Free Boy Nobody by Allen Zadoff

wait.
    She glances again. That’s my opening. “What’s up in the world of chem?” I say.
    “It’s making my brain hurt,” she says.
    She looks like a lot of things make her brain hurt. But I keep the thought to myself.
    “Chem is painful,” I say. “But it’s nothing compared to trig.”
    I hold up the math book.
    “I ruptured a blood vessel in my head twenty minutes ago,” I say, “but we were two chapters behind in my last school, so I can’t stop until I catch up.”
    “Wouldn’t you be paralyzed from a rupture?” she says.
    “I am. But it’s only my left side.”
    I flop my left hand around like it’s dead.
    She laughs. This girl has a sense of humor. Maybe she isn’t so bad after all.
    “So you’re new?” she says.
    “Sucks, huh?”
    “High likelihood of sucking,” she says.
    She closes her book and flips it onto her lap. I close my book, too.
    “I’m pretty good with that chem stuff,” I say. “If there’s anything I can do.”
    She bites her lower lip.
    “What do you know about chemical reactions?”
    “Plenty,” I say, and I wink.
    Corny, I know. Sam would probably snap my neck if I said something like that to her, but this girl is just the type who might like it.
    “That is so cheesy,” the girl says, and makes a sour face.
    She likes it.
    “What’s your name?” she says.
    “Benjamin,” I say.
    “Can I call you Benji?”
    “If you do, I’ll never talk to you again.”
    “How about Ben?” she says.
    “Why do you care what you call me?”
    “I want to know what I should put in my phone when I type in your number.”
    “I didn’t give you my number,” I say.
    “Not yet,” she says. “But you want to.”
    She’s right about that.
    She sighs and stretches long and slow as she lies back on the beanbag chair. I make sure to look at her bare legs, just like a horny sixteen-year-old would. She’s got nice legs.
    “I just got a new phone,” I say.
    “Perfect,” she says.
    I give her my number.
    Her name is Erica. That’s what I find out.
    By the end of the day we’ve shot a dozen funny text messages back and forth, and Erica and I have made plans to go to Sam’s party together.
    She even believes it’s her idea.

CHAPTER THIRTY
I HAVE AN APARTMENT IN THE CITY.
    An apartment I’ve never seen.
    The address is uptown on 98th Street. When I leave school, I head there, winding my way through the West Side.
    I look at the neighborhood in a different way now. The illusion of my invisibility has been shattered.
    The Presence is on my mind.
    I make myself move like a distracted guy walking home after school, thinking about whatever normal high school guys think about. But in fact my attention is split. I watch store windows for trails. I monitor the faces of people on the street, checking their expressions for the tell that accompanies recognition. Taxis and delivery trucks are no longer neutral to me because I know the things that are most ubiquitous in the environment are the things most easily used against me.
    I use all my skills to monitor my journey north, but I find nothing.
    No tail. No danger. No Presence.
    Eventually I’m standing alone in front of a decent walk-up building on 98th between Broadway and West End Avenue.
    I let the questions about the Presence go, and I focus on the building.
    No doorman. Nobody to watch me.
    The street is a little north of the expensive area where most students live, but still affluent enough to be believable for a guy in private school, a guy whose parents wanted more space, maybe needed to find a little bit of a bargain.
    I remove a well-worn key from my pocket. It slides easily into the front door lock, despite my never having used it before.
    I take the stairs to the second floor. I have a bag from Lenny’s Bagels swinging on my arm and a backpack on my shoulder. If anyone should see me, I am just a new guy who moved in a little while ago, coming home late from school.
    I use another key in the door of the apartment. The