The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [6]
“You sure you’re okay doing this?” Clementine asks.
“Will you stop already,” I tell her. “Mysteries are my specialty.”
* * *
2
Seventeen years ago
Sagamore, Wisconsin
Everyone knows when there’s a fight in the schoolyard.
No one has to say a word—it’s telepathic. From ancient to modern times, the human animal knows how to find fighting. And seventh graders know how to find it faster than anyone.
That’s how it was on this day, after lunch, with everyone humming from their Hawaiian Punch and Oreo cookies, when Vincent Paglinni stole Josh Wert’s basketball.
In truth, the ball didn’t belong to Josh Wert—it belonged to the school—but that wasn’t why Paglinni took it.
When it came to the tribes of seventh grade, Paglinni came from a warrior tribe that was used to taking what wasn’t theirs. Josh Wert came from a chubby tribe and was born different than most, with a genius IQ and the kind of parents who told him never to hide it. Plus, he had a last name like Wert, which appeared in just that order—W-E-R-T—on the keyboard of every computer.
“Give it back!” Josh Wert insisted, not using his big brain and making the mistake of calling attention to what had happened.
Paglinni ignored the demand, refusing to even face him.
“I-I want my ball back!” Josh Wert added, sucking in his gut and trying so hard to stand strong.
By now, the tribe of seventh graders was starting to gather. They knew what was about to happen.
Beecher was one of those people. Like Wert, Beecher was also born with brains. At three, Beecher used to read the newspaper. Not just the comics or the sports scores. The whole newspaper, including the obituaries, which his mom let him read when his dad died. Beecher was barely four.
As he grew older, the obits became Beecher’s favorite part of the newspaper, the very first thing he read every morning. Beecher was fascinated by the past, by lives that mattered so much to so many, but that—like his father—he’d never see. At home, Beecher’s mom, who spent days managing the bakery in the supermarket, and afternoons driving the school bus for the high school, knew that made her son different. And special. But unlike Josh Wert, Beecher knew how to use those brains to steer clear of most schoolyard controversies.
“You want your basketball?” Paglinni asked as he finally turned to face Wert. He held the ball out in his open palm. “Why don’t you come get it?”
This was the moment the tribe was waiting for: when chubby Josh Wert would find out exactly what kind of man he’d grow up to be.
Of course, Wert hesitated.
“Do you want the ball or not, fatface?”
Seventeen years from now, when Beecher was helping people at the National Archives, he’d still remember the fear on Josh Wert’s round face—and the sweat that started to puddle in the chubby ledges that formed the tops of Wert’s cheeks. Behind him, every person in the schoolyard—Andrew Goldberg with his freckled face, Randi Boxer with her perfect braids, Lee Rosenberg who always wore Lee jeans—they were all frozen in place, waiting.
No. That wasn’t true.
There was one person moving through the crowd—a late arrival—slowly making her way to the front of the action and holding a jump rope that dangled down, scraping against the concrete.
Beecher knew who she was. The girl with the long black hair, and the three earrings, and the cool hipster black vest. In this part of Wisconsin, no one wore cool hipster vests. Except the new girl.
Clementine.
In truth, she really wasn’t the new girl—Clementine had been born in Sagamore, and lived there until about a decade ago, when her mom moved them to Detroit to pursue her singing career. It was hard moving away. It was even harder moving home. But there was nothing more humbling than two weeks ago, when the pastor in their church announced that everyone needed to give a big welcome back to Clementine and her mom—especially since there was no dad in their house. The pastor was just trying to be helpful. But in that moment, he reminded everyone that Clementine was that girl: