Fake ID Read online

  “Nick, wait. You have to go to that party.”

  “I’m going, but as a normal freaking guest. Not your spy.”

  Eli stood, searching for something to say. I wasn’t going to give him the chance. He seemed like a decent dude, and I appreciated him helping me with my Zach Lynch problem last week, but I didn’t need his covert schemes. I had enough of that going on at home.

  If there was one thing I was good at—one skill I’d honed through all my identities—it was getting people to back off. For good. I puffed up to say some truly foul things to Eli. Not that he deserved it, but it was kind of like Modern Battlefield, sometimes it took a big bomb to end the game. Things would be easier if I left with him hating me.

  Before I could launch my offensive, we were interrupted.

  “I’m not your answering machine, Eli.” Reya Cruz stepped into the J-Room. “Turn on your phone, you pendejo . . .”

  She and I stood there staring at each other, and I couldn’t think of one harsh thing to say.

  The last time I saw her up close she’d been in gym gear, and incredible. In street clothes—stretchy low-rise jeans and a tight tee—she shamed a few fashion models.

  She swept dark hair behind one ear. “Nick, hey, you haven’t been in gym.”

  “Schedule change.”

  “Right.” She looked at her shoes.

  “I solved the mystery. I know what the R stands for.”

  That pulled a smile from her, one that faded fast. She blurted, “I heard about what happened between you and Zach. I’m so sorry. He—I, I mean, I shouldn’t have been talking to you right in front of him. We’ve been over, for two months now, but he still likes to pull the stupid macho crap as if it’s cute. It isn’t. I’m sorry.” She met my eyes again. “I heard Zach bit off more than he can chew with you.”

  Eli chimed in, “Really? That’s what you heard?”

  I looked to him, knew what he was getting at. His “leaked story” had scored me some cool points with his sister. That didn’t change anything between me and him.

  Reya told Eli, “What’s it to you? By the way, you’re about to lose your phone privileges. Mami’s been calling you. ‘There’s no reason to have it . . .’”

  “‘. . . if I don’t pick up,’” Eli finished, grabbing the phone from his bag. “I know. I know.”

  Reya turned her attention back to me, asking me about my classes and how I liked Stepton. Good and good, I told her. With her, everything was good. I wanted to stay longer, but Bertram’s call was in fifteen minutes.

  “I gotta run. This thing with my parents . . . ,” I said, letting it hang on purpose.

  “Sure,” Reya said. “It’s nice talking to you again.”

  Eli interrupted, “Reya, you going to the Dust Off this weekend?”

  She said, “You know it. What about you, Nick?”

  “Yeah.” Eli stared me down. “What about you?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said as coolly as I could manage. Eli, still manipulating.

  She said, “I hope you do. I’ll look for you there.”

  I nodded and backed into the hall. I was still pissed at Eli, but seeing Reya again sapped some of my irritation. I checked the clock on my phone as I walked. Now I had ten minutes to get home. I could make it, but I was thinking beyond the conference call. To the Dust Off.

  Where she’d be looking for me.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE CONFERENCE CALL WAS SOME STRAIGHT bull. Bertram asked us the exact same questions he asked last week, with an added bonus.

  “I need each of you to rate your experience in Stepton on a scale of one to ten,” he said. “One being completely unsatisfactory and ten being completely satisfactory. You first, Nicholas.”

  “Negative four.” No, I didn’t really say that. I rated it five, my parents gave their ratings (Dad said seven, Mom said three), and we hung up. I retreated upstairs while they went into their usual fight mode. Except it wasn’t usual this time. No snippiness for the sake of being snippy. This fight had purpose.

  I paused on the second-floor landing while Dad tugged on his jacket.

  “Where are you going now?” Mom said. “More ‘fantasy football’?”

  She said “fantasy football” the way a teacher might say “your dog ate it.” I thought of Dad’s late Friday.

  “I’ve got to take care of some things at the office.”

  “You don’t have an office, Robert. You fill out tax forms in a storefront. I heard it used to be a Froyo.”

  “Jesus, Donna, back off. I’ve got work to do. I’ll be home later.”

  Their voices were lower, and they weren’t in each other’s faces, but this felt more serious than their louder arguments. They used their real names.

  Dad grabbed the doorknob. Mom placed her hand on top of his. From where I sat it looked like a loving gesture. Then he winced and I knew she’d dug her nails in. What she said next was just above a whisper, but I still caught it. Being the sole kid in an unstable house over the last few years had led to some finely developed hearing.

  “With you it’s always secrets on top of secrets,” she said. “Haven’t you learned anything? I won’t stick around for WitSec to toss us from the Program. If you’re up to something, again, I’ll take Tony and leave. Try me.”

  My real name. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard it. This was serious. She’d never threatened to leave before. She couldn’t mean it.

  I expected Dad to say something sarcastic, or mean, or bark some wall-rattling profanity. He pried her hand off his, gently almost. “I gotta go, Donna.”

  He left Mom in the foyer alone. Her head tilted forward, hand clamped over her mouth. I went to my room, didn’t need to see this part.

  I got why she was so fed up. Dad, unsatisfied with the jobs WitSec arranged for him or the tiny monthly stipend they provided in addition, always returned to his old ways to earn extra cash. We lived lavishly back in the day. He wanted some of that again. But he got busted every time, resulting in our constant relocations.

  Bertram made it clear there would be no more relocating. Even if the threat was empty—and I didn’t think it was since Dad had been a useless witness, with his old boss Kreso still being on the run—the pattern suggested we’d go to a place worse than Stepton next time. Would Dad risk it?

  Likely.

  In my room, my cell phone buzzed on my desk from missed texts and a voice mail, from Eli.

  The texts were all some variation of “hit me up.” I must not have been fast enough for him, though. I played the message. “You’re really going to make me use my voice here, huh? Okay. Nick, um, I’m sorry about what happened today. For reals. I line crossed. From now on, I’ll keep you out of my more . . . troublesome obligations. As a peace offering, I wanted to let you know that my guild is going to quest for Urilium Gauntlet tonight, and I wanted to invite you to join our brotherhood.”

  His guild? What?!

  In one final squawk—spoken so fast that I could barely understand it—he said, “You can lead the war party if you want.”

  I stared at the phone for a good thirty seconds trying to wrap my mind around what I just heard. My head felt foggy, overcrowded with thoughts about Bertram, Mom and Dad, and quests for the something-something.

  I texted Eli back.

  Me: What’s da Urethra Gauntlet?

  Eli: Urilium Gauntlet. U got my message.

  Me: I got it. What wuz it?

  Eli: I’m talkin Finite Universe. An MMORPG

  Me: wuz dat a typo?

  Eli: Massively multiplayer online role-playing game

  Me: Like Warcraft??

  Eli: Hellz no. Better. More scifi than fantasy. No weirdo stuff like dwarfs & fairies

  Me: What do u play as?

  Eli: A techElf

  I fought a laugh.

  Me: will stick 2 modern battlefield

  Eli: We cool?

  I hesitated. Not for long, though.

  Me: we cool


  Eli: J-Room 2morrow?

  I considered it, thought about what my life already was, and how I didn’t want it more complicated. Yet—I don’t know—Eli was growing on me.

  Me: 1 condition. No secret schemes. Normal school paper stuff ONLY

  There was a long delay before his next text. I booted my computer, wondering if he’d make me regret my concession. I went to pee, and his response was waiting when I returned.

  Eli: Thinkn of startn a game review column. May b u can handle that?

  Now that I could do.

  Me: Maybe

  Eli: Sweet. Gotta go. Cant b fashionably late 2 the war party

  Um, okay.

  Me: Ltr, E

  That was easily the strangest exchange of my life.

  Thing was, I’d felt cruddy before, thinking about what Dad might or might not be doing. Now I didn’t.

  I opened the browser and googled Finite Universe. Just for kicks.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE NEXT FEW AFTERNOONS IN THE J -Room presented me with an education that was more interesting than 90 percent of the stuff my teachers covered during normal school hours. Eli gave me this whole “History of the American Press” bit while walking me through the production schedule of the Rebel Yell. I probably wouldn’t remember half of it, but his enthusiasm for the material was enough to trump the disinterested Stepton High faculty.

  He started with a breakdown of colonial papers from the 1700s and how . . .

  Okay, I forgot it already. There was something about tyranny. What did stick with me—for the wrong reasons at first—was the jargon.

  “You’ve seen a newspaper before,” Eli said, handing me some old copies of the Yell to review. “They’re broken into columns. Because we have to print on regular copy paper, we only use three columns per page instead of the standard six you’d see on a paper in the supermarket.”

  I said, “Narrow paper, less columns. Seems simple enough.”

  “It is. And because we use columns, we measure content in column inches. Instead of my telling you to write a page, I’d say ‘give me eight inches.’”

  My head nearly exploded with dirty jokes. “You’d want me to give you a good, strong eight inches?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Of course I’d want it to be strong, what else would I—” He caught on and hurled a pen like a circus knife thrower. I dodged it and we both cracked up.

  He said, “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  “Hey, it’s one of the most important things you’re ever going to learn in this business.”

  “Doesn’t business imply that we’re making money?”

  “Business implies we act professionally,” he said, the laughs dying. “At least that’s how I was taught.”

  “By who?”

  “My dad, Carlos Cruz, editor in chief of El Mejor Día, ‘The Better Day.’ It was the Puerto Rican community paper he used to print from a shed in our backyard. He charged a quarter a copy, just enough to pay for ink. He always said we needed people to tell our stories.”

  Used to. Was.

  I asked my next question cautiously. “How long’s he been gone?”

  “Four years. Cancer.” Eli shrugged. “He used to say ink was in his blood. Me too.”

  “Inches,” I said, no longer seeing the joke in it. “One of the most important things. Got it.”

  That week went much better than my first at Stepton High. I settled into my classes and actually learned some stuff without worry of embarrassment or bloodshed. Whoever handled my schedule change should be, like, a military strategist because I barely saw Zach Lynch. The couple of times we crossed paths, there were a dozen kids between us, limiting him to dirty looks. He might as well have been blowing kisses.

  The extreme downside of my schedule change was I didn’t run into Reya at all. Every day in the J-Room, Eli assured she was looking forward to seeing me at the Dust Off. I wondered if he was gassing me, hoping I’d reconsider being his party spy if he said her name enough. But he kept his promise, no more secret schemes. I kept mine and showed up. By Thursday, I wasn’t even doing it out of obligation. I took a crack at writing a review of Modern Battlefield for next month’s issue of the Yell. Eli marked it all to hell with a red pen that I could see myself growing to hate, but otherwise things went well in the J-Room.

  The same could not be said for life at home.

  Dad missed dinner every night that week. I fell asleep before he got in but was always awakened by the harsh tones from the late conversation with Mom. They’d found a volume that concealed most of the details from me, but one single syllable still managed to make it through the walls.

  Why?

  Why are you so late?

  Why aren’t you telling me what you’re doing?

  Why? Why? Why?

  I got sick of the questions. By the time the weekend hit, I decided Dad needed to give up some answers. If not voluntarily, so be it.

  All day Friday the school buzzed about the Dust Off. I didn’t sit with Dustin Burke in lunch again, but he got my attention as we left the cafeteria. “See you there?”

  Two girls—different from the pair I saw him with on Monday—ushered him away before I could answer, but yeah, I planned to go. How could I miss it? Or Reya?

  After school in the J-Room that day, I expected Eli to “casually” bring up the party, then allude to whatever recon mission he’d wanted me to perform originally. He didn’t. Which gave me crazy respect for the guy. We spent the afternoon formatting some story files, and agreed to hook up on Monday. Dad came home late again and avoided an argument with Mom by crashing on the couch.

  That bothered me.

  As bad as things have ever been, my parents always spent the night in the same room. At least I thought they did. I remember a couple of times in San Diego when I was up early on a Saturday and found Dad making waffles, strange because he always slept in. When I went to the living room for cartoons there were pillows and a blanket on the couch. I asked him about it, and he said he dozed off watching a movie.

  There were other questionable times—like him staying a night or two at a hotel when we were in Texas—but there was always an excuse. He had the flu and didn’t want to infect us. Or it was business. Though what sort of business requires you to stay in a hotel a mile from your house was beyond my thirteen-year-old mind to contemplate. I wasn’t stupid; I bought the excuses because I wanted to.

  My point: there used to be excuses.

  Not in Stepton. Dad came home, went for the spare linen, and made a pallet on the couch, whipping the sheets around like a magician’s cape, like he’d pull a comfy mattress from thin air.

  Is this how divorce starts? For normal people?

  Divorce meant lawyers, and paperwork, and attention. Mom would have to leave the Program since it was Dad’s testimony that the marshals wanted. And Kreso Maric wasn’t the type to care about marital status. The ex-wife of a snitch was as bad as the snitch himself. Kreso would take whatever blood he could get. Staying alive meant staying together. Mom and Dad had to put up with each other. I had to tolerate their private little war.

  Right?

  On Saturday morning I raked leaves and washed Dad’s SUV—the requirements for my allowance—and an idea started to form. I dismissed it almost immediately. It was dumb.

  Dusk came. I showered, dressed in fresh, never-worn sneakers, baggy painter’s jeans (I tried skinny jeans once; they hurt my junk), a vintage concert tee, and hooded jacket. Then I heard the fight tones ramp up through my wall and my dumb idea returned. Not so dumb now.

  “Again?” Mom said. “Is it a Saturday-night tax emergency?”

  “I’m not going to do this with you,” Dad said, then sank into their routine anyway.

  He was going back to “work.” I made a decision.

  Dad’s keys were still on my dresser from the afternoon car wash. I grabbed them and my cell, jogged downstairs to the driveway. I popped the locks on
his ride and contemplated the best hiding place.

  Not the glove box. Dad always went in there. It’s where he hid his lottery play slips and the hand-rolled cigarettes he thought we didn’t know about. The backseat and cargo area were a no go, too. He’d developed a habit of checking those thoroughly ever since I was eleven years old.

  Dad wouldn’t argue with Mom for long. He never did, having mastered the art of storming out. I settled on the passenger seat, or under it. I wedged my phone beneath one of the slide tracks, locked the doors, and worked the spare key off his key chain before entering the house.

  He met me on the stairs. “Still got my keys?”

  I handed them over. “Have a good night, Dad.”

  In my room, I called up the TrackApp website. A phone number and PIN later, a real-time GPS map appeared on-screen, giving a bird’s-eye view of a blue dot sailing through the streets of Stepton. My phone . . . and Dad. I couldn’t answer why Dad was spending so many late nights on the town. Not yet.

  But I could do where.

  After seven minutes the blue dot stopped moving. I waited another five minutes to rule out a pit stop. Satisfied, I zoomed in on the map, magnifying a grayed-out area simply marked Downtown. Stepton didn’t warrant a more detailed description.

  I switched to a satellite map for a street view. Fail. All I got was a Coming Soon message. Really?

  Well, I had to get the phone back anyway. . . .

  The temperature dropped as I sailed through Stepton’s dark streets, my breath streaming behind me. My bike gears clicked as loud as gunshots in the eerie quiet. The October-ish scent of burning leaves hovered, and boxy suburban houses gave way to commercial buildings. Lawyer and doctor offices.

  I hopped the bike onto the sidewalk before stopping to check the map I’d printed. I was a block away from my destination, “Downtown.” I resumed my course, unsure of what I’d find. A bar? Maybe a bowling alley?

  I spotted the SUV around the next bend, parked ahead of a dark BMW. I dipped into an alley diagonal from the vehicle and settled into shadows. There were very few cars on the street. And the landscaping was immaculate. Much nicer than Dad’s usual dives.