Fake ID Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Title

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Rewind

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Rewind

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Rewind

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  THIS IS HOW YOU GET YOUR ass kicked.

  Bump into the wrong girl. Or have her bump into you. Whatever.

  It was my first day at a new school, so I didn’t know she was the wrong girl. In the moment, the way we met seemed as right as right could get. Considering how things have been for me and my family the last few years I should’ve known better.

  How right can things ever be when you’re running for your life?

  First-period gym. The worst class scheduling scenario ever. You either sweat and stink all day or indulge in a group shower where the water’s never hot. I was hating Stepton High already.

  As the new guy I got a pass on jumping jacks and squat thrusts while Coach Peyton dug through endless cardboard cartons for a crimson-and-gold uniform that might fit me. Before handing over the clothes, he laid them flat on his desk and wrote my name beneath the school’s crest with a Sharpie: N. Pearson. My name . . . here.

  He shoved the shirt, tiny shorts, and a combination lock in my arms, then jerked his head in the general direction of the boys’ locker room.

  Outside his office the gym had an old feel, like in those historical sports movies where the team plays a championship game against racism or something. I could tell by the bleachers. They were wooden with that weird gloss from years of staining. The bottom row had handholds, to extend them manually.

  My last school had new bleachers made of tough plastic that deployed with a button push. The school before that had a sports complex with three different, interchangeable areas. The one before that shared a stadium with the local college teams because they were good at everything and drew large crowds.

  Stepton High’s gym, with its regional and district championship banners—no state—most more than a decade old, told me they weren’t good at anything. No big deal. I was used to downgrading.

  Coach Peyton knocked on his window and made this exaggerated pointing gesture toward his watch, then toward the locker room again. I moved on.

  Sneakers squeaked like mice on the hardwood. My new classmates were engaged in a volleyball game. At the far end of the floor girls clapped and stepped in sync before one exploded into back handsprings. Jocks and cheerleaders. I could’ve been watching kids on TV.

  A loose group of student invalids sat consigned to the bleachers with crutches, casts protecting mending bones, and suspiciously large asthma pumps. The PE usual suspects.

  Except for the one Latino kid.

  Despite some conservative glasses, he seemed physically able and wasn’t sucking down chest medicine. It wasn’t him I noticed as much as the camera hanging from his neck. The thing looked like it weighed fifty pounds, but I would’ve spotted him even if he’d been sneaking snapshots with his iPhone. It’s what I’d been taught to look for . . . and avoid.

  You won’t find a yearbook picture of me at any of my old schools.

  My stomach sank when he lifted his big camera with its big lens, aimed at me, and fired. I heard the shutter click in my head even though he was halfway across the gym.

  Maybe I should postpone the locker room, I thought. See what the hell his problem—

  Her forehead smacked my chest.

  It didn’t hurt. I was half a foot taller than her, had her by at least thirty pounds. She bounced backward, her footing off. Falling.

  Reflex took over. I dropped my uniform and lock, snaked an arm around her waist, and bent my knees slightly so we didn’t both go down. At the same time she looped an arm around my neck to catch herself. We looked like (bad) dancers.

  “Mira donde vas,” she said, wincing from the accidental head butt.

  Spanish. I didn’t speak the language.

  It must’ve shown. She rephrased. “Walk much?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” I shifted my weight and put her back on her feet. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

  Behind her, a couple of giggling girls gave me an up-and-down look, ran away.

  The girl I’d bumped steadied herself, said, “It’s okay. I’ll live.”

  I barely heard her, though. Too busy seeing her.

  You know how in the movies when a gorgeous girl enters the scene there’s music, and slow motion, and fans blowing her hair? None of that happened or anything, but for the first time, the concept didn’t seem stupid. She made a gym uniform look good.

  She was Latina, thus the Spanish. About five five and athletic, black hair with brown highlights, and sun-darkened skin despite the cool weather. You couldn’t not notice this girl.

  She retrieved a pink lip-gloss tin from her pocket. When she popped the top, the scent of candy watermelon overwhelmed. With her index finger, she smeared a thin coat of pink gel on lips that didn’t need the help. I watched like it was a spectator sport.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, noticing my stalker stare.

  I looked away, my heart beating like I’d run a mile. “I wanted to make sure you’re not hurt.”

  “I’m not.”

  “And that you’re not mad at me.”

  A knowing smile. She was used to attention, to the vibe I was throwing off. “I don’t know you well enough to get mad at you.”

  “Yet.”

  She moved onto the court. I couldn’t let her go that easy. “What’s your name?”

  Without breaking stride, she turned, walking backward and stretching her shirttail so I could read the faded ink below the school’s crest: R. Cruz.

  “What’s the R stand for?”

  Another smile. “Guess you’ve got a mystery to solve.”

  She skipped to the cheerleaders at the end of the volleyball court while I gathered my uniform and lock. Watching her go, the corners of my mouth turned up. A mystery. I was happy to take the case.

  That’s where I messed up. I was so happy that I forgot about the guy with the camera.

  So happy I didn’t notice the squeaky sneakers were silent, the volleyball game over.

  So happy I didn’t see the four guys following me into the deserted locker room.

  Happy has a short battery life in my world.

  I was deep in the locker maze, seeking an unoccupied unit, when they jumped me.
r />   Quick, padding footsteps and huffing breaths were the only warning. They’d done this before, a pack of wolves cornering that day’s deer.

  I’m no f’n deer.

  The chubby kid bear-hugged me from behind. I dropped my shoulder and hooked his arm, sheer reflex. I spun him—SMACK—into a wall of lockers. In the same motion, I slung my backpack off my shoulder so there wasn’t much for the guy to grab onto. Wasn’t him I had to worry about.

  His clone came in low from my other side and scooped my legs. He lifted me, then reversed direction; grimy floor tiles rushed up at me. He pinned me before two more guys joined in.

  I swung, but on my back with no leverage, I barely clipped his chin. He drew back his fat fist to show me a better punch.

  “Not the face,” one of them said. “Not yet.”

  The fat kid nodded. The other fat kid—his twin, not his clone—helped him wrestle me up. They looked chunky but had some muscle happening. Not tough guys though. Not taking orders the way they were. They were clowns. Dee and Dum.

  The third guy was shorter than me, and slim. He seemed a little too Boy Band for this kind of thing. He stood off to the side, leaning on a locker like someone was about to take his picture.

  The last guy—the Leader—looked built for this. He had me by a few inches, with a bull neck and shoulders stuck midshrug. His eyes flickered, giving me a millisecond to tense my abdomen before he swung.

  It felt like he hit my spine from the front. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain and he hit me again before I could open them. I sagged, but Dee and Dum kept me upright.

  “I seen you checking out my girl, dude. Didn’t you see him, Russ?”

  Boy Band Russ said, “Yep. I saw him.”

  Leader looked to Dee and Dum. “Did y’all see him?”

  They nodded in unison.

  He said, “You want her, you little puss?”

  If I had the breath to sigh, I would’ve. His girl. I could still smell her watermelon lip gloss.

  “You ain’t pretty enough.” Another gut punch. “Not yet.” And another. “We can work on that.”

  Balling my shirt collar in one fist, he cocked the other to start improving my looks.

  Then a nuke exploded.

  That’s how bright the flash seemed.

  “Eli,” Leader said, “I know you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Leader stomped away. Dee and Dum let me collapse so they could follow their master like loyal dogs. Russ peeled himself off the locker he was holding up and strutted along, too. They’d all lost interest in me. Thanks to Eli, whoever he was.

  I expected someone the size of the Rock. Not the scrawny kid with the camera who’d been staring me down from the bleachers. He stood there as casual as the guys busting me up, nudging those black-framed glasses high on his nose.

  Leader approached the little guy. “Eli, what are you going to do with that picture?”

  “Depends.”

  Leader huffed, “On?”

  “Photoshop. I’m not sure how twisted I can make it look before I post it on the net.”

  “Whatever. Like I care about that web-prank crap.”

  “I bet you’ll care if I email this directly to your coach. Last I heard you’ve been walking a thin line.”

  Leader loomed over Eli, a redwood and a sapling. “You don’t like breathing much.”

  “Zach, if you could kill me, you would’ve done it by now.”

  Leader—Zach—clenched and unclenched his fists, then, “Come on, fellas. Enough fun for one day.”

  He shot me a final, hateful glance, then rolled. Russ, Dee, and Dum on his heels. A quiet moment passed after they left. Air hummed through the vents overhead.

  Eli reviewed the camera’s digital display. “I didn’t even get a clear shot.” He approached me and offered a hand. “Lucky for you they didn’t know that.”

  “Tell me about it,” I gasped, and got my feet under me.

  I hobbled into the bathroom area, turned on the cold water. It ran rusty at first, and I waited for it to clear. That didn’t ever happen, so I shut it off and dry patted my checks until I felt halfway normal again. I checked my face in the mirror, then lifted my shirt and looked for bruises. None yet.

  I said, “Who was that guy?”

  “Zach Lynch.”

  “Lynch? For real?” Somewhere my civil-rights-era ancestors were shaking their heads.

  “He’s an all-star athlete and all-world dumb ass. Let me guess, you breathed in the same vicinity as Reya.”

  Reya. What the R stood for.

  Eli snapped his fingers an inch from my nose. “Hey, hey. That spacey look in your eye, I hope it’s not for her. She’s trouble in a training bra.”

  If I remembered correctly, she wasn’t in training. But, point taken.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The question surprised me despite all my coaching. Too busy thinking about the girl, a classic downfall. Five names—one real, four manufactured—scrolled through my mind. I came to the most recent and said it as naturally as I could. “Nick. Nick Pearson.”

  “I’m Eli, but I guess you know that already.” He extended his hand. “Glad I found you.”

  I bristled. Glad I found you.

  Not glad to meet you.

  More coaching came to mind. I heard Deputy Marshal Bertram’s voice: If anything seems suspicious, don’t downplay it. You have instincts for a reason.

  “You were watching me from the bleachers.” I prepared to punch him in the throat. I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

  “Yeah. I’m your student guide. All new kids get assigned one. I saw you go in the locker room, and I saw Zach follow you.”

  I relaxed. A little. He seemed to be telling the truth, none of the ticks or tells I’d learned to look for (and hide) over the years. Something else bothered me, though. “You saw them following me, but you didn’t jump in until a minute ago. Why wait so long if you were going to help at all?”

  “Well, my job is to get you oriented. To tell you how things are. But I think Zach and his crew taught you everything you need to know. Welcome to Stepton High. Stay—”

  “—low-key.”

  “Wow,” Eli said, “a mind reader.”

  Not quite. That’s just another of Bertram’s maxims. Stay low-key.

  Great job so far, Nick.

  Eli looked away. “Are you pissed? That I didn’t help sooner, I mean?”

  “No.” He came when it counted. And I’d taken beatings before at other schools.

  Eli smiled. “Sweet. Time for the rest of the tour.”

  “What about gym class?”

  He pulled two blue laminates from his jacket. Hall passes. “I have significant influence around here, Nick.”

  I laughed. He didn’t even sound like he believed that, but scoring the passes was a plus. I grabbed my stuff, jammed my gym uniform and lock in my bag, and left the locker room, realizing Eli was a decent guy to save my ass at all.

  I took his tour. Didn’t see anything wrong with it at the time.

  I might’ve reconsidered if I’d known he’d be dead in a month.

  CHAPTER 2

  ELI WALKED FAST, AND DIDN’T POINT out anything of interest. His tour kind of sucked.

  I said, “I’ve never heard of a student guide before. What’s that about?”

  “We get a lot of new kids,” Eli said as we made what felt like a random turn. “There’s an army base between us and the next city. Whenever new soldiers get stationed there, their kids will either go to Portside High or here. It happens so much the school started assigning people to show the transfers around. You an army brat?”

  “Naw,” I said. It was all I said.

  We stopped at a solitary door on a hallway where the ceiling lights flickered more than they actually lit. Eli said, “Here it is.”

  “Here what is?”

  “The most important room in the school.”

  “Unless this is a secret entr
ance to the girls’ locker room, I call BS.”

  He frowned, produced a key ring, and granted us entrance.

  I wrinkled my nose. “The most important room in the school smells like mildew.”

  “That is the smell of current events. Welcome to the J-Room.”

  He paused, waiting for my reaction. No, he didn’t have to explain what the J stood for. I said, “Journalism.”

  My student guide was a newspaper nerd.

  The J-Room was the size of a large walk-in closet. Maybe. Enough space for one window, a couple of desks—the biggest propped up by two books because the front legs were too short—an ancient Apple computer, and a dot matrix printer. There wasn’t room for a bookshelf so all the reference volumes were arranged along the far wall in teetering stacks, some as high as my belt buckle.

  Eli said, “I know it’s not much. But we’re doing some powerful things.”

  “We? You have a staff?”

  “Not exactly.” He rounded the largest desk, set his camera aside, and unlocked the bottom drawer, retrieving a laptop. Sci-fi decals—Star Wars and Legend of Korra and Fringe—adorned it, along with a large, blue crown decal that I assumed was his Lord of the Rings battle crest or something equally geeky.

  He continued, “The Rebel Yell is more of a solo operation at the moment.”

  “The what?”

  “We’re the Stepton Rebels—our mascot. The paper is the Rebel Yell.”

  “Like, from the Civil War?” I didn’t remember a lot of history, but I did remember that little skirmish. First a beat down from Zach Lynch, now a newspaper in the tradition of the Confederacy. We’d probably eat lunch in the Ku Klux Kafé.

  “I know. Not very PC. I’ve lobbied to change the name, but you know how they are about their traditions here in the South.”

  They. Not we. At least he recognized that the rebels his paper was named after probably wouldn’t have much more love for a Latino kid than they would for me.

  “I’ve been recruiting new talent,” he said, not casually, while waiting for his machine to boot.

  I bit. “How’s that going?”

  “You tell me.”

  That’s what this tour and the “I’m a man with significant influence” stuff was about.

  I ran my finger across the old Macintosh and took off about eight years of dust. “I don’t know if this is really my thing.”