Transparent (3 page)

The teacher groups me with two girls and two guys. They don’t discuss; they just stare at me. I’m not starting this, so I lean back in my chair and wait.

Finally, the guys glance at each other and then at me. A boy with horrible acne opens his mouth. “I bet you know all sorts of things about Radiasure, don’t you, No Face? You probably take one every day.”

My throat tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t think we’re stupid,” one of the girls says. “You’re Jonas O’Connell’s daughter, so you must have unlimited access to it.”

I knew it. If Mom doesn’t cave, someone in town will narc. “What’s it to you?”

“We have enough problems with Juan,” says acne boy. “You and the rest of your kind should take your shit somewhere else.”

My kind. I laugh at the thought. There’s no one else like me. People are so predictable—afraid, angry, jealous, whatever. They don’t stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have a choice in the matter. They don’t realize that I’d trade places with them any day of the week for one glimpse of myself.

“Does your daddy think he can hide you here, No Face?” says the other boy.

I pause, confused. “What?”

“The news says Juan’s planning a syndicate war with your father. Does he think he can use our town as a refuge for his precious daughter until it’s over?”

I try to stay calm. This can work for me. They think I’m just a syndicate baby, and that Dad’s trying to protect me. It makes sense, no matter how far from the truth it is. “What’ll you do if he is using your town? Should I call him and say you want to tell Juan where I am?”

Their eyes go wide, and I smile. Too easy.

“Go to hell,” acne boy spits.

“Already there.”

That seems to make him angrier. “Good, you deserve it.”

As much as I don’t want it to, it stings. I wish I had something else to say, some clever reply. But I don’t. All I can think is that anyone who’s done what I have does deserve hell.

“Hey, Fiona.” A deep voice makes me turn. It’s Brady, and he’s smiling. “How about you come over to our group?”

I stare at him, wondering if it’s some kind of joke. Then Bea rolls her eyes. “Not everyone at this school is a royal dick like Tom. Come on.”

“Suck it, Bea,” acne boy, Tom, says.

“In your dreams.”

The teacher clears his throat. “Do I have to send you to the office again, Miss Navarro?”

She puts on the most angelic face I’ve ever seen, complete with twinkling eyes. “Sorry, Mr. Abbey.”

I bolt for Brady’s group—anything is better than listening to Tom tell me I deserve my crap life. Brady’s blue eyes gleam. I’ve always wished mine were blue, even if there are much more unique colors nowadays. There’s just nothing more gorgeous than blue eyes.

“Don’t listen to him, Fiona,” Brady says when I sit. “He’s just jealous, since all he can do is smell like shit when he gets scared.”

Bea laughs. “And that’s not a joke.”

I smile in spite of myself. “How do we make that happen?”

They both grin. “Easy,” Bea says.

“Brady, will you come up and tell the class what your group discussed?” Mr. Abbey calls.

“Sure.” Brady pushes himself out of his desk. The metal frame bends, leaving it crooked. “Crap.” He pushes it back into shape and continues on like that happens every day. Maybe it does. I haven’t met many Strong Arms, since most are men and my dad is all about the women.

“Perfect distraction,” Bea whispers. “Now watch Tom.” She cups her hands around her mouth, her voice so low I can’t make out what she’s saying.

I watch Tom. He about falls out of his seat, and then comes the smell of a thousand Porta-Potties. It’s awful, worse than my brother Miles’s nastiest scent imitations.

“Bea!” Tom yells, which only makes his face redder. “You little shithead!”

“Look who’s talking!” She laughs as Mr. Abbey tells us to head outside for fresh air.

“What’d you do?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I yelled a few obscenities in his ear.”

Voice throwing—a pretty rare vocal ability. “Pretty tricksy.”

Brady slides up beside us. “That’s how she got the nickname.”

I watch them, trying to figure out if they’re as nice as they seem. I want them to be, but I can’t be too careful. Dad always said nice people are the most dangerous because you don’t want to see the knife in their coat pocket. I finally get what he means.

“Hey, Fiona!” Bea calls as I finish up at my locker.

“Hey.” I try not to fidget with my necklace. I can’t believe she hunted me down after school, as if having almost every class together (and neighboring desks) wasn’t enough. “What’s up?”

She shrugs. “Just wondered if you had a ride home.”

For some reason, this triggers all my panic buttons. She can’t know where I live. It’s not safe. What if she’s a spy? I can’t help thinking all of Bea’s and Brady’s niceness means more than they’re saying. It’s possible they’re working for a syndicate. They’re too useful to have gone unnoticed by Juan, even in a small town like Madison, Arizona. He runs the Southwest with his breath—take in one puff and it triggers all your pain sensors. Some of my dad’s women have come back from jobs half-dead and full-on crazy because of him. If Bea and Brady are with Juan …

“I’m good. Thanks for asking, though,” I say.

She nods. “Cool. Thought I’d ask before Brady left. I have to stay late.”

I silently curse myself for missing a ride with the gorgeous Brady, but it can’t be helped. After waving good-bye, I head for the house on foot. I’m only a block from school before the heat starts to feel like the inside of a blow-dryer. It’s dustier here than in Vegas, each gust of wind blowing something in my face, and there’s hardly a tree to shade my way. I’ll be drenched in sweat by the time I get home. After another few blocks, my mouth is dry. All I want is a cold drink. And air-conditioning. The heat radiates off the pavement so much I can feel it creep under my jeans. I like wearing pants to define my legs, but I’ll have to relent and wear shorts if the heat doesn’t let up.

Old cars pass me, obviously coming from the school. Some of the passengers flip me off as they go by. I duck onto a side road, hoping I can figure out how to get to the house despite the detour.

I spot the gray stucco house the second I round the corner onto my street. I have to admit it’s the nicest place Mom’s ever taken me on these escapes. Where she got the money, I don’t know. I can guess—Mom has opened plenty of bank vaults with her ability—but I’d rather not think about it.

Hurrying across the road, I plan to chug the first liquid I see in the fridge. Or maybe I should go straight to ice cubes. The cold air crashes over me when I open the front door, but that’s not what stops my breath.

Mom sits on the couch, a cell phone to her ear.

We didn’t bring a cell phone.

She stares at me, mouth hanging open. I grit my teeth, not sure I can contain my anger. This whole day was bullshit. She just wanted me out of the house so she could get her hands on a phone without me questioning her. I hoped maybe this time she’d be serious about escaping.

I’m always disappointed.

“Who are you talking to?” I say through my teeth.

“Fiona, it’s not—”

“Who?”

Her shoulders slump, and she looks at the little black phone in her hands. “Graham.”

I swear, just because I know she hates it.

“I should have told you, but I didn’t think you’d believe me.” Her voice cracks. “He said he would help us.”

“Riiight.” My oldest brother is Dad’s lapdog. He says fetch, and Graham goes shooting off at lightning speed without so much as a breath of hesitation. Graham’s a Flyer, which means he could have escaped, but instead he chose to follow in Dad’s bloody footsteps. At least Miles, my other brother and best friend, has some sense of integrity. Of course, Dad also deems him worthless, so it was a lot easier for him to get away.

I take a few steps forward. “How much did you tell him?”

“Nothing. I just told him we were safe.”

Like I can believe her now. Graham’s probably on his way here right now, or at least tracking the call. I snatch the phone from her. “I’m not going to school tomorrow.”

When I get to my room, I pace the floor. Why can’t she learn? The last time we ran, we ended up in the middle of the Utah desert. It was a nasty, small trailer park, but I still had high hopes. This place was truly isolated, wedged against the southern national parks. It took an hour just to reach a gas station, and two to reach a SuperMart.

After a month, I really thought we had made it out. I thought we could have a decent life there. Not glamorous, but at least honest.

On a trip for supplies, Mom called Graham from a pay phone to “tell him we were safe.” Of course, I didn’t know that until later. I was out running when he scooped me up like those evil flying monkeys do in
The Wizard of Oz.
I begged him to let us go. Begged. We were happy and safe, and if he helped we could stay that way.

For a second his hardened face cracked, and I thought maybe he would listen. Maybe he’d remember that he wasn’t always Dad’s gofer. Maybe he’d remember we were family. Then he shook his head. “You don’t understand, Fifi. You will
never
be safe.”

He took us back. He always took us back.

And then Dad came to see us. He hit Mom, beat her senseless as he called her a traitor for leaving. He apologized, and she forgave him because she couldn’t help it. Then it was my turn… .

Sure, there are perks to Dad’s life. Endless money. Power no one person should have. And it’s not like he treats us poorly when we behave. He’s too smart for that. He showers us—all his women and their children—with gifts and praise and luxury. If he doesn’t have to use force, he won’t. He’s a Charmer, after all. Usually that’s more than enough.

I stop at the mirror, searching for my face for the bazillionth time. There’s nothing there.

Graham used to be a normal big brother—a tease, a pain, but protective and kind at the same time. He and Miles would play catch in the park while I watched, giggling at Graham’s air flips. It wasn’t until the day Dad came for him that things got bad. Graham was ten. Miles was seven. I was five. We were just kids. None of us really understood what we’d been born into.

Miles and I were left alone in the penthouse for hours, wondering when our parents and Graham would come home. I ate a whole carton of ice cream, crying between bites because I thought we’d be trapped in there forever. They didn’t get back until after midnight, but we were up buzzing on sugar. Graham’s expression was different, like he’d just grown ten years older. Miles asked him what was wrong, and he shoved Miles into the wall.

“What do you care, Skunk Face?” Graham yelled. “You will
never
have to care!” He stomped to his room, and nothing was ever the same again. Dad would come for him constantly, and each time Graham’s face got harder and his actions crueler. I didn’t understand at first, not until it was my turn to join the family business.

When I was seven, Dad took me to one of the glitzy hotels, up to the third floor, where we could get a good view of the vast, busy lobby.

“Let’s play a game,” he said. “You like games, right?”

“Yeah!” He never gave me so much attention, and I wanted to soak up every second.

“Great.” He kneeled down, almost looking me in the eye. “You are such a sneaky little girl. I love how sneaky you are.”

I smiled. “I’m the best at hide-and-go-seek!”

He laughed. “I bet you are, but this is a really hard game. Do you think you can do it?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay.” He pointed down at the lobby. “There are lots of people wearing watches and jewelry down there. For every piece you can sneak away with, I’ll get you a new toy.”

My eyes widened. That could be
a ton
of toys. “Really?”

“Really. But you can’t get caught. If you do, you don’t get any toys. You lose.”

“I won’t lose.” I started to pull off my shirt, but then stopped. “Is this called stealing?”

“No.” He put his hand on my cheek, warm and fatherly. “This is just a game. Everyone’s playing.”

That was all it took to convince me. I snuck down the stairs naked, pulled a loose bracelet from a lady’s wrist, and put it in my mouth so it would disappear. She thought it had fallen off and immediately dropped to the floor to look for it. Then I tiptoed back up to Dad and showed him.

“You are brilliant, Fiona.” He dried it off and slipped it into his pocket. “Do it again.”

And with that I was part of the syndicate, just like Graham. It took a long time to realize Dad was training me, so long that I was already trapped when the guilt and sadness flooded in. I’d always been a tool to him—all he had to do was wait until I was old enough to use. First pickpocketing, then simple jobs like grabbing a neglected bag or flash drive with top secret info. After that I graduated to bigger crimes, working with Mom. Banks, law firms, jewelry stores, art galleries, government agencies—nothing was safe from us. We brought in millions for him, which he used to get his hands on Radiasure, the true valuable.

I shake my head, trying to erase the memories. When my dad told me to steal, it made perfect sense. My conscience only hit after, when he abandoned me for another of his tools. Even though I did it against my will, the guilt is still there.

I try to find something real about myself, something not marred by Dad’s influence.

Blank.

I don’t know who I am or what I should be. Besides Miles and Mom, there’s no one I care about, and no one who cares about me. I’m as hollow as I look. Tears escape my eyes, but I can’t see those, either. I let them roll down my face, soak in the tickling sensation. Then my skin prickles as I realize there’s one thing I do know:

It’s not worth it anymore.

I won’t be this.

Must get out.

I slip on a pair of shorts, some running shoes, and stuff the cell phone in my pocket. There’s plenty of desert around here; maybe I’ll disappear for a few hours and see how I feel then.

“Where are you going?” Mom asks when I enter the kitchen.

I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and gulp it down. Then I take the car keys, in hopes that she won’t run out and get another phone. She asks again, but I don’t answer. I don’t even look at her as I drive away.