Fake ID Read online

  “I pride myself on there being no stats on what I do.” He chuckled. “Unless you count missing persons reports.”

  “Bricks, you’re being creepy again.”

  “You asked.”

  I threw another stone. “Say there were felonies that weren’t making it into the—”

  “Tony, quit the hypothetical crap. If you got a real question, spit it. Or else let me know you’re healthy, and happy, and you’re looking after your mom so we can end this call. We’re taking a risk every time we do this. Everybody up here knows I ain’t no fan of your old man, but they also know how I feel about you.”

  I nodded like he could see me. I was the son he never had. He’d said it a million times. I’ve often thought he was the dad I should’ve had, despite his career choice. He was right about our calls being risky, but it was good to hear his voice. I didn’t want this time to be a total waste. “I met this girl.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” I heard his smile through the phone. “She good-looking?”

  “Think young JLo.”

  “Nice, kid. So”—he hesitated, which was unusual for him—“do we need to have that talk?”

  “Aww, gross. No. I’ve already had that talk.”

  “Glad your old man’s good for something.”

  Actually, it was Mom who decided she should “be frank about how the body works.” She walked me through it with a picture book back in Texas. One of the more horrible days of my life. I didn’t see the point in giving Bricks more fuel, though.

  He’d brought up Dad—an eternal sore point, since they used to be best friends before Dad snitched—and I knew where the conversation was leading. It always happened this way.

  Bricks asked, “How’s Donna?”

  Here we go. He asks about Mom, I answer, then he rants about how Dad don’t deserve us and da blah, blah, blah. I knew how to stop it.

  “How’s Kreso?”

  He started grinding his teeth. “You and me don’t talk about the boss. You know that.”

  “Just wonderin’.”

  Another phone rang on his end. “Hang on.”

  His side went mute and I contemplated my big ol’ bag of WTF. A hard gust shoved its way across the water, hitting me with a light, cold spray.

  Sound crackled through my receiver again. “Tony, I gotta go. You good?”

  I wasn’t, but there was nothing he could do about it. “I’m good.”

  “Don’t call this phone again. I’ll get you a new number through the usual channels. Love you, kid.”

  “Same.”

  I thumbed the End button, then tossed the phone in the lake. It had been as useful as the stones it was joining.

  CHAPTER 12

  ELI WAS A TOTAL DICK THAT week. And so was I.

  According to him, the monthly ritual of prepping the Rebel Yell for print was pure hell. I thought he was exaggerating. I thought wrong.

  Eli was one of those annoying perfectionists who triple-check everything, then check it again. He wanted me to be the same way. He was cutthroat in his insistence that I prove my loyalty, and I was pissed about being at his mercy.

  We said messed-up stuff to each other in the worst moments. There were times when I felt like a kickboxing match would’ve been more productive than what we were doing. But I wanted to know what Whispertown was about, so I hung in. Though, I made it a point to be as hard on him as he was on me.

  Inefficiency was his Kryptonite. So I asked repetitive questions and made him walk me through processes we’d covered already. Take that, SuperJerk.

  Monday was the toughest day, worsened by me leaving early to make that week’s conference call with Bertram.

  “Is that what ‘all in’ looks like?” Eli said from behind his desk while I gathered my things. “I always mistook that for leaving.”

  “I gotta be home. Relax, I’ll be here in the morning.”

  “Maybe.”

  I stopped packing. “What’s that mean?”

  “I overheard Reya talking to one of her friends about how you didn’t show at Dustin’s party. She seems to think you have reliability issues. I’m wondering if my sister might be right about something for once.”

  A small piece of me perked up to hear Reya was talking about me, but Eli was clearly trying to push a button. “Whatever.”

  He said, “It’s good you didn’t go to the Dust Off. I heard Zach crashed it.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not scared of Zach.”

  “Of course you aren’t. I just meant I heard him and Reya were together most of the night. That probably would’ve been awkward for you. Had you been there.”

  I grabbed my bag, walked to his side of the desk, and mashed down all the keys on his keyboard. The piece he’d been working on was instantly overrun with random characters. “Good night, Eli,” I said, then left. I could push buttons, too.

  He was on edge nearly every morning and evening we spent in the J-Room after that. Had I not been so consumed with wanting his insider information and giving him a hard time about it in the process, I might’ve seen that his bad mood wasn’t all about me. Maybe things would’ve gone differently.

  I don’t know if I’ll forgive myself for that.

  So it went. Me and Eli still managed to get the latest issue of the Rebel Yell finalized and formatted by Friday, minus a front page.

  “What’s our lead story going to be?” I asked, proofing the drafts of the other finished pages, again. He’d succeeded in making me a triple-checker. If we planned to print on Tuesday we needed to fill the empty space.

  “The Portside game.” He slouched low in his chair, only the top of his head visible over his laptop screen.

  I’d heard rumblings about the district rivals coming to town all week. “That’s tonight. We just going to paste it in on Monday?”

  “Provided your copy isn’t terrible.”

  I stopped proofing. “My copy?”

  “You’re writing it. I want art, too, so take the camera.”

  “I hate football. And it’s for the front page.”

  “You don’t have to like it to write about it. That’s your assignment. I want eight inches.”

  I didn’t find that phrase nearly as funny as I used to. “Eli, it’s the front page. I thought you cared about the quality there more than anywhere else.”

  He closed his laptop and looked me in the eye. “I do. I look forward to reading your story on Monday.”

  I checked the time on my phone. The game started in two hours. I could probably get there early and scope some good vantage points for the photos. Get some pregame spectator quotes, even from the away fans, and . . .

  Whoa. Where’d that come from?

  “If I do this,” I said, “I want you to tell me what Whispertown is. On Monday.”

  He rubbed his bloodshot eyes—he really did let this paper get to him. “If you do it right, I’ll consider telling you.”

  “You’ll tell me.” I got everything I thought I needed, took the camera bag off his desk.

  Eli said, “One more thing, Nick.”

  “What?” I snapped, expecting another asinine task.

  He slid a lanyard across his desk, held it out with a blue laminate dangling from it. The plastic badge read: Stepton High Press Pass. “This will get you into the game for free.”

  I took it. “I’ll bring this back next week.”

  “That’s yours to keep, Nick.” One side of his mouth turned up in a half grin. It was the first time he hadn’t been a stone-faced troll in days. “We’re almost done. You did good.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t go asking me to the prom or anything. I want that info Monday morning.”

  I left. Didn’t bother to see if I’d hurt his feelings, or made him angry, or had no effect on him at all. I wish I’d looked back and taken note.

  I wish that more than anything.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE PORTSIDE PIRATES BATTLED THE REBELS on the gridiron and I snapped pictures of everyt
hing, barely taking the time to focus. The camera had a massive memory card so I figured I’d get at least one good piece of art for Eli. In the third quarter, our star wide receiver caught a thirty-yard pass one-handed for a touchdown that tied the game. I got a great action shot of the catch. Best picture I’d taken all night.

  He hung frozen in midair, wedged between two jumping defenders, stretched to his full six-foot-three height to snag the ball. Great lighting, incredible composition, probably good enough to sell to a real newspaper. One problem: the receiver was Zach Lynch.

  I deleted the photo.

  That douchelord wasn’t getting any shine from me.

  Walking the field’s fenced-in perimeter, I scanned the crowd with the camera’s zoom, then panned over to the Stepton cheerleaders on the sidelines, spotted Reya. Her face filled the frame, sparkling with gold glitter. She smiled as if she knew the camera was on her.

  Startled, I lowered it. Realized the crowd’s cheers and Zach’s sad, sad end zone dancing were what triggered her smile. I raised the camera and looked at her one more time, almost snapped the picture, but decided against. If I’d had a chance with her, I blew it being distracted with all this Whispertown drama. Time to move on. Better for everyone.

  Swinging the lens toward the far end of the field, I spotted an ambulance sitting prepped and ready in case someone got folded backward or something. The EMTs leaned against the vehicle drinking Cokes. Twenty yards from them, in the bleacher shadows, a small group gathered. I zoomed tighter.

  And saw my dad.

  Him, a plump Asian man, and a wispy-haired white guy huddled together. I took a couple of shots.

  Their conversation seemed . . . active. A lot of hand gestures, everyone participating, everyone a little on edge. Then chunky guy pressed a cell to his ear, said a few words, and ended the call. He motioned to the others, and they made for the exit.

  I moved toward them. The game ended at the same time—winner: Rebels—and people crowded the walkways, slowing my progress. The surge of football fans kept me from tracking Dad and his buddies.

  That was fine. Monday would be here soon enough.

  Sunday I worked on giving Eli his eight inches (hehe . . . it was funny again).

  All jokes aside, it was hard (hehe). Seriously, it was difficult. I’d never concentrated on writing before. Of course, I’d done the term-paper thing, and made a sucky attempt at that video-game review—which Eli cut from the Yell—but I never really cared about the quality of my writing before. My motivation had more to do with not giving Eli an excuse to withhold info than any other real journalism aspirations. When I finished writing what I thought to be front-page-worthy copy, I had three pages. Or thirty-odd inches.

  Cutting everything I could only got it down to a page and a half. I was about to make another go when I noticed the clock. Four hours had passed.

  In terms of my attention span it was the equivalent of an eight-hundred-pound man running a half marathon. I spent another hour revising, got my story to the exact length Eli requested. The amazing thing was, even though I cut stuff, it seemed better than before. My story kicked ass.

  Shortly after eleven I said, “That’s all you’re getting from me tonight, Eli.”

  I went to bed proud of what I’d done. Sleep came easy.

  I haven’t had a peaceful night since.

  Not only did I stay up late typing my first article for the school paper, I got up early, anticipating the shock on Eli’s face when my copy crushed whatever low expectations he probably had.

  I printed it and backed it up on a flash drive. Walking into the J-Room, I reread the printout, mentally flagging areas I thought Eli might ding me on. The normal mushroom scent of old books and neglect had been eclipsed by something else. Something worse.

  “Eli, I think you created a monster, man—” I cracked the J-Room door.

  My stomach seized and I took in too much red for anything to make sense. Though the smell pushed at me, I kept walking until my foot stuck in something gummy, like old syrup, but rancid. The tacky pool covered most of the floor, and my friend lay in it like an island, his head resting between two books that were so saturated, the pages were bloated.

  “Eli?”

  My stupid article drifted to the floor. I knelt next to him, in the congealing stickiness. Ugly slashes ran up his arm, and a triangular X-Acto blade rested next to his limp fingers.

  I ran then, tracking red residue through the school, past the first string of early bird students. At the main office I screamed for help. The vice principal and security guard tried to calm me. Too late for that.

  “My friend . . . in the journalism room. He’s hurt. He needs help.”

  They reacted like they were supposed to, even though I was lying.

  Eli was as far beyond help as anyone could get.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE VICE PRINCIPAL, MR. HARDWICK, AND the sheriff, Hill, argued over what should be done with me while I stared at the blood on my shoes.

  I shook my head, had a hard time focusing. I came to school early to surprise Eli with my stellar writing. I half remembered this thing my godfather once said. It was about the best way to lay plans. And mice. Or something.

  Me, surprise Eli.

  That didn’t go too well for either of us.

  Sheriff Hill, his cheeks rosy and his chest puffed, said, “I just want to get a statement.”

  “After what he’s seen you’re really going to press this? He’s a minor, and his parents are on the way. You can talk to him when they get here, if they allow it.” Hardwick was Hill’s opposite in many ways. His skin was brown, slightly darker than mine, while the sheriff’s was a blotchy beige and pink. Hardwick was stylish in slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie while the sheriff wore a blue-on-tan uniform and shiny gold badge. He fought for my well-being, while the sheriff wanted to pump me for info before I had time to “formulate a story.” That’s how it seemed. Mr. Hardwick looked at me, sighed, forced a smile. “It’s going to be fine, son.”

  I remembered something else my godfather said, fully this time.

  When it hits the fan, don’t trust anyone in a suit or uniform unless you’re payin’ them. If they’re grinnin’, trust them even less. They’re all the same.

  Them. They.

  Us.

  “Nick,” Mr. Hardwick said.

  I didn’t answer because I forgot what my name was this time, in this town.

  It occurred to me that sudden amnesia—a life-threatening condition in my family—was a sign I wasn’t handling this in the best possible way. Was there a best way? Eli’s blood was on my shoes.

  “Nick?”

  I looked up. Not because I remembered my fake name but because I recognized a new speaker’s voice. My mother. When did she get here?

  I left my chair. She hugged me, and I let her. Where her head rested on my chest, I wondered if my heartbeat was loud in her ears, like the bass from good speakers. As we stood there, her squeezing me in a way that wasn’t comforting, I noticed she’d come alone.

  “Where’s Dad?” I was glad I had to say only two words, because my voice cracked on the second.

  Mom pulled away, looked at my forehead—her trick for when she wanted me to think she was looking in my eyes. “Work, sweetie.”

  “Mrs. Pearson,” said the sheriff, “I was wondering if I could speak to Nick about—”

  “Is my son under arrest?” Mom said, facing him.

  The color drained from his cheeks; his blotchiness became a smooth gray. “Ma’am, it’s not that kind of situation.”

  “When you figure out what kind of situation it is, you can contact me, and I’ll determine if there’s anything for you and Nick to speak about.” To me, she said, “Let’s go. And don’t say a word.”

  The room felt too bright. I noticed everything at once but failed to put any of it together. The sheriff reacting coolly to, but not surprised by, my mother’s refusal to cooperate. Hardwick eyeing us with a mix of shock and pride. Teac
hers on the other side of the office windows, ushering kids toward the auditorium, away from the J-Room, where Eli was. Everyone present and accounted for in this totally f’ed-up moment. Everyone except my father. Because of “work.”

  Eli liked science fiction and fantasy stuff. Talked about it all the time. Finite Universe. Superheroes and laser beams. There, in between thumping heartbeats, the brightness of the room became a single laser that burned a question into my brain, one I couldn’t ask or answer.

  Which job was Dad working?

  Was it the crappy, strip-mall-accountant job our handlers set up for him, or was it the other job? The job that had him acting shady, sneaking around with the Mystery Man in the BMW? The job that Eli was investigating?

  “Mrs. Pearson,” said the sheriff, barely opening his mouth to speak the words, “I’m just trying to find out if your son has any clue why the young man did what he did?”

  The laser kept going, burning one last word in my mind. Whispertown.

  Mom said, “If Nick can think of anything useful, we’ll be in touch.” She grabbed me by the arm, pulled me toward the exit.

  Eli was going to tell me about Whispertown today. Then I’d know what it had to do with my dad’s new secrets. But Eli didn’t really know me, or my family, or how we came to this place. If he did, he would’ve known better than to deal with us—me—at all. He knew about Star Wars and journalism and video games.

  Now Eli didn’t know anything. Because he was dead, lying in a pool of his own stinking blood.

  Outside the office, Mom looped a trembling arm around me. “It’s all going to be fine. We’re all right.”

  A shriek froze startled students and teachers. Hardwick and the sheriff sprinted from the office toward the J-Room. To Reya.

  Two teachers and a custodian held her at the intersection of the main hall and the J-Room corridor. Three on one, and the three were struggling.

  “That’s not my brother,” she screamed, lunging forward. “That’s not my brother in there!”