Doubts about my life. My choices. The person I think I am versus the person I want to be someday.
Suddenly I feel a rift opening up inside me. I try to stay in the room, but memories rush up, pulling me with them to another place and time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MY FATHER IS IN FRONT OF ME.
My real father. He is tied to a chair, drugged, his head sagging, a drop of blood trickling from the corner of his lip.
I am twelve years old. Mike is next to me. He did this to my father—I know that now. I knew it then, too, in the terrible moment when I came home from my father’s office to find Mike at the house waiting for me.
I think about what happened after that. Another house.
The training house for The Program.
Mike took me there the day he killed my parents. He put me in a room and left me to scream, left me to cry. And then he left me to my silence.
Only later did a man appear and ask if I was ready.
Ready for what?
I did not have the courage to ask the question.
This man was Father, but I did not know it at the time.
He gave me a towel and supplies and left me to clean myself up. When I was ready, he led me through the house.
He brought me to the office where I would come to know the woman who I now call Mother. She asked me what I wanted. Now that my father was dead. Now that my old life was gone. Now that everything was permanently and irrevocably different.
She told me I had a choice to make, a choice that would forever change the course of the rest of my life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE RIFT CLOSES.
I am back in the community center, back in the moment with Moore.
Who wants to join me? Moore said.
Rather than reject Moore, I allow myself to get excited. About the greatness Moore sees in us. About the secrets he promises to show us if we follow him.
Moore continues a slow scan of the room, making marks on his iPad with a stylus as he goes. I now understand the reason for the assigned seats. Moore must have a seating chart on his screen. He’s selecting the kids he wants to meet.
I wait for his gaze to come across me again. Our eyes lock for the second time.
I show him what I want him to see, the confusion and excitement I’ve allowed inside my mind just for him. I maintain eye contact, so I do not see whether he makes a mark with the stylus. Instead I make myself unconcerned with the results, focusing instead on the moment.
But in an instant, the moment passes.
Moore continues his survey of the room, finishing quickly and walking from the stage in silence. His security team reacts, forming up at his sides. They move him toward the anteroom next to the stage.
Kids from Camp Liberty are walking around the room now, searching out various candidates, chatting with them briefly before bringing the excited teens to meet Moore.
I adjust my glasses on my head. I wait.
A moment later I feel a tap on my shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IT’S LEE.
“My father wants to meet you,” he says.
“Your father?”
“I’m Lee Moore,” he says. “How’s it going?”
I note pride in the statement, along with something else. He emphasizes his first name rather than his last, thereby subtly setting himself apart from his father.
“Daniel Martin,” I say, extending a hand.
“Daniel. That’s right. I read your application. Your family lives in Manchester, don’t they? I’m surprised you haven’t been here before.”
“We just moved six months ago from Boston. I’m an Exeter guy now,” I say, reciting my back story.
“You’re a prep,” he says with a smirk.
“Something wrong with that?” I say.
I’m showing him the Daniel Martin I’ve readied for tonight, a kid from a wealthy family, arrogant on the surface but with some serious doubts about himself and his family lurking at his core.
“Nothing wrong with it,” Lee says, backing off. “I just forgot that part of the story. To be honest, there are a lot of applications. Sometimes I have to skim through the pile when the committee gives them to me.”
It’s an insult and an admission at the same time. On one hand, he’s letting me know I’m not important enough for a serious read. On the other hand, he’s admitting he’s fallible, perhaps so I’ll let my guard down.
“The committee,” I say. “You don’t handle recruiting yourself?”
“Not my thing. I just consult.”
“What is your thing?”
I note a tightening in his jaw. The question irks him. Which tells me he doesn’t know what his thing is yet.
The expression disappears in a split second, replaced by something else.
“I’m the son,” he says, his voice certain. “That’s my thing.”
I take a breath, pulling my energy down to a lower level. Lower energy, lower status.
“To be honest, I don’t know what my thing is,” I say.
I see him relax, disarmed by my vulnerability.
“Your application mentioned your dad was a big deal in the energy sector. You don’t want to follow in his footsteps?”
I guess he read my application more closely than he admitted.
I shrug. “It’s true he’s successful, but at what cost? Sometimes I think I’m less of a son and more of a tax write-off. Know what I mean?”
He looks at me, his interest piqued.
“I noticed your father didn’t come with you,” he says.
“He dropped me off, but he couldn’t stay. Just so you know, he wants me here more than anything. It was his idea in the first place.”
“Not yours?” he says, paying close attention.
“Not mine,” I say, “but I’m coming around to his point of view.”
Lee smiles. “It’s tough to admit that your dad is right about something, even when you know he is.”
“No kidding,” I say. “Anyway, my dad is totally supportive, especially if it means writing a check. That’s one thing he’s very good at.”
“Nothing to write a check for. You didn’t get in yet,” he says.
It’s a reminder of my status in the conversation. Lee has a strange way of opening up then pulling back again.
I decide to let him pull rank for now. Play on his arrogance to try and get him on my side.
“I’m not in yet,” I say, “but I’m hopeful.”
I look at him like I need his help. I feel his energy soften.
“Let’s see what we can do,” he says, looking toward the anteroom. “I’d better bring you over now.”
He walks me across the back of the room, where we pass a table filled with snacks. It’s split down the middle between healthy and unhealthy, one side packed with vegetables, cheeses, and protein bars, the other with cupcakes, brownies, cookies and various forms of chocolate. He glances at the table as we pass, then looks back again.
“Hold up for half a second,” he says.
He doubles back to the table, looking around the room with great care before turning his attention to the desserts.
“I’ve got a sweet tooth,” he says.
He studies a plate of chocolate chip cookies like he’s contemplating the secrets of the universe.
His hand moves toward the cookies, then over to the brownies, then back to the cookies.
“I can’t decide,” he says.
“Why don’t you have both?” I say.
“I shouldn’t be having any.”
“Why not?”
“My father says sugar is bad for the body and soul.”
“What do you say?”
He doesn’t respond, just stays focused on the desserts. Eventually he selects a chocolate brownie with great care, then turns his back to the anteroom doorway before starting to eat it.