Boy Nobody

by Allen Zadoff

  “Your father is sweeping up the homeless and warehousing them out of state. Is that the right thing?”

  “Out of bounds,” the teacher says. “Remember our ground rules. Unless Mayor Goldberg was in office in the 1940s, he’s not part of this discussion.”

  “Wait,” Sam says. “I want to talk about it. Because that’s not what’s happening. My father would never do that.”

  “Reality called,” Justin says. “It says it misses you.”

  “I’m sick of this,” Sam says.

  She slams her book down on her desk.

  “I’m sick of the bullshit intellectualism that passes for debate in this school.” She jumps up. “We think we’re so smart sitting here and arguing for hours, meanwhile people are suffering around the world, and our government refuses to take sides. And what do we do to change that? Talk and talk some more.”

  “What are you doing about it?” Justin says.

  Sam doesn’t say anything.

  “So you’re just like us,” Justin says. “All talk.”

  Sam stands with fists clenched, her face blotched red.

  “He’s full of it,” the Shaggy Giant says. He puts a hand on her arm.

  “Let go of me!” she says. “I’m fine.”

  But she’s not fine. Her eyes are darting around like she’s going to hurt someone.

  It’s a big reaction to a little class debate. And it’s got me wondering about Sam’s emotional stability.

  Most of the class look away from her, staring at their desks or scribbling in notebooks.

  Sam takes a minute to calm herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sits back down.

  “It’s okay,” her friend with black hair says. She rubs Sam’s back.

  “It’s just politics,” Justin says. “Nothing personal.”

  “For me, politics is personal,” Sam says.

  The teacher purses his lips, looks back and forth between the students.

  “Now would be a good time to lighten the mood with a joke,” he says. “But my sense of humor seems to have left the building.”

  The students laugh. The mood is broken.

  I see Sam’s frustration as she attempts to disengage from the debate.

  Passion plus intellect, with some deep emotional baggage beneath the surface.

  It’s an unusual combination. Challenging.

  The question remains: How do I approach her?

  I don’t have the answer yet. But I’m getting closer.

  The teacher says, “Ladies and gentlemen, your mission, should you choose to accept it—”

  I’m expecting a groan, but I get the opposite. Excited faces, notebooks open, pens at the ready.

  “Our dramatis personae: Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini,” the teacher says.

  He scans the room, a mischievous grin on his face. He glances at me and moves on.

  “The scenario: These three infamous dictators meet in hell to discuss their mistakes during the war. Write it in the form of a dialogue, ten pages minimum. You may work with a partner.”

  The end-of-class tone sounds, and the students stand, looking to partner up and talk about the assignment.

  I’m packing my backpack when I hear Sam’s voice:

  “What about you, new guy? Which side are you on?”

  She’s standing over my desk staring down at me. No posse now. Just her, a couple of feet away and glaring.

  First contact. And I didn’t choose it.

  I can think about why she’s here later. Now I have to react.

  “You really want to know what the new guy thinks?” I say.

  “You’re the only one who didn’t say a word all class, and I was the only one who actually cared about it, so yeah, I’d like to know,” Sam says.

  “Maybe the new guy is stupid and doesn’t have much to say.”

  “Doubtful.”

  I want to shake her up if I can, try to regain the upper hand. So I say, “I think the assignment is bullshit.”

  She nods, interested. “Go on,” she says.

  “Why should we assume the dictators are in hell?”

  “Hitler doesn’t belong in hell. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. I’m saying the underlying assumption of the assignment has gone unchallenged. Dictators are bad. War is bad. Bad people go to hell and good people go to heaven. It’s simplistic.”

  “So you’re making a case for moral relativism.”

  “Why not?” I say, and I see her bristle. “Every dictator on the list believed he was right at the time. Or at minimum, he was doing wrong for the right reasons.”

  “The ends justify the means.”

  “Sometimes they do. It’s easy to be outraged about genocide because what’s the counterargument? It doesn’t exist. But think about a whistle-blower at a company. A father who cheats on his taxes to have enough money to pay his child’s tuition. A mother who lies about her medical history to get health insurance.”

  And me.

  The things I do. My assignments.

  “All bad things,” I say. “All good reasons.”

  “So I can hurt someone if it will be for the greater good?” Sam asks.

  “Maybe so.”

  “The problem with that is—who gets to decide what the greater good is?”

  “That’s a fair question,” I say.

  “Do you have an answer?”

  Who gets to decide?

  I think about it for a second.

  “Not us,” I say.

  She crosses her arms and gives me a disappointed head shake.

  “Sounds like the new guy is a Republican,” Sam says. “I’ll have fun crushing you in future debates.”

  She smirks at me, then turns and walks away.

  Conversation over. For now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SHAGGY GIANT IS WAITING FOR ME OUTSIDE.

  The moment I’m out the door, he steps up to block my path.

  “Did you really get kicked out of Choate?” he says.

  News travels fast in this school.

  I look at this guy playing alpha, his chest out, his tone mocking. I consider the options, and I decide to answer the question, see what he’s up to.

  “I really got kicked out,” I say.

  “For being an asshole?”

  “A big one.”

  “That’s not going to fly here.”

  Behind him, Sam is talking to a girl with blond hair, a skintight skirt, and dimples. Not someone from AP European. Edgier than her other friends. I watch their body language as they speak.

  The Shaggy Giant notices my attention has drifted from him. “You get distracted easily.”

  I look back at him.

  This guy talks a good game. It’s time to push back a little, see how good he really is.

  “I’m not distracted,” I say. “You had nothing interesting to say, so I assumed the conversation was over.”

  “I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

  “Who are you, my mother?”

  “I’m your worst nightmare, my friend. I’m the guy between you and what you want.”

  He points at me. One long finger stabbing in the air.

  “What do I want?”

  “Every new guy in school makes a play for Sam,” he says. “It’s the fastest way to get in.”

  That explains it. He’s got some connection to Sam.

  “I’m not making a play,” I say.

  “I saw you talking to her after class.”

  “She was talking to me.”

  “In your dreams,” he says.

  “Believe what you want to believe.”

  He frowns, glances behind him. Sam and her group head down the hall without him, disappearing from view.

  “I guess Sam’s your girlfriend?” I say.

  He twitches.

  Guess not.

  “For your information, we are longtime friends,” he says. “I look out for her. Think of me as the early asshole warni
ng system.”

  “You specialize in ass, that’s what you’re telling me.”

  “Funny man,” he says. “Consider yourself warned.”

  He points at me again.

  Less than a second, I think. That’s the amount of time it would take to disable him.

  A quick grab and twist. In the movies the tough guy pulls the finger backward toward the wrist. That’s effective enough, but it takes a little too long.

  The finger joint has backward flexibility, but very little side flex. If it’s about speed and shock, a side snap works better.

  Shaggy Giant stands with his finger outstretched, not realizing the danger he’s in. But I don’t need to take this guy down, not yet at least. Better to show him I’m not afraid and use his anger to find out more about Sam in the coming days.

  He says, “I’m watching you. Don’t forget that.”

  “How could I forget?” I say. “You’re fourteen feet tall.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I USE MY LUNCH HOUR TO GO TO THE APPLE STORE.

  That’s the benefit of an open campus. I leave school without causing so much as a head turn and walk south, taking the opportunity to learn the neighborhood better.

  The best way to do that is to walk. Walk and walk some more. Walk until I feel like a local.

  As I walk, I think about Sam. Why she might have approached me in class.

  I don’t know her well enough yet, so I table the question for now.

  When I get to the gleaming glass cube on 67th Street, I walk in and buy the newest iPhone with cash.

  “Do you want me to set it up for you?” the guy at the Genius Bar says.

  “You’re the genius,” I say.

  He nods appreciatively.

  “You’d be surprised how few people get that,” he says.

  He turns it toward me, and I type in my Apple ID for this assignment.

  He gets the phone set up and hands it back to me.

  “How’s your Wi-Fi here?” I say.

  “It’s awesome.”

  “Maybe I’ll download some apps before I go.”

  “Let it rip.”

  I find a corner of a table to lean on, go to the App Store on my phone. I search for an app called High School Locker. I download it and open it up. A graphic of a combination lock appears on my screen.

  Type in a combination! Keep pics, videos, and books in your very own locker, away from prying eyes!

  I put in a combination code. Not a three-number code like a person using the app. I put in a ten-digit code. When I finish, there’s a click, and the lock starts to spin.

  A progress bar appears on the bottom of the screen.

  The phone is handshaking with a secret server, downloading a sophisticated security suite, and installing it.

  The lock stops spinning and the phone restarts.

  It looks the same, but the phone is now jail-broken. Two operating systems are running. One on the surface, one beneath.

  Slide the bar to the right, and the phone is in public mode. If someone found it, they’d see a regular iPhone. They could make calls, play games, whatever.

  But if I use the unique diagonal finger gesture, it’s in secure mode. Now I’ve got access to an entire suite of apps that make this phone very special.

  I put it in secure mode now, then open the camera. I configure the settings, triple-clicking the flash. I hold it up to take a picture—

  “Hey, is that the new iPhone?” a girl says.

  She’s maybe fifteen, long brown hair, too much gloss on her lips. She has a backpack slung across one shoulder. The strap pulls her shirt tight, the swell of her breast pressing against fabric.

  “Brand-new,” I say.

  “I wish I could afford one.” Her eyes widen. “Do you want me to take a picture of you?”

  “I do,” I say.

  I hand her the phone.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “Me or the phone?”

  “Definitely the phone,” she says. But she’s laughing as she says it.

  “It’s all set up,” I say. “Just press the button.”

  She takes my photo. It’s not really a photo, but she doesn’t know that.

  She just sent a locator ping back to Father.

  I am here. I have begun.

  I reach out to take the phone back.

  There’s a man across the store looking at us. Curly hair and a tightly shaved beard. Dark complexion, intense eyes.

  Too intense.

  He might be looking at us, but I can’t be certain. By the time I look in his direction, he has turned away. Not in reaction to me, at least it seems not, but as part of a sweep around the room.

  I watch him for a moment. He’s in his early twenties, short with a wiry build. Maybe a gym rat, maybe something else. Something that requires a different kind of training.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask the girl.

  That might explain the guy with the beard.

  “Not at the moment,” the girl says. She smiles, misunderstanding why I asked the question. “Hey, should we take a picture together? Capture the moment and all that?”

  She applies a little more gloss to her lips. They glimmer in the light of a laptop screen.

  I glance back toward the man, but he’s gone.

  “Thanks,” I say to the girl, “but I have to get back to school.”

  I take the phone from her.

  “Where do you go?” she says.

  I shrug and mumble something as I walk away, blowing her off.

  She looks disappointed.

  No matter. I have work to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I STEP OUT OF THE STORE AND I FEEL IT IMMEDIATELY.

  A presence.

  Following me.

  It’s on the very edge of my awareness. Nearly imperceptible.

  Is it the Shaggy Giant?

  Doubtful.

  The man with the beard in the Apple Store?

  Possibly.

  I stand in place, projecting the circle of my attention in all directions like sonar.

  I take a step. I listen.

  I detect no movement, no disturbance.

  So I walk north, heading back toward school. I stop at the intersection of Broadway and Amsterdam. I wait at the light, using the time to scan in all directions.

  Still nothing.

  My training has taught me to trust my intuition, but also to test it.

  That’s what I do now.

  I nod to a security guard smoking a cigarette in a drugstore doorway, use the pause to break my rhythm. At the corner of 72nd, I take a sudden turn toward West End Avenue, where it’s less crowded, and more difficult to track someone undetected.

  That’s when I feel it again.

  The Presence. He’s a man.

  It’s not the Shaggy Giant. He would be too close, pressuring me.

  The Presence is skilled. Maybe he’s part of the mayor’s security detail.

  I replay the conversation with Sam earlier. I consider briefly the idea that something is going on in her life sufficient to have her worried about a new guy, worried enough to have him checked out by security.

  I consider, then I dismiss it. I haven’t done anything in this city.

  Not yet, at least.

  But the Presence is here nonetheless. He turns as I turn, staying parallel to me, a block east on Broadway.

  I have a choice: Lose him or flush him out?

  I could lose him temporarily. Slip into a building, hop a cab, double back.

  I could lose him permanently. Lead him into Riverside Park. Overpower him and ask a few questions. Leave his body for an early-morning jogger to discover.

  But I don’t want added police attention in the neighborhood this week.

  It’s better to flush him now and find out who he is.

  Whether he’s related to Sam, to The Program, or to nothing at all. I need to know.

  I speed up and head back toward school.
I sense him continuing along with me on Broadway. I remember a church I saw earlier on my walk through the neighborhood. A church with an alley next door.

  I can use it.

  I walk east on 81st, projecting my energy toward Broadway as if I’m going to appear there, but I cut through the alley instead, pop out at the church on 80th, and double back.

  If I’ve timed it right, I’ll catch the Presence on 81st. A quiet street. Light traffic.

  No place to hide.

  I wait two more seconds, then I step out into the street at the corner of 81st and West End, look back toward Broadway.

  There’s nobody there.

  The tiniest flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Am I imagining this?

  I breathe slowly, project my energy into the circle around me, expanding it outward by degrees.

  Nothing.

  Whoever he is, he’s good.

  And he’s gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’VE GOT MY NEW PHONE IN HAND.

  It’s time to use it.

  I slip into the lobby of a large building and find a quiet corner. I use the special finger gesture to put the phone into secure mode, then I look up Dad in the contacts.

  It’s a number I haven’t seen before.

  If I press the number, it will brick the phone, effectively destroying it.

  So I don’t touch it. Instead I go to the picture box at the top of the contact information. A World’s Greatest Dad T-shirt. I pull the photo to the right, and the name Dad disappears, replaced with a new phone number.

  I press the number.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “I got the photo you sent earlier,” Father says. “Looks like you’re off and running.”

  “Yes and no,” I say.

  Silence on the line. I’ve deviated from protocol, and Father instantly recognizes it.

  “Is there a problem?” he says.

  What’s the best way to ask him about the Presence?

  I decide to test a hypothesis. What if the Presence was sent from The Program to monitor me?

  It’s never happened before, at least not to my knowledge. I’ve been on the road for two years now, receiving assignments and being left alone to carry them out.

  But this assignment is something different. An accelerated timeline and a target with a high profile, maybe the highest profile of anyone in the city. It’s at least possible that I’m being monitored more closely.