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In theory, I only have about sixty seconds to convince you to read this. Depending on your speed and willingness to read you'll probably decide within the next page whether my story is worth your time reading. It doesn't really make a difference to me whether you stick with it or not. I won't waste my time trying to set up some elaborate hook to reel you in. I'm just going to tell you about my life, which I've been told from many, others is rather interesting.
No, I won't say that if you read this you are part of something bigger than yourself. That would be ridiculous. I do suggest that you should never attempt anything I say in here. I'm more or less a trained professional. Well, that and a very good improviser.
My story begins in an ostentatious club in the inner city. For security purposes I won't tell you the exact name of the club or the city you could still find it in. It was closing in on midnight at this club. A long line of hopeful club goers wound its way down the block. On the inside of the building music blasted through giant speakers at a level that would surely cause hearing damage. Bodies swayed in irregular patterns on the dance floor while artificial smoke and flashing lights turned the scene into one from a science fiction novel.
Socialites intermingled with the rest of the well to do citizens of the city. The stray civilians that had gotten past the security guards tried their best to seem important. On the prestigious red couch sat an up and coming model watching over the activity of the club. She called for a waiter passing nearby with an empty tray held aloft. She whispered something in his ear and he scurried off to retrieve her order. The model and middle aged man standing nearby exchanged a knowing look before she rose to her feet. Without a backwards glance she flounced off into the writhing mass of bodies.
Beneath the red couch hid a young scraggly looking boy. He let out a breath as the weight, however little there had been, disappeared. The boy had been lying on his stomach pressed against the wooden underbelly of the couch for hours watching famous feet march by. He would lie there for another four hours before the club would entirely empty.
When the lights finally went out the boy wiggled himself out of his position. He paused to let circulation get back into his feet then trooped off to find the kitchen. Without disrupting a chair, hitting a light, even leaving one trace of his presence after hours he moved through the empty club and out into the back alley. Below a trash can he found a slip of paper a waiter had left for him while taking a break to smoke.
At precisely four o'clock am a black Mazda pulled down the alley without its headlights on. The boy slipped into the passenger's seat with the piece of paper from beneath the trash can folded neatly in an interior coat pocket. The boy and driver exchanged no words as they pulled back onto the street. Within seconds they melted back into the never ending parade of cars. When the club opened again the next night no one inside would realize a major exchange had just gone down under their noses. The building would fill with people and music and light again just as it had every night before.
That was essentially how I got involved in the business I'm in. See, at the time of this event I was at my home several states away working on homework. I've been convinced for years that I have some sort of attention problem given I spent most of my late evenings working on worksheets due the next day instead of sleeping. Homework didn't seem urgent once I got home. I had just been at school doing much of the same grueling, uninteresting work. I didn't need to be doing it at home either. Perhaps my issue was just procrastination rather than an attention problem.
Before I go further I'd like to point out that I'm not trying to put the rap on homework. I have a much higher IQ than most people and found school overall a total bore. My parents had me in the school's gifted program but to be frank, the public school's gifted program wasn't much more challenging than their normal courses. I'd often begged my parents for private schooling but "the tuition was way over our heads". The conversations that ensued after tuition was brought up almost always ended with me grounded. If you ask me, my parents just didn't want to understand my logic.
Anyway, that night I was working half-heartedly on a report due to my science teacher in the morning. What annoyed me most of the time while working on homework was that I would use very little of what I learned in my job someday. Not that I knew what it was I wanted to do in eighth grade, I knew it wouldn't involve different types of rock in the Earth's crust.
At four o'clock on the dot I felt like throwing my laptop against the closest wall and watching with satisfaction as it crashed into pieces. Logic prevailed in the end when I realized my mom and dad would hear me and come to see what was going on. I wasn't supposed to be up to begin with, let alone be working on a paper.
Instead I clicked out of word to check my email. Earlier that evening I had sent off an inquiry to a private high school to see if the tuition rate would be reasonable for us to pay. I was intent on not attending the local public high school. We had received our information on signing up for classes that week and had been appalled at the limited choices open to freshmen.
When I signed into my email account I found no reply from the school in my inbox. There was one of the annoying chain messages foretelling my demise if I didn't pass it on and a message labeled "Urgent" from an unmarked sender. Without reading it I deleted the chain letter from my friend. Then it came down to the other email now sitting in my box.
I had sat through enough seminars on being internet safe to know it wouldn't be wise to open the other email. It could've very well been a virus that would attack my hard drive and send my report to the depths of Tartarus. However I had a very dependable virus protection software that I figured could battle off the virus if there was one. So, against my better judgment, I opened it.
The email was obviously not meant for me. It read:
JW-
Looks like your source pulled through. I found the sheet you told me about beneath the trash can just as she promised. I guess there's a first time for everything. Now we have the resource for taking him down on our own. Do you want to tell Angela? I still don't trust her after that last little "slip up" she had on our mission. It's up to you.
C

I considered for a long while whether I should reply to C and tell them they had sent the wrong person the email. Then, something else caught my eye. There were two email addresses at the top of the message. One was mine and the other was obviously the one this message was meant for. Whoever had sent this meant for me to get it as well.
I attempted to send a reply but it came up as a one way address, like the kind companies have where they can send you updates but you have to contact them through their companies' website. The same alert came up when I tried the other address at the top .Whoever JW and C were, they didn't want to be contacted. The website at the end of JW's address was generic and gave me no hinters as to who they might be working for. Unless Google was now sending out their employees on secret missions to retrieve notes from beneath trash cans, I doubted that was who they worked for.
Forgetting entirely about the accursed science report I began racking my mind for anyone whose initials were JW or C. I knew one John Winston but he was in his late eighties and had little notion of who he was, let alone how to send out an email. He was also my mother's father making him my only surviving grandfather. And I knew many people with a C in their name though not many of them would know of anyone named Angela.
In a flurry of bright light and sound the phone resting in its base on my desk sprang to life serenading me with a song of Beethoven's. As quickly as I could without damaging a hinge I closed my laptop, slid it beneath my bed, and slid under the rumpled covers. This was the usual escape from being discovered routine. If the light in the hallway went on I would roll around to muse my hair a little more. No one ever suspected.
Within the second ring someone picked up the phone in the hall. I watched the crack beneath my door carefully. There went the light. It was my dad that had taken the call. Whoever it was on the other end had my pity. My father isn't one who can cope with late nights. He enjoys his sleep. So when someone disrupts that sleeping you had better have a very good reason or a death wish.
To my extreme surprise, my dad wasn't yelling in the hallway. He was talking in normal tones and actually listening to whoever it was on the phone. This had to be some kind of miracle. The floor boards creaked beneath his weight as Dad walked to my room. At four in the morning, as calm as if he were coming in to tell me he was going out to buy groceries, he peeked his head in and said, "There's someone on the phone for you, Geneva." He didn't pause to ask who I might know that would call at this ungodly hour or even why I was fully awake staring at the door.
I grabbed my phone numbly. For possibly the first time in my life I did not reprimand my father for addressing me by my first name. "Hello?" Whoever it was on the other line had to be a miracle worker.
"Hello, is this Geneva Cane?"
"Perhaps. What do you want? I do hope you have a good reason for calling me this late. Some people try to sleep at this hour," I retorted sourly.
"But you weren't sleeping now were you? If I'm not mistaken, you were up doing homework." A feeling of paranoia crept up my spine. Moving as quietly as possible I went to the window and slid it open. Out on the front deck of our old two story it was a cool, late spring night. There were no cars moving down the street, no lights on in a neighbor's house, nothing. At least nothing noticeable.
"I don't believe my work habits are any of your business. Now, would you like to tell me why you're calling or should I just hang up? And while you're at it, tell me just who you are as well."
"I can already tell patience is not something that comes easily to you."
"When strangers call me late at night with hidden motives I do tend to be a little short with them."
"So you've shown me."
"I'm going to hang up now!" I threatened.
"Okay, okay!" the voice on the other end cried. It was easy to tell they were stifling a laugh. It seemed I was rather amusing to them. "I'm calling to offer you a proposition. Well, I guess I should really call it a summer job rather than a proposition. But we need your help either way."
"Are you the one that sent me the e-mail? I don't appreciate strangers filling up my inbox with junk that I don't understand."
"I haven't sent out any emails in the last two days. But one of my colleagues very well could've sent you one. Oh, well, I would exercise the spam folder if it means that much to you. That's not why I called though!" I sat down in the moist deck with my back pressed against the metal guard rails. I considered briefly what the probability of the old railing giving out would be. The chances were slim.
"Yes, you called to offer me a proposition or summer job. That doesn't matter though since you need my help either way," I rattled off back to him. By now I had figured out I was talking to a guy probably in his teens somewhere.
"So you were listening. Anyway, from what we've seen you sound like an intelligent individual; you may be even more intelligent than the average person. We're looking to recruit someone to help us with an upcoming…project we're taking on. You're the only one we've found that really fits our qualifications."
"Mhmm," I said. "Could you tell me who this 'we' you're referring to is? And while you're at it, why don't you tell me who you are exactly. Unless your name is actually JW or C then don't bother."
"We are an organization that I can't quite tell you about just yet. For security reasons, I'm sure you understand."
"Of course."
"Oh, and my name is not JW or C. That's another confidential issue. I don't really know you from Adam right now." I'd beg to differ I thought to myself. You seem to know more about me than many of my friends do. "But just because I like your spunk you can call me Jaz."
"Wow, I feel so honored," I told him. A light went on in the house next door. Mr. Shane was probably going to come yell at me for being a no good hooligan and threaten to call the police if I didn't go inside.
"As you rightfully should. So, what do you think? You'll get to travel, put your life on the line, be away from your parents, etc. etc."
"How do I know you aren't some crazy stalker that is telling me all this just to get me into your black, windowless, van? Or you're just some telemarketer getting creative in selling me a bunch of travel magazines?" Thought the second of my examples didn't sound very convincing, the first was actually a very good point. Though Jaz had performed some very impressive magic on my protective dad.
"There should be someone dropping a package off at your front door as we speak. Make sure you're the one that opens it. You'll get more information about this job offer. That should be enough to convince you. And if you decide to take it there's a brochure for your parents in there on a very safe summer camp." As he said it a delivery man walked out of Mr. Shane's house. In a very professional way he walked across the lawn up to our front door.  Producing a box from within his coat the man placed it on our porch then retreated onto the street.
"It's been nice talking to you, Geneva-"
"Sophie," I interrupted. "Call me Sophie." Jaz paused.
"Well, nice talking to you, Sophie. I hope to get the chance to work with you next month." Click. I was left alone on the porch to consider the conversation I had just had. I could go down and get the package off of the porch and risk getting caught by my parents or wait until morning. No doubt if I was caught an interrogation would follow on who it was on the phone. Unless Jaz's spell was long lasting my dad would be back to his old self. They'd also want to know where I'd gotten the box from. The logical thing to do would be to wait until morning and get it on the way out to the bus.
That's precisely what I did. Once I was sure my parents were asleep again I finished my science report. Printing would have to wait until morning when it wouldn't wake up anyone in the house. At five o'clock I finally got to sleep with the image of the package sitting on my porch swirling in my head.

The rest of the school year passed in a blur of finals and year book signings. The package I had received contained a manila folder of information along with a fancy brochure full of lies. In the folder was one plane ticket to an unmarked destination. Though it said in the pamphlet the camp was located in sunny Oklahoma I had this sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be visiting Oklahoma anytime soon.
My parents were in love with this camp. Campers there would learn to "unlock their inner creativity" through art classes and the great outdoors. To a pair of graphic artist parents with a very inartistic daughter, this sounded like the answer to their prayers. Leo, my older brother, had gotten the artsy gene while I had gotten both his and my own share of logic. Mom and Dad had nothing against me being inartistic but we didn't really didn't have much to bond over.
Also in the folder I found a short summary of why these people wanted me. The list went on as follows:

Qualifications
Subject: Geneva S. Cane
• Intelligence ***
• Cunning ***
• Fitness **/*
• Ability to Lie ***
• Foreign Languages ***
• Reflexes: ***
Score: 17.5/18
Note: Highest score we've seen in years. Doubtful we'll find anyone better than a 17.5. Given her scores in Intellect, Languages, and Reflexes she'll be perfect. Send out a call.

To see my name printed on a foreign sheet was unnerving. Someone in the world had sat down and scrupulously studied me to decide whether I should work for them. Though the thought creeped me out to say the least, I made my decision. I had no other pressing plans for my summer and despite the limited information I had gotten, I wanted to do this.
So on June 5th my mother drove me to the local airport. One of the sheets of paper in my folder had said all I needed was a carry on to make the trip. It had taken some convincing to assure my parents I would last a summer on a single carry on backpack but I had prevailed in the end.
"Be good, Sophie!" My mom told me before giving me one of her crushing hugs. Though my internal organs always felt a little damaged afterwards, I had never really minded her hugs.
"Are you suggesting that I'm usually bad? You're harming my ego, Mom!" She smiled ruefully at me before sending me through security. It had been ages since I'd travelled via plane. The last time was when my family had gone on a trip to Disney World in Orlando. That had been when I was eight.
A helpful airline worker led me to my gate. Though I was above the age of requiring a flight attendant to check on me, my mother had requested at my horror that someone accompany me on my trip. "So, who are you staying with in New York?" The perky red head asked. She had dyed her hair to this copper color that bleached out her face from a nice, natural brown. Her eyebrows stood out in stark contrast against her artificial hair. She had done it recently and hated it judging from the way her hand fluttered up to pat it down. Each time she touched it a light grimace flickered across her face.
"My mom's cousins. They offered to let me come stay with them for the summer. I've always wanted to go. See Times Square, tour the theatre district, the usual. My parents couldn't get the time off to come with me. Frankly, I'm kind of glad. It's nice not to have them breathing down my neck all the time." The lady, Donna according to her name tag, nodded.
"I know how you feel. I was your age once, very independent. What grade are you going into?"
There are certain things that adults will always bring up when talking to you. Number one, the "I was your age once, I can sympathize!" Yes. We all realize that you didn't just spring into existence as an adult. You do not have to remind us that you were awkward and gawking and getting new "feelings" at one time too. Number two, always asking what grade you're in. This one has always annoyed me. It's an understandable question when you look older than your age since people are always trying to figure out how old you are exactly. But perhaps I don't want to tell the world what grade I'm in. And Number Three nine times out of ten follows number two. "Do you like school?" If you tell that person you hate school you'll get a lecture on how it'll help you in the long run. Perhaps you'll even get to hear about that person's school experiences. But if you say you do like it many other questions ensue afterwards that are equally as annoying.
"I'll be a freshman next year," I replied.
"Wow, that's exciting! High school is definitely a whole other world." And right on cue Donna asked, "So, do you like school?" I considered telling her I planned to drop out once I saved enough money to buy a sturdy truck but other than that tolerated it, but I figured her reaction just wouldn't be worth the effort.
"It's okay."
"Oh, here we are! Right on time."  I checked the sign indicating the destination of the plane. We would be heading to Detroit then flying to New York. As we found our seats in the first class section I prayed the layover in Detroit wouldn't be long. I had brought my iPod to listen to and a book to read on the flight but I didn't know how long they would save me from small talk with Donna.
Our flight was dull. Donna read the complimentary issue of Sky Mall and fussed with her hair some more but left me alone. It seemed she had flown with teenagers before. I followed her to our next gate in Detroit. The layover was only an hour leaving little time for Donna to chat with me. By the time we had found out gate we had only ten minutes left to wait.
"Do you have any pets at home, Geneva?" I hated it when people addressed me by my first name. But to point it out to some woman I would never see again seemed useless.
"We have a Persian cat named Alexander. He's pretty but really lazy. We joke that when he dies we'll use his fur as a rug." Donna laughed. I had expected it to be a loud and annoying caw but she actually had a nice laugh. Checking her left hand she wore no ring. It would be tough to meet someone when you worked in the airline industry.
"Our old cat Charlie was the same way. He wasn't all that pretty, though. He survived being hit by a car but it didn't quite help his looks. Want to see a picture of him?" That was another thing I had learned in my fourteen years: you do not decline when someone offers to show you a picture of someone/something they loved. So like the good girl my mom had told me to be I nodded eagerly. I didn't quite care for cats. Alexander and I had a strained relationship. Dogs were more my forte.
Before Donna could fish the picture from her wallet people began pouring out of the door leading to our flight. "Oh, we should get ready to go." I shouldered my bag and stood. Once again we took seats in the first class section. Jaz and his organization had sent me some very nice tickets.
The same procedure went on for our flight to New York. Donna left me alone and I left her alone in return. When we landed I consulted one of the papers I had received in the package. "We will have someone waiting for you by baggage claim once you reach your final destination." So, following the directions on the paper, we followed the signs directing to baggage claim.
Standing in a commons area by the double doors leading outside stood a cluster of professional looking men holding signs baring surnames. In the middle of the group a boy about my age stood holding a small card reading G. S. Cane. It was obvious his presence disturbed the others around him. A sideways glance at his worn jeans, a carefully placed scowl when he ran a hand absently through the already tousled sandy blonde hair on his head, a very slight shift of weight from one leg to the other when the boy got within two feet. All these signs were subtle but even the most harried tourist rushing by to search for their luggage could tell the boy didn't quite fit in.
"Oh, there's your cousin!" Donna pointed to the bored looking guy. He didn't look thrilled to be in the position he was in. The circles beneath his eyes and the hastily prepared ensemble suggested he had literally just rolled out of bed when he had left for the airport.
"Thank you for getting me here!" I gushed before setting off for the sleepy sign holder. He perked up a little bit when he saw me approaching.
"Are you Geneva Cane?" His grey eyes studied me carefully.
"Sophie Cane."
"Right, you're Sophie. I forgot."
"Then you must be Jaz from the late night phone call." He nodded with sleepy satisfaction, proud to have annoyed me into remembering his name.
"I am Jaz from the late night phone call. I hope you enjoyed our welcome package. It seems your parents bought it. Doesn't really surprise me."
"My flight chaperone is watching to make sure I get out of here safely. You'd better lead me out of here like we're happy second cousins meeting for the same time rather than phone acquaintances." Jaz's eyebrows rose in awed astonishment.
"That's rather impressive, you haven't looked back to see Donna waiting there once! But you told her we're second cousins?"
"Well," I shrugged, "I had to have some excuse for coming to New York unescorted by a parent. My mom and dad couldn't get time off to come visit my mom's cousins here, if you know what I mean. So that makes us temporary relatives."
"Well, in that case," Jaz stepped forward and gave me an unexpected hug. "Welcome to New York cousin!" Blush seeped into my face. He smelled like soap from a shower he had taken the previous night. The smell was present but not heavy enough for him to have taken a shower that morning considering his disheveled state. He would've been more awake from the hot water.
"How about we just walk out and pretend we're having an interesting conversation instead. That would look more customary given we've never met before."
"Hmm, I suppose. I'm not sure I can really pretend to be interested in an uninteresting conversation, however. Not without caffeine in my system. You'd better give me something to be interested in." While we walked outside where traffic buzzed I thought.
"What did you do to my dad when you called last month? Is that interesting enough for you? You seem like the type that would enjoy bragging about themselves as often as possible."
"You caught me! Modesty is not one of my qualities. But that's simple. I called at a time when he was in REM sleep. When you wake someone up from that they're always much happier to talk to you."
"But how did you know he was in REM sleep?" Jaz shot me a sly glance.
"I can't reveal all my secrets just yet, can I? Here we are," We stood beside a sleek black ____. Opening the door like a gentlemen he said, "Ladies first."
Inside was much darker than the sunny day outside due to the tinted windows. Jaz slid in after me and cut off the biggest source of light in the car. I couldn't see the driver well thanks to the screen separating the front and back seats, but they were obviously a very large person. The smell of cigarettes and cologne hung heavy in the air.
"Nice car you've got here. I especially like the smell." Jaz shrugged.
"I have no say in what goes on in the front seat. Do with that bit of information what you will." He added the last part quickly. I didn't pursue the thought. I could feel the vehicle begin to speed up though the sound level never increased. Whoever was funding this "summer job" I was accepting was definitely in the money.
"Can you-"
"No."
"You don't-"
"Yes I do." I glared at Jaz. He was staring out the darkened window dully. If this was how he was going to be, we were not going to get along well.
"I was going to ask why the windows are tinted on the inside, too. It makes no sense." He slowly swiveled his head to look at me with an incredulous grin on his face.
"You're really something. I don't think I've met one person that has ever asked about the windows before anything else. I guess you are some kind of braniac. But if you're that curious it's because this is the car we use to transport highly dangerous criminals to secret locations. The dark keeps them disoriented and from seeing where we're taking them so they can call their accomplices to come rescue them. I don't suggest moving very far to your right; I believe the last person we had in here had an open wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. They were sitting in the far seat." He delivered the lines like a pro, good eye contact, good pacing, emotion (or lack thereof). However, he'd missed one of the big Do Not's of lying: story inconsistency.
"Is that so? Because if that were the case and you truly were transporting highly dangerous criminals you would use something less flashy than a ______. For one, it's not what you would call armored. Though if I was an accomplice to some serial robber perhaps I wouldn't expect to find them being transported in a sports car. However, I would expect there would be some extra compartments for weapons or restraints to be located beneath the seats or inside the door. Alas," I rapped my hand against the side of the door. "No compartments within the doors or seats. Good effort but why don't you just give me the truth this time."
Unabashed Jaz kept smiling at me. "Well, look who's the little detective! No one informed me about your deductive skills. You're just a regular, modern day Sherlock Holmes. Only, a little more female and a little less Opium dependent I hope."
"I see someone's read the classics."
"I saw the movie. Jude Law does make a pretty good Watson."
"And Robert Downey Jr.?"
He shrugged, "I'm not a fan." The absurdity of the situation struck me. I was sitting in a dark car talking to a near stranger about Robert Downey Jr. Right after I realized how absurd it was, I realized Jaz had successfully talked his way around my question.
"Well, whether you enjoy Mr. Downey or not is irrelevant given our present circumstances. So why don't you tell me about these blacked out windows instead."
"You're very hung up on these windows."
"Only because you won't tell me why the windows are dark."
"Hasn't anyone ever told you it isn't wise to bother a tired person?"
"I've heard of the expression but I've also heard it's acceptable when they're trying to deflect your questions without reason." Jaz moaned and rested his head against the window.
"I'm starting to regret agreeing to any of this. First I have to get up early, then I have to subject myself to this new form of torture! Can't you just let me sleep and ponder the windows to yourself?"
"I could but I'd rather find out from you right here right now." The words had no effect. Whether he was feigning it or legitimately asleep, Jaz wasn't going to tell me anything. So I reserved myself to sitting in the dark car with my arms folded attempting to look out the window. Some blurs of buildings could be seen if I squinted. Sometime later the driver in the front seat turned up both the heat and radio and began singing along to a Lady Gaga song in an octave no human being should ever attempt to reach. It was debatably one of the worst car rides I've ever experienced.
The moment the car ceased motion Jaz snapped awake (another piece of evidence proving he wasn't truly sleeping). "We're here." He said calmly.
"Is that so?" Stepping outside after the long ride was blinding. My eyes stung as I groped for my bag and slid out. We were in an unimpressive looking part of town. A sad looking deli looked to be the only open business for blocks. The rest were either closed for "renovations" or looked as though they could be condemned. Well, all the buildings looked as though they could be condemned.
"I hope you're hungry-"
"I ate waiting for my flight."
Without batting an eye Jaz continued"-because only the best eaters have ever been accepted. I think the last guy accepted ate five subs, four bags of chips, and a cookie the size of my head."
"What does that have to do with…wait! Did you say that only the best eaters get accepted? I thought I was already accepted!"
"Why would anyone accept someone that hadn't met before? That would be ridiculous!" Jaz said with a superior chuckle. "Nope, you get an interview first and if it turns out you're all wrong for the job you get to hitch hike your way back to whatever it is you came from." I couldn't help but pause a moment. Though I never for a fact he had to be lying on the hitch hiking part. "C'mon, I'm hungry."
I allowed him to lead me across the street and into the old deli. Inside smelled like the produce section of a grocery store mixed with sweat.
It was obvious that if a health inspector ever so much as glanced at the interior of this deli, it would be boarded up and left to decay in peace for all eternity. My feet stuck to the grimy tile floor. It didn't look like anyone had swept in years. Cockroaches huddled in the corners feasting on moldy crumbs. The walls were painted a once bright green that had now faded to a peeling mint color. The ceiling tiles were a yellow color that suggested a long history of smoking patrons. Each of the dozen small, round tables stuffed into the tiny room had a checkered table cloth on top of them and empty looking condiment bottles.
"People actually eat here?"
"Their subs are amazing. Just don't order anything that isn't pre-packaged."
"Is their meat pre-packaged?" Only three months before my deli experience I'd received an awful case of food poisoning from a new Chinese buffet we had visited. Needless to say, I wasn't keen on spending another night watching everything I had recently eaten come back up.
"Hey look, there's your interviewer right over there!" Jaz said quickly. Standing behind the counter was a burly man with several impressive looking tattoos, including the ever cliché word mom inside of a heart. From the looks of the stained up apron he looked as though he might have been a butcher of the member of the Mafia.
"I believe I've lost my appetite," I said softly.
"Oh, don't worry. Henry's generally a nice guy." I didn't like the smile that appeared on Jaz's face when he mentioned the "generally" part in nice guy.
Henry surveyed me sourly as we approached the counter. "Afternoon, Henry." He merely grunted in reply. "I'll have the usual."
Grunt.
"And Sophie will have…."
"The _____."
Grunt.
Jaz drummed his fingers happily on the counter while we waited for Henry to prepare our food. Had I been him, I wouldn't have touched the layer of grime that covered what had probably once been some kind of counter area. Who knew what form of new disease was festering there. When Henry retreated into the back of the shop to grab a block of cheese I quickly turned on Jaz. "When does the interview begin?" He gave me what can only be classified as an "ugh, duh!" look.
"You're presently in your interview. And somehow I mistook you for someone rather observant. It seems I was wrong on that account. At any rate, I do hope Henry picks up the pace a little." At this he raised his voice, "I haven't eaten all day and I am quite famished!"
Grunt. Jaz shook his head in exasperation worsening the state of his hair. Though it was obvious his disheveled head was the last thing on Jaz's mind at that moment.
The phone in my pocket began vibrating. My mother had instructed that I text her once I had gotten on the ground safely or in the event that terrorists overtook our plane and I was headed for certain demise. The problem was that I had neglected to contact her due to either scenario so she was probably sitting in the living room at that point contemplating what I could be doing with my father, who would be reading a copy of the New York Times.
Jaz glanced at the phone I had finally fished out of my pocket coolly. "You can answer your text. Neither Henry nor I will be offended."
"It's just my mom."
"In that case text her back quickly and give her my love."
"Why would I give her some odd boy she's never met before's love?"
"Because it'll let her know you are making friends at your new 'camp'. That's important to parents. Finally, hallelujah! Food at last." Grunt. Henry was motioning to a section behind the counter I couldn't see. Assuming the establishment was run like a Subway I figured he was asking if I would like any condiments.
"Lettuce, please." Jaz made a face at my request but made no comment. Silently Henry finished off our orders and handed them over on dingy looking brown trays. We sat down at one of the tables along the left side of the room, far away from the front windows. Before I could even un-wrap my sandwich Jaz was attacking his with great enthusiasm.
"Did I pass then?"
"Hmm? Oh," he paused momentarily to look at me, "I never said it was a test. Just an interview. And I'm not at liberty to disclose that information right now."  The sandwich sitting there in its wrappings didn't look very appetizing.
"How do you even know you're not supposed to tell me?" He shrugged.
"Look, I've done enough of these to know how things go. It's standard procedure. You'll know when I know."
"Is that so? How many of these have you been on then if you're such an expert?"
"Well…this is the first," Jaz admitted indignantly. "But, I've heard about them enough from the others…" He abandoned the thought in order to better search for something beeping from within his pocket. As it turns out the devise was one that has been distracting teenagers from perfectly good face to face conversations for years; the cell phone. Though I did own one I refused to fall prey to its vicious spell as so many others my age had. I liked being able to look someone in the eye when I addressed them. Besides, it's much easier to tell if you're being lied to when staring the person right in the face.
"Excuse me," without so much as glancing in my general direction he walked away from the table with the phone pressed firmly against his ear. Once he was out the front door it occurred to me that if he really wanted to, Jaz could leave me totally stranded here in some dank deli within a totally unfamiliar city. I'd brought some spare cash but I didn't know how much it would cost to get a taxi to the airport. I was just considering getting up to join him outside when Henry legitimately spoke for the first time.
"You'll want to eat that quickly." His voice had the tone I had imagined it would hold; deep and gravely like a lifelong smoker's would be. But his words, however few they were, had come out sounding more sophisticated. I would've pegged him as a true blue New Yorker, accent and all.
"What?"
"It looks like we need to be moving on!" Jaz stopped mid-stride to bob his head at Henry. "Excellent as usual. I'll see you next week. C'mon, Sophie, we need to go now." Back on the street Jaz led the way towards a sad looking subway entrance.
"The subway?"
"Don't diss the metro system. The transportation gods will find you and kill you."
"The transportation gods?"
"Quit asking questions that aren't even questions! It's too early for this." I was too focused on keeping my footing on the grimy steps to come up with a good reply. The steps led down to was cavernous, big enough for a ballroom dancing class to practice in. Though the tile walls could've used a nice power scrub, if only to wipe away some of the graffiti. "Your pass, mademoiselle." I accepted the bright orange metrocard. It was surprisingly flimsy but nevertheless got me through the floor to ceiling ________.
Inside the terminal was about as impressive as the entrance had been. There was some urban art painted on the wall with small additions added in sporadically by clever hooligans. On either side of a very wide, and very grubby, walkway were the tracks. A train came screaming to a halt on the right causing a god-awful noise. It was a sound that could've very well been recorded for use in a horror film. Few passengers disembarked and even fewer got on.
Jaz had a pensive expression on his face so I decided not to ask him with any of my numerous questions. What was the difference between the A train and the F train? Where were we? Where were we headed? Would it be in as shady of an area as we were presently in?
"Where are we going?"
"Wonderland."
"I don't think you can plausibly reach Wonderland from the subway."
"Ye of little faith." A rat scurried across the tracks down on my left. In all honesty, I don't think my life would've been greatly impacted if I had never taken a visit to the Manhattan subway system. It has an odd, underground type of smell that sticks with you until you reach the surface. And not to mention the shady and rude people on the trains.
"Fine. So we're metaphorically on our way to catch a train to Wonderland. What relevance does it have in relationship to anything we've done today?" Another screech echoed from our right as another train pulled in. Jaz stopped to watch it solemnly. He looked like some kind of modern art project standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets, slight wind from the train blowing at his hair.
"I like to walk as little as possible and Wonderland is pretty far away. Besides, we need to think and the subway is a great place for thinking." The doors opened to let people off. Jaz grabbed my wrist and hauled me through the threshold. The seats inside had seen better days but we plopped down in a pair none the less. I'd decided by this time that Jaz wasn't embarrassed by physical contact with girls like most boys his age.
"What do we need to think about on the way to 'Wonderland'?" He grinned at the opposite wall in a private sort of way. It was the smile of a child that had loosened the legs on the teacher's chair and was watching her about to sit in the chair.
"You're the one that has to do most of the thinking. All of us…members of Wonderland have to go by a kind of nickname. No offense, but the name Geneva isn't easy to remember or fear.'
"My name is-"
"Sophie. So I've been told. But you need something shorter I can actually remember." I got the feeling he could remember my name just fine the way it was at that time. "Contrary to popular belief, my first name isn't actually Jaz. Though I do much prefer it."
"What is it then?"
"Irrelevant!" Jaz said a little too eagerly. "Were I you, I'd pick something close to your real name so you don't end up forgetting your real name entirely. It's hard to remember, I've already forgotten." He waved off my words of protest. "Think about it for a second." I thought about it for several seconds. See, I'm known for my brains rather than my creativity. I can be creative if needed but it doesn't come as naturally to me as it does to others.
"Any ideas? I could throw out a few names if you want. No promises they'll be any good." I nodded." Okay…how about Jen, Via, Vee, Vuh, So, Fee Fee—what? No Fee Fee? Fine. Sofa, Soph, Cane, Cay, Case, Cev, Cen…."
"Sen."
"Okay then. This would be our stop."  The train was slowing to a stop. Nothing in particular jumped out at me about this stop. The station walls might've looked nicer here if only a little. Jaz proceeded to drag me onto three different trains before he seemed satisfied with our location.
"I thought you said the first stop was ours."
"I did," Jaz replied coolly. "Because it was our stop. We just had other stops after that one."
"That makes no sense."
"You don't seem to have a grasp on the Manhattan subway transportation service yet and that's understandable so I won't take that comment to heart." I wondered at that point if Jaz was always that annoying or if he was just tired. There were heavy bags dropping beneath his eyes.
"Could you just tell me where we're going?" The train made a sound comparable to that a cat trapped in a bag being smacked with a baseball bat would create then stopped.
"We're going here," Jaz said with a certain finality that made me wonder if this was actually our final stop. Once back onto the narrow strip of walkway between the two sets of tracks Jaz picked up his gait considerably. We were walking towards a set of stairs leading up towards the surface. However we bypassed those and went for a door set back in the wall instead.
"This is it." The door had 'Authorized Personnel Only' printed in chipped red paint right at eye level. There's a time at which it's best to ask questions and then there are other times when it's wise to simply observe. This was one of those times when I figured keeping quiet would be best.
Jaz glanced around lazily. One of the trains had just departed taking most of the subway visitors with it. The only people remaining were immersed totally in their phones, though I doubted they could get any service down there. I'm not sure what it was I had been expecting, maybe a thumb scanner hidden in the wall that popped out when he knocked on the door. Whatever it was, I was not anticipating him to just open the door and walk right in without even stopping to hold the door for me.
The door sealed with a fooosh. The hallway was industrial looking: plain white walls down a long hallway without any doors besides one leading to a supply closet. "I've always thought this hallway was a tremendous waste of space but what are you to do?" Jaz commented absently whilst digging in his pocket. Within seconds he produced a set of keys that fit into the supply closet lock easily.
Down at the other end of the hallway another door slid open from behind the wall. "That seems just a little cliché, doesn't it?" I said.
"Cliché? Are trying to call having a separate maintenance so we don't have to tromp through mops and Windex every day is cliché?   I'd like to know what kind of place you come from." He pulled out the key with a flourish and shoved the door open. A much darker hallway was on the other side, completely devoid of cleaning supplies just as Jaz had said.

Description
In theory, I only have about sixty seconds to convince you to read this. Depending on your speed and willingness to read you'll probably decide within the next page whether my story is worth your time reading. It doesn't really make a difference to me whether you stick with it or not. I won't waste my time trying to set up some elaborate hook to reel you in. I'm just going to tell you about my life, which I've been told from many, others is rather interesting.
No, I won't say that if you read this you are part of something bigger than yourself. That would be ridiculous. I do suggest that you should never attempt anything I say in here. I'm more or less a trained professional. Well, that and a very good improviser.
My story begins in an ostentatious club in the inner city. For security purposes I won't tell you the exact name of the club or the city you could still find it in. It was closing in on midnight at this club. A long line of hopeful club goers wound its way down the block. On the inside of the building music blasted through giant speakers at a level that would surely cause hearing damage. Bodies swayed in irregular patterns on the dance floor while artificial smoke and flashing lights turned the scene into one from a science fiction novel.
Socialites intermingled with the rest of the well to do citizens of the city. The stray civilians that had gotten past the security guards tried their best to seem important. On the prestigious red couch sat an up and coming model watching over the activity of the club. She called for a waiter passing nearby with an empty tray held aloft. She whispered something in his ear and he scurried off to retrieve her order. The model and middle aged man standing nearby exchanged a knowing look before she rose to her feet. Without a backwards glance she flounced off into the writhing mass of bodies.
Beneath the red couch hid a young scraggly looking boy. He let out a breath as the weight, however little there had been, disappeared. The boy had been lying on his stomach pressed against the wooden underbelly of the couch for hours watching famous feet march by. He would lie there for another four hours before the club would entirely empty.
When the lights finally went out the boy wiggled himself out of his position. He paused to let circulation get back into his feet then trooped off to find the kitchen. Without disrupting a chair, hitting a light, even leaving one trace of his presence after hours he moved through the empty club and out into the back alley. Below a trash can he found a slip of paper a waiter had left for him while taking a break to smoke.
At precisely four o'clock am a black Mazda pulled down the alley without its headlights on. The boy slipped into the passenger's seat with the piece of paper from beneath the trash can folded neatly in an interior coat pocket. The boy and driver exchanged no words as they pulled back onto the street. Within seconds they melted back into the never ending parade of cars. When the club opened again the next night no one inside would realize a major exchange had just gone down under their noses. The building would fill with people and music and light again just as it had every night before.
That was essentially how I got involved in the business I'm in. See, at the time of this event I was at my home several states away working on homework. I've been convinced for years that I have some sort of attention problem given I spent most of my late evenings working on worksheets due the next day instead of sleeping. Homework didn't seem urgent once I got home. I had just been at school doing much of the same grueling, uninteresting work. I didn't need to be doing it at home either. Perhaps my issue was just procrastination rather than an attention problem.
Before I go further I'd like to point out that I'm not trying to put the rap on homework. I have a much higher IQ than most people and found school overall a total bore. My parents had me in the school's gifted program but to be frank, the public school's gifted program wasn't much more challenging than their normal courses. I'd often begged my parents for private schooling but "the tuition was way over our heads". The conversations that ensued after tuition was brought up almost always ended with me grounded. If you ask me, my parents just didn't want to understand my logic.
Anyway, that night I was working half-heartedly on a report due to my science teacher in the morning. What annoyed me most of the time while working on homework was that I would use very little of what I learned in my job someday. Not that I knew what it was I wanted to do in eighth grade, I knew it wouldn't involve different types of rock in the Earth's crust.
At four o'clock on the dot I felt like throwing my laptop against the closest wall and watching with satisfaction as it crashed into pieces. Logic prevailed in the end when I realized my mom and dad would hear me and come to see what was going on. I wasn't supposed to be up to begin with, let alone be working on a paper.
Instead I clicked out of word to check my email. Earlier that evening I had sent off an inquiry to a private high school to see if the tuition rate would be reasonable for us to pay. I was intent on not attending the local public high school. We had received our information on signing up for classes that week and had been appalled at the limited choices open to freshmen.
When I signed into my email account I found no reply from the school in my inbox. There was one of the annoying chain messages foretelling my demise if I didn't pass it on and a message labeled "Urgent" from an unmarked sender. Without reading it I deleted the chain letter from my friend. Then it came down to the other email now sitting in my box.
I had sat through enough seminars on being internet safe to know it wouldn't be wise to open the other email. It could've very well been a virus that would attack my hard drive and send my report to the depths of Tartarus. However I had a very dependable virus protection software that I figured could battle off the virus if there was one. So, against my better judgment, I opened it.
The email was obviously not meant for me. It read:
JW-
Looks like your source pulled through. I found the sheet you told me about beneath the trash can just as she promised. I guess there's a first time for everything. Now we have the resource for taking him down on our own. Do you want to tell Angela? I still don't trust her after that last little "slip up" she had on our mission. It's up to you.
C

I considered for a long while whether I should reply to C and tell them they had sent the wrong person the email. Then, something else caught my eye. There were two email addresses at the top of the message. One was mine and the other was obviously the one this message was meant for. Whoever had sent this meant for me to get it as well.
I attempted to send a reply but it came up as a one way address, like the kind companies have where they can send you updates but you have to contact them through their companies' website. The same alert came up when I tried the other address at the top .Whoever JW and C were, they didn't want to be contacted. The website at the end of JW's address was generic and gave me no hinters as to who they might be working for. Unless Google was now sending out their employees on secret missions to retrieve notes from beneath trash cans, I doubted that was who they worked for.
Forgetting entirely about the accursed science report I began racking my mind for anyone whose initials were JW or C. I knew one John Winston but he was in his late eighties and had little notion of who he was, let alone how to send out an email. He was also my mother's father making him my only surviving grandfather. And I knew many people with a C in their name though not many of them would know of anyone named Angela.
In a flurry of bright light and sound the phone resting in its base on my desk sprang to life serenading me with a song of Beethoven's. As quickly as I could without damaging a hinge I closed my laptop, slid it beneath my bed, and slid under the rumpled covers. This was the usual escape from being discovered routine. If the light in the hallway went on I would roll around to muse my hair a little more. No one ever suspected.
Within the second ring someone picked up the phone in the hall. I watched the crack beneath my door carefully. There went the light. It was my dad that had taken the call. Whoever it was on the other end had my pity. My father isn't one who can cope with late nights. He enjoys his sleep. So when someone disrupts that sleeping you had better have a very good reason or a death wish.
To my extreme surprise, my dad wasn't yelling in the hallway. He was talking in normal tones and actually listening to whoever it was on the phone. This had to be some kind of miracle. The floor boards creaked beneath his weight as Dad walked to my room. At four in the morning, as calm as if he were coming in to tell me he was going out to buy groceries, he peeked his head in and said, "There's someone on the phone for you, Geneva." He didn't pause to ask who I might know that would call at this ungodly hour or even why I was fully awake staring at the door.
I grabbed my phone numbly. For possibly the first time in my life I did not reprimand my father for addressing me by my first name. "Hello?" Whoever it was on the other line had to be a miracle worker.
"Hello, is this Geneva Cane?"
"Perhaps. What do you want? I do hope you have a good reason for calling me this late. Some people try to sleep at this hour," I retorted sourly.
"But you weren't sleeping now were you? If I'm not mistaken, you were up doing homework." A feeling of paranoia crept up my spine. Moving as quietly as possible I went to the window and slid it open. Out on the front deck of our old two story it was a cool, late spring night. There were no cars moving down the street, no lights on in a neighbor's house, nothing. At least nothing noticeable.
"I don't believe my work habits are any of your business. Now, would you like to tell me why you're calling or should I just hang up? And while you're at it, tell me just who you are as well."
"I can already tell patience is not something that comes easily to you."
"When strangers call me late at night with hidden motives I do tend to be a little short with them."
"So you've shown me."
"I'm going to hang up now!" I threatened.
"Okay, okay!" the voice on the other end cried. It was easy to tell they were stifling a laugh. It seemed I was rather amusing to them. "I'm calling to offer you a proposition. Well, I guess I should really call it a summer job rather than a proposition. But we need your help either way."
"Are you the one that sent me the e-mail? I don't appreciate strangers filling up my inbox with junk that I don't understand."
"I haven't sent out any emails in the last two days. But one of my colleagues very well could've sent you one. Oh, well, I would exercise the spam folder if it means that much to you. That's not why I called though!" I sat down in the moist deck with my back pressed against the metal guard rails. I considered briefly what the probability of the old railing giving out would be. The chances were slim.
"Yes, you called to offer me a proposition or summer job. That doesn't matter though since you need my help either way," I rattled off back to him. By now I had figured out I was talking to a guy probably in his teens somewhere.
"So you were listening. Anyway, from what we've seen you sound like an intelligent individual; you may be even more intelligent than the average person. We're looking to recruit someone to help us with an upcoming…project we're taking on. You're the only one we've found that really fits our qualifications."
"Mhmm," I said. "Could you tell me who this 'we' you're referring to is? And while you're at it, why don't you tell me who you are exactly. Unless your name is actually JW or C then don't bother."
"We are an organization that I can't quite tell you about just yet. For security reasons, I'm sure you understand."
"Of course."
"Oh, and my name is not JW or C. That's another confidential issue. I don't really know you from Adam right now." I'd beg to differ I thought to myself. You seem to know more about me than many of my friends do. "But just because I like your spunk you can call me Jaz."
"Wow, I feel so honored," I told him. A light went on in the house next door. Mr. Shane was probably going to come yell at me for being a no good hooligan and threaten to call the police if I didn't go inside.
"As you rightfully should. So, what do you think? You'll get to travel, put your life on the line, be away from your parents, etc. etc."
"How do I know you aren't some crazy stalker that is telling me all this just to get me into your black, windowless, van? Or you're just some telemarketer getting creative in selling me a bunch of travel magazines?" Thought the second of my examples didn't sound very convincing, the first was actually a very good point. Though Jaz had performed some very impressive magic on my protective dad.
"There should be someone dropping a package off at your front door as we speak. Make sure you're the one that opens it. You'll get more information about this job offer. That should be enough to convince you. And if you decide to take it there's a brochure for your parents in there on a very safe summer camp." As he said it a delivery man walked out of Mr. Shane's house. In a very professional way he walked across the lawn up to our front door.  Producing a box from within his coat the man placed it on our porch then retreated onto the street.
"It's been nice talking to you, Geneva-"
"Sophie," I interrupted. "Call me Sophie." Jaz paused.
"Well, nice talking to you, Sophie. I hope to get the chance to work with you next month." Click. I was left alone on the porch to consider the conversation I had just had. I could go down and get the package off of the porch and risk getting caught by my parents or wait until morning. No doubt if I was caught an interrogation would follow on who it was on the phone. Unless Jaz's spell was long lasting my dad would be back to his old self. They'd also want to know where I'd gotten the box from. The logical thing to do would be to wait until morning and get it on the way out to the bus.
That's precisely what I did. Once I was sure my parents were asleep again I finished my science report. Printing would have to wait until morning when it wouldn't wake up anyone in the house. At five o'clock I finally got to sleep with the image of the package sitting on my porch swirling in my head.

The rest of the school year passed in a blur of finals and year book signings. The package I had received contained a manila folder of information along with a fancy brochure full of lies. In the folder was one plane ticket to an unmarked destination. Though it said in the pamphlet the camp was located in sunny Oklahoma I had this sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be visiting Oklahoma anytime soon.
My parents were in love with this camp. Campers there would learn to "unlock their inner creativity" through art classes and the great outdoors. To a pair of graphic artist parents with a very inartistic daughter, this sounded like the answer to their prayers. Leo, my older brother, had gotten the artsy gene while I had gotten both his and my own share of logic. Mom and Dad had nothing against me being inartistic but we didn't really didn't have much to bond over.
Also in the folder I found a short summary of why these people wanted me. The list went on as follows:

Qualifications
Subject: Geneva S. Cane
• Intelligence ***
• Cunning ***
• Fitness **/*
• Ability to Lie ***
• Foreign Languages ***
• Reflexes: ***
Score: 17.5/18
Note: Highest score we've seen in years. Doubtful we'll find anyone better than a 17.5. Given her scores in Intellect, Languages, and Reflexes she'll be perfect. Send out a call.

To see my name printed on a foreign sheet was unnerving. Someone in the world had sat down and scrupulously studied me to decide whether I should work for them. Though the thought creeped me out to say the least, I made my decision. I had no other pressing plans for my summer and despite the limited information I had gotten, I wanted to do this.
So on June 5th my mother drove me to the local airport. One of the sheets of paper in my folder had said all I needed was a carry on to make the trip. It had taken some convincing to assure my parents I would last a summer on a single carry on backpack but I had prevailed in the end.
"Be good, Sophie!" My mom told me before giving me one of her crushing hugs. Though my internal organs always felt a little damaged afterwards, I had never really minded her hugs.
"Are you suggesting that I'm usually bad? You're harming my ego, Mom!" She smiled ruefully at me before sending me through security. It had been ages since I'd travelled via plane. The last time was when my family had gone on a trip to Disney World in Orlando. That had been when I was eight.
A helpful airline worker led me to my gate. Though I was above the age of requiring a flight attendant to check on me, my mother had requested at my horror that someone accompany me on my trip. "So, who are you staying with in New York?" The perky red head asked. She had dyed her hair to this copper color that bleached out her face from a nice, natural brown. Her eyebrows stood out in stark contrast against her artificial hair. She had done it recently and hated it judging from the way her hand fluttered up to pat it down. Each time she touched it a light grimace flickered across her face.
"My mom's cousins. They offered to let me come stay with them for the summer. I've always wanted to go. See Times Square, tour the theatre district, the usual. My parents couldn't get the time off to come with me. Frankly, I'm kind of glad. It's nice not to have them breathing down my neck all the time." The lady, Donna according to her name tag, nodded.
"I know how you feel. I was your age once, very independent. What grade are you going into?"
There are certain things that adults will always bring up when talking to you. Number one, the "I was your age once, I can sympathize!" Yes. We all realize that you didn't just spring into existence as an adult. You do not have to remind us that you were awkward and gawking and getting new "feelings" at one time too. Number two, always asking what grade you're in. This one has always annoyed me. It's an understandable question when you look older than your age since people are always trying to figure out how old you are exactly. But perhaps I don't want to tell the world what grade I'm in. And Number Three nine times out of ten follows number two. "Do you like school?" If you tell that person you hate school you'll get a lecture on how it'll help you in the long run. Perhaps you'll even get to hear about that person's school experiences. But if you say you do like it many other questions ensue afterwards that are equally as annoying.
"I'll be a freshman next year," I replied.
"Wow, that's exciting! High school is definitely a whole other world." And right on cue Donna asked, "So, do you like school?" I considered telling her I planned to drop out once I saved enough money to buy a sturdy truck but other than that tolerated it, but I figured her reaction just wouldn't be worth the effort.
"It's okay."
"Oh, here we are! Right on time."  I checked the sign indicating the destination of the plane. We would be heading to Detroit then flying to New York. As we found our seats in the first class section I prayed the layover in Detroit wouldn't be long. I had brought my iPod to listen to and a book to read on the flight but I didn't know how long they would save me from small talk with Donna.
Our flight was dull. Donna read the complimentary issue of Sky Mall and fussed with her hair some more but left me alone. It seemed she had flown with teenagers before. I followed her to our next gate in Detroit. The layover was only an hour leaving little time for Donna to chat with me. By the time we had found out gate we had only ten minutes left to wait.
"Do you have any pets at home, Geneva?" I hated it when people addressed me by my first name. But to point it out to some woman I would never see again seemed useless.
"We have a Persian cat named Alexander. He's pretty but really lazy. We joke that when he dies we'll use his fur as a rug." Donna laughed. I had expected it to be a loud and annoying caw but she actually had a nice laugh. Checking her left hand she wore no ring. It would be tough to meet someone when you worked in the airline industry.
"Our old cat Charlie was the same way. He wasn't all that pretty, though. He survived being hit by a car but it didn't quite help his looks. Want to see a picture of him?" That was another thing I had learned in my fourteen years: you do not decline when someone offers to show you a picture of someone/something they loved. So like the good girl my mom had told me to be I nodded eagerly. I didn't quite care for cats. Alexander and I had a strained relationship. Dogs were more my forte.
Before Donna could fish the picture from her wallet people began pouring out of the door leading to our flight. "Oh, we should get ready to go." I shouldered my bag and stood. Once again we took seats in the first class section. Jaz and his organization had sent me some very nice tickets.
The same procedure went on for our flight to New York. Donna left me alone and I left her alone in return. When we landed I consulted one of the papers I had received in the package. "We will have someone waiting for you by baggage claim once you reach your final destination." So, following the directions on the paper, we followed the signs directing to baggage claim.
Standing in a commons area by the double doors leading outside stood a cluster of professional looking men holding signs baring surnames. In the middle of the group a boy about my age stood holding a small card reading G. S. Cane. It was obvious his presence disturbed the others around him. A sideways glance at his worn jeans, a carefully placed scowl when he ran a hand absently through the already tousled sandy blonde hair on his head, a very slight shift of weight from one leg to the other when the boy got within two feet. All these signs were subtle but even the most harried tourist rushing by to search for their luggage could tell the boy didn't quite fit in.
"Oh, there's your cousin!" Donna pointed to the bored looking guy. He didn't look thrilled to be in the position he was in. The circles beneath his eyes and the hastily prepared ensemble suggested he had literally just rolled out of bed when he had left for the airport.
"Thank you for getting me here!" I gushed before setting off for the sleepy sign holder. He perked up a little bit when he saw me approaching.
"Are you Geneva Cane?" His grey eyes studied me carefully.
"Sophie Cane."
"Right, you're Sophie. I forgot."
"Then you must be Jaz from the late night phone call." He nodded with sleepy satisfaction, proud to have annoyed me into remembering his name.
"I am Jaz from the late night phone call. I hope you enjoyed our welcome package. It seems your parents bought it. Doesn't really surprise me."
"My flight chaperone is watching to make sure I get out of here safely. You'd better lead me out of here like we're happy second cousins meeting for the same time rather than phone acquaintances." Jaz's eyebrows rose in awed astonishment.
"That's rather impressive, you haven't looked back to see Donna waiting there once! But you told her we're second cousins?"
"Well," I shrugged, "I had to have some excuse for coming to New York unescorted by a parent. My mom and dad couldn't get time off to come visit my mom's cousins here, if you know what I mean. So that makes us temporary relatives."
"Well, in that case," Jaz stepped forward and gave me an unexpected hug. "Welcome to New York cousin!" Blush seeped into my face. He smelled like soap from a shower he had taken the previous night. The smell was present but not heavy enough for him to have taken a shower that morning considering his disheveled state. He would've been more awake from the hot water.
"How about we just walk out and pretend we're having an interesting conversation instead. That would look more customary given we've never met before."
"Hmm, I suppose. I'm not sure I can really pretend to be interested in an uninteresting conversation, however. Not without caffeine in my system. You'd better give me something to be interested in." While we walked outside where traffic buzzed I thought.
"What did you do to my dad when you called last month? Is that interesting enough for you? You seem like the type that would enjoy bragging about themselves as often as possible."
"You caught me! Modesty is not one of my qualities. But that's simple. I called at a time when he was in REM sleep. When you wake someone up from that they're always much happier to talk to you."
"But how did you know he was in REM sleep?" Jaz shot me a sly glance.
"I can't reveal all my secrets just yet, can I? Here we are," We stood beside a sleek black ____. Opening the door like a gentlemen he said, "Ladies first."
Inside was much darker than the sunny day outside due to the tinted windows. Jaz slid in after me and cut off the biggest source of light in the car. I couldn't see the driver well thanks to the screen separating the front and back seats, but they were obviously a very large person. The smell of cigarettes and cologne hung heavy in the air.
"Nice car you've got here. I especially like the smell." Jaz shrugged.
"I have no say in what goes on in the front seat. Do with that bit of information what you will." He added the last part quickly. I didn't pursue the thought. I could feel the vehicle begin to speed up though the sound level never increased. Whoever was funding this "summer job" I was accepting was definitely in the money.
"Can you-"
"No."
"You don't-"
"Yes I do." I glared at Jaz. He was staring out the darkened window dully. If this was how he was going to be, we were not going to get along well.
"I was going to ask why the windows are tinted on the inside, too. It makes no sense." He slowly swiveled his head to look at me with an incredulous grin on his face.
"You're really something. I don't think I've met one person that has ever asked about the windows before anything else. I guess you are some kind of braniac. But if you're that curious it's because this is the car we use to transport highly dangerous criminals to secret locations. The dark keeps them disoriented and from seeing where we're taking them so they can call their accomplices to come rescue them. I don't suggest moving very far to your right; I believe the last person we had in here had an open wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. They were sitting in the far seat." He delivered the lines like a pro, good eye contact, good pacing, emotion (or lack thereof). However, he'd missed one of the big Do Not's of lying: story inconsistency.
"Is that so? Because if that were the case and you truly were transporting highly dangerous criminals you would use something less flashy than a ______. For one, it's not what you would call armored. Though if I was an accomplice to some serial robber perhaps I wouldn't expect to find them being transported in a sports car. However, I would expect there would be some extra compartments for weapons or restraints to be located beneath the seats or inside the door. Alas," I rapped my hand against the side of the door. "No compartments within the doors or seats. Good effort but why don't you just give me the truth this time."
Unabashed Jaz kept smiling at me. "Well, look who's the little detective! No one informed me about your deductive skills. You're just a regular, modern day Sherlock Holmes. Only, a little more female and a little less Opium dependent I hope."
"I see someone's read the classics."
"I saw the movie. Jude Law does make a pretty good Watson."
"And Robert Downey Jr.?"
He shrugged, "I'm not a fan." The absurdity of the situation struck me. I was sitting in a dark car talking to a near stranger about Robert Downey Jr. Right after I realized how absurd it was, I realized Jaz had successfully talked his way around my question.
"Well, whether you enjoy Mr. Downey or not is irrelevant given our present circumstances. So why don't you tell me about these blacked out windows instead."
"You're very hung up on these windows."
"Only because you won't tell me why the windows are dark."
"Hasn't anyone ever told you it isn't wise to bother a tired person?"
"I've heard of the expression but I've also heard it's acceptable when they're trying to deflect your questions without reason." Jaz moaned and rested his head against the window.
"I'm starting to regret agreeing to any of this. First I have to get up early, then I have to subject myself to this new form of torture! Can't you just let me sleep and ponder the windows to yourself?"
"I could but I'd rather find out from you right here right now." The words had no effect. Whether he was feigning it or legitimately asleep, Jaz wasn't going to tell me anything. So I reserved myself to sitting in the dark car with my arms folded attempting to look out the window. Some blurs of buildings could be seen if I squinted. Sometime later the driver in the front seat turned up both the heat and radio and began singing along to a Lady Gaga song in an octave no human being should ever attempt to reach. It was debatably one of the worst car rides I've ever experienced.
The moment the car ceased motion Jaz snapped awake (another piece of evidence proving he wasn't truly sleeping). "We're here." He said calmly.
"Is that so?" Stepping outside after the long ride was blinding. My eyes stung as I groped for my bag and slid out. We were in an unimpressive looking part of town. A sad looking deli looked to be the only open business for blocks. The rest were either closed for "renovations" or looked as though they could be condemned. Well, all the buildings looked as though they could be condemned.
"I hope you're hungry-"
"I ate waiting for my flight."
Without batting an eye Jaz continued"-because only the best eaters have ever been accepted. I think the last guy accepted ate five subs, four bags of chips, and a cookie the size of my head."
"What does that have to do with…wait! Did you say that only the best eaters get accepted? I thought I was already accepted!"
"Why would anyone accept someone that hadn't met before? That would be ridiculous!" Jaz said with a superior chuckle. "Nope, you get an interview first and if it turns out you're all wrong for the job you get to hitch hike your way back to whatever it is you came from." I couldn't help but pause a moment. Though I never for a fact he had to be lying on the hitch hiking part. "C'mon, I'm hungry."
I allowed him to lead me across the street and into the old deli. Inside smelled like the produce section of a grocery store mixed with sweat.
It was obvious that if a health inspector ever so much as glanced at the interior of this deli, it would be boarded up and left to decay in peace for all eternity. My feet stuck to the grimy tile floor. It didn't look like anyone had swept in years. Cockroaches huddled in the corners feasting on moldy crumbs. The walls were painted a once bright green that had now faded to a peeling mint color. The ceiling tiles were a yellow color that suggested a long history of smoking patrons. Each of the dozen small, round tables stuffed into the tiny room had a checkered table cloth on top of them and empty looking condiment bottles.
"People actually eat here?"
"Their subs are amazing. Just don't order anything that isn't pre-packaged."
"Is their meat pre-packaged?" Only three months before my deli experience I'd received an awful case of food poisoning from a new Chinese buffet we had visited. Needless to say, I wasn't keen on spending another night watching everything I had recently eaten come back up.
"Hey look, there's your interviewer right over there!" Jaz said quickly. Standing behind the counter was a burly man with several impressive looking tattoos, including the ever cliché word mom inside of a heart. From the looks of the stained up apron he looked as though he might have been a butcher of the member of the Mafia.
"I believe I've lost my appetite," I said softly.
"Oh, don't worry. Henry's generally a nice guy." I didn't like the smile that appeared on Jaz's face when he mentioned the "generally" part in nice guy.
Henry surveyed me sourly as we approached the counter. "Afternoon, Henry." He merely grunted in reply. "I'll have the usual."
Grunt.
"And Sophie will have…."
"The _____."
Grunt.
Jaz drummed his fingers happily on the counter while we waited for Henry to prepare our food. Had I been him, I wouldn't have touched the layer of grime that covered what had probably once been some kind of counter area. Who knew what form of new disease was festering there. When Henry retreated into the back of the shop to grab a block of cheese I quickly turned on Jaz. "When does the interview begin?" He gave me what can only be classified as an "ugh, duh!" look.
"You're presently in your interview. And somehow I mistook you for someone rather observant. It seems I was wrong on that account. At any rate, I do hope Henry picks up the pace a little." At this he raised his voice, "I haven't eaten all day and I am quite famished!"
Grunt. Jaz shook his head in exasperation worsening the state of his hair. Though it was obvious his disheveled head was the last thing on Jaz's mind at that moment.
The phone in my pocket began vibrating. My mother had instructed that I text her once I had gotten on the ground safely or in the event that terrorists overtook our plane and I was headed for certain demise. The problem was that I had neglected to contact her due to either scenario so she was probably sitting in the living room at that point contemplating what I could be doing with my father, who would be reading a copy of the New York Times.
Jaz glanced at the phone I had finally fished out of my pocket coolly. "You can answer your text. Neither Henry nor I will be offended."
"It's just my mom."
"In that case text her back quickly and give her my love."
"Why would I give her some odd boy she's never met before's love?"
"Because it'll let her know you are making friends at your new 'camp'. That's important to parents. Finally, hallelujah! Food at last." Grunt. Henry was motioning to a section behind the counter I couldn't see. Assuming the establishment was run like a Subway I figured he was asking if I would like any condiments.
"Lettuce, please." Jaz made a face at my request but made no comment. Silently Henry finished off our orders and handed them over on dingy looking brown trays. We sat down at one of the tables along the left side of the room, far away from the front windows. Before I could even un-wrap my sandwich Jaz was attacking his with great enthusiasm.
"Did I pass then?"
"Hmm? Oh," he paused momentarily to look at me, "I never said it was a test. Just an interview. And I'm not at liberty to disclose that information right now."  The sandwich sitting there in its wrappings didn't look very appetizing.
"How do you even know you're not supposed to tell me?" He shrugged.
"Look, I've done enough of these to know how things go. It's standard procedure. You'll know when I know."
"Is that so? How many of these have you been on then if you're such an expert?"
"Well…this is the first," Jaz admitted indignantly. "But, I've heard about them enough from the others…" He abandoned the thought in order to better search for something beeping from within his pocket. As it turns out the devise was one that has been distracting teenagers from perfectly good face to face conversations for years; the cell phone. Though I did own one I refused to fall prey to its vicious spell as so many others my age had. I liked being able to look someone in the eye when I addressed them. Besides, it's much easier to tell if you're being lied to when staring the person right in the face.
"Excuse me," without so much as glancing in my general direction he walked away from the table with the phone pressed firmly against his ear. Once he was out the front door it occurred to me that if he really wanted to, Jaz could leave me totally stranded here in some dank deli within a totally unfamiliar city. I'd brought some spare cash but I didn't know how much it would cost to get a taxi to the airport. I was just considering getting up to join him outside when Henry legitimately spoke for the first time.
"You'll want to eat that quickly." His voice had the tone I had imagined it would hold; deep and gravely like a lifelong smoker's would be. But his words, however few they were, had come out sounding more sophisticated. I would've pegged him as a true blue New Yorker, accent and all.
"What?"
"It looks like we need to be moving on!" Jaz stopped mid-stride to bob his head at Henry. "Excellent as usual. I'll see you next week. C'mon, Sophie, we need to go now." Back on the street Jaz led the way towards a sad looking subway entrance.
"The subway?"
"Don't diss the metro system. The transportation gods will find you and kill you."
"The transportation gods?"
"Quit asking questions that aren't even questions! It's too early for this." I was too focused on keeping my footing on the grimy steps to come up with a good reply. The steps led down to was cavernous, big enough for a ballroom dancing class to practice in. Though the tile walls could've used a nice power scrub, if only to wipe away some of the graffiti. "Your pass, mademoiselle." I accepted the bright orange metrocard. It was surprisingly flimsy but nevertheless got me through the floor to ceiling ________.
Inside the terminal was about as impressive as the entrance had been. There was some urban art painted on the wall with small additions added in sporadically by clever hooligans. On either side of a very wide, and very grubby, walkway were the tracks. A train came screaming to a halt on the right causing a god-awful noise. It was a sound that could've very well been recorded for use in a horror film. Few passengers disembarked and even fewer got on.
Jaz had a pensive expression on his face so I decided not to ask him with any of my numerous questions. What was the difference between the A train and the F train? Where were we? Where were we headed? Would it be in as shady of an area as we were presently in?
"Where are we going?"
"Wonderland."
"I don't think you can plausibly reach Wonderland from the subway."
"Ye of little faith." A rat scurried across the tracks down on my left. In all honesty, I don't think my life would've been greatly impacted if I had never taken a visit to the Manhattan subway system. It has an odd, underground type of smell that sticks with you until you reach the surface. And not to mention the shady and rude people on the trains.
"Fine. So we're metaphorically on our way to catch a train to Wonderland. What relevance does it have in relationship to anything we've done today?" Another screech echoed from our right as another train pulled in. Jaz stopped to watch it solemnly. He looked like some kind of modern art project standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets, slight wind from the train blowing at his hair.
"I like to walk as little as possible and Wonderland is pretty far away. Besides, we need to think and the subway is a great place for thinking." The doors opened to let people off. Jaz grabbed my wrist and hauled me through the threshold. The seats inside had seen better days but we plopped down in a pair none the less. I'd decided by this time that Jaz wasn't embarrassed by physical contact with girls like most boys his age.
"What do we need to think about on the way to 'Wonderland'?" He grinned at the opposite wall in a private sort of way. It was the smile of a child that had loosened the legs on the teacher's chair and was watching her about to sit in the chair.
"You're the one that has to do most of the thinking. All of us…members of Wonderland have to go by a kind of nickname. No offense, but the name Geneva isn't easy to remember or fear.'
"My name is-"
"Sophie. So I've been told. But you need something shorter I can actually remember." I got the feeling he could remember my name just fine the way it was at that time. "Contrary to popular belief, my first name isn't actually Jaz. Though I do much prefer it."
"What is it then?"
"Irrelevant!" Jaz said a little too eagerly. "Were I you, I'd pick something close to your real name so you don't end up forgetting your real name entirely. It's hard to remember, I've already forgotten." He waved off my words of protest. "Think about it for a second." I thought about it for several seconds. See, I'm known for my brains rather than my creativity. I can be creative if needed but it doesn't come as naturally to me as it does to others.
"Any ideas? I could throw out a few names if you want. No promises they'll be any good." I nodded." Okay…how about Jen, Via, Vee, Vuh, So, Fee Fee—what? No Fee Fee? Fine. Sofa, Soph, Cane, Cay, Case, Cev, Cen…."
"Sen."
"Okay then. This would be our stop."  The train was slowing to a stop. Nothing in particular jumped out at me about this stop. The station walls might've looked nicer here if only a little. Jaz proceeded to drag me onto three different trains before he seemed satisfied with our location.
"I thought you said the first stop was ours."
"I did," Jaz replied coolly. "Because it was our stop. We just had other stops after that one."
"That makes no sense."
"You don't seem to have a grasp on the Manhattan subway transportation service yet and that's understandable so I won't take that comment to heart." I wondered at that point if Jaz was always that annoying or if he was just tired. There were heavy bags dropping beneath his eyes.
"Could you just tell me where we're going?" The train made a sound comparable to that a cat trapped in a bag being smacked with a baseball bat would create then stopped.
"We're going here," Jaz said with a certain finality that made me wonder if this was actually our final stop. Once back onto the narrow strip of walkway between the two sets of tracks Jaz picked up his gait considerably. We were walking towards a set of stairs leading up towards the surface. However we bypassed those and went for a door set back in the wall instead.
"This is it." The door had 'Authorized Personnel Only' printed in chipped red paint right at eye level. There's a time at which it's best to ask questions and then there are other times when it's wise to simply observe. This was one of those times when I figured keeping quiet would be best.
Jaz glanced around lazily. One of the trains had just departed taking most of the subway visitors with it. The only people remaining were immersed totally in their phones, though I doubted they could get any service down there. I'm not sure what it was I had been expecting, maybe a thumb scanner hidden in the wall that popped out when he knocked on the door. Whatever it was, I was not anticipating him to just open the door and walk right in without even stopping to hold the door for me.
The door sealed with a fooosh. The hallway was industrial looking: plain white walls down a long hallway without any doors besides one leading to a supply closet. "I've always thought this hallway was a tremendous waste of space but what are you to do?" Jaz commented absently whilst digging in his pocket. Within seconds he produced a set of keys that fit into the supply closet lock easily.
Down at the other end of the hallway another door slid open from behind the wall. "That seems just a little cliché, doesn't it?" I said.
"Cliché? Are trying to call having a separate maintenance so we don't have to tromp through mops and Windex every day is cliché?   I'd like to know what kind of place you come from." He pulled out the key with a flourish and shoved the door open. A much darker hallway was on the other side, completely devoid of cleaning supplies just as Jaz had said.