Zero Game (10 page)

16

T
HERE—HE’S DOING
it again,” Viv Parker said Monday afternoon, pointing to the elderly Senator from Illinois.

“Where?”

“Right
there . . .
”

Across the Floor of the Senate, in the third row of antique desks, the senior Senator from Illinois looked down, away from Viv.

“Sorry, still don’t see it,” Devin whispered as the gavel banged behind them.

As pages for the United States Senate, Viv and Devin sat on the small carpeted steps on the side of the rostrum, literally waiting for the phone to blink. It never took long. Within a minute, a low buzz erupted from the phone, and a small orange light hiccuped to life. But neither Viv nor Devin picked it up.

“Floor, this is Thomas,” a blond-headed page with a Virginia twang answered as he shot to his feet. Viv wasn’t sure why he stood up for every call. When she asked Thomas, he said it was part for decorum, part to be prepared in case he had to spot a passing Senator. Personally, Viv thought there was only one “part” that really mattered: to show off the fact that he was head page. Even at the bottom of the totem pole, hierarchy was king.

“Yep—I’m on it,” the head page said into the receiver. As he hung up the phone, he looked over to Viv and Devin. “They need one,” he explained.

Nodding, Devin stood from his seat at the rostrum and dashed off toward the cloakroom.

Still on the rostrum, Viv glanced over at the Senator from Illinois, who again raised his head and leveled a leering glare directly at her. Viv tried to look away, but she couldn’t ignore it. It was as if he were squinting straight through her chest. Fidgeting with the Senate ID around her neck, she wondered if that’s what he was staring at. It wouldn’t surprise her. The ID was her ticket in. From day one, she was worried someone would step in and snatch it back. Or maybe he was staring at her cheap navy suit . . . or the fact that she was black . . . or that she was taller than most pages, including the boys. Five feet ten and a half inches—and that was without her beat-up shoes and the close-cropped Afro that she wore just like her mom’s.

The phone buzzed quietly behind her. “Floor, this is Thomas,” the head page said as he shot to his feet. “Yep—I’m on it.” He turned to Viv as he hung up the phone. “They need one . . .”

Nodding, Viv stood from her seat but carefully stared down at the blue-carpeted floor in a final attempt to avoid the glance of the Senator from Illinois. Her skin color, she could handle. Same with her height—like her mom taught, don’t apologize for what God gave you. But if it was her suit, as stupid as it sounded, well . . . some things hit home. Since the day they started, all twenty-nine of her fellow pages loved to complain about the uniform requirement. Every Senate page bitched about it. Everyone but Viv. As she knew from her school back in Michigan, the only people who moan about required uniforms are the ones who can compete in the fashion show.

“Move it, Viv—they need someone now,” the head page called out from the rostrum.

Viv didn’t bother to look back. In fact, as she rushed toward the cloakroom in the back of the chamber, she didn’t look anywhere but straight down. Still feeling the Senator’s stare burning through her, and refusing to risk eye contact, she speed-marched up the center aisle—but as she blew past row after row of antique desks, she couldn’t ignore the haunting voice in the back of her head. It was the same voice she had heard when she was eleven and Darlene Bresloff stole her RollerBlades . . . and when she was thirteen and Neil Grubin purposely squirted maple syrup all over her church clothes. It was a strong, unflinching voice. It was her mom’s voice. The same mom who made Viv march up to Darlene and demand her RollerBlades back
now . . .
and who, as Viv begged and pleaded to the contrary, personally carried the maple-syrup-covered suit back to Neil’s house, up the three flights of stairs, and into the living room, so Neil’s mother—whom they’d never met before—could see it for herself. That’s whose voice was echoing in the back of her head. And that’s the voice she heard halfway up the aisle . . . with the Senator dead ahead.

Maybe I should just say something, Viv decided. Nothing rude, like
What’re you looking at?
No, this was still a United States Senator. No reason to be stupid. Better to go with simple:
Hi there, Senator . . .
or
Nice to see you, Senator . . .
or something like . . . like . . .
Can I help you?
There we go.
Can I help you?
Simple but straightforward. Just like Momma.

With less than twenty feet to go, Viv raised her chin just enough to make sure the Senator was still there. He hadn’t moved from behind the hundred-year-old desk. His eyes were still on her. Within two steps, Viv’s pace slowed imperceptibly, and she again gripped the ID as it dangled from her neck. Her thumbnail flicked at the back of the ID badge, scratching at the piece of Scotch tape that held the cutout picture of her mom in place. Viv’s photo on front, Momma on back. It was only fair, Viv had thought the day she Scotch-taped it there. Viv didn’t get to the Senate alone; she shouldn’t be there alone. And with Mom resting on her chest . . . well . . . everyone hides their strength in a different place.

Ten feet ahead of her, at the end of the aisle, the Senator stood his ground.
Vivian, don’t you dare back down,
she could hear her mom warn.
Stay positive.
Viv tightened her jaw and got her first glimpse of the Senator’s shoes. All she had to do was look up and say the words.
Can I help you? . . . Can I help you? . . .
She replayed them in her head. Her thumbnail continued to scratch at the back of her ID.
Stay positive.
She was close enough to see the cuff on the Senator’s slacks.
Just look up,
she told herself.
Stay positive.
And with one final deep breath, Viv did just that. Steeling herself, she lifted her head, locked on to the Senator’s deep-gray eyes . . . and quickly looked back down at the dark blue carpet.

“Excuse me,” Viv whispered as she ducked slightly and sidestepped around him. The Senator didn’t even look down as she passed. Leaving the aisle and heading across the back of the chamber, Viv finally let go of her ID . . . and felt it slap against her chest.

“Got one for you, Viv,” Blutter announced as she pulled open the glass-paned door and smelled the familiar stale air of the cloakroom. Originally designed to store Senators’ coats when they had business on the Floor, the cloakroom was still a cramped, tiny space. She didn’t have to go far to reach Blutter.

“Is it close?” Viv asked, already exhausted.

“S-414-D,” Blutter said from his seat behind the main cloakroom desk. Of the four full-time staffers who answered phones in the cloakroom, Ron Blutter was the youngest at twenty-two, which was also why he was the designated cloakroom boss in charge of the page program. Blutter knew it was a crap job—keeping track of his party’s puberty-ridden sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds—but at least it was better than being a page.

“They asked for you personally,” Blutter added. “Something to do with your sponsor’s office.”

Viv nodded. The only way to get a job as a page was to be sponsored by a Senator, but as the only black page in the entire page program, she was well accustomed to the fact that there were other requirements of the job besides delivering packages. “Another photo op?” she asked.

“I’m guessing.” Blutter shrugged as Viv signed herself out on the locator sheet. “Though from the room number . . . maybe it’s just a reception.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Behind her, the door to the cloakroom opened, and the Senator from Illinois lumbered inside, heading straight for the old wooden phone booths that lined the narrow L-shaped room. As always, Senators were tucked into the booths, returning calls and gabbing away. The Senator stepped into the first booth on the right and slid the door shut.

“By the way, Viv,” Blutter added as his phone started to ring, “don’t let Senator Spooky creep you out. It’s not you—it’s him. Whenever he prepares for a Floor speech, he stares through everyone like they’re a ghost.”

“No, I know . . . I just—”

“It’s not you. It’s him,” Blutter reiterated. “You hear me? It’s him.”

Lifting her chin, Viv pushed her shoulders back and buttoned her blue suit jacket. Her ID dangled from around her neck. She headed for the door as quickly as she could. Blutter went back to the phones. There was no way she’d let him see the smile on her face.

S-414-B . . . S-414-C . . . S-414-D
. . . Viv counted to herself as she followed the room numbers on the fourth floor of the Capitol. She hadn’t realized that Senator Kalo had offices up here, but that was typical Capitol—everyone scattered all over the place. Remembering the story about the female staffer giving new meaning to the term
briefing the Senator,
she stopped at the heavy oak door and gave it a sharp knock. Truth be told, she knew the story was bullshit—just something Blutter told them so they’d watch their manners. Indeed, a few staffers may’ve had some fun, but from the looks of the rest . . . the stiffness she saw in the halls . . . none of these people were having sex.

Waiting for a response, she was surprised not to find one.

She knocked again. Just to be safe.

Again, no answer.

With a twist, she opened the door a tiny crack. “Senate page,” she announced. “Anyone here . . . ?”

Still no response. Viv didn’t think twice. If a staffer was tracking down the Senator for a photo op, they’d want her just to take a seat by the desk. But as Viv entered the dark office, there wasn’t an open seat. In fact, there wasn’t even a desk. Instead, at the center of the room were two large mahogany tables, pushed together so they could hold the dozen or so outdated computer monitors piled on top. On her left, three red leather rolling chairs were stacked one on top of the other, while on her right, empty file cabinets, storage boxes, a few spare computer keyboards, and even an upside-down refrigerator were shoved together in a makeshift pile. The walls were bare. No pictures . . . no diplomas . . . nothing personal. This wasn’t an office. More like storage. From the layer of dust that covered the half-lowered blinds, the place was clearly deserted. In fact, the only evidence that anyone had even been in there was the handwritten note on the edge of the conference table:

Please pick up the phone

At the bottom of the note was an arrow pointing to the right, where a telephone sat atop one of the open file cabinets.

Confused, Viv raised an eyebrow, unsure why someone would—

The phone rang, and Viv jumped back, bumping into the closed door. She searched around the room. No one there. The phone rang again.

Viv reread the note and cautiously stepped forward. “H-Hello,” she answered, picking up the receiver.

“Hello, who’s this?” a warm voice countered.

“Who’s this?” Viv countered.

“Andy,” the man answered. “Andy Defresne. Now, who’s this?”

“Viv.”

“Viv who?”

“Viv Parker,” she replied. “Is this . . . Is this some kinda joke? Thomas, is that you?”

There was a click. The phone went dead.

Viv hung up the receiver and looked up to check the corners of the ceiling. She saw something like this on
Bloopers and Practical Jokes
once. But there wasn’t a camera anywhere. And the longer Viv stood there, the more she knew she’d already been there too long.

Spinning around, she rushed to the door and clutched the doorknob in her sweat-covered hand. She fought to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge—like someone was holding it from the outside. She gave it one last twist, and it finally gave. But as the door swung open, she stopped in her tracks. A tall man with messy black hair was blocking her way.

“Viv, huh?” the man asked.

“I swear, you touch me, and I’ll scream so loud, it’ll make your nuts shatter like crystal . . . uh . . . like crystal balls.”

“Relax,” Harris said as he stepped inside. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

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.”