person, but then I remembered that I should be grateful for what I had.
“Smile, Abby,” Ben said as he snapped a picture of my mother and me. “You look beautiful,” he added, and my smile disappeared.
The camera’s flash reflected on the chandelier hanging between the double staircase, reminding me of all the cameras that were probably about to invade my space.
“Stop saying that, Ben,” my mother teased. “Abby still thinks she’s ugly.”
“Abby, you know beautiful doesn’t just mean having good looks,” he said. “You’re brilliant and caring. And that makes you beautiful.”
“I have the media talking about everything I do all the time. At school, it’s like I’m parting the Red Sea when I walk down the hall, and kids keep showing me magazines and asking for beauty tips.” I hated being a part of the chaos, but my mother and Ben just laughed.
“They do that because you inspire them,” my mother said, just like she always did when the topic snaked its way into our conversations. Couldn’t someone else inspire them? Why me?
I wasn’t surprised my mother said this, even at the age of forty-two she looked like she was thirty. She had dark, wavy hair that cascaded down her shoulders and golden brown eyes like mine. She’d always been the cool, beautiful mother. She graced the covers of a lot of magazines. I’d lost count long ago of how many times she’d been named the most beautiful or one of the most beautiful women alive. Each year her name was at least mentioned in that category.
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