I find Merl just getting in line for food. “Hey,” he says, his smile faltering at my expression.
“Come with me, please,” I say.
Merl nods, putting his tray back and following without asking any questions. Simon is where I left him, standing casually next to the shed, hands in his pockets, T-shirt fitting him the way T-shirts fit him: way too fucking well. The bastard. Blue sits by his side, head cocked at me, confused by the turn of events. Why would he need to guard Baba?
“Merl,” Simon says in greeting.
“Simon,” Merl responds, his tone unsure.
“This,” I say, pointing at Simon, “is the Chameleon.” Merl’s brows raise. “We need to lock him up. Secure him. I don’t know, but he can’t just be running amok.” I cringe at my use of the work amok, though that seems like the least of my worries at the moment.
Merl looks back at Simon, who shrugs. “You failed to mention that on your application,” Merl says.
“It wasn’t one of the questions.” Simon’s voice is even. “You asked about my experiences with Joyful Justice, and I answered that honestly. I do think it’s an important organization doing good work that I want to be a part of. I gave you my real name, all my true information.” His eyes meet mine and I glare back.
“I think the fact that you’d been to the Island and were living in hiding with a former council member would have been important information.” Merl turns to me. “Simon applied six months ago to join our training camp as an instructor. He’s been corresponding with our team even longer about joining us to teach deception training.”
My attention jerks to Simon’s face. “Another secret,” I say. “You’re just full of them, aren’t you? But you gave Joyful Justice your real name?” Why does that sting so bad?
“They would have figured it out,” he says as if the logic makes sense. As if my inability to ferret out his deceptions excuses them.
“You must have known he worked for Robert Maxim,” I say, turning to Merl.
“Our research showed him to be a free agent who’s worked for many of the defense companies. His knowledge of their inner workings and personnel seemed a benefit.” Merl sounds way too calm. He’s looking at me like he’s worried about me, his brow all pinched and eyes wary.
“Okay, well, clearly, we can’t trust him.”
Merl turns back to Simon. “I see that,” Merl says. “We will have to discuss this with the recruitment team. In the meantime, Simon, I’ll need to confine you to your room.”
“Sure. I think you’ll find that my intentions are pure.” He’s still looking at me.
“I have to get back to James.” I glance over my shoulder into the dining hall again.
“I’ll escort Mr. Smith,” Merl says.
“No way.” I shake my head. “No way is your last name actually Smith.”
“Most popular in the United States,” Simon says like it’s an inside joke, some intimate thing between us…because it is. I take a step backwards, forcing myself to break eye contact.
James has demolished his pasta, and Frank has tomato sauce on his head. Nila is eyeing the stain like she wants to lick it off but her dignity won’t allow it. “Hey,” I say, taking my seat again. Tom and Anita smile at me. “Everything okay here?”
“Yeah, are you okay?” Anita asks, her brown eyes searching my face. A former reporter, the woman can sniff out a lie. And I’m not really trying to be a liar anyway.
“I just ran into…” I take a breath. “The Chameleon.”
Anita starts, her body stiffening. Tom looks at her, his brow furrowed. She probably didn’t tell him about what happened.
“Apparently, he’s joined Joyful Justice. I mean, he’s got skills I’m sure would be very useful to us—no idea how he got past all our filters. Seems we need to examine that because the man…well, he could probably lie his way into almost anything.” I stop talking because Anita’s eyes have turned sympathetic, and I can’t stand it. “Anyway, Merl is locking him in his room.”
James picks up his bowl and cocks his arm back, aiming for Tom’s head. I grab it before he can release. He frowns at me. “Okay,” I say. “I think it’s time for a bath and bed. But first…” I don’t finish the sentence, just pull a wipe from my bag. James spots it and starts to struggle but he has nowhere to go. Frank stands, very concerned as James screams his protests. “We’ve got to get some of this sauce off you, honey,” I explain calmly as he fights me with all the strength in his little body.
“There, all done,” I say, turning to the table and starting to wipe it off.
“I can take care of that for you,” Tom offers.
“I’ve got it.”
“Please.”
Something in his voice makes me look up, and I see the gentlest sweetest smile on the man’s face. He wants to help. And letting him will be nice of me. I’m surprised by the realization and feel like there are bigger implications there, but James’s fussing doesn’t leave me room to parse it all out. “Thank you,” I say.
Tom stands to come around as I take off James’s bib and knock the last few pieces of pasta onto the floor—more accurately into Frank’s waiting mouth. Unbuckling James, I swing him onto my hip and hike my bag onto my shoulder. “Let me carry that,” Anita says, circling to my side of the table. “I’ll walk you home.”
Tom packs up James’s chair and passes it to Anita. We leave him cleaning up the mess James made. My dogs follow us as we navigate through the tables and out into the night again.
“You didn’t eat,” Anita points out.
“Lost my appetite.”
“I can bring you something.”
“I have some snacks at my place,” I say. “We need to get him out of here.” I switch topics to what really matters. “Peter…I mean Simon can’t stay here.”
“Okay,” she says.
I nod, not comforted by her easy agreement. Nervous energy rides up my spine, bunching my shoulders. When we get back to my place, Anita walks in with me, putting my bag on the couch. “Mind if I hang out?” she asks.
“I’d love it.”
I bathe James, Anita sitting on the closed toilet chatting while James plays. We go through the nightly ritual drowning attempt, also known as hair washing. James’s eyes grow heavy as I towel him off. “I think he’ll go down fast if you want to hang out after he’s asleep.”
“Sure,” Anita says with a bright smile. “I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
“Sounds good.”
When I come back out twenty minutes later with Blue, leaving James surrounded by Frank and Nila, I find Anita at the bar, a half full glass of rosé next to her along with a plate of food. Pasta from the cafeteria. “I figured you could use a real meal,” she says with a smile.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the stool next to her.
She pours me a glass of wine, and we begin to talk about the narrative around Joyful Justice while I finish off the pasta. “Want to go out on the deck?” Anita suggests as I wash my plate.
We grab the bottle and go to sit on the deck, looking out at the wild, undulating jungle. The moon hides behind clouds, casting a silvery haze onto the swells of vegetation.
“I think you need to tell your story. The whole thing,” Anita says once we’re settled.
“You make it sound as if it’s over,” I say with a laugh, the wine warming me up, hazing out my problems the same way the gauzy clouds obscure the moon’s light—it’s not gone, just not so sharp.
“No.” Anita shakes her head. “I’m not saying that at all. But, Sydney, your story doesn’t belong to you right now because everyone but you is telling it.”
“I don’t even know what you mean.”
“You’ve been turned into a hero and villain. The truth lies in between. It’s important.” I shrug, not getting what she’s trying to say. “I’m suggesting a book.”
“A book!” I yell way louder than I should with a sleeping baby in the house. “What are you talking about? I’m not writing a book!”
“No, but I know a reporter, a fabulous woman I’ve worked with a lot who could do it. Interview you, get the whole story and write it for you.”
“Like a ghost writer?”
“No, it would be a collaboration. She’d interview other people as well. Tell the story of how you inspired Joyful Justice and what Joyful Justice really is. The truth.”
“The truth isn’t nearly as interesting as the myth.” A smile steals over my lips, the facts of my life sadder and much less heroic than the martyr who’s sprung from the ashes of my failures.
“But it’s important to tell the truth, Sydney. Especially now, in a world so rife with lies. You’re not a superhero. You’re real. And that’s actually more inspiring.”
I snort. “The world has always been full of lies, Anita.” I mean for that to come out as a joke, but the sadness in my voice betrays me.
Anita smiles, her head tilting side to side—a yes and a no. “Do you want to be a part of the problem or a part of the solution?”
“Because obviously I can’t just be neutral.”
She does the yes and no head tilt. “I am being too simplistic, I see that.” Anita bites her lip, her eyes casting to the ground, as if looking for the right words. “Truth matters—telling your truth, speaking your truth. Being your truth is what the world needs, most of all.”
“My personal truth is not what the world needs.” I shake my head.
“Yours, mine, everyone’s. We have to stop hiding behind the cultures built by our ancestors and start living the lives we want to live. Creating the world we want to create. And the only way to do that is by being honest about who we are and what we desire.”
Robert’s words come back to me, the chill of a fallow cornfield thousands of miles away raising the hairs on the back of my neck. You can have what you desire, if you will allow it.
I shift, pulling my legs up onto the chair, bringing my knees to my chest, another layer of protections. “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
She laughs. “Yes, I have.”
Anita has spent the last few years telling the Joyful Justice story—she is our communications director and the person who crafted the narrative of our work in the public eye. She has also shared her own story, a dangerous and brave act.
We fall silent and both just stare out at the jungle until Anita stirs. “I have to go, but think about it. Let me know what you want to do. I’m here for you no matter what.”
She goes to stand, and I sit forward, reaching out to grab her hand. Anita looks down at me, a question in her gaze. “Thank you,” I say. “And I know you’re right. About you. I know that you’re important. That your truth matters.”
“But you can’t see it for yourself?”
“I’m a hypocrite like that,” I say with a subtle smile.
Anita squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to be.”
She releases her grip and turns into the house. I watch her move through the living room toward the door. Once it closes behind her I turn back to the jungle. The idea of telling my story is a painful thorn in my thoughts.
But Anita’s right: by not telling my story, I’m letting others tell it for me.