I stop breathing again as the mouse hovers over my father’s name. Am I ready for this? Ready to know the truth? There’s only one way to find out. I click on it.
The screen flashes away, and a new one pops up. Mitchell Thomas Obermann. Born Natick, Massachusetts. Died [XXXXXXXX]
I’m not aware of my sharp intake of breath until my lungs burn. Eight Xs. I count all of them twice. They’re the computer equivalent of taking a big black marker to a piece of paper and scrawling the word redacted on top. A truth I don’t get to know.
I rest my head in my hands before I look back at the screen. My dad’s date of birth is listed, too, as well as his date of death. Dates I already know. Information I already freaking know. My breath chokes inside my throat, and I look away. This page isn’t going to tell me anything. Just like the dog tags.
A surge of anger shoots through my body. Anger at the injustice of the whole thing. Anger at how helpless I feel. I’ve worked so hard to make sure I’d never have to feel helpless again, but in this game of life, the house always wins. Screw the house.
Still, a small part of me hopes there’s even one useful nugget of information. I look back and keep reading. Educational Background
Johnson School, Natick, Massachusetts.
Coolidge Junior High School, Natick, Massachusetts.
The Peel Academy, Upton, Massachusetts.
United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland.
And now I sit up straight. My dad did go to Peel. I mean, I always suspected he did, despite the dog tags—because how else would I get in?—but you never know. Peel doesn’t exactly keep public records of its students. You won’t find any old yearbooks in the library. No photos of past valedictorians hanging on the walls.
I guess my dad was in the ten percent who didn’t go CIA. That happens. Some go FBI, some go NSA, some don’t go government at all. Like Abe’s dad, who went private sector after Peel.
According to this, my dad went on to the navy. So he graduated from the Naval Academy and then . . . Wait. I stare at the dates I skimmed past the first time. That doesn’t make sense. My dad only spent three years at the Naval Academy. He didn’t graduate.
Something isn’t adding up here. I scroll down the page, but there’s no employment information. Nothing to tell me what my dad did from the time he left the academy until he died. Not even an [XXXXXXXX]. That means it’s really classified.
I scan the Personal Information section. There’s a bunch of information on my grandparents—my dad’s parents—both of whom are long dead. Walter and Dorothy Obermann. I never knew them. Although—I stare at their birth and death dates—my grandfather died young. I never knew that. That must have been hard on my dad.
My mom’s name is there. I stare at it— Spouse – Joy Crina Obermann (nee Amar). Born Brooklyn, New York.
I wonder how’s she’s doing today. Is it a manic day? A depressed day? Has she maybe started having normal days again since I left?
I shake my head and move down to the next line. Child(ren) – Amanda Jean Obermann.* Born Jericho, Vermont.
I blink. Over and over again, but it doesn’t do a thing to get rid of that star next to my name. I’d scroll farther, but I’m already at the bottom of the page. I look at the entire page, but just like I thought, the star isn’t explained anywhere. It’s a stray star hanging there, taunting me.
Which just means that I’ll have to work harder to weasel the next level of clearance away from them.
Screw you, house. I will beat you.
CHAPTER 10
I find a note under my door the next morning, and I yawn as I bend to pick it up.
NUMBER EIGHT
My neck snaps up. When Alpha said I was back to training missions, I didn’t realize he meant the next day. I race to my closet and push all the hangers holding my things to the side, eager to get to my historical wardrobe. I find the hanger marked with an 8 and pull it down.
It’s a knee-length baby-blue dress with a wide skirt and a white Peter Pan collar. There’s a matching purse. I wrinkle my nose. That collar looks like something I would have worn on a jumper when I was four. But then I remember the star next to my name and tell myself it’s time to get serious.
I take a quick shower and zip up the dress. It looks even more ridiculous on me than it did on the hanger. With a pair of white wrist gloves and some sensible heels, I’d be ready for bridge club in the church fellowship hall. I have no idea what to do with my hair, so I throw it back into a low ponytail. I add a thin layer of black eyeliner and a smidge of a shimmery brown eye shadow, then I swipe a few dabs of mascara onto my eyelashes—only because I’m afraid Alpha would put me through another Yellow makeover if I don’t. I take one quick look in the mirror, and the mascara tube clatters to the floor.
I look so much like my mom with the makeup. The old pictures of her. The ones from before her diagnosis or from shortly after, when she was still medicating. The ones when she was young and happy, full of life. Her eyes are green and wide, while mine are brown and close set—my dad’s eyes; but everything else is my mom. In this mirror, I am her.
I hope and pray every single night that looks are the only thing I inherited from her. She wasn’t that much older than I am now when she got the diagnosis. There could be a ticking time bomb lying dormant inside of me, waiting for the right moment to explode its mania and desperation all over the normal life I’m trying so hard to build. I chew my bottom lip for a few seconds, then I’m out the door.
There isn’t. I’m not.
I slide into my place next to Indigo and try to delete my mom from my mind. Indigo leans over and lifts one of the flaps of my collar. “Cute.”
I bat his hand away but then notice he’s ditched the Civil War getup today. Instead he’s wearing a pair of high-waisted, pleated pants and a charcoal tweed skinny tie over a short-sleeved white button-down. His hair is slicked back with probably an entire bottle of gel. It’s not the best look for him.
“Iris,” Alpha says. “We were just discussing you.”
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s seven on the dot. I’m not late, am I?
“This morning you’ll be going on your second training mission.”
“Great!” I say. “You and me? Where are we going?”
A few people at the table exchange worried looks, which is not lost on me. What did I say? Alpha takes in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes for a short second.
“Ah. No. Zeta handles all training missions.”
Ugh. Awesome.
“And Indigo will be accompanying the two of you,” Alpha continues.
I look at Indigo. That would explain the hair. He leans over and jostles his shoulder into mine. “We’re a team, kid.”
I’m not sure why, but I bristle when Indigo calls me “kid.”
Alpha pours a dab of cream into his coffee and gives it a quick swirl with a sterling spoon. “The car will be here in ten, so eat quickly.”
Car? What car? But I don’t have time to think about it, because trays of food are set in front of us. I try to inhale it, but I’ve only managed a piece of toast and a few bites of a scrambled egg when Zeta stands up and announces it’s time to go.
Zeta punches in a code to disengage the alarm before we go out the front door, and once I’m outside it dawns on me that I’ve never been out this way. Just through that little door on the side street, and even then, only in another time.