You Don't Know My Name

by Kristen Orlando

  “What are you glaring at?” Harper asks with a mouth full of fries. She follows my gaze and nods in their direction. “Are you sending your eye daggers to that couple over there?”

  “I just don’t understand people who sit on the same side of the booth,” I say, still glaring. She’s leaning her head on his shoulder; her long blond hair (perhaps a little too long. Like 1980s-music-video-star long) cascades down both their backs. He’s looking down at her, smiling sweetly. I freaking hate them.

  “Yes, same side of the booth is super annoying,” Harper replies, turning to face me. “Can you really not spend a single second not touching each other that you have to sit side by side and make the rest of us uncomfortable-slash-hate-your-guts?”

  “Same with couples who only refer to each other as ‘babe’ or worse, ‘bae,’” I add and roll my eyes. “‘Just chilling with my bae.’ Please do the world a favor and stop talking.”

  “What about the oversharers?” Harper says, shoving another fry in her mouth. “Like, I do not need to hear about how hot you are for each other all the time. Keep that inappropriateness in your bedroom or basement or Toyota Corolla where it belongs.”

  I nearly spit my coffee back into my cup. Harper smiles back at me, a fry hanging out of her mouth as I continue our rant. “What about the couples that feed each other? Every day at school, I watch Alex literally spoon-feeding Sophie soft serve. And not just a taste. No, no. Like, a bowl of swirl ice cream. What is she, a baby?”

  “Or how about the ones that constantly try to finish each other’s sentences? Jesus Christ. Let them speak!”

  “Or the couples who wear coordinating Halloween costumes. Or substitute every ‘I’ statement for ‘we.’”

  “The worst,” Harper says and shakes her head. “Seriously, kill me if I ever become like that.”

  “Don’t worry. I will,” I reply, bringing a fry to my mouth. They’re crunchy and salty and soak up Mad Dog’s washer fluid taste.

  “Do I get to strangle you if you become one of those couples too?” Harper asks, dipping a rare soggy fry in her overflowing cup of ranch.

  “You won’t have to,” I answer and force a sharp laugh. My eyes cast down into my coffee cup. “I’ll never be happy like that.”

  “Of course you will,” Harper replies. “Someday.”

  “No,” I answer quietly and shake my head. “I won’t.”

  My eyes drift back to the couple just as he brushes a long strand of her hair off of her cheek, gently tucking it behind her ear. His fingers trace along her jaw and my entire body goes cold. My words are true. I’ve destroyed the only person in the world who could make me that happy.

  My vision blurs, tears welling in my eyes without warning. I try to push them down but it’s too late. Harper’s face changes. She’s seen them. Harper reaches her hand across the table and takes my cold fingers into her warm palm. She’s never seen me cry.

  “Reagan, why did you do it?” Harper asks, confirming she’d watched it all.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” I reply, shaking my head and staring hard into my cup of coffee.

  “Try me,” Harper says softly. “I’ve always known there’s something special between the two of you. It’s electric when you guys are in the same room. You … I mean, you’re always happy, I guess. But you become more awake or alive or something next to him.”

  “What does it matter?” I ask, swallowing the sobs that are clawing up my throat, leaving the delicate flesh jagged and sore. “This time next year, he’ll be at West Point and I’ll be God knows where. It’s too complicated.”

  “Look, Reagan, I’m no expert on relationships,” Harper says, squeezing my hand tight in her palm. “But I do know one thing. There’s no such thing as perfect. But there’s always the chance of wonderful.”

  The tears fall faster now. Luke wasn’t just my best friend. He saved me. He opened my eyes to a world I didn’t know could exist for a girl like me. Being with him made me realize that I’d been confined to a dark, lonely room. A prison the Black Angels had built for me. When I met Luke, he unlocked a door I didn’t even know was there. He took my hand and guided me to the other side and I saw what my life could be. But now I’m locked back inside that windowless room. And I don’t know if I’ll ever find a way out again.

  FIFTEEN

  “Are you sure you don’t just want to spend the night?” Harper asks as she pulls into my driveway. Her headlights hit the garage door, creep up the sides of the house, and spill into my parents’ bedroom. I look up at their window. The curtains are closed. Thank God. “It’s almost four a.m.”

  “Positive,” I answer and climb out of her car. It’s dark and silent out, but navy blue is beginning to frame the star-dotted black sky, the sleeping world on the cusp of a new day. In an hour, the sun will shed its golden ribbons and I’ll be forced to face everything I’ve done in the last twelve hours. But not now. Now, I just need sleep.

  “Call me tomorrow,” Harper says, the right side of her face rising into a small smile. “You’ll be okay.”

  I nod once in agreement even though I don’t believe her. I close the door without saying another word and stand frozen, my feet glued to the asphalt, as Harper backs out of my driveway and rolls down Landon Lane. I watch her taillights blink red twice as she rolls up to the stop sign, then disappears from my sight.

  The unseasonably warm October temperatures are long gone and the chilly morning air has encapsulated every strand of grass in its crystal frost. I pull my thin coat tighter around my body and glance over at the Weixels’ house. Luke’s bedroom window is cracked open but his light is out. I wonder if he’s staring at the ceiling, my betrayal playing over and over again in his mind like it is mine. I hope it’s not. I hope he’s asleep.

  I run my hands through my messy hair and force my legs up the front walk until I reach the door. My stomach is throbbing as I say a silent, selfish prayer that Mom and Dad are asleep. I put my key in the door and quietly push it open. But there they are. Sitting in pajamas in the sunken living room we never use, loaded weapons resting at their sides. Fuck.

  I close the door, lock it, and turn back to face them. They stare at me, their eyes wild with fury, their mouths pressed together into solid, thick lines. Their chests rise and fall in unplanned unison with heavy, enraged breaths. Their deafening silence is much worse than screaming. I walk across the foyer, throw my keys on the console table, and take a seat on one of the living room steps. Tension circles the room like a poisonous cloud. I pull my knees toward my chest and wait.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” my mother asks, her tongue slowly wrapping and pausing around each word. I stare into her sharp green eyes. They narrow as the seconds tick by without my answer.

  “There are a lot of things wrong with me,” I finally say. “Most of them have to do with being born to the two of you.”

  “Reagan, how the hell could you be so irresponsible?” my father explodes, ignoring my declaration. “You leave this house not only without telling us but without your gun to go get drunk at some stupid party. Are you trying to get us all killed? Do you even know what is happening right now?”

  “I do but not because you had the courtesy of actually telling me,” I say, my voice struggling to remain calm. “I had to go find out about Anna Taylor and Alejandro myself. You expect me to act like a Black Angel but yet you treat me like a child. So guess what. For one night of my life, I decided to act like that child.”

  “Don’t you dare use that angry tone with us, young lady,” Mom replies, her mouth twisting into an infuriated scowl.

  “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you tonight?” Dad asks, his voice about five octaves louder than Mom’s. “The watchers had to track you down at that party. We could have pulled you out right then and there, but we wanted to see how stupid you would be. And congratulations, you were horrifically stupid.”

  “So stupid in fact, I had to beg Sam not to report your actions to CORE,” Mom a
dds, her voice now rising. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed? Or ruin your entire career?”

  “See. That right there is the problem with the two of you,” I reply, my hands at my side, my fingers digging into the hardwood steps. “You guys just assume this is what I want for my life but have you even bothered to ask me? No. Because you don’t care. You just want what’s best for the agency, right? The Black Angels come first.”

  Dad jumps up from the couch, his arm outstretched, his finger pointed at me, shaking. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m absolutely done with this shit, Reagan.” Dad grabs his gun off the couch and turns to Mom. “You deal with her.”

  Mom and I stare at each other as Dad stomps up the stairs and pounds down the hallway. He slams the bedroom door so hard I can feel the crack of the wood in my chest. The house is silent again.

  “How could you say that, Reagan?” Mom says, furiously shaking her head. “When all we’ve ever done is protect you.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat, deep and angry. Mom’s eyes narrow into slits.

  “Why are you laughing?” she demands.

  “All you’ve ever done is protect me?” I say, regaining my composure. “Are you kidding? All you’ve done is put me in harm’s way. My whole life has just been one dangerous situation after another.”

  My words push Mom’s back against the couch. Her narrowed eyes regain their shape.

  “You don’t mean that,” Mom replies, slowly shaking her head. “You’re just saying that because right now things are tense. But things will go back to normal—”

  “Go back to normal? What normal?” I interrupt her. “Things have never been normal for me, and if I become a Black Angel, my life will never be normal. Ever. And you know what? I don’t know if I want that.”

  My mother’s head snaps up. Her shoulders fall and the surprise of my confession pushes the air from her lungs. She closes her eyes for a moment and regains her breath.

  “Reagan, being a Black Angel is a privilege. To whom much is given—” she begins but I interrupt again.

  “Yes, I know. Much is expected. I’ve only looked at that quote every day for my entire life.”

  Mom takes a breath, looking me up and down, her fingers wrapping around her Glock 22. “You are not a normal girl. Your talent … I’ve never seen anyone with your talent. Your name has been on the academy’s list since you were ten years old. It’s what we’ve been training you for. How can you just throw all our hard work away?”

  “So it’s about you, then? What you’ve done? Have you ever stopped to think about what’s best for me? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  Mom crosses her strong arms and bites at her full bottom lip. I can see her thinking behind those intense eyes, choosing each word carefully. “Some people aren’t meant to be happy. Some are meant to change the world. You were meant to change the world. You think you’d be happy with the picket fence life?”

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice small.

  “I’m your mother,” she says, pointing at her chest. “I know you wouldn’t.”

  I suck new air into my burning lungs. “Then you don’t know me at all.”

  My eyes blur, my brain throbs as it fights to push tears back down. Mom opens her mouth to speak but I hold up my hand and stop her.

  “I cannot do this,” I say, my voice so quiet I’m not sure if she even heard me. But from the look on her face, I know she did. Those four words have been on repeat in my head for months, maybe even years. I’ve buried them, categorized them as nerves or anxiety. But I know now they’re the truth. “I’ve tried to do this for you, Mom. I felt like I owed it to you, to my country, but I cannot live like this. I cannot pull a trigger and hope it hits the right person. I cannot live a life where I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I cannot walk around half dead. Numb. Because every other emotion I could possibly feel is too big and scary.”

  Mom slides her palm down the length of her face. Her lips form an exaggerated “O” as she slowly pushes out three dense breaths.

  “I’ve seen real happiness, Mom. I’ve felt it. And I’m done living alone in the dark.”

  I stand up and walk across the living room toward the curved staircase.

  “You’re doing this because of Luke, aren’t you?” Mom asks. His name and her accusation stop me cold.

  Her words punch me in my gut and I have never been so insulted in my life. I grit my teeth, dig my nails into the soft wood of the stair rail, and try not to explode.

  “Do you even know why I went out tonight, Mom?” I ask, turning around, my skin burning. “I went out to break Luke’s heart. I knew we were one threat away from having to leave and I didn’t want Luke to always wonder what happened to me. So I did what you taught me. I strategized. I screwed with people’s minds. I created a game plan and it worked and now I feel awful. I just obliterated my chance with the only guy who might actually love me.”

  “Guys will come and go, Reagan—” Mom begins but I cut her off.

  “Not this guy,” I say, biting my teeth into my quivering bottom lip. “Guys like him don’t come around every day.”

  “He’s one boy,” Mom replies, shrugging like I’m overreacting. “There will be others.”

  “How?” My voice shrieks, my face twisting with the implausibility. “You’re basically destining me to a life of total, utter loneliness.”

  “Your father and I destined you for greatness,” Mom replies. I tighten my grasp on the stair rail and listen, letting her words wash over me. “We’ve handed you a golden ticket and you’re just going to throw it in the trash.”

  I grab ahold of the stair rail so tight, I’m surprised splinters don’t cut into my skin.

  “You know, I thought you were special, Reagan.” Mom pushes herself off the couch to face me and continues. “But you’re just going to blend in with everybody else. You’ll become beige. And then you’ll think back to this moment and you’ll regret it.”

  My body is hot. The blood pulsing through my heart and into my veins feels like it’s on fire. Mom stands frozen, her face defiant and the muscles of her arms twitching underneath her short-sleeved navy T-shirt.

  “I won’t regret a thing,” I say and clench my teeth. “What kind of life did you dream for me when I was a little girl? One where I have to lie all the time? One where I have no one who really knows me? Where I am always waiting to feel the barrel of a gun pointed at my back? Is that the life you always wanted for me?”

  “No, I’m not saying that, I’m just saying—” she starts, her voice calm and still.

  “Yes, it is!” I scream and swallow the urge to sob. “Because if it wasn’t, then you’d actually let me choose. You wouldn’t be standing here arguing with me.”

  The vein in Mom’s neck is throbbing. Her chest rises higher with each breath. She’s about a minute away from exploding. But I keep going.

  “Why did you even have a child?” I cross my arms and tighten my lips. Mom’s chest doesn’t fall. She sucks in a breath and holds it in her lungs.

  “Why did you even have me if you weren’t going to be around to raise me?” I push harder. The words taste metallic and bitter as they roll off my tongue.

  “I’ve been here to raise you, Reagan. Don’t talk to me like I’m some deadbeat mother. Look at the house you live in,” she yells and points around the room. “Look at the car you drive and the clothes we buy you and the schools you get to go to. A million girls would kill for your life.”

  Jesus Christ. I close my eyes and shake my head. She doesn’t get it. Maybe she never will.

  “What could you possibly want that I haven’t given you?”

  “Just you.”

  Mom’s muscles release. She drops her arms to her sides, unsure what to do with them now. She looks away, runs her hand through her blond hair and then glances back at me. My hands, my feet, my legs are tingling again. I take a deep breath, trying to fill my body with new air to make it stop.

  “You
know, it really sucks when you realize just how selfish your parents are,” I say, my voice barely audible. “You never should have become a mother if you wanted to be a Black Angel. And that’s why I’m making this decision. I want a baby someday and, unlike you, I don’t want her to ever be in danger. I’m walking away because, unlike you, I’ll put her needs before mine. My love for her will never, and I mean never, feel like second place.”

  Mom’s bottom lip trembles. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words won’t come out. We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. I watch her bite her lip, fighting the tears that lie on the rim of her eyes. She searches my face and for the first time in years, she really sees me. Every bad and broken part. She takes in all of me. And I don’t think she likes what she sees.

  She’s still just staring, willing her mouth to move, for words to come when I turn on my heel and start climbing up the stairs. I leave her in the dark, our fight still bouncing off the uncomfortable fancy furniture and hardwood floors.

  “I’m sorry, Reagan,” Mom calls after me. I stop halfway up the stairs and turn around. A tear has broken free and is falling down her face. It rolls down her cheek and drips off her chin. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away. It’s strange to see her like that, frail and hurting. I’ve never seen her cry.

  She sniffs back the tears and continues, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been the mother you want me to be.”

  Her words punch me in the gut. And I almost give in. I almost take it all back so she can sleep tonight. But I just can’t do it anymore.

  “It’s too late for sorry, Mom. It’s just too late.”

  I head up the stairs. The smooth wood of the stair rail is cold and the chill I’ve been suppressing finally runs up my spine. Every step I take is heavy, every new breath hard, and this staircase has never felt so long.

  It’s only once I reach my bedroom door that I hear my mother break down and sob.

  SIXTEEN

  A gust of wind whips my hair across my face and rustles my book and papers on the table. I pull the dark strands back into place and tug my open black fleece jacket closer to my body. It’s a few degrees too cold to be sitting outside, but I can’t bring myself to go sit in the library or an empty classroom. With each class, the walls move closer and closer in on me.