Veneer (3 page)

At Cole Street, Russo made a right turn and dashed across three lanes of traffic, prompting a chorus of honking horns from the commuters. Some asshole even stuck his head out of his car to yell at him, but Russo gave him the finger and ducked into an alley. When he emerged on Hancock, his eyes jumped to the flashing red text on the surrounding buildings. He cut left, glanced at the store windows to find notices on all of them, each with a picture of his face and a caption along the top that read
Person of Interest
.

He kept to the alleys after that, darting into the open only when he needed to cross a street. Portaled boxes kept following him through the veneer, most of them blurry and indistinct beneath an overlay of his own face. At Cameron, Russo decided to hide in a news kiosk to catch his breath. There, he tried to calm himself, but his heart was beating too fast. The fight inside his body made Russo double over in pain. Collapsing onto one knee, he wondered how long it had been since he ran from the police.

“Are you going to come out?”

Russo started at the gravelly voice. For the first time, he noticed the shadows on the evercrete sidewalk, two rounded sections of black stretching across the entrance to the kiosk. One of them wavered as the uniform tapped his foot.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“Yes,” said the uniform, drawing out the word. “You made me run. And I just had breakfast.”

“Ouch,” said Russo, feigning sympathy. He cycled through various ways to escape the clutches of the law, but nothing seemed viable. “That doesn’t sound good,” he continued.

“Not good for me. Worse for you.”

“If it helps, my side hurts.” He was on autopilot, making conversation until the moment was right for him to burst out and make a break for it.

“I thought you’d be in better shape than your friend.” He laughed to himself.

The sound was unsettling. Its resonance suggested a thick neck and powerful lungs. Easton’s finest were notorious for being big and dumb.

“Come on,” he urged, “we need to take a ride downtown.”

He was playing cordial, but Russo knew it was just a veneer, a way to get him to surrender quietly. With an even voice, he asked, “Whatever happened to ‘you’ll never take me alive, Copper’?”

“Sounds like a good way to get your ass shot.”

Russo hurled himself out of the kiosk in a desperate bid to escape. For a brief and beautiful moment, the outside world seemed welcoming, drawing him from his temporary jail cell into a realm of infinite freedom. But as he moved, a massive forearm broke in from the left side of the frame.

It caught him on the nose, blurred his vision, and sent him sprawling backwards to the sidewalk. He felt a strong hand grip him on the upper arm; it dragged him easily towards the street. A patrol car pulled up on cue and out stepped another brick house of a uniform.

“You look out of breath,” said Brick, opening the back door for his partner.

“The little fucker’s fast,” said the uniform, pushing on Russo’s head and forcing him into the car.

Russo held his breath; it smelled like someone had recently puked all over the seat and floorboards. Only after the pain threatened to overwhelm did he venture a tentative gasp.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“George,” replied Russo.

“What’s your last name, George?” There was a palette on the dashboard that showed Russo’s face. The uniform reconciled the name into a search box.

“Washington.” When he got a tired look in response, he added, “Do you think this’ll hurt my political career?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about
any
kind of career.” Then, to Brick, “What do you say? Failure to present identification?” He got a nod in response.

“I cannot tell a lie,” Russo recited.

“What,” the uniform asked, turning sideways in his seat, “you think you can just reconcile a veneer and no one will know it’s you? Don’t you think more people would be out robbing banks if that really worked?”

Russo considered the question, but kept his face neutral.

“I blame the schools,” he continued. “They teach kids to reconcile, but they don’t teach the limits.”

They rode in silence for the next few minutes, giving Russo ample time to imagine what kind of technology they had downtown that would reveal his true identity. Impossible, he thought. Although he’d seen the inside of a police station once or twice, it was for minor infractions. They had never even taken his fingerprints.

Outside, the TNC Bank building loomed as the car pulled up in front of the Easton PD. The uniforms dragged him out and escorted him to an empty holding area. Russo walked casually to a bench along the back wall and when he sat down, he saw the uniform still staring at him. Just for fun, Russo changed his hair color to green, then red, and then zebra. He got into a rhythm, had his whole body cycling through the spectrum. The uniform shook his head and walked away.

The clock on the wall said it was just past eight o’clock. If he had gone to school, he’d be sitting in Geometry waiting for Mr. Holt to finally lose it and start openly groping Tina the Suck-Up. It was easy enough to imagine, to project onto the front of Tina’s locker in a drive-by reconcile, but to see it in person? Russo smiled, buried his face in the ample cleavage of his fantasy.

Sometime later, the uniform returned with a man in a dark suit. He had one of those too-square jaws that made him look alien. The fact that he was a full foot taller than Russo didn’t help either.

“Mr. Washington, this is Agent Eric Tavarez.”

Russo’s throat went dry. If they were bringing in an agent...

“Can we hurry this up?” asked Eric. “I’ve got a thing.”

The uniform nodded and opened the cell door. He pulled out his baton and pointed it at Russo. “Now you stay put.”

Russo wanted to say something witty, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Eric. The agent was staring at him intently, as if trying to see through him. Or through his façade.

“Your palette, please,” asked Eric. The uniform motioned to the desk sergeant and had him bring over an EPD tablet. Eric held it for only a few seconds before handing it back. Without another word, he left the room.

The pressure that had been building at the back of Russo’s head began to lessen, but the look on the uniform’s face kept relief at bay.

The uniform studied the image before turning the palette around and saying, “Mirror, mirror...”

Russo’s mouth went dry as he took in the picture. Over the years, he had changed his appearance so many times and the reflective veneers had always backed up the lie. But this picture, it looked so strange, so foreign.

He barely even recognized himself.

3 - Rosalia

There was nothing redeeming about the physical education program at Easton Central High School, not when Coach Baird’s idea of good exercise was to run in place for half an hour while a pastiche of inspirational landscapes scrolled by on the walls. It would have been better to get outside, have some fresh oxygen instead of the recycled air that smelled faintly of body odor. Still, Rosalia put in her time like an obedient student. If it wouldn’t have thrown her off balance, she would have closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.

The pretending part was easy; all she had to do was reach out and reconcile the wall into anything she wanted to see, though at the moment her mind was too foggy to imagine anything worth emulating. It was still early and her body was mostly asleep, going through the motions for the sake of a good grade. Like most mornings, she was just trying to survive, trying to deal with the aftermath of a night spent reconciling.

Someone had to pay for the self-prescribed sleep deprivation.

She smiled at that, thinking it was worth the trouble if she got to spend the majority of her time doing the things she wanted. The dazed fatigue of waking was better spent on first period P.E. anyway.

The only moment of clarity Rosalia had had since she rolled out of bed that morning had been in front of the school with Deron as he lamented his inability to find time to read. That was typical; he was nothing if not a reliable procrastinator, though she did consider the alternative—that maybe he shared her desire to do the things that mattered, instead of those that had no true bearing on the world. That he hadn’t read the story was inconsequential in the larger picture. It was only necessary because he had an exam on it later. Without that test, the story became pointless, just a jumble of words on a palette.

Rosalia nodded as she walked, her rhythmic breathing forcing a
yes
out of her mouth. Glancing at the readout on the treadmill, she saw there were still five minutes remaining. Under some circumstances, five minutes would be a nothing interval. If spent with Deron, perhaps playing a game or just watching the turtles sun themselves at Gillock Pond, the time would have passed in an instant. But with her body breaking down and the pain building in her lungs, each second ticked by like a slow drip from a faucet. The only choice was to look away from the numbers, try not to think about them.

The woods ended as the stationary runners veered right and came upon a clearing. A couple hundred yards away was a welcoming oasis with three palm trees set in an equilateral triangle, the tips leaning in towards the center. A hint of fresh water sparkled between them and Rosalia could almost pick out its aroma over those of her classmates. It was a satisfying image, no doubt, but ultimately it was just a high-tech version of a carrot on a stick, another virtual reward for real labor.

When the machine began to slow, she leaned forward and stretched her legs by letting them slide to the end of the treadmill one at a time, each extension bringing a slight tingle to her calves. Finally, the belt stopped altogether and she stood up, surprised to find the tightness in her chest gone. Though she hated to admit it, the constant jogging had done wonders for her endurance. Plus, it had kept her slim at a time when no amount of reconciliation could hide a fat ass.

Rosalia grinned when she looked over and saw Deron doubled over next to his treadmill. He had his hands on his knees and was gasping for breath as if he had just run a marathon. She felt the strange sensation of effortless walking as she approached him; her legs still thought she was on the treads and were pushing harder than they needed to. It wasn’t until she was right on top of him that he looked up, still gulping air.

“Good jog?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Sure,” he replied, between breaths.

“Come on, stand up. You need to open your airway.” With a little prodding, she got him to straighten up. “Put your hands on your head and lean back. That’ll help you get some air.” She let her hand linger on his shoulder.

“This isn’t the alley behind the Y, Ms. Collier,” warned Coach Baird.

A chorus of snickering made Rosalia remove her offending hand. There was gratitude in Deron’s eyes though and that’s all that really mattered. It took a moment for the blush in his cheeks to lessen.

“So you’re a doctor now?” he teased.

Rosalia scoffed in reply. “You don’t have to be a doctor to know basic things about your body. People spend so much time focused on their veneers that they don’t realize what’s going on underneath.” She touched her sternum, drew Deron’s eyes to the center of her soaked t-shirt. “See what I mean?”

He looked away casually, as if her breasts held no sway over him. “Yeah, under your shirt.”

“What’s that?” She gave him a confused smile.

“I’m interested in... realizing what’s under...” He trailed off, then added, “Your shirt.”

“Oh,” she replied. “This I knew.”

“Fifteen minutes, people. Let’s hit those showers. I don’t want to be smelling you in the halls all day.” Coach Baird’s voice boomed in the room, a side effect of yelling at the lacrosse team after school.

“Can you get out of next period early?” asked Rosalia.

Deron raised an eyebrow as they shuffled towards the exit.

“I can tell you about the book you didn’t read.” It sounded too judgmental the second it came out, so she tempered it with a smile.

“Ah yeah, the book.” He shrugged. “If you think it’ll help.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“How are you going to get out of Drama?” he asked.

Rosalia laughed in response, putting her hand on his shoulder again. “Mrs. Hawkins is a pushover. I’ll just tell her I’m having
women’s troubles
. Seriously, that’s what she calls it. As if bleeding—”

“Well,” interrupted Deron, “this has been both informative and disgusting. Perhaps we can discuss your biological processes again at a later time?”

“Dork,” she replied, kissing him quickly on the nose.

“Once more and I’ll be writing you up, Ms. Collier,” said Coach Baird. “And you shouldn’t encourage her, Mr. Bishop.”

“She beats me if I refuse,” explained Deron. He gave Rosalia a wink and then disappeared into the boys’ locker room.

Rosalia presented Coach Baird with her most innocent veneer, but he didn’t seem to find it amusing. He pointed to the girls’ locker room and she acquiesced with a giggle. She didn’t blame him for his tough demeanor; it was his burden to maintain order amongst a gaggle of hormone-crazed teenagers. She couldn’t think of a harder job in the school except for whoever had to clean up after the boys in their locker room. Already their hollering spilled into the hallway.

Not that the girls’ locker room was a bastion of civility; the snide remarks and judgmental glances made it a minefield of self-doubt. Rosalia did her best to stay out of it, to ignore the comments about someone’s thighs or the contents of their bra. All she had to do was focus on the basic sequence of events that would get her in and out with the minimal amount of fuss. Even the nudity didn’t bother her anymore; the desire to get out of her sweaty clothes and into a cool shower outweighed any lingering sense of shame.

There were always a few whispers as she passed the other girls, comments about Deron and conjectures about how far they had gone. Mostly, the talk just put pictures in her head, visions of what it would be like if she ever went to bed with him. Smiling at the thought, she stepped into the shower room and felt a wave of steam pass over her face. In the stalls, a few of the girls were already soaping up, trying to get clean without getting their hair wet.