Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [44]
“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?