Boy Nobody (9 page)

The address is uptown on 98th Street. When I leave school, I head there, winding my way through the West Side.

I look at the neighborhood in a different way now. The illusion of my invisibility has been shattered.

The Presence is on my mind.

I make myself move like a distracted guy walking home after school, thinking about whatever normal high school guys think about. But in fact my attention is split. I watch store windows for trails. I monitor the faces of people on the street, checking their expressions for the tell that accompanies recognition. Taxis and delivery trucks are no longer neutral to me because I know the things that are most ubiquitous in the environment are the things most easily used against me.

I use all my skills to monitor my journey north, but I find nothing.

No tail. No danger. No Presence.

Eventually I’m standing alone in front of a decent walk-up building on 98th between Broadway and West End Avenue.

I let the questions about the Presence go, and I focus on the building.

No doorman. Nobody to watch me.

The street is a little north of the expensive area where most students live, but still affluent enough to be believable for a guy in private school, a guy whose parents wanted more space, maybe needed to find a little bit of a bargain.

I remove a well-worn key from my pocket. It slides easily into the front door lock, despite my never having used it before.

I take the stairs to the second floor. I have a bag from Lenny’s Bagels swinging on my arm and a backpack on my shoulder. If anyone should see me, I am just a new guy who moved in a little while ago, coming home late from school.

I use another key in the door of the apartment. The door swings open, creaking slightly on its hinges.

The odor hits me. Not unpleasant. A different kind of smell.

Lived-in.

This apartment where I have never lived smells lived-in.

In fact, it smells like someone’s home.

I walk into the apartment and turn on a light.

It is not a large apartment. Two bedrooms. A good-sized place by New York standards. Small by suburban standards.

I go into the smaller bedroom. My bedroom. Kids always have the smaller bedroom. This is what I’ve been told. Sure enough, my clothes are there, some in drawers, some scattered across the floor as if I’ve thrown them there.

I sit at the desk and open the top drawer.

It is filled with stationery supplies. I reach in and up, tapping the inside compartment of the drawer.

There is a pencil case there.

I carefully remove it.

I unzip the case.

Two mechanical pencils. A clickable pen. A pencil-shaped eraser with the brown paper that spirals from it in long strips.

On the desk is a watch. An empty iPhone charging cradle waits beside it.

My tools.

I tap the phone from the Apple Store, and it comes to life. I use the finger gestures that put it in secure mode.

I call Father.

He was concerned earlier. I want to give him a progress update that will put him at ease.

“Nice to hear from you again,” he says. “And so soon.”

I hear the question in his voice.

“I met a new friend,” I say.

“A new friend? That’s wonderful.”

“I think you’d like her.”

I’m speaking in code, telling Father that I’ve connected with my mark.

“One day in a new school and you already have a friend,” Father says. “That’s very good.”

I imagine him telling Mother the news, the two of them talking about what a good job I’m doing on this assignment. The thought pleases me.

“My new friend invited me to a party tonight,” I say.

I walk into the master bedroom as I talk. A smiling couple stares out at me from the picture on the bedside table. I pick up the photo and look at the strangers standing arm in arm.

My parents. Supposedly.

In fact I’ve never seen these people before. The photos have been staged here in the event someone should have to enter the apartment. I memorize the faces in case I need to describe them in the future.

I look at other photos in which they appear. One in particular gets my attention. It’s a photo of these people at the beach. The parents I’ve never seen relax on lounge chairs while a younger version of me relaxes beside them, digitally inserted into the frame.

“The party is at her dad’s place,” I say to Father.

“And it’s tonight?” he says.

“I work fast,” I say. Then I laugh like a cocky kid might.

“The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Father says. He laughs, too.

“My transition is going well. That’s what I wanted you to know.”

“Glad to hear it. And by the way, the thing we discussed earlier?”

“The thing?”

“The person you thought you saw. I ran it by your mother.”

I stop moving, all my attention focused on the conversation. If he shared it with Mother, he’s concerned.

And he never gets concerned.

“What did Mother say?”

“She said to be careful.”

I’m always careful.

What does she mean?

“You’re in a new city,” Father says. “You don’t know who to trust yet. There may be factors here with which you’re not familiar.”

“Because the assignment is so unusual?” I say.

“Unusual? Why do you use that word?”

It’s a political assassination.

“The scale is different,” I say. “The size. The timeline.”

“It sounds like a good test of your skills,” Father says.

A test.

Is that what it is?

The leaves were changing on the trees, brilliant colors dappled across the landscape. I watched them flash by as we drove away from our training house.

Mother and Father sat in the front seat, and I was in the back. A family out for a Sunday drive. That’s what you might have thought had you passed by us.

Mother said I’d earned some downtime. I’d been working hard, she said, and it was high time that I enjoyed myself.

She stopped the car near a small town.

“We’ll see you later,” she said.

“Later?”

Father palmed me some money, five crisp twenty-dollar bills folded in half.

“What do I do with this?” I said.

“See a movie. Have lunch. Enjoy yourself.”

“How will I get back?”

“Taken care of,” Father said.

His voice sounded strange. It was strained in a way I didn’t recognize then. I almost asked him about it, but when I looked out the window, people were walking down the main street of a small town where everything was decorated for Halloween.

I didn’t ask Father what was wrong. I got out of the car instead.

It was the first time I’d been alone and on my own in nearly two years.

I walked through town. Pumpkins, cutouts of ghosts, black-and-orange wreaths hanging in store windows.

I waited for the car to come back, but it did not.

“Is there a movie theater?” I asked a middle-aged woman.

There was a new action movie playing, and I wanted to see it. Badly.

“Six blocks down around the corner,” she said. “Only one screen.”

“I only need one.”

She pointed down and to the right.

I sucked in cool fall air. Where was I?

The Northeast? New Hampshire or Vermont?

Or was I farther south, someplace like rural Maryland?

I wanted to ask her, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. To ask directions to a local theater is one thing. To ask what state you’re in is something else.

I walked. I breathed. Leaves crunched beneath my feet.

I felt lucky. My new parents trusted me. The Program trusted me.

I had proved myself. I was one of them and worthy of this trust.

The devil smiled at me from inside a hardware store. I smiled back.

Freedom, if just for an afternoon.

That’s when I felt it.

Someone was following me through town. After a minute, one person became several people. And then the whole world went mad.

I didn’t know that it was my graduation day, and by the end there would be only two people standing.

I was one. Mike was the other.

It was the day of the great fight.

It was the day of the knife.

I never did see that movie. I was too busy fighting for my life.

That’s what this assignment is.

“Are you there?” Father says on the phone.

“I’m here,” I say. “I was thinking about something.”

“Something you care to share with me?”

I take a long breath.

“You said there are factors I might not be familiar with this time.”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe the factors won’t matter,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“The party tonight. Maybe I’ll be finished with my assignment before you know it, and I won’t have to worry about any of these factors.”

“That would make life simpler,” Father says.

“Much simpler for everyone,” I say.

She’s sitting in the window of the bookstore at 82nd and Broadway, nursing a nearly empty cup of coffee.

I don’t go inside, just nod to her. A minute later she comes bounding out the door, all smiles and breathiness.

“Hey, you,” she says.

She hugs me too tightly, then pulls back quickly and touches her boob.

“Ouch. What poked me?” she says.

I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out the weaponized ballpoint I’ve brought with me for tonight.

“My lucky pen,” I say.

“Why do you need a lucky pen?”

“I like it. My father gave it to me.”

Not true. The Program gave it to me. But she’ll never know that.

“You ready to head over?” I say.

“I changed my mind,” she says. “Why don’t we go to my place and watch a movie instead?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“April Fool’s,” she says.

“Cute.”

“I know I am,” she says.

Her cheeks flush red in the cool spring night. She is beautiful, looking at me with big, made-up eyes.

There is a sensation in my chest, a brief contraction like a muscle cramp.

Then it passes.

She takes my arm, hooking her elbow in mine as we walk.

“What’s going on between you and Sam?” she says.

“What did she tell you?”

“
Nada
. But I’ve got women’s intuition.”

“There’s nothing’s going on,” I say. “The new guy got a pity invite.”

I feel her arm relax in mine.

“So I still have a chance?” she says.

Her comment exposes a lifetime of competition. I imagine being best friends with a girl who is rich, beautiful, and the mayor’s daughter. No matter how bright you shine, there is always someone beside you, shining brighter.

I almost feel sorry for Erica.

“Does Sam have a boyfriend?” I say.

“Not for a while,” Erica says.

“Any particular reason?”

“She had a superserious relationship with her ex. I don’t think she’s completely over it.”

“Is he still around?” I say.

“No, it was always LD. I think that was half the problem. How do you have a relationship with someone who isn’t here?”

I think about my father. I try to imagine what it would be like to talk to him today, the questions I would ask him, the things I’d tell him about my life since he’s been gone.

“Long distance. Sounds painful,” I say.

“Sometimes love hurts,” she says.

“Sometimes?”

“If you’re into spanking, it does. Hey, are we going to spend the whole night talking about Sam?”

She pulls my arm in tighter. I feel the swell of her breast against my elbow. It’s not a bad feeling.

“It depends how fascinating you are,” I say.

“I’m wildly fascinating,” she says.

It’s on 81st between Central Park West and Columbus. Across from the Museum of Natural History.

I note the details outside:

There’s a squad car parked at the end of the block. Another down the street on the opposite corner. There’s a permanent police box installed out front on the sidewalk with room for one cop.

I note the details within:

A beautiful lobby, four men on duty at all times. A doorman, a concierge, an assistant, and the elevator operator. They’re regulars. I can see by how relaxed they are. It’s nearly impossible not to relax when you’re in the same routine every day. You can drill, you can fight to maintain operational awareness, but day after day without incident wears down the attention. The brain cannot stay on high alert forever.

Danger focuses the mind.

No danger, no focus.

And with a bunch of students coming over for a party, there’s no danger. Just a lot of young girls to look at.

When I walk in with Erica, I’ve got instant cred and a beautiful distraction by my side.

We flash IDs, and a guard with a clipboard checks off our names while looking down Erica’s cleavage. Unprofessional, but useful. It means my face won’t be remembered here.

An elevator operator takes us upstairs by tapping an electronic card to a sensor on the wall.

“That guy was an asshole,” Erica whispers to me. “Did you see him looking down my dress?”

“It’s hard not to look,” I say to her.

She grins and pulls my arm closer.

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

I glance at the elevator man. He makes sure to stare at the wall in front of him, expert at not hearing conversations a foot away from him.

“Mayor’s residence,” the elevator guy says.

The doors open into a short, custom-built hallway. An apartment like this would usually have an elevator that opens right into the living room or foyer. This hallway is an additional layer of security between the apartment and the world, and it speaks to the importance of the people who live here. No doubt this area can lock down from both sides, trapping you between the front door and the elevator door.