Fake ID

by Lamar Giles

  I hated myself because, like the kid he said I was, I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was six again, being reamed for drawing on the wall. At least I didn’t cry. The way he played Eli, like he knew everything about everyone, even people he never met . . . I did the only thing I could do, hit him below the belt. “Because we both know you’re above that sort of thing.”

  He sat up straight and stiff. “Don’t you have to study or something? Go home. And—”

  “Keep my mouth shut? Yeah, I got it.”

  “Now, Nick.” He stood, held the restaurant door open.

  I stomped by him, mad as hell. A car on the far side of the nearly empty lot backfired, its moaning transmission wailing its departure. I thought nothing of the raggedy beater as I snatched up my bike to ride home.

  That little oversight would come back to haunt me later.

  CHAPTER 26

  SAILING DOWN SIDE STREETS, I STEERED with one hand while holding my cell to my ear. The ringing stopped abruptly, replaced by creepy organ music and opera voices.

  “Reya?”

  “Hey, Nick,” she said, sniffing like she had a bad cold. If only.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “It’s a horrible time. I don’t think there’s going to be a better one for a while so we might as well talk.” That weird tune kept playing in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “The mortuary. Mr. Massey needed Mami to bring a suit,” Reya said. “The funeral’s Saturday morning. If you can make it.”

  “I will,” I said, and that felt like too little. “Thanks for letting me know. Listen, I called because I have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “That guy”—I played dumb masterfully—“the one who throws those big parties . . .”

  “Dustin.”

  “Right. Is his dad someone important?” The way I figured it, if I let her bring up the mayor, I never needed to get into my pseudoarrest and field trip to the municipal campus.

  “He’s Stepton’s mayor.”

  Score.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because Dustin told me that Eli hacked his dad’s computer. He’d asked Dustin to meet him in the J-Room on Friday night because of something he found.”

  “What?!”

  “That seem right to you? Him going all secret agent on the mayor’s PC?” Her answer surprised me.

  “Totally. Once Eli got these tiny microphones off the internet and put them in our uncle’s car. I thought Miguel was going to . . .” She trailed off. “You just don’t do that to Miguel.”

  I saw some of her uncle’s temper at her house yesterday. I could only imagine how he’d react to having his car bugged by his nosy nephew.

  Reya said, “What did Dustin say Eli found?”

  “I don’t know. We got interrupted before he could tell me.”

  “Nick?” In all the ways I could imagine my name crossing her lips, this disappointed/frustrated gasp was not one of them. “Can you talk to him tonight?”

  I said, “He’s grounded. No phone, no car.”

  “What about Facebook? Or email?”

  “Maybe, but I got the impression it’s a face-to-face deal.”

  “Then let’s go to his house.”

  This was what I was afraid of. One sliver of daylight and she was ready to claw her way to Eli’s killer. I got it, but I couldn’t let her get out of hand. My family was tied up in this, too, and I needed to understand why first. “Reya, wait. I want to know what Dustin has to say as bad as you, but we have to play this right. Let me work that angle.”

  “Alone? I need to help. Don’t call me with stuff like this, then push me away.”

  “I’m not pushing. I want you—” I startled myself, pulled my bike to the curb so I could concentrate and not say anything dumber than what I almost said. “I want you to help. I just think your mom might need you.”

  I want you here. That’s what I almost said. I didn’t mean to help me look for clues. When I heard her voice, tears and all, my dad anger faded. I wanted to see her, would’ve biked to her right then if she’d asked.

  Instead, I sensed her frustration, a clock tick from exploding. “I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.”

  I’d called for information—or to make her think she gave me information—not to upset her. I didn’t want the call to end with her thinking badly of me. That’s where my head was. She was standing in a building housing her brother’s corpse, and I was all about the Nick impression. Nice.

  “I’m going to take care of this,” I said.

  “Sure you will, Nick.”

  I thought her disappointment was bad. Her disbelief was worse.

  “Mom!” I called, stepping through the door, feeling the empty house sensation immediately. A spicy—and familiar—scent hung in the air. I followed it to the kitchen and flicked the lights on, obliterating the dusk shadows.

  The meal waited on the table. White cardboard cubes with a note taped to them.

  The food was from the No. 1 Chinese Restaurant.

  My stomach clinched as I unfolded the paper, noting my mother’s handwriting.

  Nick—I hope you and your dad enjoy the takeout. It’s your favorite . . .

  I knew what was in the containers without opening them. House Lo Mein. What else but the meal me and Dad ordered at our (not so) secret meeting? I read the rest of the note.

  Don’t bother waiting up.

  MOM

  CHAPTER 27

  I DIDN’T WAIT UP, AND THE next day I awoke before anyone. Mom’s bedroom door was cracked, her soft breaths slipping through. Dad snored downstairs on the couch. There was no sign of Mom’s note in the kitchen, but I didn’t imagine it. She saw me and Dad yesterday, but how?

  The whole way to school I contemplated the possibilities and watched for police cruisers. I made sure to get in the building before the bell rang, fearing Hill might ride up on a white horse, cowboy-style, and lasso me like a sprinting calf (hey, I did live in Texas for a year).

  I thought someone might call me out about yesterday’s missed classes. But no, business as usual. Another favor from Mayor Burke? If so, he wasn’t the only Burke pulling strings. By midday I heard buzz of yet another Dust Off. Saturday night.

  In honor of Eli Cruz.

  On the surface, it seemed like a cool thing to do in memory of an old friend. It could also be a big old “screw you, Dad” for whatever got him grounded. Having met his father, I understood. Whatever Dustin’s inspiration was, I still needed those deets on his last meeting with Eli. And I intended to get them before he got too busy party planning.

  My goal was to gain some clarity at lunch—even if I had to drag Dustin away from his concubines. Only, I never made it to lunch.

  Vice Principal Hardwick met me in the hall after fourth period. “Pearson.”

  “Sir.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  We moved against the flow of students heading into the cafeteria, en route to the office. Had I written off those skipped classes too soon?

  “Am I in trouble, Mr. Hardwick?”

  “Trouble? No. Not given the circumstances.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What circumstances?”

  “Your horrible grief, son.” He led me beyond the main office, to a small conference room where a counselor waited.

  “Sir, I don’t need—”

  “Either you’re a student who’s overcome with grief, or you’re a misfit who cuts class. We sit misfits in a different room. After school.”

  Sighing, “Do I at least get to lie on a couch?”

  Grieving kids get catered sandwiches, I discovered. Little consolation since I missed any cafeteria time with Dustin because of those worthless sessions. Yeah, sessions, plural. Thursday and Friday. Mr. Hardwick insisted, said it would do me good. I don’t know how. The lady wasn’t even a real counselor. She was a student at a community college. I looked older than her, and she kept referring to a textbook with
Post-it notes protruding like hot pink tongues. She was all “you’re in a safe haven” and “it’s okay to cry.”

  At times detention seemed like a better option, but I decided against it. Everyone in my house was giving each other cold—like Arctic—shoulders, but a call from Hardwick might thaw my parents enough to accomplish one unified act . . . keeping me at home this weekend. That I could not abide. I needed to be at the Dust Off Saturday night.

  But I had to get through that day first.

  Eli’s funeral.

  Mom had barely spoken to me in three days. Dad was the same. I wouldn’t give either of them the satisfaction of being the first to utter an actual sentence. Our house settled into an eerie quiet, upset only by an occasional slammed cabinet, rattled dish, or flushing toilet.

  I donned my dress shirt and slacks Saturday morning, dreading the idea of biking to Our Lady of Mercy Cathedral in such attire. It took monklike muscle control to hide my relief when Mom met me at the bottom of the stairs in a black dress, clutching a string of pearls.

  “Help me with these,” she said. It was all she said.

  We took the SUV without asking Dad, which sort of rocked. I reached for the radio, needing to hear something other than engine noise. Mom shoved my arm away.

  “What?” I said.

  “I don’t want things to be like this between us, Tony.”

  “Like how you’re making them? You haven’t been talking to me.”

  She tapped the steering wheel. “We’ve all been a little childish lately.”

  “I am a child. I’m supposed to act like that.”

  “You’re right, of course. You are.”

  “What’s the deal with that note the other night?”

  “That was impulsive. I came to my senses before your dad saw it, and threw it away. Did you mention it to him?”

  “No! But you’ve been watching him? Us?”

  She shook her head. “Just that afternoon. I was angry after we fought, and you helped him cover his tracks.”

  The accusation wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t confirm her suspicion—right as it was. Fantasy football. Yep.

  “I wanted to see where he’d go after work,” she said. “When I got there, you two were coming from the restaurant. I got nervous, so I left.”

  When I got there . . . I got nervous, so I left.

  It hit me. That backfiring beater in the parking lot when me and Dad were coming out of the restaurant . . .

  “It was you in that old car?”

  A nod.

  “Where did you get it?”

  We came to a stoplight. She said, “Tony, are you happy here?”

  The abrupt change bothered me more than if she’d openly refused to answer. An odd question to ask today. “We’re going to a funeral.”

  “I know. That’s a hard thing. Eli seemed like a nice boy. He’s the first friend I’ve seen you with since we started the Program. Do you have others?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m Mr. Popularity, future homecoming king.”

  “I could do without the smart mouthing.”

  “Are we going to run, Mom?”

  The light changed, and we were moving again. “You’re too much like your father.”

  I tensed, taking it as an insult. She rephrased. “I mean you’re clever. Too clever for your own good.”

  She turned the radio on. Never did answer the question.

  We arrived at the church, slipping back into our roles as the Pearsons. The sanctuary had maybe fifteen pews on each side, only a few of them full. We stood in a line of ten people waiting our turn to view Eli’s body. I shifted to the right and saw the foot of the mahogany casket, then left, saw the tip of Eli’s nose rising over the coffin’s lip. I scanned the other guests, needing to look elsewhere.

  There wasn’t a large crowd to see Eli off. Hardly anyone from school. I recognized a few faces from the Cruz house, like Reya’s distant cousin with the prison tats. He sat on the right side of the sanctuary in the center of a pew, his arms stretched along the seat’s back edge, his suit worn around the collar and thin at the elbows. He caught me looking and gave a respectful nod.

  A couple of rows ahead of him sat Pilar, crying harder than that day on the porch and rubbing her bulging belly. Uncle Miguel sat beside her, awkward, fiddling with a sparkling pinkie ring that could’ve paid for the casket. Seeing him next to Pilar, I noticed something I missed before. The similarities between their noses, and chins, and the way their eyes were set.

  Pilar was his daughter.

  Not a huge revelation—her being Reya’s cousin, and him her uncle—but I was stuck on the way he’d exploded from the house and went NASCAR with his Jag, never sparing her a second look. A reminder that my family didn’t have a lock on dysfunction.

  The church murmuring dialed down as Reya entered with her mother, both in dark glasses, their arms intertwined. Like everyone else, I couldn’t help but stare. I didn’t realize the viewing line had moved.

  “He looks like he’s sleeping,” the woman between me and Eli said before stepping aside. I faced the coffin.

  Eli’s glasses were gone and his hair was neatly trimmed. I was used to his sweatshirts and shorts, the only things I’d seen him wear. The suit wasn’t him. He wouldn’t play Modern Battlefield or Finite Universe in a three-piece. He didn’t look like the guy I got to know, the guy who saved me, then told the school I was a badass ultimate fighter. Or the dude who taught me about newspapers and drank half a case of orange soda at my house. If he was just sleeping, he’d still look like my friend. Not this . . .

  I stumbled to the nearest empty pew. Mom’s heels clacked loudly behind me. I didn’t think this would hurt so much. Only knew him a few weeks.

  Sobs ripped the solemn atmosphere. Mrs. Cruz gripped her son’s coffin, rocked it like he really was asleep and a good shaking would wake him. Reya pressed her face into her mother’s neck.

  I thought I’d be embarrassed about this, but cried, too, like me and him had been hanging forever. You don’t have to know someone your whole life to know them. Not really.

  Lonely is the same everywhere.

  At the gravesite, a small mob gathered around Reya and her mom. Me and my mother watched from a distance.

  “How’s she been doing?” Mom said.

  “Who?” I knew.

  She gave me a weird look. Squinty.

  I said, “She’s as good as you can expect, I guess. I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days.”

  “You like her, though?”

  Oh my God . . . it was so awkward I felt like asking the grave diggers to bury me, too. Mom rubbed my shoulder. “Give her a little time.”

  “For what?”

  Mom just smirked. “You got a lot of good stuff from your dad, too. I hope you know.”

  “What’s that mean?” The woman had suddenly become the Riddler.

  She cleared her throat. “I think someone wants to talk to you, Nick.”

  Her gaze drifted over my shoulder. I turned and found a puffy-eyed Reya approaching.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pearson,” she said, her voice rough. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not at all, sweetie. I’m so very sorry about your brother.” She turned to me. “I’m going to go offer my condolences to Mrs. Cruz.” Mom left us.

  “I don’t know what to say to you right now.” I felt the need to be honest. A rarity.

  “Admitting that is the best thing I’ve heard all day. I hate all these people who just talk and say nothing. ‘He’s in a better place,’ ‘grief is for the living.’ I’m sick of it.” Reya gave me a hug. “Thanks, Nick.”

  “What now? You going home?”

  Her mouth turned down. “Yes, to get ready for the party. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “You’re going?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah—I just thought you might want to be with your family.”

  “I’ve been with them for the last five days. If we’re together m
uch longer, there might be a series of Cruz funerals next week.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was joking. “Maybe a little fun would do you some good.”

  “Fun? I’m going so we can get the truth out of Dustin. You haven’t been able to make that happen or I would’ve heard from you before now, right?”

  No use denying it. I hadn’t called or texted because I knew she’d press for info I didn’t have. I didn’t want to hear her disappointed voice again.

  She said, “You want some alone time with Dustin? What better distraction than Grief Girl? Everyone will be all over me. You shouldn’t have a problem.”

  It sounded so . . . strategic. Like Eli. “You sure you’re up for it?”

  She looked toward her brother’s coffin, sinking slowly into the earth. “You shouldn’t have to ask.”

  CHAPTER 28

  REYA ARRIVED FIVE MINUTES EARLY. I was ready on my porch—had been for a half hour, despite swapping shirts four times and the tense moment where I temporarily blinded myself with the malfunctioning nozzle on the cologne I swiped from Dad.

  Confession: I’ve never been to a high school party.

  What? Is it that hard to believe? I’ve been in the Program since I was eleven. There were no middle-school parties those first two years, at least none that I got invited to. And I’ve attended only one other high school. The last time I went to a social gathering of my peers there was a Batman cake and a bouncy house. Now I was attending what seemed like some epic teen-movie bash, with the bonus objective of fishing for clues about my buddy’s possible murder, to which I hadn’t completely ruled out my father as an accessory. Most kids just worry about bad breath. I was stressed. Sue me.

  I walked to the Beetle, not too fast, a conscious I-go-to-these-things-all-the-time strut, though I was already sweating from nerves and the unseasonably warm night. The car’s interior lamps switched on like stage lights when I opened the door, and I lost my forced composure.

  My eyes darted to the exposed flesh first. Calf, thigh, arm, back, and sternum. All twinkling moist from glitter lotion, like fairy dust in a cartoon. Her hair hung straight, stopping midspine, a change from her spongy curls at the funeral. And her makeup was pro level, erasing all signs of tearful mourning.