Chapter Three: Invisible me

A few months before, on my sixteenth birthday – my real one – the Pater made me a cake from stuff we had foraged from a forest in Yosemite. Honey stolen from a hive of mad bees, wild mushrooms, sunflower seeds and fiddlehead ferns cooked into a mush and molded into a half dome. He stuck a length of homemade fuse wire in the middle and lit it with a flint. It looked like a pile of bear scat and the bitter aftertaste of magnesium lasted for days. I would have thought it was impossible to hate him more after eating a slice of that. But then he started in on how we had to be even more careful going forward because of my growing resemblance to my dead mother.

I like to verify factual statements. Something I’ve learned from living with a professional liar all my life. But I couldn’t tell how true this statement was. I knew what I saw in the mirror: someone a scoche over five feet two, straight brown hair when it wasn’t streaked by the sun or colored for a fake identity, symmetrical and totally unmemorable facial features, and about a hundred and five pounds of muscle and bone.

But I couldn’t remember what my mother looked like. She was killed before posting pictures of the most boring moments of your life on social media became popular. All the hardcopy pictures of her, of us, were burned along with the house I grew up in. My father did not believe in leaving anything behind or in taking mementos of the past along with us into our future lies.

I lie too. I lie to strangers and I lie to myself. I have one memory of how my mother looked. It’s the last time I saw her. I would give anything to forget it.

I was dead to the world when the quiz landed on my head in Algebra II. The teacher, Harold Scruggins, might have made a stink about my sleeping in class if there weren’t at least ten others doing the same. At least sleeping kids were quiet.

I pulled the paper off my head and put it on the desk. A wet spot bloomed in the middle of Question No. 6. I had drooled on the desk in my sleep. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw lips twisted in a sneer. The Jerk.

I blame it on exhaustion. My self-control wasn’t what it should have been. I turned toward Logan, crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him. There. That would show him. I was not only a drooler, I had the manners of a three year old.

He laughed. I couldn’t help thinking it was a nice sound.

The caffeine drinks had worn off as soon as I stepped onto school property and the effects of my all night drive crashed down on me like a ten-ton rock. We couldn’t use the Bronco again. Not in this town. Not after the way I massively broke my father’s rules by going to the rescue of more people I hardly knew. First the old woman, Fleur Jones, and then Mina and her cousin. What was wrong with this town? So the car had to be put into our safe house for transport vehicles.

“House” is not exactly accurate. It’s just easier to say than: hidden cave located half-way up a steep road, which was little more than a mule track, carved into the side of a mountain. It was three hundred miles roundtrip from Chatham to our car cave and back. I had to stop halfway there and scrutinize every inch of the Bronco for contamination. This entailed sweeping the interior and exterior for bugs, tracking devices (not installed by my father or me), and evidence of my father or me. Anything that was not supposed to be in the car was removed and buried in a hole no less than three feet deep.

At the cave, there was another hour of work examining it for intrusion or discovery. You can’t exactly place a hair across the opening of the cave – also, that bit of tradecraft has been so overused in spy novels it’s a bit of a gag now. Instead, there’s a thin layer of powdered mineral on the ground in front of the cave’s opening. Over this is a layer of dirt and leaf mold. The mineral glows blue under certain light spectrums. Any disturbance near the cave will reveal itself to the portable black light kept in our cars. Down goes a tarp over the detection trap, I drive in over it. Then, it’s wipe all surfaces and vacuum out any trace DNA to be found in something like a stray hair follicle.

Being a successful fugitive requires a lot of paranoia and a lot of cleaning supplies.

The quiz was easy. Questions I could answer in my sleep, literally. The Pater began teaching me about grenade launchers a year ago. Aiming one accurately, one that’s not guided by GPS, requires knowledge of integral calculus. In comparison, Algebra II is like counting the number of toes on one foot. I put my head down and went back to sleep when I was done with the last question.

It was only as Scruggins pulled the paper out from under my face that I realized my mistake. I had answered all the questions correctly!

“Ms. Reaver, release the paper. You had the opportunity to take the quiz and chose, instead, to sleep away another step toward a better future for yourself.” The teacher glared at me over his glasses.

A perfect score attracts too much attention, but there was nothing I could do now. Rather than continue the tug of war, I let go of the quiz. I could feel the Jerk’s eyes on me but I had bigger worries at the moment. I put my head down on the desk again, this time to think instead of sleep.

I was screwing everything up.

When he returned, my father would ask for a total rundown of events while he was MIA. How was school? Any unusual activity in the neighborhood? Spot any potential hostiles? Etc., etc., fugitive’s etc.

I couldn’t lie and say nothing had happened, not after he saw that the Bronco had been exchanged. If I answered truthfully, that I had seen a Fed at school, that I had run some thugs off the road to save some schoolmates, that I had incurred the wrath of a boy who knew the Fed…. Bad. Very bad. He would probably drag me to some underground bunker and lock me up for my own safety – and his.

I saw Mina and Javier at the outdoor cafeteria tables during my lunch period, both wore dark glasses. Javier was covered in bruises and I suspected that Mina, underneath her long-sleeved frilly blouse, was also seriously marked by her attackers. I pretended not to see them but Mina called me over.

“How was your first week?” Why don’t you sit here with us?” Mina’s voice was low; she sounded exhausted.

Javier jumped up, winced, and said, “This is no time for strangers,” before stomping off. Even though he spoke in Spanish, I had no trouble understanding him.

I had to ask the obvious question, “Why is Javier a walking lump of neon bruises?”

Mina shrugged and then regretted it – almost every part of her body had to be hurting. “We were attacked. At least six men on the road to my family’s farm yesterday, after school. They might have killed us if help hadn’t come along at the right time.”

I wanted to believe I was imagining the intensity of her stare as she leveled her dark sunglasses at me. But I had already surpassed my year’s quota of denial.

“Did you know them?” I asked.

Mina was about to shake her head but caught herself. “No. But I think I know why.”

I didn’t think it was a random attack. The men had been too organized.

“My family’s farm,” Mina continued. “Some developers want it. But they won’t offer my father a decent price for the land. Not that he would sell. My father loves the farm – he grew up there.” Then her tone turned bitter. “But maybe their offer isn’t that bad if Prissy Dulles is right about farmland around here. Anyway, other small farmers have had their families attacked and their property vandalized or destroyed recently. My family’s crop of barley was torched last month during the night. We were counting on selling it for seed money. Now my father will have to try using one of the tractors as collateral for a loan.”

“What about the police? Can’t they do anything?” I already knew the answer but it was the next obvious question to ask.

“Chatham’s police department doesn’t have enough manpower after so many budget cuts – just about a dozen officers covering over a hundred square miles.” Mina dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “My parents almost had heart attacks when they saw me and Javier yesterday. If one more thing happens, I’m afraid my father will do something crazy – like try to find the attackers by himself.”

I didn’t know what to do besides stand there like a totem. This was the first time anyone had confided in me. She must have sensed my discomfort.

“Sorry to bore you with my problems. I didn’t call you over for that. You don’t seem to know anyone here and I just wanted to ask how things were going,” said Mina.

Another first. Somehow, I was failing to be the unnoticed loner in the corner.

“Fine. You know. For high school.” I mumbled.

“I saw one of the new boys give you a push yesterday in the hall. Someone needs to tell him there are better ways to get a girl’s attention.” Mina smiled. “He is cute, though. Very nice butt.”

I blushed for the first time in my life. My face, ears and neck got really hot.

When it became obvious that I couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything about Logan, Mina went on, “My family does a big brunch at our farm on Sundays after mass. Why don’t you come? My mother and aunts are the best cooks in California.”

That was the first time I had ever been invited to another kid’s home, not counting the pre-eight years. I had to get away before I did something embarrassing, like cry. “Mina, that sounds great. But we just moved here and I have to help my father fix up the house.” I turned my wrist and pretended to look at the time. “I’ve got to study for a quiz in my next class. I hope those men leave you alone.”

Dark glasses still in place, she nodded slowly. “Thanks. Me too.” After a pause, she added, “I hope your car’s o.k.”

I had been turning away and froze at her words. “My car?” I asked.

“Mmm. I saw you pull in this morning in a Taurus. You had a different car yesterday, I think.”

I couldn’t see her eyes. I couldn’t tell whether she was prodding me into an admission or fishing for information.

“I’ve had the same car since I got my license,” I said with a shrug. “Sorry, but I really have to go. See you.”

It wasn’t until I was trying to turn the dial on the combination lock that I noticed the shaking. My hands and arms were trembling and soon my legs were so weak I almost pitched forward into my locker. I wanted to get inside the metal box, close the door and rock back and forth.

Why? I was in shock.

Why? Well, my cover was probably blown. But more important, I had had a real conversation with another person my own age – a friendly exchange of words, a mutual acknowledgement of each other’s humanity. She had invited me to her house. My life before my mother’s murder is a bit of a blur so I can’t remember if I ever had play dates with other kids. I had been hoarding my misery, fear and loneliness for at least eight years. Seeing a small chink in the armor of solitude, my feelings were trying to stampede into the open.

Something I couldn’t allow.