I Become Shadow

What if I told you that we already know who the President of the United States will be in 50 years? (William Stinson, if you’re wondering.) Or that the world’s first trillionaire is currently only three years old, lives in Manchester, England, and has a pet turtle named Labooboo? You can doubt me all you want, but it won’t stop us from knowing these things.

How we know is not relevant to this story, at least not at this point. Who these future bigwigs are and how we protect them is. I say this because I will soon be one of the protectors. Today, after four long years of training, exhaustion, and pain, I will officially become a Shadow. But I’m getting ahead of myself. For any of this to make sense we can’t start now. I mean, we could, but you’d be confused, and I’d be annoyed by your interruptions for explanations. So
beep, beep, beep
goes the truck as we back this sucker up.

For everything that’s about to happen to make any sense we’ll have to go back four years to when I was just fourteen years old. It was then that I lost what was left of my childhood. Scratch that. Lost is a poor choice of words. It implies I had something to do with it, like it was my fault.

Stolen. Yeah, that’s the word I’m looking for; it was then that my childhood was
stolen
. It’s no five-dollar word, but it’ll do. That’s where this whole thing really begins. Four years ago almost to the day.

So from here on out, everything is in the past. I’ll let you know when we’re back to the present. In fact, let’s have a safe-word cue so there’s no confusion. Our finished-with-the-past-back-to-present-safe-word cue will be—wait for it—“Milkshake.”

The Pap smear was easily the most embarrassing moment of my life. Nobody should
want
to do that for a living. You always hear the saying, “Do what makes you happy.” Well if doing
that
makes you happy, you’ve got issues, major ones. Plus, who came up with the name? Pap smear? There was
no
smearing. Should have called it a Pap probe.

So after I was Pap probed, the doctor told me the last step in our little meeting was a blood test. Not quite sure what that had to do with anything, but who argues with a doctor?

He left me alone for a moment to get dressed, but quickly returned through a side door holding a needle. I hate needles. He said, “This won’t hurt a bit.” I call BS on that because it did. It stung, and then it hurt. Whenever something leaves a bruise, that means pain. I had to look away because the sight made me light-headed.

I was sure he’d taken a little more than necessary to
add to his Dexter-like blood collection of “trophies,” only he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as Michael C. Hall and didn’t have a clever inner monologue full of witty puns and sarcasm.

After that I was free to pick up what was left of my dignity and leave. Trust me, there wasn’t much after all of that. Being a gangly, pasty white teenager with low self-esteem is tough enough. Now this had happened? Way to pile it on, society.

I was too disgusted with the whole process to respond to my mother’s question about how it went. She knew exactly how it went. I could see her and my father having a good laugh about it later. And for some reason I saw that my ten-year-old brother joined in there, too. Ridicule should be shared by the whole family. Makes you stronger.

The ride home was long and awkward. Mom kept asking me stupid questions about the appointment.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

“It’s all part of being an adult,” she said offhandedly as she changed the radio station.

Like she would know. My name is Rennes Sharpe. She and Dad named me after the town where I was conceived. (Another truly disgusting moment in my life when I found that one out.) Thank you, “adults.” I guess it could have been worse. I could have been named Fort Stockton or Baltimore. But as if having a bizarre name weren’t enough, they nicknamed me Ren. Bizarre real name; nickname sounds like a boy. Yes, this is what “adults” do. At age one hour, my life was already going to be an uphill battle.

“I’m not an adult,” I said. “I’m only fourteen.”

It was an argument I’d been making for quite some time. I rolled my window down and let the booming of the wind act as my shield against further questioning. She got the hint and left me alone to my thoughts. You see, I know it may come as a shock to you, but I was actually happy being a child. This girl was in no hurry to grow up. Being a grown-up was something I wanted no part of, and today’s Pap smear had only strengthened that belief. Being an adult seemed way too complicated. I knew high school started in a week. With it I was sure I’d change, but not yet. I still had time.

The road we were on was my favorite. I knew it like a beloved old book. The trees, the houses, the smells. It was home. If we drove right, we’d hit Main Street in our small town, starting down the path that would take us to our house. I closed my eyes and let the wind and sun do their jobs as I zoned out. Zoning out is something I could do really well. Easily a top five skill. You know what? Scratch that, it’s number one by a mile. I’m
really
good at zoning out. It’s something one picks up from a father who is an engineer and loves talking about his work.

I counted the turns in my head and opened my eyes just as we pulled into the garage. The wind had blown my black hair into a rat’s nest, and one look in the mirror told me that the battle to fix it would have to take place in the house, not in the car. I was feeling better but I couldn’t let my mom know that, so I trudged out of the car with an “I’m still not happy about earlier” mug.

Before I could open the door and go inside, she grabbed me and wrapped me up in a full-on mom hug, complete
with the feeling of total comfort and safety. Teenage Kryptonite.

“I’m proud of you, sweetie,” she said as I melted. Man, why had she waited until then? Where had this been before we drove home?

“It sucked,” I blurted out in her shoulder.

She gave a snort and added, “I know. Come on. Let’s go figure out dinner. Can you help me out with it?”

DINNER WAS UNEVENTFUL. I
think my mother had forbidden my father from bringing up the afternoon’s probing, and my brother was as oblivious to my life as I was to his. What did I have in common with a ten-year-old boy?
Nada mucho
.

I spent the night barricaded in my room, hoping my parents wouldn’t stop by to see how I was doing. At about nine there was a knock on my door.

“Hey, honey. Can I come in?” came my father’s deep voice.

Sorry, Dad, not gonna happen
. I mean, I guess he could be coming in just to say good night, but I wasn’t going to risk it. No way.

“I’m on the phone,” I lied. Well, not a total lie. Texting is on the phone, right?

He left me alone to continue my marathon texting tear with my best friend, Beth. She had heard that there was a party, and “everyone” was going to be there. I wasn’t a part of “everyone,” but she was, and she constantly tried to include me in this group. They tolerated me because of her. But I didn’t mind being dragged along because Trey, a boy I’d had a crush on for most of my life, was part of “everyone.” He was ridiculously good-looking and probably going to
be the first ever freshman starting quarterback at our high school. Oh, I know how cliché it all is. Suck it, I was fourteen. He was beyond out of my league, I knew this, but a heart wants what a heart wants.

By the time Beth and I had hashed out our plans, I was sure we had broken our record of 500 texts in one hour. A quick check of the time log confirmed it: 502. Hey yo!

I spent the rest of the night quietly practicing my cello (have I mentioned yet how truly uncool I am?) before calling it quits and going to bed.

So if you’re counting, that’s zoning out, texting, and playing the cello that I’m really good at. Okay, soul-baring time since I doubt it will change your opinion of me. The other two things things on my top five list of “things I do well” are, drumroll please: being annoying and loving horror movies. Is that really a skill? Watching horror movies? Fine, we’ll put an asterisk by that for reconsideration. I mean, it’s not like I keep an official list of these things in a well-worn, green journal I hide under my bed. And it’s not like I edit said list periodically ensuring that it’s up-to-date and accurately reflects the most current me. That would be crazy. (Insert awkward laughter here.)

I AWOKE ON SATURDAY
as I always did, sleepy. I would sleep all day if they’d let me. I
love
sleep. But Saturday is chore day in these parts, and a good daughter must oblige, especially one that wants to go to a party that night.

I stumbled downstairs in my pj’s to the predictable
da-na-nah, da-na-nah
of ESPN
SportsCenter
. If my father could have bought stock in that show, we’d be part owners. I
sat down at the table next to my brother, who was eating cereal and playing a video game. Next to him was a fresh bowl filled to the brim with Golden Grahams. I don’t know why he did it, but every Saturday morning there it was, a fresh bowl waiting for me. Maybe it was to make up for being such a little turd the rest of the week. Who knows? All I know is I love me some G-Grahams, and with a quick pour of milk I was in cereal heaven.

Our chores were easy enough even though I would never admit to it. Complaining the whole time was a strategic plan. I had to make them think I hated it. But really, taking out the trash? Easy. Vacuuming? Secretly loved it! Weeding the garden? Oddly satisfying. Easy money.

I’d used chore time to fashion the plan of attack to get my parents to let me go to the party. It was simple. I chose to believe honesty would be the best path.

I’m lame. I don’t drink. Nothing is going to happen to me
, I’d tell them. It was true—pathetically so.