Who I'm Not Read online

  TED STAUNTON

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2013 Ted Staunton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known

  or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Staunton, Ted, 1956-

  Who I’m not [electronic resource] / Ted Staunton.

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0435-7 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0436-4 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8587.T334W56 2013 jC813’.54 C2013-901871-9

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935300

  Summary: A kid in trouble with the law assumes the identity of a boy

  who vanished three years before.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing

  programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through

  the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British

  Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover image by Andrew Wooldridge and Teresa Bubela

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For Will and Margaret,

  who both know who they are

  Men…have an extraordinary knack of lending themselves to deception, a sort of curious and inexplicable propensity to allow themselves to be led by the nose with their eyes open.

  —Joseph Conrad, The Mirror of the Sea

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  It’s easier to tell you who I’m not. I’m not Kerry Ludwig or Sean Callahan. I’m not David Alvierez or Peter McLeod or Frank Rolfe. I’ve kind of wished I was David Alvierez. I don’t look Latino or anything, but it sounds exotic. Anyway, I’ve been all those guys, but none of them was me.

  And I’m not Danny Dellomondo either, no matter what I said. If I were Danny, I wouldn’t be telling you this, would I? I mean, I couldn’t. The only reason I became him was because Harley died.

  We were working this high-end mall in Tucson. Harley was doing switch-backs on debit card pin machines, two in fancy clothing stores and one—he said it was the jackpot—in this executive-type fitness club. I was decoying. He’d lifted the store’s machines the month before. Harley had switched them for ones he’d gotten from this guy Dennis. The plan was, Dennis’s machines would store up a whole month’s worth of pin numbers and info. Then, when we switched them back, Dennis could download it all and tap into all these rich people’s bank accounts.

  “They’ll still notice, even if they’re rich,” I said.

  “Naw,” Harley told me, “that’s the beauty part. With so many numbers, you just do a little bit, over and over, from each one, so they don’t notice. And if someone does, who cares? You’ve still got all the rest. It adds up to major coin.”

  We weren’t getting cut into the major coin—we were hired hands. Dennis was paying straight cash for the switches. We moved around a lot, so even if they ever did look at the security videos, nobody would recognize us. Harley said we were going to Seattle as soon as Dennis paid up.

  The clothing stores were routine. The back-to-school sales were on, but it was the slackest part of the afternoon. We were pretty duded up to fit in—Harley was always really careful about clothes. I’d go in first and get the clerks away from the desk to help me pick something for my mom’s birthday. Then I’d say I’d forgotten what her size was and promise to come back.

  I liked decoying. People got right into it, probably because most of them think teenagers are supposed to be all attitude. If they really got into it, I’d take a while. I didn’t have to—Harley only needed a few seconds to unplug this and plug in that (you should have seen him deal cards)—but it was nice; I could tell I was making their day. I’d make up all kinds of stuff, until I’d halfbelieve it myself. Feeling good is what we sell, Harley liked to say when we were scamming. If a store lady was really nice to me and was about the right age, I’d tell her she should be my mother. That would always make her laugh and get blushy, so you could tell she liked it. Once in a while I’d find myself wondering if she was my mother, maybe even wishing it a little bit, you know. Which is strange, because I’ve imagined lots of parents, but I never saw them working in a store.

  After we hit the stores, we met in the food court and then did the health club. Harley said he was my dad and got me sent on a tour to see if I liked it enough for him to take out a family membership. This studly guy with too much tan walked me to the elliptical trainers and all the weight machines. I bet the ladies liked him, but he creeped me out. He was completely hairless. Every so often he’d check himself out in the mirror. I glanced back at Harley; he already had the switch done. I told the guy I’d think about it. He gave me his business card.

  Outside, I remember, Harley stopped to put on his two-tone shades and settle the collar of his yellow polo shirt out over his blazer. Then he adjusted the cuffs of the blazer too, so his big silver watch showed. Harley was just so about everything, especially his hair. He was getting thin on top, and he was short enough that you’d notice. He was carrying an empty laptop case and a small gym bag that he’d stashed the pin machines in. He looked like Joe Business, just done a workout.

  He took out a pack of gum and popped in a couple of pieces, and we started across the parking lot for the van. Everything was bright and glary, and the heat was pounding up from the pavement in shock waves. August in Tucson is no joke. I was dragging, but it didn’t matter to Harley. Harley never walked—he strutted.

  “Good day’s work,” Harley said around his chewing.

  “How much will Dennis pay?” I asked.

  “I’ll handle that.” Harley didn’t look at me while we talked. I knew he was scoping out the parking lot for incidental action. You ever had too much money? he liked to ask me, even though it wasn’t a real question. I never had any money unless he gave me some, and I had no clue how much we—I mean, he—had.

  “Hey, hey,” Harley said. “Check it out. You see him? Fat Boy.”

  I knew by now what to look for. Sure enough, two rows of cars over a lumpy guy with spiky hair was huffing and puffing, a big bag from the mall’s ste
reo store in each hand and a laptop case slung over his shoulder.

  “Go,” Harley said, chewing faster. “Good car, we do it.”

  It was the key game—easy and just exciting enough to be fun. I peeled away and hustled through the heat and the parked cars to the row just past Fat Boy. Then I slowed down, staying behind him. He stopped at a black Lexus. Perfect. I ducked down. I heard his door locks click open. I saw him slinging the stuff into the back seat. He was sweating in the sunshine; you could see the dark patch where his shirt stuck to his back. He opened the driver’s door, and as he got in, I crept to the car right behind his. Harley was strolling in front of the Lexus, pretending to look at his big watch from behind his shades. Fat Boy reached for his shoulder belt. I stood up and stepped forward. Harley looked up from his watch. “Hey!” he yelled to Fat Boy. “Hey!” He rapped on the car’s hood, then pointed. “He’s keying your car!”

  Fat Boy freaked. He was scrambling around so much, the Lexus started rocking. Then he tumbled out all redfaced and wild-eyed, yelling, “Hey! You little—”

  I froze at the back on the passenger side, as if I was scared stiff. Really, I was counting to three. He came at me. I ran.

  It was no problem to outrun him; I’m small for my age. All I had to do was distract him long enough for Harley to scoop everything and get away. Then I’d loop back to the van and we’d be gone.

  I could hear Fat Boy gasping behind me, the slap of his loafers on the pavement. We were far enough away by now. Never look back, Harley always said, but I did it this once, as I sped up. Fat Boy’s face was purple. He stumbled, and his hand came up. There was something in it. It could have been a Blackberry. It could have been a gun. That scared me. I yelled as I dodged around a monster suv. Two rows of cars over, I glimpsed Harley’s head. It snapped around at the sound of my voice. Then I heard three things all in a row: a horn blare, brakes shriek and this muffled clunk, like something falling over in a closet. Then Harley was dead.

  TWO

  I guess I could’ve got away right then. What I would have got away to, I couldn’t tell you. I had five bucks in my pocket and the Frank Rolfe ID. Harley had everything else, even the key to the motel room, which was way across town anyway.

  So maybe it didn’t matter that I ran back to Harley. I was still there, stunned, numb, kneeling on the pavement beside him and the blackening puddle spreading under his head, when the ambulance and the cops showed up and the little crowd that had gathered moved aside. One of the ambulance people put an oxygen mask on Fat Boy, who was still gasping, slumped against a light pole.

  I don’t know how long it was before I was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in an office, and this guy who said his name was Josh was talking to me. By then, I was wide awake and more. I could’ve felt a mosquito flying in the next room. I’d met lots of Joshes before, back in the Bad Time, and usually in offices like this. Only difference was, my feet didn’t always reach the ground then.

  “Frank,” he said, “you understand I’m not police? You’re at Youth Services—it’s a shelter. My job is to protect you. You’ve had a crazy time today. All I’m here to do is help.” He gave me a business card. It was my day for cards.

  I stuffed it in my pocket and nodded. Harley was dead, but I wasn’t feeling that, only how the room was throbbing with Bad Time vibes. I was fighting down the panic, panting. Whenever Harley had been really pissed with me, especially when I was younger, all he’d had to say was You want to go back to the Bad Time? and I’d cave, instantly. No matter what, I never wanted to go back to the Bad Time. My memories of it had gotten all hazy and jumbled, but that just made it scarier, like something changing shape in the shadows. All I wanted was to get out of here, even if all I had was five bucks and bad ID.

  Josh slung one leg up onto the mess on his desk. His shoes were black Converse high tops. His short-sleeved shirt was all rumply. Trust me cool. He leaned back in his chair, but he kept his eyes locked on me. They were dark. Behind him, his computer screen still glowed; he’d been typing when they brought me in. Above his shoulder, I could just make out CASE MANAGEMENT STRATEGIES. I knew all about case-management strategies—the story of my life. Somewhere, a file about me was full of them. He said, “Is there anybody you want to call, or want me to call?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I should just go.” My voice wobbled.

  Josh pressed his lips together. “Well, Frank, the question is, where to? According to your ID, you’re fifteen, which makes you a minor. And from Michigan. Have you got family here in Tucson? Friends?”

  “Oh sure,” I said. “There’s the Ludwigs, and the McLeods, the Lombards. And the Alvierezes, they live really close. You don’t have to call or anything. I can just walk.”

  I stood up fast. It made me dizzy.

  “Frank,” Josh said gently, “chill.”

  I sat back down, shoving my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them tremble. I was wearing Gap cargo shorts to go with the preppy-rich-kid look. They made my legs look skinny, which probably made me seem even smaller and younger than I was. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Josh said, “The cops told me about the IDs in the van, with a lot of other stuff. A bag full of pin machines, et cetera. You want to tell me anything else?”

  “I told them. I didn’t even know that guy. I was just passing, like everybody else.”

  Josh nodded. He took his leg off his desk and put his elbows on it instead. Then he cupped his face in his hands and looked at me some more. He scratched under his chin; he was one of those guys with the three-day-beard look. I’d probably like that look if I could do it. Then he said, “The cops said you were running the key game.”

  I wrinkled up my face. “What’s the key game?”

  Josh just shrugged, his chin still in his hands. “Something the cops think you were doing. Not my problem. I hope not yours, but they’re probably going to want to talk to you about it. Me, I’m not asking. My job is to get you somewhere safe. To do that, I have to know who you are. So, who are you, Frank?”

  And there it was. The Question. I looked straight back at him. “I dunno,” I said. It was true, but that didn’t matter. They never believe you when you tell the truth.

  Sure enough, Josh let that hang, still watching me. After a minute, he said, “Okay. Listen, you’re weirded out. Who wouldn’t be? Why don’t you take a little time?” He stood up. He was tall and skinny. His rumply shirt was hanging out, too short. “I’m gonna get a coffee. You want anything to eat or drink?”

  I shook my head. My heart was pounding in my ears.

  “Cool,” he said. “Change your mind, I’ll be out front. Take a break; chill for a while. You want to use the phone or anything, go ahead. Remember, I’m supposed to help, not hassle. If there’s some place you need to get back to, some way I can help you go forward…” He shrugged, cocked his head and gave me a half smile. Then he walked out and closed the door.

  I hunched in the chair. Harley was dead. The Bad Time was all around me. For a minute I couldn’t move at all. Joshes didn’t move you forward, they sent you around in circles. I wasn’t going back. I was going to get out of here, no matter what. I stood up. The office opened into the front room, so I couldn’t walk out. No outside windows either.

  What would Harley do? I pulled my hands out of my pockets. My armpits went cold in the air-conditioning. There were sweat circles under the arms of my Tommy shirt. I took a deep breath and unclenched my fists. Something was crumpled in my hand: Josh’s card and the one from the guy at the health club.

  I tossed them on the mess on the desk. Everybody had a name. I’d had lots of them. I needed another, one that would at least buy me some time and maybe some distance, far enough away from here to figure out what I should do next. A name to save me from the Bad Time.

  What would Harley do? There was a bulletin board with a No Smoking sticker and posters of missing kids pinned up; a map of North America was stuck to the wall above the shelves. Papers, bi
nders, dirty mugs…Josh was a slob. Even his computer monitor was messed up with those little yellow sticky notes. The screen had gone dark. I went around the desk to the computer and jiggled the mouse. The screen brightened. CASE MANAGEMENT STRATEGIES. Josh had forgotten to log out.

  It was my first break all day. I sat down and took another deep breath. I minimized the screen and opened a new browser window. All I needed now was something to search for. What? A name? Who? What would get me out of here? I swiveled in Josh’s chair. Binders, the map, a bulletin board with pictures of runaway kids. I swiveled back to the computer. Report due Tuesday, said one sticky note. Ellen B’day, said another. Some phone numbers, then a bunch of stickies all down one side of the monitor. Houston/G, A/Grand Rapids Mi?De./Pomona Ca and, at the bottom, Ch Connect KC Mo. My knees started bouncing. All at once I knew what Harley would do.

  I typed Missing Children and looked again at the map, far from Arizona. Ontario was the first place I saw, up north in Canada. I remembered Ontario, California. One time a couple years back, Harley and I had made a big score there with an accident-insurance scam. I’d had to wear one of those white padded collar things for a week, but Harley had said it was more than worth it. Maybe Ontario, Canada, would be lucky too. I typed it in and hit the Enter key.

  In the front room, voices rose and fell. The whole time I was online, I was scared someone would come in to check on me. No one did, though, and after about half an hour I had three possibles. In the end I picked the kid who had been gone the longest time, three years. He’d been twelve then. Where was I when I was twelve? I didn’t want to remember. I memorized this kid instead. I’m good at memorizing—Harley made sure I was. He used to make me play memory games as we drove.

  Then I checked out where the kid was from on Earth Eye and memorized that too. I didn’t know if they had funny accents or talked a different language up in Canada. It didn’t matter. All I needed to do was get everyone confused long enough for me to get away. I clicked back through the screens, closing them as I went, cleared the history and got out from behind the desk. While I waited for the monitor to go dark, I stuck the business cards back in my pocket. Names can come in handy.