The Zero Game

17

I search for a nametag on the girl’s lapel. It’s not there. Reading my reaction, she’s obviously scared. I don’t blame her. After what happened with Matthew, she should be.

“Stay back,” she threatens. Stepping backward into the room, she takes a deep breath, winding up to scream. I raise my hand to cut her off; then, out of nowhere, she tilts her head to the side.

“What a minute…” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I know you.”

I match her raised eyebrow with one of my own. “Excuse me?”

“From that… from the speech you gave. With the pages…” She bumps back into the edge of the conference table and looks up at me. “You were… you were really good. That bit about making the right enemies… I thought about that for a week.”

She’s trying to sweet-talk. My guard’s already up.

“And then when you…” She cuts herself off, staring at her feet.

“What?” I ask.

“That thing you did with the Lorax…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nu-uh… c’mon — you put that pin on Congressman Enemark. That was… that was the coolest thing ever.”

Like I said, my guard’s up. But as I spot the wide-eyed smile on her face, I’m already starting to second-guess. At first glance, she’s slightly imposing, and it’s not just from the dark navy suit that adds another year or two to her age. Her height alone… almost five feet eleven… she’s taller than me. But the longer she stands there, the more I see the rest of the picture. Back against the table, she slumps her shoulders and lowers her neck. It’s the same trick Matthew used to use to make himself look shorter.

“He never found out, did he?” she asks, suddenly hesitant. “About the Lorax, I mean?”

She’s trying not to push, but excitement’s getting the best of her. At first, I assumed it was all an act. Now I’m not so sure. I narrow my eyes, studying even closer. The frayed stitching on her suit… the worn creases in her white shirt… She’s definitely not from money, and the way she’s fidgeting and trying to hide a loose button, it’s still an issue for her. It’s hard enough to fit in when you’re seventeen; it’s even worse when everyone around you is at least a decade or two older. Still, her mocha brown eyes have a real age to them. I’m guessing early independence from the lack of cash — either that or she’s getting the Oscar for best actress. Only way to find out which is to get her talking. “Who told you about the Lorax?” I ask.

She shyly turns away at the question. “You can’t tell him I told you, okay? Please promise…” She’s truly embarrassed.

“You have my word,” I add, pretending to play along.

“It was LaRue… from the bathroom.”

“The shoeshine guy?”

“You promised you wouldn’t say anything. It’s just… we saw him in the elevator… He was laughing, and Nikki and I asked what’s so funny and he said it, but no one’s supposed to know. He swore us to secrecy…” The words tumble from her mouth like she’s confessing a junior high school crush. There’s a hint of panic behind each syllable, though. She takes trust seriously.

“You’re not mad, are you?” she asks.

“Why would I be mad?” I reply, hoping to keep her talking.

“No… no reason…” She cuts herself off, and her wide-eyed smile returns. “But can I just say… putting that Lorax on him… that’s easily, without exaggeration, the greatest prank of all time! And Enemark’s the perfect Member to do it to — not just for the prank part, but just the principle of it,” she adds, her voice picking up steam. She’s all gush and idealism. There’s no slowing her down. “My granddad… he was one of the last Pullman Porters, and he used to tell us if we didn’t pick the right fights-”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” I blurt.

She finally hits the brakes. “Wha?”

I forgot what it was like to be seventeen. Zero to sixty, and sixty to zero, all in one breath.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say.

Her mouth gapes open. “Wait,” she stutters as she starts fingering the ID around her neck. “Is this about the Senate pens Chloe stole? I told her not to touch ’em, but she kept saying if they were in the cup-”

“Lose anything lately?” I ask, pulling her blue nametag from my pocket and holding it out between us.

She’s definitely surprised. “How’d you get that?”

“How’d you lose it?”

“I have… I have no idea… it disappeared last week — they just ordered me a new one.” Whether she’s lying or serious, she’s not stupid. If she’s really in trouble, she wants to know how much. “Why? Where’d you find it?”

I bluff hard. “Toolie Williams gave it to me,” I say, referring to the young black kid who drove his car into Matthew.

“Who?”

I have to clench my jaw to keep myself calm. I reach once more into my pocket and pull out a folded-up picture of Toolie from this morning’s Metro section. He’s got big ears and a surprisingly kind grin. I almost tear the picture in half as I struggle to unfold it.

“Ever seen him before?” I ask, handing her the photo.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so…”

“You sure about that? He’s not a boyfriend? Or some kid you know from-”

“Why? Who is he?”

There’re forty-three muscular movements that the human face is capable of making. I have friends, Senators, and Congressmen lie directly to me every day. Pull the bottom lip in, raise the upper eyelids, lower the chin. By now, I know all the tricks. But for the life of me, as I stare up at this tall black girl with the tight-cropped Afro, I can’t find a single muscle twitch that shows me anything but seventeen-year-old innocence.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupts, now laughing. “Is this another prank? Did Nikki put you up to this?” She flips her blue nametag over as if she’s searching for the Lorax. “What’d you do, rig it with ink so it’ll spray all over the next Senator I talk to?”

Leaning forward, she takes a cautious look at the nametag. Around her neck, her ID badge begins to twirl. I spot a photo of a black woman Scotch-taped to the back. I’m guessing Mom or an aunt. Someone who keeps her strong — or at least is trying to.

I once again study Viv. No makeup… no trendy jewelry… no fancy haircut — none of the totems of popularity. Even those slumped shoulders… There’s a girl like her in every school — the outsider looking in. In five years, she’ll kick off her shell, and her classmates will wonder why they never noticed her. Right now, she sits in the back of the class, watching in silence. Just like Matthew. Just like me. I shake my head to myself. No way this girl’s a killer.

“Listen, Viv…”

“The only thing I don’t understand is who this Toolie guy is,” she says, still giggling. “Or did Nikki put you up to that, too?”

“Don’t worry about Toolie. He just… he’s just someone who knew a friend of mine.”

Now she’s confused. “So what’s it have to do with my nametag?”

“Actually, I’m trying to figure that out myself.”

“Well, what’s the name of your friend?”

I decide to give it one last shot. “Matthew Mercer.”

“Matthew Mercer? Matthew Mercer,” she says again. “How do I know that name?”

“You don’t; you just-”

“Waitaminute,” she interrupts. “Isn’t that the guy who got hit by the car?”

I reach out and snatch the newspaper photo from her hands.

Now she’s the one studying me. “Is he the one who had my nametag?”

I don’t answer.

“Why would he…?” She stops herself, noticing my stare. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t know how he got it. I mean, I understand you’re upset about your friend’s accident…”

I look up as she says the word accident. She locks right on me. Her mouth hangs open, revealing her age — but her eyes show something different. She’s got depth in her gaze.

“What?” she asks.

I turn away, pretending to follow an imaginary sound.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, everybody calm down,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Listen, you should really get going, Viv. That’s your name, right? Viv? Viv, I’m Harris.” I extend a soft handshake and put my other hand on her shoulder. That one I got from the Senator. People don’t talk when they’re being touched. She doesn’t budge. But she still stares at me with those mocha eyes.

“Was it an accident or not?” she asks.

“Of course it was an accident. I’m sure it was an accident. Positive. I just… when Matthew was hit by the car, your nametag happened to be in one of the Dumpsters near the scene. That’s it. No big deal — nothing to panic about. I just figured if you saw anything… I promised his family I’d ask around. Now we at least know it was just something in the nearby trash.”

It’s a pretty good speech and would work on ninety-nine percent of the populace. The problem is, I still can’t tell if this girl is in the top one percent. Eventually, though, I get lucky. She nods, looking relieved. “So you’re okay? You got everything you need?”

In the ten minutes since I’ve met her, it’s the hardest question she’s asked. When I woke up this morning, I thought Viv would have all the answers. Instead, I’m back to another blank slate — and right now, the only way to fill the chalkboard is to figure out who else is playing the game. Matthew’s got files in his office… I’ve got notes in my desk… time to dig through the rest of the mess. The thing is, Janos isn’t stupid. The moment I try to step back into my life, he’ll stab his little shock box straight into my chest. I already tried calling in friends… Only a fool would risk that again. I glance around the tiny room, but there’s no way to avoid it — I don’t have a chance. Not unless I figure out how to make myself invisible… or get some help in that department.

“Thanks again for finding the nametag,” Viv interrupts. “Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”

I jerk my head toward her and replay the words in my head.

It’s not the safest bet I’ve ever made, but right now, with my life on the line, I don’t think I’ve got much of a choice. “Listen, Viv, I hate to be a pain, but… were you really serious about that favor?”

“S-Sure… but does it have to do with Matthew, because…”

“No, no — not at all,” I insist. “It’s just a quick errand — for an upcoming hearing we’re working on. You’ll be in and out in two minutes. Sound okay?”

Without a word, Viv scans the room around us, from the multiple keyboards to the stack of discarded office chairs. It’s the one flaw in my story. If everything were truly kosher, why’re we talking in a storage room?

“Harris, I don’t know…”

“It’s just a pickup — no one’ll even know you’re there. All you have to do is grab one file and-”

“We’re not supposed to do pickups unless they come through the cloakroom…”

“Please, Viv — it’s just one file.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“I told you, it has nothing to do with Matthew.”

She looks down, noticing the stitching in the knee of my suit. I had a local dry cleaner sew up the hole from yesterday’s leap off the building. But the scar’s still there. Her hand goes back to fidgeting with her ID. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. “I can’t.”

Knowing better than to beg, I wave it off and force a smile. “No, I understand. No big deal.”

When I was seventeen years old, the moment a thought came into my head, it came out of my mouth. To Viv’s credit, she stays perfectly silent. She opens the door, her body still halfway in the room. “Listen, I should…”

“You should go,” I agree.

“But if you-”

“Viv, don’t sweat it. I’ll just call the cloakroom — it’ll be done in no time.”

She nods, staring right through me. “I really am sorry about your friend.”

I nod a thank-you.

“So I guess I’ll see you around the Capitol?” she asks.

I force another smile. “Absolutely,” I say. “And if you ever need anything, just call my office.”

She likes that one. “And don’t forget,” she adds, lowering her voice in her best impression of me, “the best thing you can do in life is make the right enemies…”

“No doubt about that,” I call out as the door closes. She’s gone, and my voice tumbles to a whisper. “No doubt about it.”