Full Ride

  Now—

  confusion

  Daddy didn’t used to be this stupid.

  “Don’t you ever think about consequences?” I ask, and three years of fury go into that question. “Don’t you see how this affects Mom and me? I can’t even go to college! Just yesterday Mr. Trumbull told me . . . Mr. Trumbull said . . .”

  My brain catches up with Daddy’s words: “. . . ended. Two and a half years ago . . .”

  “Mr. Trumbull?” Daddy repeats.

  Mr. Trumbull is always in the middle, every time Mom and Daddy send letters back and forth. Mr. Trumbull is the one who told Mom it wasn’t safe to call. Mr. Trumbull was the one who told us Daddy was in California, too far away to visit. Mr. Trumbull is the one who said I couldn’t apply for financial aid. Mr. Trumbull is the one who helped us hide.

  Mr. Trumbull is the one who wants even more money, so we can go even deeper into hiding. So no one would ever be able to find us again.

  Maybe not even Daddy.

  “But . . . but . . . ,” I sputter. I’m almost too confused to come up with a question that makes sense. Then I find one. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

  “I did!” Daddy erupts. “In my letters . . . I told you and Susan we could write each other directly now, without going through Mr. Trumbull. I said we could call each other; you could move back to Atlanta and visit any time. . . .”

  He’s back to struggling to hold himself together.

  “We never saw those letters,” I say numbly.

  Daddy gapes at me.

  “Susan wrote back,” he insists. “She said she still didn’t want to do any of that. She . . . she wouldn’t even tell me where you were! I thought . . . if the letters stopped . . . I could lose you forever!”

  Daddy starts sobbing again, but I’m too stunned to react. I saw the letters Mom wrote Daddy. Not all of them, but a lot, especially freshman year, when she’d leave them on the counter “just in case” I wanted to add a note before she mailed them. I saw the Deskins return address on the outside; I read her descriptions of the town and my school and her job. She said it was safe; she said the news media wouldn’t see Daddy’s private mail in prison.

  Mom wouldn’t have pretended she was going to send those letters and then thrown them away.

  Mr. Trumbull. . . , I think.

  Did he censor my parents’ mail back and forth? Was he concerned about Excellerand having some security contracts for inside the prison, not just outside?

  But then, why didn’t he tell Mom or Daddy that? Why did he make up fake letters instead? Isn’t that what he must have done?

  I remember something else that was evidently faked. It takes courage to tell Daddy, but I do it anyway.

  “I never sent you a single letter,” I say. “Not in three years. I was too mad.”

  If I think this will bring more tears, I’m wrong. Daddy stares at me for a long moment, as if he just doesn’t understand.

  “I got letters from you,” he says. “They were never very personal, and never really sounded like you . . .”

  I think about how Daddy’s letters never quite sounded like him either. He’s still talking.

  “But . . . I thought all this had to have changed you,” he says. “It was mostly just your school essays you sent me. Or—somebody did. That one you wrote a year or two ago about secret crimes and The Scarlet Letter . . . that was a stab in the heart. But it felt like you were inching toward forgiving me, even if I didn’t deserve it.”

  Daddy bows his head. I did write an essay about The Scarlet Letter sophomore year, and every word I wrote condemning Arthur Dimmesdale was actually about Daddy. And when I came around to some forgiveness for Arthur Dimmesdale in the end, that was for Daddy, too. But I never meant for Daddy to read it. I never sent it to him, any more than I sent the Whitney Court essay or the one about Moby Dick.

  I start telling Daddy everything Mom has believed for the past three years. I tell him she did write letters telling him where we were. I tell him how I decided to risk coming to Atlanta, and how Mr. Trumbull’s inexperienced receptionist gave me the handwritten letter yesterday, when every other letter I’d ever seen from Daddy was typed. I tell him how the letter tipped me off to where Daddy was really imprisoned, and to the fact that Daddy thought I’d been sending him letters.

  “Do you think Mom . . . ,” I begin doubtfully.

  At the same time Daddy says, “Would you know how to tell if somebody put a keystroke tracker on your laptop? Can you think of a time your computer just started running a lot slower?”

  Now it’s my turn to gape at Daddy.

  “When Mr. Trumbull sent my laptop back,” I say. “Three years ago, after it wasn’t evidence anymore. It’s been slow ever since, but I just thought . . .”

  I just thought my laptop was like me, dragged down by everything that had happened. Dragged down and slow and sad.

  “Do you think the FBI was monitoring my keystrokes?” I ask. “So I didn’t do anything to ruin the case against Excellerand, back when there was a case against Excellerand?”

  “The FBI wouldn’t care what you wrote,” Daddy says, shaking his head almost violently. “You didn’t know anything about Excellerand, so you couldn’t ruin anything. But Mr. Trumbull . . .”

  “Why would he care?” I ask. I am suddenly so, so grateful that I never trusted my laptop over the past three years, that I haven’t been a typical teenager pouring her heart and soul into her Facebook page and posts and messages to friends.

  But maybe I did pour my heart and soul into things like my Scarlet Letter essay.

  Daddy’s got a look on his face that makes him look more familiar than ever—for a second I feel like I’m back in sixth or seventh grade, and Daddy’s waiting for me to figure out some complicated math problem he’s working with me.

  “You think Mr. Trumbull stole my essays to send to you, don’t you?” I ask. “But why? What’s in it for him? And why would he still be telling Mom and me that we have to watch out for Excellerand? Why wouldn’t he just tell us the truth?”

  “Money,” Daddy says. “With Trumbull, it’s always about the money.”

  Wasn’t that what Mr. Trumbull told us justice was about?

  “Mom and I don’t have any money!” I practically scream at Daddy.

  I’ve forgotten about the suspicious guard at the desk or the other people around me, visiting their own prisoners. But my near scream barely earns me a glance from anybody. I guess this is the type of thing people yell here all the time.

  “Think hard,” Daddy says. “You just talked to Mr. Trumbull. I haven’t seen him in two and a half years. Maybe . . .”

  I remember what Mr. Trumbull said yesterday: how he was trying to force Mom and me into selling our story to the media, even though it wouldn’t be worth as much now as it was three years ago. I remember how he said I was supposed to write and beg Daddy for access to his mythical Cayman Islands fund.

  So that’s why Mr. Trumbull wanted Daddy to think I was writing him constantly, I think. To set him up to give me his money.

  I laugh bitterly.

  “Oh, wait, this goes back to you,” I accuse. “That secret Cayman Islands fund you have to have had? Mr. Trumbull wants you to give it to me, so we can give him a huge chunk.”

  Daddy groans.

  “God’s honest truth,” he says. “I don’t have any secret stash of money. Not in the Caymans or Switzerland or anywhere. I was too confident . . . too foolish . . . to do that. I didn’t think anyone in law enforcement was smart enough to catch me. So why mess with offshore accounts? Why save anything for the future, when I could always make more money then?”

  I guess that went for college savings, too.

  Daddy’s looking me straight in the eye, and he doesn’t bother lowering his voice for the sake of the guard behind the desk. And I believe he’s telling the truth. Or what he thinks is the truth. My father is a liar, and I no longer trust and hang onto every word he ever uttered. But in my three
years apart from him, I think I have developed . . . discernment. I think that’s the right word: I can see what I can trust and what I have to hold at arm’s length. What I can still love, and what I can condemn without having it ruin me.

  Is that really so different from Stuart realizing that sometimes he has to go against his parents’ expectations? Or Jala deciding that to be true to herself, she has to discover whether she agrees with her parents’ plans or not? Maybe all teenagers have to make some kind of break with their parents, to figure out who they are on their own.

  I just got the extreme version of this transformation. My parents just presented me with the most outlandish choices.

  “I guess Mr. Trumbull still thinks you’ve got a lot of money,” I say sarcastically. “Enough to be worth this huge scam, faking letters, keeping Mom and me hidden, terrifying us constantly . . .”

  Daddy frowns at me.

  “That’s not enough of a payoff,” he says. “All that work just for the chance that I have a secret stash? There’s got to be something else. Some bigger prize he’s after.”

  In the next moment Daddy’s face turns about three shades lighter. He’s already got a bad case of prison pallor, so now he could almost be a ghost.

  “What?” I say.

  Daddy hits his hand against his head.

  “He’s blackmailing Excellerand,” Daddy says. His voice is hushed again, but it seems to be more from horror than from any conscious effort. “I’m sure of it. That’s the only explanation. He’s telling them they have to pay him . . . oh, millions, probably . . . or else his client will reveal their crimes. He’s using me as his bait. He’s telling them I’ve got the goods, but Trumbull will keep me quiet as long as they pay up.”

  I’m not quite following him.

  “What do Mom and I have to do with any of this?” I ask.

  “If you’re hiding—that shows I’m involved,” Daddy says. “If Trumbull can show Excellerand proof that you two have disappeared . . .”

  “My birth certificate vanished from the online records,” I say. “So did Mom’s. And your marriage license.”

  Daddy’s nodding, frantic and horrified.

  “Trumbull might even be showing them your mom’s letters,” he says. “The real ones, not the doctored ones I get. Does he ratchet up the fear every now and then, to terrify you two even more?”

  I remember how Mr. Trumbull told Mom his office phones might be bugged, how he said the cameras with facial recognition software went up near his office. It was all lies. How far back did they go? Mr. Trumbull could have even been the one who leaked the news about our U-Haul rental three years ago. It would have fit: Mr. Trumbull needed Mom and me to be scared and vulnerable and gullible enough to believe whatever he told us. And we were. We were both so lost and broken and distraught that it seemed he was the only one we could trust.

  Only, because Mom was protecting me, I didn’t have quite as long as she did to fall for Mr. Trumbull’s lies. And when I did find out about them, I still believed there could be a way out.

  “This is like one of your scams,” I tell Daddy. “Innocent people got hurt.”

  Daddy flinches, but then he grits his teeth and nods.

  “I deserve that,” he says quietly. “I deserve all the worst things you could say to me.”

  He sounds so humble that I realize: Daddy has changed. But then, so have Mom and I. We’ve healed some; we’ve toughened up. I even dared to come see Daddy despite the Excellerand danger.

  Then I remember: There actually isn’t any Excellerand danger. That’s what’s at the heart of this. It’s over. The threat of Excellerand hasn’t been anything but a bogeyman for the past two and a half years.

  “Daddy,” I say excitedly. “Daddy, it’s okay. Because, don’t you see? This means we can just walk away. Mom and me, anyway. You don’t have to worry about us. We don’t have to live in fear. I can go to college, after all!”

  I’m practically bouncing up and down in my seat, as excited as a lottery winner. I think about sending out college applications, filling out forms for financial aid . . . I’d still have to admit who I really am. I’d still have to run the risk of someone finding out—not necessarily the news media anymore, but nosy, gossipy people in general.

  That’s not life or death, I remind myself. Compared with thinking Excellerand is going to kill me, having my identity revealed is nothing. And—it’s like the risks Rosa was talking about yesterday. College is worth it.

  Daddy doesn’t seem to share my joy. He slumps in his chair.

  “Becca,” he says, clutching his head. “It’s not that simple. Burton Trumbull is a vindictive man. You do anything to threaten his payoff from Excellerand . . . then he’d be the one endangering you. And your mom. You have to be careful!”

  I stop bouncing.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” I ask. “Are we trapped forever? As long as you’re in prison? As long as you’re alive?”

  A crafty smile starts breaking over Daddy’s face.

  “No, no . . . you can beat him at his own game,” he says. Now he’s leaning toward me, sharing secret advice just between the two of us. “He’s blackmailing Excellerand? You blackmail him.”

  I recoil so violently I almost fall off my chair. Daddy hasn’t changed. Not enough, anyway.

  “I don’t want to be a criminal like you,” I whisper.

  Daddy freezes.

  “I didn’t want to be a criminal like my father, either,” he mumbles back.

  And there’s such sorrow in his face. I realize that everything I guessed about Daddy running away from home and taking on a new name must be true. He was trying to escape his family’s criminal history, but he fell right back into it, just on a grander scale. Maybe that was the only way he knew how to live; maybe he really did think he was doing it all for me. Maybe it’s like it says in the Bible: The sins of the fathers are visited on their sons.

  What if there’s no way to break that chain? What if daughters have to inherit their father’s sins too?

  “Maybe . . . maybe this is how you and Susan should play it,” Daddy says.

  And as he begins telling me his slightly revised plan, my heart sinks. Because—what he’s describing? No matter how much I hate it, no matter how much it terrifies me, it’s what I have to do.

  It’s my only choice.

  Now—

  Friday, six days later

  Mom and I walk into the Panera Bread together. We’re in a place called Smyrna, one of the northeast Atlanta suburbs, and that alone frightens Mom. She’s glancing around like she still believes Excellerand has spy cameras watching for her all around the city. She has a scarf wrapped around her head, hiding her hair just like Jala. Except Jala in her hijab is always beautiful; with her hollow cheeks and terrified eyes, Mom looks like she has cancer or some other potentially fatal disease.

  “He’s not here yet,” she whispers to me.

  “We’re supposed to arrive first, remember?” I remind Mom.

  We go to the counter. Mom orders coffee and I get a chai tea latte. I sip it, and it’s too sweet and cloying, but I pretend to like it. I’ve had a lot of practice pretending over the past three years; it’s going to be even more important in the near future.

  I wait for Mom to add cream and sugar to her coffee, then by silent agreement we sit down at a four-person table in the most remote part of the restaurant, in a sea of empty tables.

  Mom keeps toying with her scarf, tugging it forward, then back.

  “Act natural,” I whisper.

  “If he’s got someone watching us, don’t you think they’d expect us to act nervous?” Mom whispers back.

  I glance around. That bearded twentysomething guy hunched over his laptop at the back of the room—is he a true midafternoon Panera customer? Or is it deliberate, how he won’t glance my way as long as I’m looking at him? The two suburban-mom types over to the side—do their workout clothes actually look like disguises? Are they trying too hard to make it
seem like they just came from a yoga class?

  It’s funny: A week ago on the bus going to Mr. Trumbull’s, I felt like everyone around me might work for Excellerand. Now I’m watching for different spies.

  “That’s him!” Mom hisses through clenched teeth.

  I see Mr. Trumbull walk in through the front door. I see him seeing us. He lifts his hand to wave.

  Mom waves back.

  “Don’t!” I scold under my breath.

  “Wouldn’t it be weird not to wave at someone who’s meeting us?” she whispers back.

  She’s right. We’re so on edge, it’s like we’re taking turns not thinking straight.

  We’ve both got to be sharp when he sits down, I tell myself. We can’t make a single mistake.

  Mr. Trumbull is ordering; now he’s at the coffee dispenser; now he’s walking toward us, steaming cup in hand. He’s carrying a briefcase in his other hand, and I have to force myself not to stare at it. Has he brought everything he’s supposed to?

  Mr. Trumbull puts his coffee cup down on the table across from Mom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Smith,” he says, a slightly bitter twist to his words. He turns to me. “And Sarah.”

  I have to grit my teeth to hold back hysterical giggles, to hold back even the thought of hysterical giggles. It wasn’t a good idea, after all, to choose those fake names for the new identities Mr. Trumbull is bringing us. I’d thought I’d get courage from using the same name I’d made up on Facebook when I was researching Whitney Court. I’d liked the irony of it, my little inside joke.

  I hadn’t expected it to panic me this much.

  Mr. Trumbull doesn’t notice. He’s sitting down, then bending over to pull a thick manila envelope from his briefcase. He drops the envelope on the table.

  “It’s all there,” he says.

  Mom and Mr. Trumbull both stare down at the envelope like it’s a ticking time bomb. But I notice out of the corner of my eye that a couple in business attire have started putting down trays on the table behind Mr. Trumbull. I’m jealous of the very concept of this couple: people whose lives are so leisurely they’re eating cinnamon rolls at three o’clock in the afternoon.