Target on Our Backs by J. M. Darhower
"The plankton of what?"
"The Plank of Carneades," I repeat. "Jesus, you're in your fourth semester of philosophy and I still know more than you do about it."
She makes a face, sticking her tongue out.
"It's a thought experiment," I continue. "If two people are shipwrecked and there's one board floating in the water, big enough to hold only one person, so only one of them lives, who gets it?"
"Kate Winslet," she says right away. "Didn't you see the movie? Hello! Pre-Dad Bod DiCaprio, remember?"
I laugh. Titanic. Of course her mind went there. Mine had, too.
"And didn't you think that was romantic?" I ask. "The fact that he gave it to her, that he let her have it, knowing he was going to die in the water because he did?"
"It was stupid," she says. "I would've pushed that bitch right off and took it."
"No, you wouldn't have."
"Uh, yeah, have you seen You, Me, & Dupree? The movie? Absolutely terrible. We'd all have been better had she not been around to make it."
I stare at her. Is she serious? I can't tell if she's being serious. "You know that wasn't her, right?"
"Of course it was."
"No, that was Kate Hudson, not Kate Winslet."
She waves me off. "What's the difference?"
What's the difference?
Seriously?
"They're different people," I say. "Like, they're not even the same person at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Uh, yeah… positive."
"Huh… and which one was in Almost Famous?"
"Hudson."
"Well, what the hell has Winslet done?"
"Plenty," I say. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, for one."
Her brow furrows. "Isn't that a Dr. Seuss book?"
"I just…" I think she's serious. Like, honestly serious. "I don't even know what to say to that."
"Me, either," she says. "But you know, like Dr. Seuss said, we all make mistakes, so I guess we can forgive hers."
"I don't think he said that," I point out. "I don't think Dr. Seuss said we all make mistakes."
"How do you know? He's been alive for like, a hundred years… I'm sure he probably said it at some point."
There's so much wrong with what she's saying that I'm not sure where to begin, so I don't even bother trying to correct her. It's not like it matters, anyway. We've gotten so off topic that I can't remember what the hell we were talking about to begin with.
"I should get going," I tell her, shoving my chair back to stand up. "I'm going to be late for class if I don't get out of here."
"Boo… you sure you can't skip? We hardly get to hang out anymore."
"I skipped it last time," I say, "and one day last week."
"Well, what are you doing this weekend?"
"I don't know… the usual, I guess."
Sitting at home.
Doing nothing.
"Let's go out," she says, her expression brightening. "We can go to Timbers. It'll be just like old times! Oh my God, I think it's even eighties night!"
I want to argue.
I try to argue.
I try to tell her it's the worst idea in the world, the two of us going to Timbers again, especially on eighties night. I remember what happened last time, and although things have worked out since then, I certainly don't want a repeat of that night. But she doesn't give me a chance, doesn't let me get in a word edgewise. She's already on her feet, planning, giving me a quick hug as she rushes toward the exit.
"I'll call you," she says excitedly. "I can't wait!"
Sighing, I watch her disappear from the café. Picking up my still warm, untouched drink, I walk over to the trashcan, dumping the thing in. Pity, you know, wasting it, but I've got a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can't quite shake.
If Naz taught me anything, it's that sometimes coincidences aren't really coincidences.
Sometimes they're orchestrated.
* * *
My entire life was chaos growing up.
New places, new faces, never the same thing twice. We were on the run from the day I was born until the day I finally put my foot down and moved to the city, wanting nothing more than to actually experience New York. I craved stability. I was desperate to find something of my own.
I have it now.
I have those things.
I have permanency. I have somewhere to call home.
I have a routine.
But sometimes, I realize, that's really fucking boring.
Don't get me wrong… I love the life we're building.
And, God help me, I certainly love Naz, too.
But there's something to be said about predictability, about rarely being surprised anymore. Naz has become a creature of habit. Hell, maybe he was always this way. I don't know. But when I come home from class, he's always here, sitting in the den, reading the day's newspaper. He's always wearing the same black suit. His hair always looks the same. He never has the TV on, never listens to music, which okay, is probably a good thing if what he'd listen to is Hotline Bling.
But doesn't he ever get bored of things just always being the same?
It's like I'm living out Groundhog Day.
"Anything interesting today?"
His gaze flickers to me when I ask that question before he turns back to his newspaper.
"More of the same," he says. "Corrupt politicians… tax evaders… bomb threat in a school. A pub caught on fire in the meatpacking district. The New York Rangers are actually doing good. A man shot his lover's husband in Harlem. Oh, and a guy was found unconscious near the East River."
"Awesome," I deadpan.
He closes the newspaper, folding it up, and tosses it right in the trashcan beside his desk. "What about you? Anything interesting happen today?"
I drop my bag to the floor beside the couch. "I met Melody's new boyfriend."
"She has a new boyfriend?"
I look at him incredulously.
And he accuses me of not paying attention.
"Uh, yeah, remember? She was here getting ready for her date."
"I remember," he says. "I was just unaware it was that serious. You can date without being in a relationship. In fact, I took you out a few times before you were anything more to me than just a date."
"I was never a date," I tell him as I plop down on the couch. "I was more of a target."
"And I hit my mark, didn't I?"
"Depends on who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
"Then sure." I unzip my bag to pull my schoolwork out. "You hit it."
"Over and over again."
I shake my head, deciding not to respond to that.
I know a sexual innuendo when I hear one.
Turning on the TV for some kind of background noise, I grab my things for History class and settle in to write my paper, to get it over with, before I forget about it. Napoleon Bonaparte, average-sized dictator with one hell of a complex. I skim through some sections in my book, nearly dozing off at the boring text, before resorting to searching him on my phone, looking for something even remotely interesting.
"So, tell me about him."
"Uh, he probably wasn't afraid of cats, even though some people seem to think so," I mumble, scrolling through some Wikidepia-esque website, "and God help us, but apparently he wrote a romance novel or something."
Naz is silent for a moment. "He wrote a romance novel."
"Yeah," I say. "Or I guess it's more of a short story, since it's only like, twenty pages. I don't know. I don't even know what to do with that information."
"Me, either," Naz says. "And is this literal cats you're talking about, or are you speaking metaphorically about pussy?"
Whoa.
That gets my attention.
I blink a few times, glancing over at Naz. "What?"
"Is he afraid of pussy?"
"Oh, uh…" I grimace. "I'm gonna say no, since he fathered some kids."
That seems to sur
"Yeah, a couple."
"And Melody's okay with that?"
"Melody? Why would she care?"
"Well, he is her boyfriend, isn't he?"
My brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"
"The fact that children are a big deal," he says. "No offense, but that doesn't seem like the type of responsibility your friend is prepared to take on."
I just stare at him.
He stares right back, waiting for some kind of response about Melody raising children. Yeah, right. I don't even know how she keeps up with herself.
"I think we're talking about two different people here," I say eventually. "I'm talking about Napoleon Bonaparte. I'm thinking that isn't who you mean."
He laughs. "No. You said you met her boyfriend today."
"Oh, yeah, right…"
"Why are you talking about Napoleon?"
I hold up my book and the blank piece of paper, showing it to him. "I have to write a paper about why anyone gives a crap about how tall he was."
"Huh."
Huh.
That word can get so annoying.
"You got a theory on why that is?" I ask. "If so, I'm all ears."
He shrugs. "It's all about perception."
"Perception."
"Yes," he says, getting up from his desk and strolling across the room, to his bookshelves. "His short stature sort of made him a joke, a caricature in a sense… a tiny man compensating for his shortcomings by trying to take over the world. It's hard to take him seriously when he's viewed that way. It's emasculating. Is he really that intimidating if he's characterized as looking like a child? Hardly." He pauses, scanning the spines of a row of books. "But it's vastly different when you find out he was just an average guy. Because that makes him less of a toddler throwing a tantrum and more of a mastermind hiding in plain sight. His enemies didn't want that. They didn't want him taken seriously, and still, to this day, he often isn't. But the fact is, Napoleon was one of the greatest military leaders of all time, but that's often overshadowed by the debate about his height."
Tossing my phone down on the cushion beside me, I dig in my bag for a pen. "You want to repeat all that so I can write it down?"
"I'm sure you got the gist of it."
He pulls a small book off of his shelf before walking over to where I'm sitting. He taps me on the head with it, smiling, and drops it onto my lap, right on top of my paper.
I glance down at the cover.
Clisson and Eugénie
Napoleon Bonaparte
He owns the book.
Unbelievable.
"It's actually decent," Naz says, picking up my phone from the cushion to move it out of his way so he can sit down beside me. "You should give it a read."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, setting it on the arm of the couch as I focus on my paper. I can't even lie—I write down exactly what Naz just said, having no shame that I'm using his words. It makes sense, after all… reality is all a matter of perception. We see what we want to see.
"He's good looking," I say after a while.
"We said he wasn't short," Naz says. "Good looking might be pushing it."
"No, I mean Melody's boyfriend." I laugh. "He's good looking… like, really good looking. I'm talking cover of GQ kind of good looking. It's like, wow…"
"If you're trying to get me to kill him, all you have to do is ask."
Gasping, I elbow Naz. "Not funny. I would never. I'm just saying…"
"You're saying he's good looking." He waves me off, like he doesn't really care what I think about the guy's looks, but I can tell by his expression that he does. Holy shit, is that jealousy I see? "Like I said, it's all about perception."
"Yeah, it is," I agree quietly. "And yeah, he's good looking, but he's almost too good looking, you know? And he's smart, and nice… really nice… generous…"
His tone is clipped as he cuts in. "I get the picture, Karissa."
A smile tugs my lips. Definitely jealous.
"I mean, I just met him, so I don't really know him," I continue, "but there's something about him… something that feels familiar."
Naz perks up at that, raising his eyebrows. "How so?"
"He took her to Paragone for their first date."
"Nice place."
"I know… that's where you took me and spent an ungodly amount on overpriced food. Like, way more than a person should ever pay. It's insane. And he took her there at the last minute, just like you did, somehow managing to get a table… like you did."
"Maybe he knows somebody."
"Like you did?" I shake my head. "And he works for family. That's what Melody said. Family. And today he got a call and had to leave quick, had to slip away to handle some things. Sound familiar?"
"Somewhat."
"Somewhat, my ass. He's practically you."
"Nonsense," Naz says right away. "There's only one of me."
"Maybe so, but there are plenty like you," I counter.
"Are you insinuating he's in the mob?"
His blatant question stalls me.
Am I?
That's a serious accusation.
"I'm not insinuating anything. I'm just saying, you know... I think it's all kind of weird, how he comes out of nowhere and does these things that are so familiar to me. Like, he sent her flowers after their first date, just like you did. He insists on paying the tab, just like you do. She sees him around, near campus, even though he's not a student, just like I used to see you."
"You know, Karissa, there's a reason I did all those things. It's because they're natural things someone in those circumstances might do. Not everyone has ulterior motives."
"But sometimes they do."
"Sometimes," he agrees. "And sometimes we're just being needlessly paranoid."
He sounds so calm, matter of fact, like I'm being ridiculous. And, hell... maybe I am. But it's hard to shake the feeling that there's more to this all than meets the eye.
"His name's Leo," I point out. "As in, Leonardo. That's Italian, right?"
A slight smile turns Naz's lips at that question. "Yes. So are Michelangelo and Donatello. He's more than likely a Ninja Turtle in disguise."
"Ha-ha. Funny. I'm just saying..."
"You're saying you think he's in the mob," Naz says. "Look, what's his last name? Maybe this family of his is a family I know."
"I, uh..." Shit. "I don't know."
"You didn't think to ask?"
"No."
"Can't be too worried about it, then."
"I'm not worried," I say, rolling my eyes and elaborating when Naz shoots me a look of disbelief. "I don't think it makes him a threat, or that he really has ulterior motives, or anything. I'm not worried about that part. I'm just a little concerned about Melody. She's been through enough with guys. After what happened with Paul, I don't want her to get hurt anymore."
"I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that's not something you can control."
"I know," I say. "I just think she should know what she's getting into, you know? And if he is in the mob..."
"Then, what? You sit her down for a heart-to-heart?"
"I don't know... maybe?" I shrug. I have no idea what I'll do if my suspicions are true. "Maybe you could talk to him, scare the guy straight, so he doesn't hurt my friend?"
Naz's earlier smile erupts again, with it a laugh this time. He shakes his head, toying with my phone, running his fingers along the edges of the pink glittery case, but says nothing.
"Something funny about what I said?"
"There's a lot funny about it."
"Like what?"
"Like the fact that you want me to warn a guy away from Melody. And not just any guy... someone you suspect is connected."
"So?"
"So you say you supported me walking away, but you still think I have the same kind of pull I had when I was in. I hate to break it to you, but it just doesn't work that way. People listened to me because they we
I flinch.
He notices.
A look of disappointment crosses his face.
"Empty threats will only get me killed," he explains. "It's one thing to go radio silent in the business. It's another to make the kind of promises I'm not planning to keep."
I get it.
I do.
I don't like talking about it, but I know it's true.
He's out... as out as someone like him can be. But that doesn't mean he's free of his own consequences. Doesn't mean the rules don't still apply to him.
It's a dangerous game he used to play.
I guess, in a way, he'll always have to play it.
"Yeah, I guess we don't want that," I mumble.
"I'm quite positive we don't," he says. "Besides, Melody's an adult. She doesn't need anyone meddling in her affairs. So unless this guy in any way endangers your life, what he does for a living is none of our business."
I scowl but don't respond to that assertion, even though I whole-heartedly disagree with it. She's my friend. Sure, she has to make her own decisions, but that doesn't mean it's not my business who she's hooking up with.
Friends look out for each other.
I turn my focus back to my paper, scribbling some more about perception, before packing my stuff up and putting it all away. I grab the book off the arm of the couch, the romance story written by Napoleon. "What's this about, anyway?"
"A soldier falls in love with a woman."
"Does it have a happy ending?"
He glances at me. "What do you think?"
I think not, because Naz would enjoy tragedy a hell of a lot more than he'd enjoy a happily ever after. Fictionally, of course.
I flip through the pages before settling in, tucking my feet beneath me as I open it at the beginning. It'll only take me like half an hour to read it, so why not?
"You don't happen to have any Nicholas Sparks on your bookshelf, do you?" I ask curiously.
"Of course not," he says, his voice tinged with disgust. "Although, A Walk to Remember was a decent film, so I might consider reading that book."