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  Fakie

  Text © 2008 Tony Varrato

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, Without the prior written permission of Lobster Press™.

  Published by Lobster Press™

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  Montréal, Québec H3H 1C9

  Tel. (514) 904-1100 • Fax (514) 904-1101 • www.lobsterpress.com

  Publisher: Alison Fripp

  Editors: Alison Fripp & Meghan Nolan

  Editorial Assistants: Lindsay Cornish, Shiran Teitelbaurn & Lauren Clark

  Graphic Design & Production: Tammy Desnoyers

  To Bonnie

  —Tony Varrato

  FAKIE

  written by

  Tony Varrato

  Lobster Press™

  CHAPTER 1

  IT WAS ALWAYSearly morning when they left, and it was always in a different direction. As the car rolled quietly down the two-lane highway, he looked at his watch. 3:07 am. This time, they were headed south.

  His mom broke the hour-long silence. “So, have you decided who you’re going to be this time?”

  He thought for a minute before answering. That’s all he had been thinking about since they had left a half hour ago. But he had learned from everything that had happened so far that it was best to think before answering or acting. If he had done that in the first place, he and his mom wouldn’t even be in this mess.

  “I think I’d like to be a skateboarder.”

  “Heh, I guess you’ll have to learn a new vocabulary. You’ll be saying ‘dude’ and ‘like’ all the time.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be that bad. I’ll need new clothes, though. I’ve been studying skateboarders on Ex-Tube. I need baggy pants, loose T-shirts, and Vans. And of course, a skateboard.”

  “How are you going to pull off the hair? You need it long and shaggy in front, don’t you?”

  He remembered that in his last life, he had been a jock and he buzzed off most of his hair with the rest of the team. Above all, he had to fit in.

  “A lot of skateboarders and surfers shave their heads bald or close to it. I just might have to get a scalp tan so I don’t look like a poser. What are you going to do?”

  “I think I’ll try being a redhead again. My hair’s starting to get longer now. Maybe I’ll get it straightened.”

  “You’d look good. Any idea of the job this time?”

  “I want us to live within twenty minutes of the beach, so there should be lots of restaurants. Maybe a pizza joint this time.”

  His mom would only take jobs in restaurants. She needed as much on-hand cash as possible. They had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice — just like tonight. There would be no time to hit the bank, and besides, the automatic bank machine left videos of each transaction. Pictures were a major mistake. That’s why they were driving tonight.

  He had shaved his head to fit in and had been cautious not to make any touchdowns. But he messed up and made a great tackle in last night’s game. While his teammates and the crowd cheered, all he could think was: What have I done? The state newspaper ran his picture on the front page of the sports section that morning, so they had no choice but to leave as soon as it got dark.

  Another life ended, a new one ready to begin. How many had this been? Seven? Eight? His real name didn’t matter anymore. He could never be — and he didn’t want to be — that person. That person was a jerk, a loser and worse; he hated that person. His mom was just Mom, he was her son, and Dad was gone. That’s all there was to it.

  “Do we have a last name yet?” he asked.

  “How about Miller? It’s common, but it’s not too common.”

  “Great. I was afraid we were going to be in the Smith, Jones, and Johnson cycle again,” he said.

  “Hey, I’m getting better at this. | just hope we don’t have to move too much more. I think I’ve only got ten social security numbers left.”

  “Well, if we get in a jam, we’ll just have to call Mr. Lankford.”

  Mom was silent.

  “As a last resort of course,” he added.

  “A very last resort,” she said.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE STATE PRISONoutside Chicago was a far cry from the gray, musty dungeons that Hollywood shows in all the multimillion-dollar movies. An ex-prisoner had made millions helping design this and other institutions with brighter colors and circular pods where the guards could watch all of the prisoners at one time if necessary. There were very few fights and no escape attempts. The prisoners were not happy to be there, but they knew they didn’t run the place. The guards did.

  Even so, Frank hated coming here. He could feel his heart speeding up at the possibility that he should be — and possibly could be — an inmate. It seemed as if he were a deer walking by the hunters. Worse yet, he was on his way to visit a lion.

  Guards were stationed around the room, watching prisoners with their visitors at small tables. As he walked over to one of the tables, Frank shot a nervous glance at a guard not more than ten feet away. He realized that the guard didn’t scare him as much as the man seated at the far table. The lion was out of his cage. As Frank sat down, a feeling of dread came over him. There were many ways Steve Ballantine could reach Frank, even beyond the protective walls of the prison.

  “Well?” Steve snarled. No “Hello,” “Good to see you,” or “How’s everybody?” He was powerful, not friendly.

  “Steve, we think we saw him in a paper in New York State three days ago. We’ve sent the girls there to check it out. He was playing football, and there was a big 5 X 7 of him on the front of the Sports page.”

  Steve was patient until Frank finished. “You don’t think they’re stupid enough to stay there, do you?”

  The words slashed like claws. Steve’s tone, not his volume, clearly gave the message that Steve thought Frank was an idiot. Then again, according to Steve, everyone was an idiot,

  “No, Steve, no. We figure they left already. But we’ll do the usual search for clues with the other kids, the house, the job, and the bank. They have to slip up sometime.”

  “Let me know what you find.” Steve took a long pause and lowered his voice. “I’m ready to try a new approach. Two years in this place is too much.” He leaned forward in his chair, a new intensity blazing in his eyes. “I want them found.”

  Then, he leaned back in his chair and a smile spread across his face. “So, how’s my business doing?”

  CHAPTER 3

  THREE DAYS WEREmore than enough to set up a new life. Alex and Sonya Miller were now real people living nineteen minutes from the surf of Virginia Beach. They had a two-bedroom townhouse where Alex’s mom had hooked up her computer, high-end printer, and scanner, which had all been provided by Mr. Lankford. Among other things, his Mom had printed out a driver’s license, social security cards, birth certificates, and — Alex’s favorite — school records from any school in the country. He knew he could have a straight-A average if he wanted, but he had to blend in with the crowd. Bs were the perfect low-profile grades for a kid who needed to blend in to stay alive. Letters on a report card meant nothing to him. Alex knew he was smart enough to be at the top of any school he chose. His experiences in the past three-plus years had opened his eyes to a world very few other fifteen-year-olds had seen.

  Even though he had gone through this procedure two previous times this school year, Alex was still nervous about his first day at a new school. He double-checked his new clothes to make sure that the dozen or so washings made them look as worn as possible. He felt like a poser, but then again, he always did. He tossed his backpack, with appropriate Alien Workshop and “Mean People Suck” patches, over one shoulder and headed out t
he door with Mom.

  They opened the doors of their “new” 1988 white Toyota Tercel. They had sold their old car for scrap at a junkyard and bought the Tercel on their way through Delaware for eight hundred dollars cash. They liked buying old, boxy cars because no one ever bothered to steal anything from them. They weren’t too exciting, but they ran forever. And besides — buying a rust bucket with cash doesn’t leave a trail for anyone to follow.

  When they pulled up to the school around 10:00 on that mid-November morning, the grounds were fairly deserted. The school day had begun, and most people were already in their classes. The Millers walked in and Alex quietly registered. Mrs. Wisniewski, the school secretary, was relieved that he had all of the paperwork with him so that she wouldn’t have to play phone-tag with the other schools to get the information. Mrs. Wisniewski then entered his information into her database, printed out his schedule, and sent Alex off to his third period class.

  Alex was always amazed that even before he had stepped into a classroom, everyone knew he was coming. The teachers sometimes knew, but the students had a communication network like no other. Just one student who saw something strange, like a new kid or a fight, could pass this information all over the school in less than sixty seconds. When word of mouth wasn’t an option, text messaging sure got the job done. Alex had been in enough schools to know that cell phones were probably off-limits here, but that it didn’t stop too many kids from sending messages under their desks.

  When Alex opened the door and handed the history teacher his schedule, the rest of the class buzzed. The next two days would be difficult, but luckily, he saw a few others with the skater look. On his way to his seat, he gave his potential friends, who were seated in the back corner of the class, a head nod.

  The teacher continued his lesson about the first winter in Jamestown. However, the class was really studying Alex that period. There were no eye rolls of disapproval, so he must have gotten his new look right. Also, some of the students checking him out were girls. He looked back at a few of them, but he didn’t flirt or smile too much. It was too soon. He wished it were three days from now, when the newness was over.

  He talked to a couple of boys casually between periods. He studied how they walked, the words they used, and their body language. Generally, these students didn’t seem to be as hostile or defensive as the kids in some of his former schools. He was relieved.

  The first jerk came along on the way back from lunch. Alex was lightly bumped, almost as if by accident. Then he heard, “Nice hair. You know they can fix baldness with hair plugs, right?” A large jock locked eyes with Alex as he slowly passed him in the crowded hall. A shark sizing up its prey.

  “But he’s got no hair to transplant. He’s not man enough to have chest hair yet,” added a skinnier jock with a high-pitched voice. Alex knew this type of idiot — he had been one of them just last week.

  “Actually, I just shaved my chest this morning,” replied Alex, puffing his chest and then running his fingers across his stubbly scalp. “I’m thinking of getting a hair weave.”

  The high-pitched boy cracked up, but the jerk refused to laugh. Alex could see that he wanted to though. “Oooh, New Kid thinks he’s funny. Think again, chump.”

  In those few seconds, a small crowd had gathered to see if it was fight time. Alex knew better than to start anything; his first fake identity had been a tough guy. Too much publicity. Too many people wanted to test tough guys.

  Alex swallowed the other wisecracks he had ready. He just smiled and turned toward class. As he walked into the room, he could feel the large jock’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

  This guy was going to be a problem, and Alex would have to deal with him soon. Above all, Alex had to blend in.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT WAS TIMEfor Alex to get serious. Since he had gotten out of the hospital, Alex had worked hard to get his body into some kind of shape. The doctor told him that there had been a lot of damage, but that exercise would help. Even after a year of weight lifting and jogging, he had had to put off a football identity because his body wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be huge — he just wanted to be healthy, and because of his work, he was in fairly good shape. It was a good thing too; this was going to be a very physical identity. He had been looking at magazines, and the local video store had some helpful DVDs. So it was time to give skateboarding a try — privately.

  Luckily, the townhouse his mom found had a garage. Because she tried to get the busy evening shifts as much as possible, he had the garage to himself until 10:00 pm. or so. With the door closed, Alex put on pads and a helmet. He was pretty sure it was uncool to wear these things in public, but showing up at school with bandages was even more uncool. He picked up his new board. A guy in Ocean City had put it together for Alex so that he wouldn’t look like a wannabe. The guy hooked him up with a plain board with a slick bottom, and added trucks, bearings, and 60 mm starter wheels. Alex also bought some smaller wheels to use once he got the hang of it. The salesman said he could change the wheels himself when he was ready. That was fine with Alex — he liked fixing things with his hands.

  Alex put his right foot behind the front hardware and pushed off with his left. There wasn’t much room in the single-car garage, so he had to practice carving. He leaned left and right. That seemed easy enough, but he had to keep doing it until he felt comfortable.

  Once he had that down, it was time to practice his ollie. He slammed his back foot on the tail of the deck and jumped. Nothing. This would obviously take a lot more work.

  His mother came home at about 11:00 pm. By that time, Alex was doing homework and listening to Rage Against the Machine on his MP3 player.

  She fluffed her newly dyed red hair, laughed, and dropped her apron on the chair. “Well, how did it go?”

  “It was a typical first day. I dressed right, the teachers seem okay, and I met the first bully, I think.”

  “What are you going to do about him?” she asked.

  “The usual.”

  CHAPTER 5

  FRANK SAT DOWNat the prison visiting table and spoke to Steve quietly. “You were right.” He figured Steve wasn’t going to say hello anyway, so he might as well get down to business. “Nothing. We found out the type of car and the license plate number, but she’s ditched that car already.” He leaned in, just a little closer. “So, what’s your new idea?”

  “I need a map,” Steve said. “Mark every place we know they’ve stayed and make sure we have every move accounted for. Disguise it as papers from my lawyer or something — do whatever you’ve gotta do to get that map in here. I want to know everywhere they’ve been.” He locked his predatory eyes on Frank and spoke slowly, clearly. “No gaps.”

  “I don’t think there are any gaps, but I’ll double-check.”

  “Do that. There has to be an underlying pattern to their movements.” Steve gritted his teeth. “It would be nice for you guys to figure out where they are now, instead of always being one step behind.”

  * * *

  Day two is always the worst, Alex thought. You’re still the new kid, but now everyone wants to get all of the information they can about you. Of course, Alex could not tell anyone anything about himself or about his past lives. There could be no connecting him with who he really was. Alex remembered an old song his dad used to play, where the singer cried, “You can’t hide from yourself!” Alex, who was not really Alex, was determined to prove that singer wrong.

  Thinking about the song brought up memories he didn’t want to deal with. A brief image of his dad singing terribly as usual. Mom telling him he sounded like someone stepped on a cat. Happy memories. Then other memories flashed at him: the explosion of the gun and the silent scream.

  I’m sorry, Dad.

  He shook away his tears. Alex had to get into character and pretend to be normal. He had to bluff his way through this identity, like he did with all the others.

  He had invented a stock lie that only had to be modified slig
htly with each move. He realized that by using this lie, he was assuming he wasn’t staying in one place for long. It was realistic, but depressing as hell. It would be so nice to finally stay somewhere, to be himself. Unfortunately, he did not know exactly who that was anymore.

  A boy with hair past his shoulders stopped in front of Alex in the hallway. “If you read that in class, the teachers’ll take it from you,” he said.

  The wrinkled skate magazine in Alex’s hand worked like a charm. “Yeah, that’s because secretly, they’re all skate punks,” Alex replied.

  “Yeah, especially Mr. Jackson. I bet at night, when no one’s around, that old guy’s shredding on the handrails and the front stairs!”

  They both laughed, and with that, Alex made his first friend in this life.

  “My name’s Tim.”

  “I’m Alex.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re in three of my classes.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, I’ve gotta get — ”

  “Hey!” a loud voice boomed from behind them. The jock from the day before shoved his way between Tim and Alex. “Skate wuss and turtle head. You two look cute together.” The jock puffed up his shoulders and walked confidently into Tim’s class.

  “Give us a kiss,” squeaked the high-pitched sidekick, as he squeezed past them.

  Alex and Tim watched and fumed for a moment.

  They both just shook their heads. Alex turned to Tim and asked, “Who’s the caveman, and what’s with his little sidekick?”

  “The loud one’s Brian, and his buddy’s Carl. They give everybody crap. You just get an extra dose because you’re new.”

  Alex nodded.