How to Lead a Life of Crime by Kirsten Miller
“This is just a simulation,” Mr. Martin reminds him. “You aren’t going to get caught.”
Bless that little psycho. He’s given me just enough time. My fingers creep into the briefcase on Mr. Martin’s desk. I’m hoping for a phone but find a wallet instead. Good enough. The briefcase lock clicks, and I’m back in my seat, the wallet safely hidden beneath the folder on my lap.
Mr. Martin slams the office door. “I was hesitant to give you this assignment,” he tells me. “I saw your arm and assumed that your chip had been removed. I didn’t want to be responsible for a student like you going AWOL. However, Mr. Mandel has informed me that your movements are still being tracked. And I’ve ensured that they will be actively monitored throughout the day. I also have a team of observers in position at JFK Airport. If they see any sign that you intend to go off course, the punishment will be severe. You are not allowed to make phone calls or send emails. You will not initiate any unnecessary conversations. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you have any idea how severe punishments can get at the academy?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I tell him.
“Then off you go.” He waves me away like he can’t stand the sight of me.
• • •
I’m in the backseat of a black Lincoln Town Car. It only takes a few seconds to examine the contents of my assignment file. In addition to the photo and instructions, there’s a plane ticket that will allow me to access the American Airlines gates. The phony name on the ticket matches a counterfeit ID with my picture on it. There’s nothing else in the file. Not a single piece of information on the man I’m meant to rob. I could sit here and guess what the academy has planned, but I have much better things to do.
Mr. Martin’s wallet contains $135 in cash. His real name is Simon Hodenfield. He lives at 45 East 85th Street in Manhattan, just off Park Avenue. The photo on his driver’s license makes him look like a pedophile. Fantastic. Mixed in with a bunch of receipts is a list of names written on a scrap of paper. None of the names rings any bells. I flip the scrap over. Jackpot. It’s the top half of a letter addressed to the parents of Nathaniel Hodenfield, who has been a very naughty boy at school. One more infraction and young Nate will be kicked out of the Browning School for the remainder of his sophomore year. Whatever the kid did, something tells me he isn’t going anywhere. In fact, he’ll probably end up graduating with honors. The six names on the back of the letter look like a hit list. I bet they all work at the Browning School. “Mr. Martin” has probably been digging up dirt on each of them.
My car ride ends in the short-term parking lot at JFK. I hop out and dump Mr. Martin’s wallet in the first trash can I see. I keep only the license and cash. I’m feeling good. It’s nice to have a change of scenery. Then I enter the terminal and find myself sucked into a crowd. Suddenly I’m a zoo animal, and the door of my cage has been left open. The wild half of my brain sees opportunity. The half that’s accepted a life in captivity is insisting that it’s all just a trick.
I haven’t been around this many normal people in months. Is this how they act? Their movements appear totally random, and they’re all talking at top volume. I didn’t think I’d have any trouble identifying the academy’s observers, but every face I examine appears perfectly ordinary. Maybe there aren’t any observers. Maybe everyone’s an observer. Maybe Mandel rented the entire terminal for the day. Maybe this isn’t even JFK. I didn’t pay much attention to the route we took. I need to be alone for a moment. Before I rush to the men’s room, I check the arrivals screen. My mark’s flight isn’t due in for an hour.
In the bathroom, there’s one stall open. The toilet is disgusting. They say you can’t catch STDs from a toilet seat, but I’ve never been sure about crabs. So I stand in the tiny space, listening to the sound of water rushing and bowels emptying. It’s comforting to know that no one can see me losing my shit. What’s wrong with me? I’m in public. I could find a way to phone the police. What would you tell them? I could contact the newspapers. What proof do you have? I could show a reporter the chip in my head. You’d never make it out of the airport. I could call my mother. There aren’t any phones where she is, you imbecile. I could try to reach Joi. You don’t have the balls.
Someone new just arrived in the restroom.
“It’s five days, Skylar. Five f—ing days!” The voice is pure frat boy. I peer through the crack in my stall and see a college-age guy on the phone. It’s forty degrees outside, and he’s wearing shorts. Either the dude’s taken too many lacrosse sticks to the side of his head or he’s heading off on spring break.
“I told you. It’s just guys. Nobody’s taking their girlfriends. Look, I gotta go take a dump. I’ll call you when I get back from Cancún.”
He enters the stall next to mine. I hear his bag drop to the floor. A fly unzips and a toilet seat clanks. I squat down. A duffel bag is leaning against the divider between our two stalls. The top is open, and I can see the corner of an iPhone sticking out. It’s possible that Mr. Spring Break is just an academy stooge, but I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
A little pick-pocketing always lightens my mood, and the paranoia begins to fade as I head for the airport security line. Mandel may be watching, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun. I stop at a souvenir shop on my way to the gates. I use Mr. Martin’s cash to purchase a Yankees hat and an I NY T-shirt. A quick trip to another restroom, and I emerge as a tourist. My own shirt is folded neatly inside the plastic shopping bag. I have thirty minutes before my mark’s flight arrives at one fifty. More than enough time to entertain myself. I don’t even bother to check for observers. Let them catch me in the act. I should get extra credit for what I’m about to do.
There are plenty of seats in the departure lounge, but I pick one in a section that’s being used as a playground by six feral siblings. I take a snapshot of Mr. Martin’s driver’s license with the iPhone. It makes a splendid photo for Simon Hodenfield’s new Facebook page. Then I put together an album using Mr. Spring Break’s pictures, which show bare-chested frat boys in various stages of intoxication. Finally I get to work on Simon Hodenfield’s profile.
Activities and interests:
(N)urturing the youth of today
(A)cting as a mentor to young men in need
(M)aking the most of our time together
(B)uying little gifts for the people I cherish
(L)aughing at those who can’t understand our love
(A)nal sex with high school studs
Favorite movies:
Anything with Taylor Lautner
Favorite books:
Lord of the Flies, the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog
Favorite quote:
You make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream. —Katy Perry
It looks like Simon never taught his spawn how dangerous the Internet can be. His son Nathaniel’s profile is public. I invite all of the kid’s buddies at the Browning School to be friends with his dad. I even send a few special messages:
You have a secret admirer!
I may be old, but I’m a lot of fun!
How about a sleepover?
Sexual predators need love too!
After I finish, I check the time. I was connected to the Internet for almost twenty minutes. The observers didn’t intervene—though for all they know, I could have been emailing the FBI. There’s something very strange going on here. My skin starts to tingle as the paranoia returns. I sit with the phone in my lap and watch the six budding delinquents pelt each other with caramel-covered popcorn. When I find myself caught in the crossfire, I start to wonder if they might be part of a trap.
Flight 3749 out of Chicago arrives, and I take my place outside the gate before it begins to deboard. My mark is out the moment they open the doors. He must have been sitting in first class. He’s got his iPhone in his hand. He’s making a call.
I step out in front of him and match my stride to his.
&
I’m impressed. Mr. Martin’s simulation is very thorough. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the actor was just a regular guy with an exceptionally clingy wife.
“Okay, honey, listen, I have to rush. I’ll call you right after the meeting. . . . Love you too. Bye.”
I give it a second. Then I turn around abruptly. The man rams into me. As we bump chests, the iPhone drops out of his hand. I catch it and slip it into my pants pocket. I keep my thumb scrolling across the screen so password protection won’t kick in.
“So sorry, mister,” I say, handing him Mr. Spring Break’s phone. “I just remembered I left my backpack on the plane!”
I jog past him before he can get a good look at my face. Then I quickly duck into a Starbucks and deactivate the phone’s password protection. I remove my Yankees cap and put my original shirt over the I NY T-shirt. As soon as I’m out of disguise, I begin my investigation. Let’s see what Mr. Martin and Mr. Mandel want me—don’t want me—to find.
The iPhone belongs to an Arthur Klein, and the first few emails I browse are all about drugs. I guess Art’s supposed to be some kind of pharmacologist. Either that or he’s a junkie with an impressive vocabulary. His correspondence is so complicated that it might as well be written in ancient Greek. So I scroll through Art’s photos instead. There are dozens of them. Someone really put a lot of effort into downloading all these images. I click on the first one. It’s just a kid. He’s four or so, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to the guy I just robbed. It seems a bit strange that an actor would get his young son involved in a simulation like this. The next photo shows the little boy posing on the steps of what looks like a temple until I read the name engraved in the marble. It’s the John G. Shedd Aquarium. In Chicago. The attention to detail is absolutely remarkable. I scroll faster, searching for something scandalous. There’s nothing but the same goddamned kid. He gets bigger, less babyish. I stop on a photo of the boy in a scarlet graduation gown and hat. There’s a banner behind him that says Congratulations, class of 2010. Kindergarten. It’s so cute I feel nauseous. I keep scrolling, but there are only two photos left.
The kid is waving to the camera from the top of a playground slide. He doesn’t look any older than he did in the kindergarten photo. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Shouldn’t there be more pictures on the phone? This one must have been taken over two years ago.
Something happened to the kid. This is the last picture his father took of him. This is all that’s left. This is real. This is very, very real.
Suddenly I’m running past the gates toward the exit, weaving around travelers, ignoring their startled faces as I hurdle over rolling suitcases. The only thing I can hear is the sound of myself pleading with any god that might be listening. Don’t let him be gone. Please, don’t let him be gone.
He’s not. He had a bag checked. A large portfolio case. I’m stuck on an escalator, but I see him haul the case off the conveyor belt and lug it out to the center of the baggage claim area. He stops and looks around. He must be expecting a driver to meet him. I see him rooting around in his jacket pocket. He’s going to call his secretary or the car company. When he pulls out Mr. Spring Break’s iPhone, I know what I need to do. I know how this all has to end.
I’m off the escalator. I’m less than a yard away, and I’m already running. I snatch the phone out of the man’s hand. It takes him a few seconds to shout.
“Thief!”
But no one comes after me. And I have to be caught. My plan won’t work unless I’m arrested. Then a little girl with a rolling Barbie suitcase appears in my path. I could leap over her if I tried. But I don’t. I’ll let the kid feel like a hero today. I trip over the bag and go sailing face-first across the floor. When I come to a stop, two Good Samaritans pin me down. My mark gets his phone—and his little boy back. I’m so goddamned happy that I start to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY
* * *
FRANK
If there are really academy observers here, I’ve outwitted them all. I’m locked up in a detention center at JFK. The airport cops must not be part of the game. None of them seem very interested in me. I guess stealing phones doesn’t compare to being caught with bags of cocaine crammed in your rectum—or entering the country with endangered species tucked into your tighty whities. Plus, the guy I robbed didn’t have time to stick around and press charges. I was worried they might release me, so I informed the cops that I’m still a minor. They did exactly what I hoped they’d do. They made me call my father.
I wish I’d thought of this earlier. No FBI agent or newspaper reporter would ever take me seriously. But my father knows what really goes on at the Mandel Academy. He’s the headmaster’s enemy—the only one who can stop him. If I don’t graduate, my father will win his wager. If I don’t graduate, they’ll have to get rid of me. I’ll die, and that’s fine. I can’t rid the world of all of its monsters. But at least I can keep Lucian Mandel from murdering millions.
“I’ve been arrested at JFK,” I tell my father when he takes my call.
“Excuse me?” He sounds so polite. There must be other people around.
“I stole a phone.”
“I’ll have my assistant contact the academy,” he says.
“No. It’s over. I give up. I’m not going to help Mandel anymore. You have to come get me.”
There’s a pause. “Okay. I’ll be there in under an hour.”
I suppose I won’t be alive much longer than that. It’s a relief to know that my body isn’t going to be fed to the machines in Mandel’s lab. I should probably be reliving my fondest memories, but I keep thinking about the little boy in the pictures. My gut is still telling me that the kid was real. I wonder if Jude had something to do with what’s happened today. If so, I hope he approves of what I’m going to do. I won’t be able to avenge his death. I hope he’s not pissed off when I get to Never Land.
• • •
A lady cop unlocks the gate. “You’re free to go,” she says.
I’m shocked when I see my dad waiting by the front desk. He looks a few inches shorter and a decade older. It’s been less than a year since the last time I saw him. How could anyone age so quickly? His posture is still perfect. His suit looks brand new. But I see strands of gray in his chestnut hair. Crinkled skin around his eyes. A weariness inside them. For the first time since I’ve known him, my father actually appears to be mortal.
“Thank you for your trouble,” he tells the officers. “I’ll make sure that my son is properly punished.”
I follow him out the door. He stays three steps ahead of me. I’m so tempted to kill him. I could snap his neck with a single move. My brother’s murderer has his back to me. I’ve spent a year dreaming about a moment like this. Now it’s here, and I’m the one who’s surrendered.
My father’s car and driver are waiting at the curb. He opens a door to the backseat. “Get in,” he orders.
I slide inside. My father joins me. It feels like we’re observing a family tradition when we both keep our lips sealed. We’ve taken hundreds of silent car rides together, my father scrolling through his email while I watch the world pass by. But today his phone has stayed in his pocket and his eyes haven’t left the back of the driver’s seat. I don’t see any evidence, but I can tell he’s been drinking. The traffic is light and the man at the wheel is speeding. We’re approaching the Manhattan Bridge when I realize this may be my last chance to speak.
I lean toward my father and sniff the air. “You f—ing reek. Did you down a whole bottle of Scotch on the way to the airport?”
He doesn’t answer. But I can hear him sucking in air he doesn’t deserve, and it infuria
“Must be hard living with yourself. Knowing you murdered your favorite son and all. Is that what’s got you drinking during the day?”
My father gazes out the window. “Jude’s death was an accident.”
“Tell that to someone who didn’t see his corpse. How many punches does it take to kill a sixteen-year-old kid, anyway?”
It used to be so easy to wind my dad up. When he sighs, I start to wonder if I’ve lost my touch. “I only hit Jude once. We were standing at the top of the stairs when it happened. The doctor said the fall broke his neck.”
“Yeah? And how much did you pay the doctor to say it? You know, I always thought you loved Jude.”
“I did. I . . . ” He stops without finishing the thought.
How dare he? How f—ing dare he lie to me now? He’ll suffer for that, I swear, even if the only weapon I can hurl at him is the truth. “Just as much as your dad loved you, right?” When he looks over at me, I make sure I’m smiling. “Mandel told me your dad loved you so much that you had to stab him to death.”
He stares at me until my smile is gone. “Lucian read my file, but he doesn’t know the real story. My father never drank before my mother abandoned us. I watched him fall apart. By the time I turned twelve, he was just a penniless drink. We needed money for food and rent, so I had to look for odd jobs. I thought my dad would be proud the first time I came home with a bag full of groceries. He knocked me down as soon as I stepped through the door. I couldn’t understand why he did it, and from that moment on, I despised him.”
“And then you grew up to be just like him. How ironic.”
He nods. He knows it’s true. “I tried to avoid it. That’s why I was thirty-five before I took my first sip of alcohol. But once I started, I found out why my father was never able to stop. I don’t even remember the first time I hit you. Or why I did it. That’s how much I’d been drinking. But when I woke up the next morning and saw what I’d done, I could tell that I’d lost you. And when your mother confronted me, I knew that I’d lost her too.”