Free Who I'm Not by Ted Staunton Page B

highway. I must have been the color of a taillight. I didn’t even know why I was saying all that. I’d never spent time with girls. I’d never done anything with them either. Harley used to tease me sometimes. He’d say, “I’ll buy you a piece for sweet sixteen. That kind of touching you’ll like.” Then he’d grin and pop his gum. I’d never known whether he was joking. Now I never would.
    Gillian still didn’t unzip her lunch box. Her fingers rested on top of the padded blue box. I didn’t want to look up any higher. She said, “I asked what you were doing because I’m going to the movie at the mall tonight with my sister and I wanted someone to go with me. But it’s okay if you can’t.”
    I looked at her. She was still looking away, her cheeks only pink now. “Really? I mean, yeah, sure I can.” It was like a date, kind of. I mean, I guessed it was. Danny was going on a date. I was going on a date. How weird was that? Then I had my first going-on-a-date thought: the mall was over in Cobourg, the next town. “How will we get there?”
    â€œMy mom can drive,” Gillian said, “and pick us up after.” She smiled. Then she stopped. She was looking at a car parked in front of the library. It was a silver Camry. “What does he want?” Gillian said. As if he was answering her, Griffin waved me over.

EIGHTEEN
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I said to Gillian.
    I put down my lunch and headed toward him, toeing out. I could feel myself still grinning from talking to Gillian. I crossed the street and stood at the driver’sside window. It was down, Griffin’s arm still hanging out from when he’d waved me over. He looked more like cement than ever, his big gut in a gray sweatshirt spilling over faded jeans. Even the car seats were gray. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. He didn’t sound it.
    â€œS’okay. It’s my lunch hour.” I gave him the smirk—full-on Danny.
    â€œHow’s school?”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œRough start, I hear.”
    I shrugged and smirked some more.
    â€œGillian’s a nice girl. Meet her at Open Book?”
    â€œYeah.”
    He looked past me, toward her. “Too bad about her dad. Ruined a lot of people. Old folks mostly, on pensions. Some of them lost their homes.” He tapped the door with his thumb. “I lost a little myself.” Then he made a little snort, a cop laugh. “He was a helluva liar.” He looked back at me. “Fooled everybody. Including me.”
    â€œThat’s too bad.”
    â€œIt is too bad. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. Got something for you.” He reached into the back and handed me a paper. It was a photocopy of two head-and-shoulders pictures, taken from the front and the side, of a guy with the numbers 61472 in front of him. Mug shots. The guy was young and thin, with a mullet, bad skin and a shoe-salesman moustache.
    My heart started pounding in my ears. “Who’s this sucker?” I already knew who it was.
    â€œMichael Bennett Davidson,” Griffin said. “Also known as Michael Bennett, David Bennett, Bennett Michaels, Ben Michaelson, Michael Norton, Harley Bennett, David Benson…the list goes on. You’d know him as the guy who got you to Tucson. What did he want you to call him?”
    Harley, I thought, finally getting it—Harley-Davidson. “Mike,” I said. “Just Mike.” I wondered if Bill Blessing was on the list somewhere. I hoped not. “Like, who was he?” I had to ask, but I wanted the pounding in my ears to shut out the answer.
    Griffin sighed, hoisted his eyebrows and rhymed it off. “Out of Dayton, Ohio. Did short time for fraud and possession of stolen in Illinois and Minnesota in the early nineties, arrests in San Francisco and Portland, Oregon, after that. He might have lived in Portland for a while in the