“The girl,” I say. “There’s supposed to be a girl.”
He looks around the welcome area. The faded green rain mats and gray stone walls make it feel like a crypt. On the right, there’s the metal detector and X-ray machine. But beyond a few more employees flashing their IDs, the only people I see are two other security guards.
“I don’t see any,” the guard says.
“Someone called me,” I insist. “She was just here! Black hair. Nice eyes. She’s really-”
“The pretty one,” the guard by the X-ray calls out.
The eyebrows guard looks around.
“You don’t know where she is, do you?” I ask.
“I think I–I signed her in. She was waiting right there,” he says, motioning to one of the benches.
I’m not surprised. They may’ve given me and Tot the full once-over this morning, but for the most part, our security is at the same level as Orlando’s top-loading VCR. We don’t even swipe our IDs to get in. Especially during the morning rush-I can see it right now-a lanky woman in a bulky winter coat waves her ID at the guard and walks right through.
“I swear-right there,” he insists.
I glance at the sign-in sheet on the edge of the marble counter. Her signature is the exact same from high school. An effortless swirl. Clementine Kaye.
“Maybe someone already brought her in,” the X-ray guard says.
“No one brought her in. I’m the one she was waiting-” No. Unless… No. Even Khazei’s not that fast.
Pulling out my cell phone, I scroll to Clementine’s number and hit send. The phone rings three times. Nothing but voicemail. But in the distance, I hear the ring of a cell phone.
“Clementine…?” I call out, following the sound. I head back past the guard desk and rush toward the Finding Aids room, where most visitors start their research. It would make sense. I kept her waiting long enough-maybe she came in here to look for more about her dad.
I hit send again. Like before, there’s a faint ring. Here. For sure from here.
Hitting the brakes, I scan the mint green research room. I scan all four of the wide, book-covered desks. I scan the usual suspects: In the left corner, two elderly women are filling out paperwork. On my right, an old military vet is asking about some documents, a young grad student is skimming through genealogy reports, and-
There.
In the back. By the computers.
Staring at the screen, she leans forward in her chair, hugging the charcoal overcoat that fills her lap. Unlike yesterday, her short black hair has been divided into two ultra-hip pigtails like the kind you see on girls who make me feel just how old I’ve been feeling since she crashed back into my life and made me start searching for rap music instead of Kenny Rogers.
“Clemmi, what’re you doing here?” I ask as I reach the back of the room.
She doesn’t answer.
But as I get closer… as I see what she’s looking at onscreen… something on YouTube…
There are videos in my family that, if you covered the entire screen except for one square inch, I’d still be able to identify the moment. There’s the footage of me and my sisters, the two of them side by side on the vinyl couch in the hospital, holding baby me across their laps when I was first born. There’s me at ten years old, dressed as Ronald Reagan for Halloween, complete with what my mom swore was a Ronald Reagan wig, but was really just some old Fred Flintstone hair. And there’s the video of my dad-one of the only ones I have of him-in the local swimming pool, holding the two-year-old me so high above his head, then splashing me down and raising me up again.
But all those pale next to the scene that Clementine’s staring at right now: of Nico Hadrian, dressed in a bright yellow NASCAR jumpsuit, as he’s about to lift his gun and, without an ounce of expression on his face, calmly try to kill former President Leland Manning.
To most Americans, it’s history. Like the first moon footage. Or JFK being shot. Every frame famous: the tips of the President’s fingers blurring as he waves up at the crowd… his black windbreaker puffing up like a balloon… even the way he holds so tight to the First Lady’s hand as they walk out on the track, and…
“Now you think I’m a nut,” she says, still watching the screen.
“I don’t think you’re a nut.”
“You actually should. I’m related to a nut… I’m sitting here, watching this old footage like a nut… and yes, it’s only because you kept me waiting here that I put his name in Google, but still… this is really bordering on pathetic. I’m practically a cashew. Though watch when he steps out of the crowd: He totally looks like me.”
Onscreen, the President and First Lady are flashing matching grins, their faces lit by the generous sun as they walk to their would-be slaughter.
“Okay, it is kinda nutty you’re watching this,” I tell her.
Her eyes roll toward me. “You’re really chock full of charm, huh?”
“I thought it’d make you laugh. By the way, why’d you come here? I thought we agreed it was better to lay low until we-”
Standing up from her seat, she reaches into her purse, pulls out a small square present wrapped in what looks like the morning newspaper, and hands it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“What’s it look like? It’s a poorly wrapped present. Open it.”
“I don’t-” I look over my shoulder, totally confused. “You came here to give me a present?”
“What’s wrong with a present?”
“I don’t know… maybe because, between Orlando dying, and then finding your dad, I sorta threw your life in the woodchipper yesterday.”
She regrabs the present, snatching it from my hands.
“Beecher, tell me something that upset you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“In your life. Pick a moment. Pick something that hurt you… a pain that was so bad, you almost bit through your own cheek. Y’know… someone who really put you through the emotional wringer.”
“Why would-?”
“Tell me who Iris is,” Clementine says, reminding me that the people who know you the longest are the best at finding your weak spots.
“Why’re you bringing up Iris?”
“I heard Orlando say her name yesterday-and within two seconds, you had the same pain on your face that you have now, like someone kicked your balls in. I know the feeling… y’know how many DJ jobs I’ve been fired from? So what happened to Iris? Is she dead?”
“She’s not dead. She’s an old girlfriend. We broke up.”
“Okay, so she dumped you for another guy.”
“That’s not-”
“Beecher, I’m not trying to upset you… or pry,” she says, meaning every word. “The point is, whatever it was-however Iris hurt you-you’re over her now, right?”
“Absolutely,” I insist. “Of course.”
“Okay, you’re not over her,” she says as I stand there, surprised by the sudden lump that balloons in my throat and the familiar sting of self-doubt that Iris planted so deeply in my chest. “But you will be, Beecher. And that’s what you did for me yesterday. For my whole life, I’ve wondered who my father might be. And now, thanks to you, I know. And yes, it’s not the easiest answer. In fact, it may just be… it’s kinda the Guinness Book of World Records crappiest answer of all time. But it’s an answer,” she says, handing the present back to me. “And I appreciate that.”
Looking down at the present, I give a tug to one of the scotch-taped seams. As I tear the paper aside, I spot the turn buttons on what looks like the back of a picture frame. It’s definitely a picture frame. But it’s not until I flip it over that I see the actual picture inside.
It’s a color photo of me in seventh grade, back when my mom used to shop for whatever Garanimals shirt I was wearing that day. But what I notice most is the other seventh grader standing next to me in the photo with the wide, surprisingly bucktoothed grin. Young Clementine.