You're All Crazy!
The ring tone on my cell is the Mission: Impossible theme. It's pretty cool, you know. Whenever my phone rings in public, I'll sort of slyly turn to the person next to me and say, "Excuse me… I need to take an important phone call…" You know, all shifty-like. I've done it loads of times. And let me tell you, it's insane how many people you can scare if they don't actually know you. Just turn to the person next to you on a bus—or better yet, wait for an elevator so they can't escape—and presto! Instant restraining order.
But when I'm driving through the crowded streets of Philadelphia, Mission: Impossible isn't exactly what I want to hear. Not when I'm running this late.
Gritting my teeth, I pull my phone clumsily out of the pocket of my jeans and flip it open. "Hello?" Ever notice that the word 'hello' is just 'hell' with an 'o' on the end?
"Hey—Fleur?" The sound crackles a little bit, but my friend Oona's voice is as chipper as ever. Most people I know sort of understand that there's this special time between nine and ten in the morning where I'm on the way to work, and that I don't like to be on the phone when I'm driving. But Oona has this idea that true, worthy friends—meaning herself, naturally—should be put before any thought of my road safety.
"What do you want?" I pound the gas pedal a little harder than I should, and the Toyota skids around the corner.
Oona snickers at my bluntness. "You left your wallet at my house yesterday."
"I did?" I try to remember if I put it in my purse this morning, but nothing really stands out in my mind. "I guess I might have…" I glance at the clock on my dashboard. "Couldn't you have called me last night or whenever? When I didn't have to break speed limits to make it to work?"
"I only found the thing this morning. And you should be grateful—you're lucky I didn't steal your credit card and blow your savings at the Apple store, Fleur Gertrude Hamilton."
I hate my name. I mean, 'Fleur' is French and all that, but I know for a fact that a crapload of my family is actually descended from a particularly brutal group of Vikings from the northernmost part of Sweden. Mom just likes French names, a little too much, if you ask me. 'Fleur' is fine, but Mom legally changed her name to Marie-Christine-Arlette before she met my dad. Which is… kind of excessive. I'm lucky to have escaped without a hyphen.
"What's wrong?" Oona sounds amused by my silence. "Can you stop by and pick it up?"
"Oona, I've already told you, I'm late for work!" Not to mention I'm stuck behind this really obnoxious moving truck that's spouting exhaust right at the windshield of my car. And we've hit a red light.
My friend's frantic. "But you're driving without a license! You know that's kind of… illegal, right?"
"My Boss from Hell is going to start paying me less than minimum wage if I'm late one more time." I snort. "That's illegal. Doesn't stop him from doing it."
The traffic light turns green again, and the truck surges forward. I can see through my window that it's nearly hit some blonde girl, but someone's managed to pull her off the road before she got all squished and stuff, so it's all good.
Stupid truck. Stupid driver, not looking where he's—
"Holy crap!" The moment I bring my eyes back to the road, I see a rather tall man in a navy suit standing directly in front of me.
"What's going on?" Oona snaps. A bit understandable, since I've just blown her eardrums out.
I pound my foot on the breaks, and the car makes a loud skidding noise, and the man sprints out of the way. I think he dropped something, but I'm already sailing forward too quickly to stop and apologize. "Don't worry about it." I breathe a sigh of relief. "There was just some guy, standing in the middle of the road."
"Well that's dumb. Did you hit him?"
"Nah." But my car's feeling kind of funny. It's sort of… I don't know. Uneven. Like I've got a flat tire or something. "Look—Oona? I'll stop at your house when I'm off for lunch, okay? I've got to go."
"Right, then. See you, Fleur." I flip my phone shut, and look at my clock again. I have about five minutes left, but the good news is that the bookstore is only a couple blocks away now.
Yes, I'm freaking out because I'm late getting to the bookstore. Go ahead and laugh. But let me tell you, with a boss like Mr. Levin, wandering through the children's section is like the Spanish Inquisition.
But what can I say? I'm just a lazy college student who's too inflexible to work in any environment where I am not surrounded by books. Though I'll admit I prefer the classics to the stuff in the children's section, no matter how awesome the A to Z Mysteries are. I'm majoring in historic literature. It's kind of my passion. Obsession. Thing.
I back my car into the 'employees only' parking spot, which contrary to popular belief, does not make one feel very elitist, and I have to move in a bit of an abrupt circle, because there doesn't actually seem to be any spot for me. Some idiot's parked a motorcycle in my usual spot. I mean, what the hell—how does this puny little thing get a whole square to itself? It only needs half a parking spot…
Parking at the side of the curb, I let my car wobble to a stop, pushing the door open with my foot and climbing out. Curiously, I stroll over to the side of my car. If that careless dude in the middle of the read gave me a flat tire, I've got half a mind to hunt him down and make him pay for it. And believe me, it's happened before. It takes no stretch of my imagination.
But strangely enough, everything seems… normal. The tires seem okay for the most part. I circle the car, kicking each tire, and it hurts my toe. Maybe that's not overly relevant, but hey—I kicked a flat tire on my uncle's truck once, and it felt kind of squishy. Something catches my eye, though. A rather long, thin tube-like object is protruding from one of the Toyota's back wheels.
"Hello, what are you doing mutilating my car?" I gently pull it out. It's actually surprisingly light, plastic, probably. Was this what the freaky road guy dropped? If it is, then whatever's in there probably belongs to him . And Mom always told me that other people's possessions are none of my business.
So naturally, after glancing back and forth to make sure no one's being nosy, I unscrew the cap and pull out its contents.
The first thing I feel is really old paper, and I immediately try to handle it with more care. Did I nearly hit some kind of curator or something? I slowly unroll it, but have slight difficulty due to its size.
And I stare, my heart pounding in my chest the way your toe throbs when you smack it against a brick. But then I laugh. This thing's just a copy. A good copy, but a copy nonetheless. Whoever made this knew what they were doing, though. The document looks exactly like the Declaration of Independence. What was Road Guy going to do with it? Sell it on the black market?
I turn it over carefully, and the paper gives a discomforting crackle as it contacts a gust of wind. There's a weird column of numbers written down one side, like it's some kind of code. Weird thing is, it's got that same loopy handwriting that those 'founding fathers' used. But why would it be there when everything else is trying so hard to be an exact replica?
Oh my God. What if it's some kind of criminal's code? Should I call 911? What would I even tell 911 exactly? What if—
"Hamilton, what the hell are you doing out there?" The voice is booming, but not in a very deep pr manly way. It's sort of squeaky, whiny. It's Mr. Levin, wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt under his suit jacket and standing just outside the doorway to the bookstore, glaring at me. "Idiot! Get over here before you're fired! I need to get my lunch…"
The joys of working. I glance down at the clever forgery in my hands. I don't know what this is about, but I have this strange feeling that it is somewhat illegal. And I've had enough illegal things today with the whole 'driving without my license' thing, thank you very much. Maybe I should report this. Maybe it might be nice not to get caught later with this thing floating around in my car. But my job pays for classes. And my house. And all the pizza I order.
I love pizza…
"Coming!" Rolling it back up and slipping it back inside the container, I stash the document under the drivers' seat of my car and slam the door shut. Shoving my hair behind my ears, I follow Mr. Levin inside.