Few Are Chosen

by J. L. Brown

  Table of Contents

  Story

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  For my muse, Audi

  For many are called, but few are chosen.

  —Matthew 22:14

  “Does Mai know?” asked a quiet voice she didn’t recognize.

  “I tell her everything.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “No,” her dad said. “And she must never know.”

  Why was her father talking to a stranger about her mother? About her?

  Twelve-year-old Jade Harrington crept down the stairs from her bedroom on the second floor where she’d been studying. She sat on a step about halfway down, hidden from below by a wall. The only danger: she didn’t know where her mother was.

  The hushed voices from the kitchen continued, but now she couldn’t make out their words. She and her cousins used to spy on their aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, and their friends. The Spy Club eavesdropped on conversations, wrote down their discoveries in notebooks, and reported their findings to their commanders. Her notebook was buried in her closet. She’d stopped playing the game a few years ago.

  But some habits were hard to break.

  As the murmuring continued from the kitchen, Jade tiptoed down the remaining stairs. She hesitated when she reached the first floor. If her mother entered the house now, she would catch Jade red-handed. She tried to think of an excuse for why she would be standing there. She had talked her way out of trouble before.

  Jade peeked out the bay window at the front yard and beyond the fence. She didn’t see her mother. They’d lived in this pre-World War II mauve bungalow in Bushrod, a middle-class neighborhood in North Oakland, California, for a little more than a year, moving around a lot because of her dad’s military service: from Japan to Germany to Italy and, finally, to the United States. Her parents promised her this would be the last move.

  Quietly, she padded toward the kitchen. At the door, she paused, placing her ear against it, ignoring the roughness of the wood.

  “You’re sure it’s safe here?”

  “Where could it be safer?” her dad said.

  “Just about anywhere,” came an incredulous response. “You’re not worried about the gangs?”

  “It’s diverse. Lots of students. Old people. Families. We blend right in.”

  After a few moments, “It’s going to be close.”

  Her father scoffed. “Gore’s going to win. Clinton’s approval ratings are over sixty percent. The economy is roaring. The public will want more of the same.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am.”

  Jade waited for her dad to continue, but the two men didn’t say anything else.

  She pushed open the door. “What are you sure of?”

  Her father sat at the round mahogany table. Recently retired from the army, he wore a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, showing off his corded, nutmeg-brown forearms. She didn’t see a tie; he wore one every day to his government job downtown. He’d told her he worked for the Department of Defense. She was unsure of what he did there exactly, except that he traveled a lot.

  He tried to mask his surprise. “Hey, Princess! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Dad, don’t call me that,” she said with embarrassment, although she secretly liked the nickname. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s out. I think she’s visiting one of her friends.” He snapped his fingers. “Kate. That’s it!”

  “It’s kind of late,” Jade said.

  He didn’t seem concerned about his wife’s whereabouts. He rose and came around the table to hug her. His hugs always made her feel safe.

  The man with her father was white and slender, with a full head of tousled blond hair parted on the side. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, which he’d already pushed up on his nose twice since she had entered the room. He looked old. Probably in his thirties.

  Her dad, still holding her, turned to the gentleman. “Jade, this is Max. Mr. Stover.”

  She extricated herself from her father’s embrace. “How do you do, sir?” She shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He stood halfway from his chair.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said with a pained smile. She wondered if he was hurting.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Max didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at her father before sitting.

  Her father opened the refrigerator and snatched a Pepsi for Jade. He handed it to her before returning to his seat and picking up his own can. “Max hasn’t seen you since you were a baby.” He took a drink and then went on, “He’s a profiler with the FBI. In DC.”

  She popped the can and took a long swig. Spying made her thirsty. To Max, “What’s a profiler?”

  “I analyze the behavior of bad guys so the rest of my team can catch them.”

  “How often do they catch them?”

  “Often.”

  “Is your job fun?”

  Max thought about it. “I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the right word. It’s what I was born to do.”

  Jade eyed Max as she took that in. “How will I know what I was born to do?”

  Max glanced at her father again and back at her. “When it’s time, you’ll know.”

  “How did we meet?”

  Her father pulled out the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”

  He waited until she sat down before reaching out and taking her small hand in his.

  “Jade,” he said. “Max is your godfather.”

  *

  “How come I haven’t met him before now?”

  Jade lined up over an imaginary center, holding the ball in front of her with both hands, her dad flanked to her right already in his stance.

  “He’s got a busy job, I guess,” he said. “Trying to catch bad guys twenty-four/seven. Now, hike the ball.”

  She scowled in response but complied. “Bears! Blue 82! Gold 56! Set! Hut one! Hut two! Hike!”

  Scissoring her legs back three steps, shoulders squared to three o’clock, she cradled the football near her chest, just as her dad taught her. He ran down the field ten yards, casually glanced over his right shoulder, and then sprinted diagonally another twenty yards. Jade threw the ball to where he should be. A perfect spiral. He caught it in stride.

  In the end zone, he held the football high above his head and knocked his knees together. A touchdown dance, reminiscent of some guy named Billy “White Shoes” Johnson who played for the Houston Oilers back in the day.

  Her dad could be goofy sometimes.

  It was a Saturday afternoon, the weekend after he’d introduced her to Max. She gazed around the ten acres of Bushrod Park at the tennis courts, fields, and playground. A lot of famous baseball players had played here when they were kids: Rickey Henderson, Frank Robinson, and Billy Martin. The Oakland Raiders even practiced here in the 1960s.

  Wearing a Nike sweat suit and trainers, her dad jogged back to her and flipped her the ball. A sheen of sweat sprinkled his forehead, despite the cool Northern California air. Still in decent shape, he was thinner than the pictures she had seen of him when he played wide receiver at Cal. Like his military service, his football days were never mentioned. He believed that your actions should speak for themselves.

  He was her hero.

  Jade spread her fingers along the raised white seams of the ball, slapping it against the other hand. “How did you two meet?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been so long I don’t really remember. Hit me again.”

  This time her father lined up on the other side of her, and the two of them ran the play again.

  She looked over to see her mom standing near the fence.

  Mai Harrington shaded her eyes from th
e sun.

  “Dinner’s ready, you two,” she called out. “Jonathan, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

  Her dad looked at Jade and smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  “We’ll be right there,” he called out.

  She shot him a look and turned to walk back to the house.

  Jade’s mother was Japanese. She and her father met when he was stationed as a young officer at Torii Station in Okinawa. Jade was born a year after they were married. Her mom, now in her midthirties, was still beautiful with short black hair and light brown highlights, her figure still trim thanks to her daily runs.

  Her dad jogged back to Jade and threw one arm around her shoulders, the football tucked under his other arm. She loved these moments with him. They seemed to enjoy them less frequently since he started his new job.

  “With an arm like that, you should play football.”

  Jade inclined her head toward her mom’s back. “I don’t think she would like that.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  As they strolled back to the house, she said, “How long have you known Max anyway?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “You don’t quit, do you? Maybe you should talk to Max about becoming an FBI agent.”

  *

  In the kitchen, her mother placed a tray with a steaming red bowl of oyakodon at his place setting.

  Her dad inhaled deeply. “Smells good!”

  Jade expertly maneuvered the chopsticks around the chicken and egg rice bowl. “How’s Mrs. Chauncey?”

  Her mom’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Kate for weeks. Why do you ask?”

  Jade slowly returned the food to her bowl without eating it. “Dad said you were with her this week. That’s why you were late.”

  “I did?” He stabbed a chopstick into her bowl and stole the piece of chicken she hadn’t eaten. “You should protect your food better.”

  “The night I met Max,” Jade persisted.

  “I might have been mistaken, Princess.”

  Jade opened her mouth in surprise. “You?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It could happen.”

  “I’m sorry that I missed Max,” her mother said. She looked at her husband. “I met with my book club. I told you that, Jonathan.”

  “I thought Kate was in your book club.” He looked at Jade. “See? My mistake.”

  Her mother asked about Jade’s classes and upcoming soccer game, and then talked enthusiastically about the book they discussed at the book club meeting. It was a love story. It didn’t sound so interesting to Jade. Her dad just ate and listened.

  Jade’s food remained untouched. “May I be excused?”

  Her mother looked at her with concern. “Sure, dear. Are you feeling all right?”

  Jade shrugged, not making eye contact with her mother. “I’m not that hungry.”

  Jade dumped the uneaten food down the garbage disposal, rinsed the bowl in the sink, and put it in the dishwasher.

  She wished her parents good night.

  Upstairs she went to her room and closed the door. A poster of a euphoric Brandi Chastain kneeling, fists clenched, in a sports bra adorned one wall. On the other wall were posters of the arrogant, hotshot college freshman basketball player Diana Taurasi and a young tennis player named Serena Williams. Jade didn’t play tennis, but she liked the way Serena played. And she liked her hair.

  She placed the Nancy Drew book she’d been reading that morning on the floor. Her mother gave her the entire classic set for Christmas. All fifty-six books. She was on the eleventh.

  Jade slid into the twin-size bed next to the basketball. She’d traded it for the teddy bear long ago. If her mother had a problem with her sleeping with it, she hadn’t mentioned it to Jade.

  Jade checked her form—shoulder, elbow, wrist, all aligned—and then started shooting the ball straight up in the air to herself.

  She hadn’t lied to her mother. She really didn’t feel well. But she wasn’t sick; she felt uneasy. Maybe even a little scared.

  Her father did not make mistakes.

  *

  “You’re kidding,” Jade said.

  “I’m serious.”

  From her bed on one side of the dorm room, Jade threw a pillow at Zoe, her roommate and best friend.

  Jade sat cross-legged on top of her bedspread, going over highlighted passages in the Advanced Psychology textbook opened in her lap. The surface of her desk next to the bed was spotless, with only a Stanford cup full of pens and pencils, a Stanford basketball paperweight, and her other textbooks lined up in a neat row against the wall. Her side of the room was bare, the posters of her favorite athletes left behind in Oakland. She especially couldn’t bring Taurasi, who played for their rival, UCONN, in the early 2000s.

  Jade glanced at Zoe, sprawled on her narrow bed, unmade since this morning. Or any morning this week. Maybe all month. Her desk was a mess of papers, notebooks, a laptop, and takeout from a health-food restaurant. It hurt Jade to look at it.

  The walls on Zoe’s side of the room were covered, decorated with posters of local underground indie rock bands, some of the causes she believed in—Gay Marriage Now! Wall Street Sucks!—and a poster of Oscar Grant, a twenty-two-year-old unarmed black man fatally shot by a BART police officer.

  Zoe was 5’3”, thin, with short spiky hair, which had a blue hue this week. Although the year was 2009, the 1980s were back in fashion and Zoe dressed accordingly—a bright yellow top, a polka-dotted headband, and ripped acid-washed skinny jeans with stirrups. Jade gazed down at her own clothes: black sweat pants and a black sweatshirt, with Stanford University Women’s Basketball in red lettering. It had become a daily uniform of sorts.

  She and Zoe had met in the campus library as freshmen. Zoe pretended to lose her pen as an excuse to meet her. Jade, now a senior, was well-known on campus and the star of the basketball powerhouse, though she kept to herself. She saw right through Zoe during that initial meeting but thought she was funny and unlike other people. Being complete opposites somehow made their friendship work. Neither could have been a best friend to someone like herself.

  “You can’t just change everyone’s grade in a class and not expect to get caught. I don’t care how good of a hacker you think you are.”

  “Why not?” Zoe said.

  “Aside from it being wrong, it’s against the law.”

  Zoe waved her hand at the technicality.

  “You’re going to get caught,” Jade said. “And when you do, don’t call me. I don’t have the bail money.”

  She knew that if Zoe were arrested and called, Jade would find a way to scrounge up the money.

  She just couldn’t let Zoe know that.

  Jade returned to her book, read a paragraph, and then eyed Zoe across the way. Her heart sank. “What grade did you give them?”

  Zoe’s smile lit up the room. “Why As, of course! This is the aughts! Everyone’s a winner!”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you think?” Zoe asked, holding out her new phone, the latest Samsung model, thrusting a photograph of a woman into Jade’s face.

  “About what?”

  Zoe shot Jade a you-are-such-an-idiot look. “My professor.”

  “What about her?”

  “Isn’t she cute?”

  Jade stared at her friend. “You just committed academic cybercrime and you want to hit on the professor of the class?”

  Zoe appeared insulted. “It wasn’t a crime. It was a prank.”

  “Tell that to the judge.”

  Jade shook her head and went back to studying. The silence lasted a few minutes until Zoe spoke again. She could never remain quiet for long and would interrupt Jade in five- to ten-minute intervals. Trying to study with her around was not usually productive.

  After a few more interruptions covering a range of topics, Zoe said, “I need to run.”

  “Later.”

  Zoe stood, hands on hips. “Aren’t you even going to
ask me where I’m going?”

  “You’re grown.”

  Zoe examined her face in the room’s only mirror. “I’m going over to Berkeley. We’re protesting tuition hikes.” She finished applying her bright pink sparkly lipstick, smacked her lips, and looked in the mirror at Jade behind her. “You wanna come?”

  Jade pointed at her book. “Test tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I forgot.” Zoe slung her purse over her shoulder. “Your tuition is paid for.”

  Jade scowled.

  Zoe’s “Bye!” was cut off as the door slammed.

  Quiet. Finally.

  Zoe’s comment, a surgical strike aimed for maximum impact, found its mark. Was it Jade’s fault she’d received an athletic scholarship? Not an activist by nature, she probably wouldn’t have joined Zoe at the protest anyway. But, she wondered, even if a cause didn’t impact her directly, shouldn’t she still get involved? Still care?

  Still, she had that test tomorrow.

  Jade studied in peace for an hour until her phone vibrated on her desk.

  She swept up her old-school flip phone and checked the display.

  “Hey, Max.”

  Silence. Then, “Jade …”

  Something was wrong.

  After his visit nine years ago, Max had dropped in on her family occasionally. He’d even taken Jade to a shooting range once.

  She never told her mother.

  Jade liked hanging around him because it was comfortable. They didn’t have to talk much. And he was smart. He talked about his job. Not enough to give away confidential information, but enough to stoke her interest in his profession. In high school, she’d started watching CSI, NCIS, and Law & Order SVU whenever she had the time.

  Jade held her breath. She knew. Somehow, she knew, but she asked anyway. “What is it?”

  “It’s your parents, Jade. They… died. In a car accident this morning.”

  The air went out of her as if someone had punched her. She laid her free hand on the smooth surface of her desk to hold herself up. She saw nothing. Not her dorm room, her bed, her desk, her books. Nothing, except her parents’ faces. Faces she would never see again.

  She struggled to speak. “What happened?”

  “They were driving on the Pacific Coast Highway. Whoever was driving lost control of the vehicle.”