Fic: The Stream of Warm Impermanence, Part 1
Title: The Stream of Warm Impermanence
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Preteen!Neal, Peter, El, Moz
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: De-aging; violence against a child, but nothing you wouldn’t see on TV
Word Count: 15,200
Summary: Neal Burke is 11 and the most popular boy in school. His dad Peter is a badass FBI agent, his mom Elizabeth makes the best chocolate chip cookies, and his Uncle Mozzie shows him how to pick locks when his parents aren’t looking. His life is great. Except that lately, Neal has been having these strange dreams - dreams of another life and another Neal. What if they’re true?
A/N: This is my entry for the Kid!fic Challenge going on over at whitecollarhc. Special thanks to jrosemary and ivorysilk for the beta reads!
Title is a lyric from the song “Changes” by David Bowie.
Part 1 | Part 2
----
As the thunderstorm that had been threatening all afternoon began to splatter big, fat drops on his head, Neal ran the remaining block at top speed, taking the steps to the Burkes’ front door two at a time to avoid the downpour. He burst through the inside door, eliciting a startled bark from the dog, and stood just inside, breathing heavily.
“Hey!” he greeted the dog, who had launched itself at his knees in a flurry of scratchy paws, wet nose and slobbery tongue.
“What is that racket out there?” Elizabeth called from the kitchen, walking in and drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, feigning disappointment.
Neal laughed lightly and rushed over to her, throwing his arms around her enthusiastically. “Mom,” he scolded, “you know you’re thrilled to see me!”
“As ever, my darling,” she said, and kissed the top of his curly head as the first thunderclap sounded overhead. “And not a moment too soon, I think.” A whine from the dog made them both turn - Jezebel hated storms.
Ever the thoughtful boy, Neal distracted the dog by running past her. “Come on, Jezzie!” he called, bounding up the stairs, the dog on his heels. El returned to the kitchen to the telltale sounds of wrestling overhead as her son tired the chocolate Lab out for a few minutes while the brief storm passed overhead.
A timer sounded, and Elizabeth went to remove the last batch of the chocolate chip cookies she’d been baking from the oven. She left them to cool in their pans for a minute while she went to run water into the mixing bowl. By the time she turned around to remove them to cooling racks, three had been taken from the tray and her 11-yr old was firmly ensconced in his customary seat at the kitchen island, half a cookie already shoved into his face.
She frowned at him. “You’re getting a little too good at lifting things, mister. Am I going to have to have a talk with your Uncle Mozzie?”
“Mom, you can’t really blame me. They’re the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Brooklyn.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, giving him a dubious look.
“Would I lie? All the kids at school voted. You beat Mrs. Anderson by a mile.”
“Really?” El couldn’t help but be flattered - Mrs. Anderson used to be a pastry chef.
Neal made a cross-my-heart gesture and she went to the fridge to pour him a glass of milk.
“All right, I’ll buy it this time. What’s for homework today?”
“I finished most of it already - just have to read up on the Battle of Gettysburg for history class.” He frowned.
“What? Is history so boring?”
“No, but it’s just - well, violent, Mom. So many people died. I hate reading about it. I mean, what’s the point - it’s not like people have learned, have they?” His blue eyes were large and empathetic as he looked at her, and she had to smile at his sincerity; he had always been so sensitive - always.
“Your father will love to hear you say that.”
“Nah, he’ll just make me recite dates to him.”
“That too!” she laughed. “Now go on and do your reading, and make it snappy. Your Uncle is coming for dinner tonight.”
Neal's face lit up - any night that Uncle Moz came for dinner was bound to be fun.
----
“I’m home!” Peter called as he opened the door, briefcase in one hand, cell phone to his ear with the other. He continued his conversation with Diana as he shrugged out of his raincoat, then idly patted Jezzie on her head when she came to greet him.
“Hi, hon!” El called from the kitchen.
“Sneakers off the couch,” Peter muttered to Neal without even looking at him, and continued addressing Diana, “No, I need the figures for last April too, Di - thirteen months.”
“Hi, Dad,” Neal said distractedly, keeping his nose buried in his History book as he moved his feet to the floor.
“Yeah…yeah. That’s it, uh huh. Why? Ha! OK, fine. Yeah, bye, Diana.” He rang off and glanced over at his son. “What, no hug for the old man?”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “What, no hug for me?” But he laughed and ran to his father, Peter letting out a slight oof as the kid’s head hit him in the solar plexus - he was growing entirely too fast for his liking. “Catch any bad guys today, Dad?”
“A fair few,” Peter said, his stock answer. They walked through to the kitchen with their arms around each other. “Something smells good!” Peter remarked, and went to kiss his wife hello.
“Pork loin and roasted potatoes,” El replied.
Peter made yummy noises and walked to the fridge; he grabbed himself a beer, then poured a glass of white wine for his wife. “What’ll you have?” he asked Neal with a nod. “Your usual?”
“Make mine a martini today,” Neal said and Peter handed him one of the fruity water things he liked.
“What’s this?” Peter asked, thumbing through the mail and holding up an envelope with a familiar return address.
El looked over and a brief flash of worry marred her features as she shook her head; she glanced over at Neal, who was bent over, playing with Jezzie’s ears. “Later,” she mouthed to him.
Peter nodded. “And this?” Peter said as he picked up a piece of paper with a bright red A+ scrawled at the top.
“That’s Neal's algebra test,” El answered with pride.
“Great job,” Peter said to him as he straightened. “Is that a 104 average in this class now?”
“106,” Neal corrected.
Peter beamed. “You know I like smart.”
----
After dinner, Neal sat with his Uncle Mozzie in his room, fiddling with the lock picks Mozzie’d given him for his 11th birthday, a pair of standard, police-issue handcuffs clinking on his skinny wrists.
“Come on, you can do this,” Moz encouraged.
Neal made frustrated noises. “I could if I had the torsion wrench for leverage. This is hard with just the one pick, Moz.”
“Well, you have to learn how to cope under adverse circumstances. You never know when you’ll have to improvise with a hairpin or something.”
Neal gave him a level look. “Hairpin? Are we in olden times now?”
“Don’t be a smartass. Tick-tock, it’s been five minutes already.” Moz sipped at his red wine and glanced out the window at the blossoms on the trees - how he loved the spring, he reflected.
“Ta da!” Neal said, holding the cuffs aloft with pride. “I did it!”
Moz gave him a look. “Bullshit, I know you slipped them instead. Do it again with the pick, and this time you’ve only got eight minutes.”
“Mozzieeee!” Neal whined, but Moz held up a finger and gave him a stern look.
“This is important, Neal. It won’t always be so easy to slip out of cuffs - you’re a growing boy. Here.” He pressed a small paper bag into his hands.
“What are these?” Neal asked, regarding the small pieces of metal in the tiny poly bag he found inside.
“More picks. You sew them into the seams of your clothes. Always be prepared, my lad.”
“You’re awfully paranoid, Uncle Moz.”
“Humor me.”
“Boys, it’s time for dessert!” El called up the stairs and they both jumped.
“Quick - stow that all away. If she finds it she’ll flay me alive.”
“Shouldn’t you be more afraid of what Dad might do?”
“No,” Moz said with a shudder, and got up to leave.
----
”I don’t like it, Peter, I don’t.”
“What’s not to like, hon? They want to put him ahead two whole grades.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“What, I’m not supposed to? I can’t be bursting with pride over this? Our son is a genius!”
Neal lay on his back in his room, listening to his parents fight. Well, “fight” was probably a strong word for it - they were unerringly polite with each other no matter what. His guidance counselor had sent a letter home recommending Neal be put forward two grades in the fall. That had been the subject of the letter his parents had refused to discuss in front of him earlier, he knew. The prospect both frightened and excited him.
”I don’t want him growing up too fast, Peter. Look what that did to him last time.”
“What are you talking about, ‘last time’?”
Neal could almost hear her eye-roll.
”You know as well as I do what happens when a precocious young man with certain talents is left to his own devices. Last week I saw him picking the locks to the front door.”
“That’s because Moz gave him those lock picks.”
“And I can’t believe you let him keep them!”
Neal could feel his heart speed up a little - he hadn’t thought his Mom had seen him, nor did he think his parents knew about the picks.
”It’s a useful skill.”
“This coming from an FBI Agent. Is this Opposite Day?”
“Hon, come on. I don’t see what that has to do with him being promoted two grades.”
“You don’t? I just don’t want him falling into certain patterns again.”
“Again?” Neal whispered to himself.
“You make it sound like it’s a foregone conclusion.”
She didn’t answer verbally.
”Is this a nature vs. nurture argument? Am I hearing this from my wife?”
There was a shocked silence during which Neal's mind was reeling. What were they talking about?
”I can’t believe you’d say that.”
“I could say the same thing, El.”
“Peter, you don’t think that I think -“ There was a quaver in his mother’s voice and he thought she might be crying. They lowered their voices and Neal couldn’t hear the next few minutes of conversation.
”OK, fine - we’ll ask him what he wants to do, then. You’re right - it ought to be up to him,” Elizabeth was saying, but Neal didn’t miss the worry in her tone.
----
He was in the elevator at last, the doors closed safely behind him as the security guard banged uselessly on them. All he could think was that he needed to get to the top floor - Peter’s life depended on it.
“I will call the police!” the guard threatened.
“Good! Call the paramedics!” Neal called back. He cast about the small space, looking for something useful, and his eyes fell on his own tie bar. He used it to undo the screws on the control panel for the elevator.
“You need to exit the elevator now, sir,” the guard said.
“Will you send me up to Kent’s floor?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t.” Neal pulled off a ground wire and flicked it across the circuits within the elevator’s mechanism. Thankfully, it was enough - the security panel readout suddenly said, “ACCESS GRANTED.” He pushed the button for the top floor.
“Peter!” Neal said as he arrived at Kent’s office. There was Peter, passed out on the floor of the spacious room, another man sprawled on the couch nearby. Neal picked Peter up under his armpits and dragged him back to the elevator.
As Neal set Peter down, he roused. “Neal!”
“You’re gonna be ok. Stay with me, all right? Hang in there.” Neal hit the down button urgently five or seventy times.
“Kent!” Peter gasped.
“No, Peter, we don’t have time.”
“We can’t leave him here,” Peter said, grasping Neal's arms.
“You are dying, Peter!” Neal wanted to yell and scream, make him understand.
“Neal! Neal, we don’t leave anybody behind.” One look at Peter’s ashen yet determined face was all Neal needed. He ran to fetch the other man.
Minutes later, Neal walked slightly behind as the paramedics wheeled Peter and the other man out on stretchers. And then he heard the words he dreaded most. “His heart’s stopped!”
The paramedics stopped immediately and began to work on Peter. “Get the epinephrine! Are you loaded? Clear!”
Neal's own heart nearly stopped as they jammed a long needle into Peter’s chest, the needle itself making a sickening *thunk*sound as it pierced his body.
NO! he wanted to scream. NO!
“No!” Neal whimpered as he finally woke from the nightmare, heart hammering in his chest. What happened? What was that?
Someone had tried to kill his father, and he was there. He saved him, but he was almost too late.
He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest and breathed through his nose until he calmed. Jezzie got up off her bed next to his and laid a paw on him. “It’s OK, girl,” he assured her, wishing he could believe his own words.
----
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and Neal was up and ready to go to school before his parents even stirred.
“What’s this?” Elizabeth said, amazed to see him up so early - it was usually a struggle to get him out of bed.
“I dunno,” he said breezily, slurping at some orange juice while sitting at his customary perch at the kitchen island; he was reading the day’s paper. “Just up.”
In truth, he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after his nightmare. He’d been having more and more of them lately and they were strange and disturbing. They didn’t feel like normal dreams to him - they didn’t tend to jump all around like other dreams. It was as if he was playing a part in a movie that he had never seen before. So he had gotten out of bed and tiptoed down to the living room and cuddled up under his grandmother’s afghan, idly petting Jezzie’s head and waiting for his brain to quiet down enough to sleep, but of course it never did.
“You look pale - you OK?” Elizabeth asked.
Neal could never get anything past his mother. He shrugged. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much.”
“My poor darling,” she said, and kissed him on the head. “How about eggs for breakfast?”
She fixed them all breakfast, and Neal and his dad were out the door within the hour.
“So we got a letter from your school yesterday,” Peter said as he drove.
“Whatever I did, I have proof I didn’t do it, Dad.”
Peter laughed. “You didn’t do anything, buddy. It said how smart you are, which of course, we already knew, because you are the most brilliant kid on the planet.”
“Dad.”
“Well, it’s true. The letter also said they wanted to meet with me and your mom about you skipping a couple of grades at school.”
“Oh yeah?” Neal asked, hoping he sounded surprised enough.
“That something you’d be interested in?”
“Well, I don’t know. It would mean going to school with bigger kids next year, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. And you’ll probably need some tutoring over the summer, so you can catch up on the Math and Science classes.” Neal scrunched up his nose - he didn’t think he would like sacrificing his summer. “Not too much tutoring, probably,” Peter said, seeing his reaction. “You could still go to camp.”
“Do I have to decide now?”
“Nope, but soon probably. We’ve got a meeting with your principal and guidance counselor next week to talk it over. Do you want to come?”
“’K. Do I have to decide then?”
Peter smiled understandingly at him. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk it through, buddy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Let’s make that perfectly clear.”
He smiled back, relieved. “OK.” A minute later, they pulled up to the charter school Neal attended for gifted students.
“I’ll see you at your game later, OK?” Neal, like his dad when he was a kid, was the star pitcher of his Little League team.
“4:00 and don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Peter said, and reached over to ruffle the hair on his son’s head. “Go be extraordinary, kid.”
Neal rolled his eyes - his dorky dad always said that when he dropped him at school - but he secretly enjoyed it.
----
Neal and his best friend Teddy had their heads bent over Teddy’s new smartphone, checking out all the apps he’d downloaded, when a clearing throat at the front of their homeroom got their attention. Teddy quickly stowed the phone away - they were supposed to stay in kids’ lockers - and he and Neal regarded the newcomer at the front of the class with innocent expressions.
“Good morning, class, my name is Mr. Koehler. I’ll be substituting for Mr. Fricke, who has - had to take a leave of absence.”
Neal looked at the man with interest. He was of medium height, old - like, 40 - and had dark hair that he kept neatly combed back. His dark eyes were narrow, squinched up with pronounced laugh lines that didn’t make him seem very happy or funny, and he wore a suit with an open-necked shirt, which Neal thought was odd for a substitute teacher.
The class broke out in a low rumble of excitement - substitute teachers usually took it easy on them - but Mr. Koehler snapped his fingers at them diffidently.
“Now, class, don’t think you can take advantage of a naïve, new substitute teacher. I’ve been where you’re sitting, so I know all the moves.” The man gave off an air of control that was immediately picked up on by the class, who settled down immediately. He picked up the class roster. “Let’s take attendance, shall we?”
Homeroom passed with no other drama, and Neal stayed in his seat and pulled out his Algebra text when the bell rang - Mr. Fricke was his math teacher, and Algebra was his first period class. He felt rather than saw a presence standing over him and looked up at Mr. Koehler.
“Neal Burke,” he said. “I think I grew up with your father. Isn’t he from around here?”
“No, sir. He’s from upstate.”
“Ah, my mistake then. You just look so familiar to me.”
“I get that a lot,” Neal replied. He didn’t like the intense looks Mr. Koehler was giving him. The tension was broken as the other students began to arrive and take their seats.
----
That night, Neal had another nightmare.
He was in a big, fancy house, in a small room with shelves lining the walls, and on those shelves were boxes and boxes of comic books. Neal wished he could look inside the boxes - see some of the older issues of Justice Lad that were there - but suddenly, his dad was there, running toward him. Another man came up behind him suddenly, leveling a shot gun at them both.
Neal was scared, but he thought fast - he picked up the strange wooden box on the table, triggering the room’s security system and a bulletproof door dropped down just as the young man pulled the trigger. But then all the air in the room began to be sucked away and Neal couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and he was frantically trying to look for something - something important behind all the boxes. He thought he found it but he wasn’t sure - there was no air.
And he couldn’t breathe.
He banged on the wall to get his dad’s attention, but there was still no air. And the room was getting dark.
“Help!” Neal gasped in his sleep, kicking at the covers around his legs.
Elizabeth was alerted by the strange sounds coming from her son’s bedroom. “Honey?” She found him still sleeping, but clawing at the bedding, face contorted in agony. “Peter!” she yelled, running to Neal's bed and taking him into her arms.
“Peter! Help!” Neal gasped, and then he was awake.
“Neal?” El said.
“El, what is it?” said Peter, running into the room.
Neal was panicking, taking great, sobbing breaths as he clutched at his mother’s sweater. “I couldn't breathe. There was no air and I couldn’t breathe!”
“Shh, it’s ok, my love,” El soothed, rocking him. “You can breathe now. You’re safe.”
“There was no air,” he repeated. “And he had a shotgun.”
“Who had a shotgun?”
“Avery. He was gonna shoot Dad!”
Peter and Elizabeth froze as Neal said the words, traded looks. “What was that, Neal?” Peter asked.
Neal sat up and wiped his eyes with the heels of his right hand. “The man had a gun and he was going to shoot you.”
“Do you know why?”
“No,” he sniffled.
“Do you remember anything else from the dream?”
Neal shook his head - it was all fading away again - and El hugged him closer, rubbing his back with her hand. “It’s OK, honey, it was all a bad dream.” She held him until he fell asleep, then set him down, covered him up and kissed him on the forehead before leaving the room. She shut the door, but the knob didn’t catch, and soon the door swung open, hitting the back wall with a dull thud. The sound woke Neal and he lay in his bed, listening to his parents talk about him again.
”You heard that, Peter, it’s all coming back!”
“I heard him, El. But it’s only one thing.”
“For now! What next? Kate? The U-boat? This has to stop.” Neal could hear the heels of her bare feet pounding as she paced in their room.
“How are we going to stop it?”
“They said this wouldn’t happen. They said he wouldn’t remember, that a child’s mind couldn’t hold on to all of that, that his brain wasn’t fully developed.”
“They said he might not remember, hon. They were clearly wrong.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“I wish I knew.”
----
“Be extraordinary, Neal,” Peter called through the open car window and Neal smiled, waved at him until the Taurus was all the way around the corner.
Neal thought it was best not to share his fears about his dreams with his mom and dad until he could sort out what they meant for himself. He suspected there must be something up - something his parents were keeping from him - but he also had faith they were doing it to protect him. Why else did they sound so worried?
He wasn’t sure what it all was, but he did think it had to do with his past. He knew he was adopted - maybe his birth parents were shady or otherwise dangerous. His dad was an FBI agent - maybe Neal's biological parents were in witness protection. Maybe his dreams had to do with something he’d witnessed as a baby. Maybe he was the protected witness.
A hundred possibilities whirled through his brain, and he was more subdued than usual all day at school. As he was leaving for the day, his route took him past a park adjacent to the school where old guys sometimes played chess. There were tables set up in the shade, and sometimes he and Uncle Mozzie would go there in the summertime and play, Neal sucking on a Polish ice as Moz taught him chess theory and stratagems. As he walked, he spotted Mr. Koehler seated at one of the tables, alone, moving pieces around the board, lost in thought.
“Hi, whatcha doing?” Neal asked, approaching the teacher. Despite a rocky start the other day, Mr. Koehler had proven to be a pretty good teacher, cracking jokes and driving his students to work hard at learning the material and applying it to real world examples, like money and race cars. Neal liked that he provided that kind of context, because he could relate better to it all.
“What does it look like?” Mr. Koehler said, but he wasn’t being rude; Neal felt like he was pressing him for an educated answer.
Neal stared at the board and wracked his brain. “Is that Fischer vs. Spassky?”
“Which one?”
Neal groaned. “First game - 1972?”
“Is that an answer or a guess?”
“An answer,” Neal said, his voice confident.
“Correct. I didn’t think kids cared much about chess these days.”
“My Uncle Mozzie started teaching me when I was little.”
“Your uncle huh? You play a lot?”
“When I have time.” Neal found himself drawn to the board - after a few years, he and Moz no longer challenged each other.
“Have a seat, set up the board,” Mr. Koehler said, sitting back and smiling kindly while Neal did it. “I see you’ve taken white.”
“I’m sorry - did you want it?”
“No, no. I should give you the benefit of the doubt - you’re just a kid after all.”
Neal smiled at him winningly and made his first move; he had Koehler in check within fifteen minutes, and checkmate five moves later. “You being easy on me, Mr. Koehler?”
Koehler laughed loudly. “I thought so, but I see the error in my assumptions. Rematch?”
“Sure!”
They played two more games; Neal won the second, and the last ended in a draw; then Neal had to be going. “If I’m not home in the next fifteen minutes, my mom’s gonna have a cow.”
“Your mom overprotective?”
“Only when she has to be. Thanks for the game, Mr. Koehler.”
“I’m not done with you yet, kid. I need a rematch.”
“Sure,” Neal said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Awesome!” Neal ran off towards home.
----
A week later, Neal was sitting on the patio sketching for his Art class at school while Elizabeth prepared to grill some fajitas for dinner. “I’m home!” Peter called from the front of the house.
“Out here, hon!” she called.
He came through the door, Jezzie on his heels, and kissed his wife, then slipped a hand around Neal's shoulder and hugged him to him. “Whatcha drawing?”
“A painting I saw at the Channing during our field trip today,” he answered distractedly. “Wish I had some pastels.”
Peter glanced down at the sketch and Neal could feel his arm tense where he was holding him. “You saw that at the Channing?”
“Yeah. Young Girl with Locket by Haustenburg. I really like it - she’s pretty.”
“You’ve sure captured the essence of the painting,” Peter said, and Neal didn’t miss the gruffness that had entered his father’s voice. When he looked up at him, Neal caught the look he shared with Elizabeth, but looked down right away - he still didn’t want them to know that he suspected there was something going on.
“You know, they sure don’t hire the smartest people at that museum,” Neal said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Oh?”
“The tour guide said the subject in the painting was the painter’s sister, but I had to tell him it was really his daughter.”
“Really. And how did you know that?”
“Research, Dad. It’s a pretty famous painting, you know. Something wrong?” Neal noticed that his father was running his fingers through his hair, something he only did when he was mad or upset. Neal half turned in his seat, concerned.
“It’s nothing, Neal. Hard day at work, that’s all. Gosh, I could use a beer.” Peter retreated into the house, and Neal watched him walk over to the fridge, only instead of taking a beer, he grabbed the vodka bottle from the freezer and poured some into a glass.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Neal finally said. “You and Dad have been acting weird for a week now.”
Elizabeth looked at him, startled. “What makes you say that?”
“There have been a lot of whispered conversations. I’m not stupid you know.”
“No, honey, you are not stupid. If you must know, your father and I disagree on whether or not to allow you to skip those grades at school. I am against it, and he thinks it should happen.”
“I thought it was up to me?”
“It is, but can’t we have an opinion?” she snapped.
She walked into the house to fetch the chicken that was marinating in the refrigerator, and Neal watched her as well. When she approached Peter, he started to say something, but she said one word and glanced out at Neal. Now they were both looking at him, and as much as he usually thrived on being the center of attention, it now made him feel like he was an alien being dissected in a government lab. He didn’t like it. And it seemed that his mother had finally noticed.
Ducking her head, she returned to the patio and slipped an arm around his collarbone, leaning down and resting her cheek next to his. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Neal,” she said into his ear. “This is not about you, I want you to know that. Your old Mom is just having some issues with her baby growing up too fast.”
“Really?” he said. He didn’t like how small his voice sounded in his ears, didn’t like that this was upsetting him.
“Really. I love you so much, it hurts sometimes. I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry.” She kissed him on the ear and stood up, ruffling his hair fondly. Neal leaned into her caress and tried to feel better.
That night, he dreamt of planes exploding, and when he woke screaming, he told his dad it was because he’d played Zombie Apocalypse 3 before bed.
----
“You OK, Neal? That’s the second game in a row you’ve tanked.” Mr. Koehler reached out and squeezed his hand.
“Yeah. No. Sorry - it’s just stuff at home.”
“Your dad the FBI agent? Neal, he’s not… there’s not a problem there? Abuse?”
“No! No, nothing like that. God, no. Tell me you don’t think that, Mr. Koehler!”
“Relax, I don’t, but when you’re a teacher, they drill it into you to be on the lookout for these things. So, what is it, the usual pre-teen tribulations? Girl troubles? Somebody steal your bike?”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Koehler. it’s - well, it’s complicated.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact you’re adopted?”
“No, I - wait a minute, how do you know that?”
“It’s in your school records.”
“No, it’s not.”
Mr. Koehler looked like he knew he was busted for a second. “You’re right, it’s not. Listen Neal, I haven’t been straight with you. When we met and I said I thought I knew your dad, it’s because I do. I mean, I did.”
Neal looked at Mr. Koehler suspiciously. “You’re not my bio dad, are you?” he asked quietly.
“No! For God’s sake, no. But I didn’t lie - I knew him. His name was Neal - just like you. Neal Caffrey, and you are the spitting image of him.”
“I am?”
Mr. Koehler nodded. “When I saw you I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“So, he’s dead, then?” Neal asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
“I’m sorry, but yes.”
They sat in silence while Neal fingered his Queen-side knight. “How did you know him?”
“We came up together, he and I. You could say we were kindred spirits.”
“You were friends?”
“At one point.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
A pained look crossed Mr. Koehler’s face. “Well, let’s just say that Caffrey didn’t usually find himself on the right side of the law.”
“He - he was a criminal? Did he kill people?” Neal's head was reeling, and he could feel his ears get hot as they turned bright red
“No! No, he was what you might call a gentleman thief. Very slick. And unfortunately, it was ultimately the end of him. He finally stole from the wrong people.”
Neal looked down at his hands, tears burning his eyes. Darn it, he didn’t even know this man, why was he getting so upset? “Did - did you know my mom too?” he asked in a quiet voice. He couldn’t look up at Mr. Koehler.
“I did. Her name was Kate, and I’m sorry, but she’s dead too, Neal. She was in a plane that exploded. She was murdered.”
Neal's head snapped up and the tears brimming in his eyes fell as he looked sharply at Mr. Koehler. “What did you say?”
“She died in an explosion, right in front of your father. It was very tragic. He was sad for a long, long time. ”
“Mr. Koehler, I - I think I was there when my mother was killed,” Neal said, his eyes wide, scared. The tears were streaming down his face now, and he couldn’t control them.
“What? You would have been so little.”
“I was, I was. I’ve been having nightmares about it. I see it happening. I REMEMBER IT ALL!” Neal was hysterical now, shaking and crying, and Mr. Koehler got up and sat on the bench next to him and put an arm around him.
“It’s OK, kid.”
“No, it’s not! My mother died and I saw it happen!” Neal sobbed into his shoulder.
“Shh, come on, it’ll be OK,” Mr. Koehler said, patting him on the back. “It’s OK to remember everything,” he muttered.
But Neal couldn’t stop the huge, gulping sobs that stole his breath and energy. When he’d cried himself out, he felt worn down and sick, his head all stuffed and dizzy.
Mr. Koehler handed him a bottle of water. “Here, it’ll make you feel better.”
Neal took a few deep breaths and accepted the water. “Thanks.” He sat dejectedly on the bench, exhausted. Now he knew why his parents were lying to him, and it made his head swim. He suddenly felt hot all over. “I’ve got to go home,” he said and stood.
When he swayed on his feet, Mr. Koehler steadied him with a hand on his arm. “You all right, Neal? You want a ride home?”
“No, it’s not far. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go!” He grabbed his backpack and hurried away.
By the time he walked the eight blocks home, the fuzziness in his head and the queasiness in his stomach had firmly taken hold, and he headed immediately up to his room once he got inside the door.
“Neal?” His mom stood in the door, her brow furrowed as she saw him sprawled on his stomach in bed. “You feeling OK?” She sat beside him on the bed and petted his hair.
“No,” he said miserably.
“Belly or head?”
“Both.”
She pushed his hair back from his forehead and felt it with the back of her hand. “Feels like you’ve got a temperature.” She tugged his sneakers off his feet and stood. “Get your jammies on, I’ll be right back.” She returned with water and Tylenol and made him swallow the pills and get under the covers. “Try and get some sleep, all right?”
He nodded, then remembered something. “But the meeting with the guidance counselor is tonight.”
“We’ll reschedule. Get some rest.”
He slept all afternoon and through dinner, and when he woke at midnight he felt mostly OK, if a little shaky. He got out of bed and went to his desk, switched on the computer and started researching as much as he could about a man named Neal Caffrey.
----
“I looked up my bio dad’s name online,” he said to Mr. Koehler over their chess game two days later, when he was back at school.
“And?”
“It was all there - he was a criminal. And he went to jail.”
“Anything else?”
Neal looked at him quizzically.
“Did you know it was your father the FBI agent who caught Caffrey - sent him to jail?”
“What? That’s impossible.”
“It’s true. Your parents adopted the child of an ex-con.”
“But why? Did they know him? Did my dad have something to do with - with Neal Caffrey’s death?” Neal was suddenly angry, and felt like a fool for not having seen it before. The reasons for his parents’ lies were becoming more and more clear; what wasn’t clear was why they’d keep this from him.
“Hey, now, wait a minute, wait just a minute,” Mr. Koehler said, putting a steadying hand on Neal's shoulder. “Don’t be angry with your father, you can’t know his motivations. He and your mother must love you very much.”
But Neal wasn’t hearing his words, all he could think was that he needed to know. He needed to know why his parents would take in the child of a criminal that his father had sent to jail. His mind could not fathom a single, possible motivation or reason for it.
Neal went home, pretended he had a lot of homework and kept to his room all afternoon, pausing only to eat dinner. He went to bed as usual, though tonight there were no whispered conversations about him coming from his parents’ room, which was just as well, because he didn’t think he could take any more revelations.
He lay in his bed wondering about his biological father, and what his life would have been like if Neal Caffrey hadn’t died. Would he have followed in his footsteps? Would he have taught him how to lie, cheat, steal? He didn’t think he would like that, but he wondered if he’d have any choice. He wondered if he had any choice now - would he turn out to be just like his father anyway? Was it his destiny - would he grow up to be a criminal? Didn’t they always say the apple never fell far from the tree?
His mind flashed on an image of his mother’s disappointed face, and he was looking at her from behind bars, and it made him want to cry. He flipped over onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to banish such thoughts. But he couldn’t, and he tossed and turned the whole night, convinced he was destined to repeat the crimes of his biological father.
In the morning, he got up, ate his cereal and rode to school with Peter like every other day. “Be extraordinary,” his dad called after him, and he couldn't suppress a flinch at those words - did he really feel them? Was his father really so proud of him? Or did he just feel sorry for him - son of a low-rent criminal that he was.
He watched his dad drive away and when he was sure he was completely out of sight, Neal doubled back and walked towards home. He wanted more answers about his past, and he knew where to find them.
His mother had a client meeting in the city that day - she had left before Neal had even gotten out of bed, and wouldn’t be back for hours. He used his key to get into the house, disengaged the alarm and patted Jezzie on the head when she came to greet him. But there was no time for play - he needed to find the information he was looking for.
Neal knew that his father kept all the family’s important papers in the wall safe in his bedroom. He found the key easily enough - it was in the junk drawer in the kitchen and he’d seen his mom put it there before. What he didn’t know was the combination. He trotted up the stairs and into his parents’ bedroom.
He paused just inside the door, taking in the familiar decoration of the room - how many nights had he spent lying between them when he was little, convinced there were monsters under his bed? Somehow, doing this felt wrong, like a betrayal, but his need to know was stronger - strong enough to push whatever guilt he felt at being dishonest out of his mind.
He dragged the seat from his mother’s vanity over to the mantle and began to clear the photos and other knickknacks away so that he could work on the safe. He paused when he picked up the picture of him and his father fishing at Lake Placid two summers ago. They were both laughing at something his mom had just said before snapping the picture. His dad was wearing the goofy fishing hat with all the lures on it that he’d picked up at some outdoor store in Manhattan, and his mom had called him a Great Outdoorsman. But the fish they’d caught was delicious, even if no one could figure out how to get all the bones out. Neal had fallen asleep that night with his head in his dad’s lap, and his feet in his mom’s and had never felt safer in his entire life. He shook his head and set the photo aside - he couldn’t think about that now - he had a mission.
He tried a few different combinations before one worked - his birthday, and he decided to think about that later as well. Inside, he found passports old and new, insurance policies, bonds, stock certificates. At the bottom of the pile, in a thick manila envelope labeled “Neal” in his mother’s handwriting, he found what he was looking for.
He jumped down from the seat and went to his own room to inspect what was inside. On top were his adoption papers, with a bunch of stuff about home studies and petitions to the court that looked really boring. He kind of expected to see that, so he set it aside. Under that, he found two birth certificates stapled together - on top was one that listed Peter and Elizabeth Burke as his parents. Below that was what he assumed was his original birth certificate, which he also perused carefully. What he saw didn’t make sense.
On the original it said:
This is to certify that a birth certificate has been issued for
Neal George Caffrey
Born on: October 11, 1980 in New York, New York
Father: George Brian Caffrey
Mother: Jane O’Neal Caffrey
“I thought my father’s name was Neal too,” he said aloud shaking his head, then his eyes zeroed in on the birthdate. “1980?” The other certificate, for Neal George Burke, stated that his birth date was October 11, 2009. “What the heck is going on?”
The final thing that was in the envelope was an extremely thick sheaf of papers that had a lot of big legal words and motions and stuff Neal didn’t understand. At the bottom of it was a decree signed by the governor of the state of New York that seemed to reclassify one Neal George Caffrey as a “minor adult” and resetting his birth year to 2009.
Neal stared at this document for a long, long time, his mind reeling, his fingers ghosting over the governor’s signature, the raised seal where it was notarized. None of it made sense, none of it. But he thought he knew where he could find the answers he needed.
----
“I thought you said you knew my father,” Neal said to Mr. Koehler. It was lunch period, and the substitute usually ate alone in his classroom.
“Hello, Neal.”
Neal walked into the classroom and stood beside the desk at the front of the room. “I thought you said you knew my father,” he repeated. “This says his name was George.”
Mr. Koehler picked up the birth certificate Neal slipped across the desk and studied it for a moment. “It also says that Neal Caffrey was born in 1980,” he pointed out quietly.
“Why? Why does it say that? Who is Neal Caffrey?”
Koehler looked up at Neal and into his eyes. “I think you know the answer to that already.”
“No.” Neal shook his head emphatically, but Mr. Koehler continued to regard him soberly. “It’s impossible.”
“And yet you hold the proof of it in your hands. You are Neal Caffrey.”
“I’m not, I’m just a kid.”
“You’re Neal Caffrey.”
“Neal Caffrey should be like, 40. I just turned 11.”
“I’m not saying I understand why it happened, but it’s a fact. You know it is.”
“I’m a dirty thief who conned people out of their money and art? I am?” Neal asked incredulously.
Mr. Koehler nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, Neal, I really am, but it appears to be true.”
There were tears in Neal's eyes suddenly. “No. Nononononono.”
“Your parents have been lying to you.”
“I need to go,” Neal said, his voice hitching. He gathered up the papers he’d brought, shoved them into his backpack and headed for the door.
“Neal!” Koehler called out to him, but he began to run - he had to get away.
----
Neal sat in a tire swing in the school’s playground. He had his original birth certificate in his right hand, his left arm hugged the chains of the swing, and he was spinning around on a tight axis maintained by the toe of his sneaker in the sand. He heard Mr. Koehler sit in the swing right next to him, but he didn’t look up. He just kept spinning.
“I’m sorry, kid, I am.”
“You didn’t do anything.” Neal was angry - angrier than he’d ever been in his whole life, but he couldn’t be mad at Mr. Koehler, who had nothing to do with it. So he tried to keep his voice calm.
“You know what I mean. This is a tough thing to take, and I’m sorry.”
“Did you know all along? Who I was? What I was?”
“Not until I saw you. No one looks that much like a parent, no matter what people say. I knew who you were the minute I walked into that classroom. I knew you were my old friend, who’d disappeared so long ago.”
“Your friend the thief and liar. That’s what I am,” Neal said bitterly and stared up into the sky, trying to keep the angry tears at bay. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“I wish I could tell you. Help you. But you should talk to your mom and dad, see what they have to say - ”
“I won’t! I won’t talk to them!” Neal said vehemently, looking Mr. Koehler in the eyes. “They lied to me. Built my whole life on a lie - how can I go back there?”
“So what, you’re just going to run away? Don’t you think they’ll be worried about you? They love you.”
“I don’t care,” Neal said viciously, his brows knit together in anger.
“Well, you can’t just run away, it’s not safe.”
“I’ll go to the city - lots of places for a kid to disappear in Manhattan.”
“Lots of places for a kid to get killed. I won’t let you do that, Neal.”
“You can’t stop me!”
“But I can help you.”
“What?”
“Come to the city with me. You can stay at my place until you can figure things out. At least you’ll be safe.”
“You - you’d do that for me?”
“Hey - I’ll be doing an old friend a favor, won’t I?” He stood and held a hand out to Neal, who jumped down from the swing and picked up his backpack. Koehler put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled. “It’ll be just like old times.”
END PART 1
Part 2
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Preteen!Neal, Peter, El, Moz
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: De-aging; violence against a child, but nothing you wouldn’t see on TV
Word Count: 15,200
Summary: Neal Burke is 11 and the most popular boy in school. His dad Peter is a badass FBI agent, his mom Elizabeth makes the best chocolate chip cookies, and his Uncle Mozzie shows him how to pick locks when his parents aren’t looking. His life is great. Except that lately, Neal has been having these strange dreams - dreams of another life and another Neal. What if they’re true?
A/N: This is my entry for the Kid!fic Challenge going on over at whitecollarhc. Special thanks to jrosemary and ivorysilk for the beta reads!
Title is a lyric from the song “Changes” by David Bowie.
Part 1 | Part 2
----
As the thunderstorm that had been threatening all afternoon began to splatter big, fat drops on his head, Neal ran the remaining block at top speed, taking the steps to the Burkes’ front door two at a time to avoid the downpour. He burst through the inside door, eliciting a startled bark from the dog, and stood just inside, breathing heavily.
“Hey!” he greeted the dog, who had launched itself at his knees in a flurry of scratchy paws, wet nose and slobbery tongue.
“What is that racket out there?” Elizabeth called from the kitchen, walking in and drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, feigning disappointment.
Neal laughed lightly and rushed over to her, throwing his arms around her enthusiastically. “Mom,” he scolded, “you know you’re thrilled to see me!”
“As ever, my darling,” she said, and kissed the top of his curly head as the first thunderclap sounded overhead. “And not a moment too soon, I think.” A whine from the dog made them both turn - Jezebel hated storms.
Ever the thoughtful boy, Neal distracted the dog by running past her. “Come on, Jezzie!” he called, bounding up the stairs, the dog on his heels. El returned to the kitchen to the telltale sounds of wrestling overhead as her son tired the chocolate Lab out for a few minutes while the brief storm passed overhead.
A timer sounded, and Elizabeth went to remove the last batch of the chocolate chip cookies she’d been baking from the oven. She left them to cool in their pans for a minute while she went to run water into the mixing bowl. By the time she turned around to remove them to cooling racks, three had been taken from the tray and her 11-yr old was firmly ensconced in his customary seat at the kitchen island, half a cookie already shoved into his face.
She frowned at him. “You’re getting a little too good at lifting things, mister. Am I going to have to have a talk with your Uncle Mozzie?”
“Mom, you can’t really blame me. They’re the best chocolate chip cookies in all of Brooklyn.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, giving him a dubious look.
“Would I lie? All the kids at school voted. You beat Mrs. Anderson by a mile.”
“Really?” El couldn’t help but be flattered - Mrs. Anderson used to be a pastry chef.
Neal made a cross-my-heart gesture and she went to the fridge to pour him a glass of milk.
“All right, I’ll buy it this time. What’s for homework today?”
“I finished most of it already - just have to read up on the Battle of Gettysburg for history class.” He frowned.
“What? Is history so boring?”
“No, but it’s just - well, violent, Mom. So many people died. I hate reading about it. I mean, what’s the point - it’s not like people have learned, have they?” His blue eyes were large and empathetic as he looked at her, and she had to smile at his sincerity; he had always been so sensitive - always.
“Your father will love to hear you say that.”
“Nah, he’ll just make me recite dates to him.”
“That too!” she laughed. “Now go on and do your reading, and make it snappy. Your Uncle is coming for dinner tonight.”
Neal's face lit up - any night that Uncle Moz came for dinner was bound to be fun.
----
“I’m home!” Peter called as he opened the door, briefcase in one hand, cell phone to his ear with the other. He continued his conversation with Diana as he shrugged out of his raincoat, then idly patted Jezzie on her head when she came to greet him.
“Hi, hon!” El called from the kitchen.
“Sneakers off the couch,” Peter muttered to Neal without even looking at him, and continued addressing Diana, “No, I need the figures for last April too, Di - thirteen months.”
“Hi, Dad,” Neal said distractedly, keeping his nose buried in his History book as he moved his feet to the floor.
“Yeah…yeah. That’s it, uh huh. Why? Ha! OK, fine. Yeah, bye, Diana.” He rang off and glanced over at his son. “What, no hug for the old man?”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “What, no hug for me?” But he laughed and ran to his father, Peter letting out a slight oof as the kid’s head hit him in the solar plexus - he was growing entirely too fast for his liking. “Catch any bad guys today, Dad?”
“A fair few,” Peter said, his stock answer. They walked through to the kitchen with their arms around each other. “Something smells good!” Peter remarked, and went to kiss his wife hello.
“Pork loin and roasted potatoes,” El replied.
Peter made yummy noises and walked to the fridge; he grabbed himself a beer, then poured a glass of white wine for his wife. “What’ll you have?” he asked Neal with a nod. “Your usual?”
“Make mine a martini today,” Neal said and Peter handed him one of the fruity water things he liked.
“What’s this?” Peter asked, thumbing through the mail and holding up an envelope with a familiar return address.
El looked over and a brief flash of worry marred her features as she shook her head; she glanced over at Neal, who was bent over, playing with Jezzie’s ears. “Later,” she mouthed to him.
Peter nodded. “And this?” Peter said as he picked up a piece of paper with a bright red A+ scrawled at the top.
“That’s Neal's algebra test,” El answered with pride.
“Great job,” Peter said to him as he straightened. “Is that a 104 average in this class now?”
“106,” Neal corrected.
Peter beamed. “You know I like smart.”
----
After dinner, Neal sat with his Uncle Mozzie in his room, fiddling with the lock picks Mozzie’d given him for his 11th birthday, a pair of standard, police-issue handcuffs clinking on his skinny wrists.
“Come on, you can do this,” Moz encouraged.
Neal made frustrated noises. “I could if I had the torsion wrench for leverage. This is hard with just the one pick, Moz.”
“Well, you have to learn how to cope under adverse circumstances. You never know when you’ll have to improvise with a hairpin or something.”
Neal gave him a level look. “Hairpin? Are we in olden times now?”
“Don’t be a smartass. Tick-tock, it’s been five minutes already.” Moz sipped at his red wine and glanced out the window at the blossoms on the trees - how he loved the spring, he reflected.
“Ta da!” Neal said, holding the cuffs aloft with pride. “I did it!”
Moz gave him a look. “Bullshit, I know you slipped them instead. Do it again with the pick, and this time you’ve only got eight minutes.”
“Mozzieeee!” Neal whined, but Moz held up a finger and gave him a stern look.
“This is important, Neal. It won’t always be so easy to slip out of cuffs - you’re a growing boy. Here.” He pressed a small paper bag into his hands.
“What are these?” Neal asked, regarding the small pieces of metal in the tiny poly bag he found inside.
“More picks. You sew them into the seams of your clothes. Always be prepared, my lad.”
“You’re awfully paranoid, Uncle Moz.”
“Humor me.”
“Boys, it’s time for dessert!” El called up the stairs and they both jumped.
“Quick - stow that all away. If she finds it she’ll flay me alive.”
“Shouldn’t you be more afraid of what Dad might do?”
“No,” Moz said with a shudder, and got up to leave.
----
”I don’t like it, Peter, I don’t.”
“What’s not to like, hon? They want to put him ahead two whole grades.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“What, I’m not supposed to? I can’t be bursting with pride over this? Our son is a genius!”
Neal lay on his back in his room, listening to his parents fight. Well, “fight” was probably a strong word for it - they were unerringly polite with each other no matter what. His guidance counselor had sent a letter home recommending Neal be put forward two grades in the fall. That had been the subject of the letter his parents had refused to discuss in front of him earlier, he knew. The prospect both frightened and excited him.
”I don’t want him growing up too fast, Peter. Look what that did to him last time.”
“What are you talking about, ‘last time’?”
Neal could almost hear her eye-roll.
”You know as well as I do what happens when a precocious young man with certain talents is left to his own devices. Last week I saw him picking the locks to the front door.”
“That’s because Moz gave him those lock picks.”
“And I can’t believe you let him keep them!”
Neal could feel his heart speed up a little - he hadn’t thought his Mom had seen him, nor did he think his parents knew about the picks.
”It’s a useful skill.”
“This coming from an FBI Agent. Is this Opposite Day?”
“Hon, come on. I don’t see what that has to do with him being promoted two grades.”
“You don’t? I just don’t want him falling into certain patterns again.”
“Again?” Neal whispered to himself.
“You make it sound like it’s a foregone conclusion.”
She didn’t answer verbally.
”Is this a nature vs. nurture argument? Am I hearing this from my wife?”
There was a shocked silence during which Neal's mind was reeling. What were they talking about?
”I can’t believe you’d say that.”
“I could say the same thing, El.”
“Peter, you don’t think that I think -“ There was a quaver in his mother’s voice and he thought she might be crying. They lowered their voices and Neal couldn’t hear the next few minutes of conversation.
”OK, fine - we’ll ask him what he wants to do, then. You’re right - it ought to be up to him,” Elizabeth was saying, but Neal didn’t miss the worry in her tone.
----
He was in the elevator at last, the doors closed safely behind him as the security guard banged uselessly on them. All he could think was that he needed to get to the top floor - Peter’s life depended on it.
“I will call the police!” the guard threatened.
“Good! Call the paramedics!” Neal called back. He cast about the small space, looking for something useful, and his eyes fell on his own tie bar. He used it to undo the screws on the control panel for the elevator.
“You need to exit the elevator now, sir,” the guard said.
“Will you send me up to Kent’s floor?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t.” Neal pulled off a ground wire and flicked it across the circuits within the elevator’s mechanism. Thankfully, it was enough - the security panel readout suddenly said, “ACCESS GRANTED.” He pushed the button for the top floor.
“Peter!” Neal said as he arrived at Kent’s office. There was Peter, passed out on the floor of the spacious room, another man sprawled on the couch nearby. Neal picked Peter up under his armpits and dragged him back to the elevator.
As Neal set Peter down, he roused. “Neal!”
“You’re gonna be ok. Stay with me, all right? Hang in there.” Neal hit the down button urgently five or seventy times.
“Kent!” Peter gasped.
“No, Peter, we don’t have time.”
“We can’t leave him here,” Peter said, grasping Neal's arms.
“You are dying, Peter!” Neal wanted to yell and scream, make him understand.
“Neal! Neal, we don’t leave anybody behind.” One look at Peter’s ashen yet determined face was all Neal needed. He ran to fetch the other man.
Minutes later, Neal walked slightly behind as the paramedics wheeled Peter and the other man out on stretchers. And then he heard the words he dreaded most. “His heart’s stopped!”
The paramedics stopped immediately and began to work on Peter. “Get the epinephrine! Are you loaded? Clear!”
Neal's own heart nearly stopped as they jammed a long needle into Peter’s chest, the needle itself making a sickening *thunk*sound as it pierced his body.
NO! he wanted to scream. NO!
“No!” Neal whimpered as he finally woke from the nightmare, heart hammering in his chest. What happened? What was that?
Someone had tried to kill his father, and he was there. He saved him, but he was almost too late.
He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest and breathed through his nose until he calmed. Jezzie got up off her bed next to his and laid a paw on him. “It’s OK, girl,” he assured her, wishing he could believe his own words.
----
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and Neal was up and ready to go to school before his parents even stirred.
“What’s this?” Elizabeth said, amazed to see him up so early - it was usually a struggle to get him out of bed.
“I dunno,” he said breezily, slurping at some orange juice while sitting at his customary perch at the kitchen island; he was reading the day’s paper. “Just up.”
In truth, he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after his nightmare. He’d been having more and more of them lately and they were strange and disturbing. They didn’t feel like normal dreams to him - they didn’t tend to jump all around like other dreams. It was as if he was playing a part in a movie that he had never seen before. So he had gotten out of bed and tiptoed down to the living room and cuddled up under his grandmother’s afghan, idly petting Jezzie’s head and waiting for his brain to quiet down enough to sleep, but of course it never did.
“You look pale - you OK?” Elizabeth asked.
Neal could never get anything past his mother. He shrugged. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much.”
“My poor darling,” she said, and kissed him on the head. “How about eggs for breakfast?”
She fixed them all breakfast, and Neal and his dad were out the door within the hour.
“So we got a letter from your school yesterday,” Peter said as he drove.
“Whatever I did, I have proof I didn’t do it, Dad.”
Peter laughed. “You didn’t do anything, buddy. It said how smart you are, which of course, we already knew, because you are the most brilliant kid on the planet.”
“Dad.”
“Well, it’s true. The letter also said they wanted to meet with me and your mom about you skipping a couple of grades at school.”
“Oh yeah?” Neal asked, hoping he sounded surprised enough.
“That something you’d be interested in?”
“Well, I don’t know. It would mean going to school with bigger kids next year, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. And you’ll probably need some tutoring over the summer, so you can catch up on the Math and Science classes.” Neal scrunched up his nose - he didn’t think he would like sacrificing his summer. “Not too much tutoring, probably,” Peter said, seeing his reaction. “You could still go to camp.”
“Do I have to decide now?”
“Nope, but soon probably. We’ve got a meeting with your principal and guidance counselor next week to talk it over. Do you want to come?”
“’K. Do I have to decide then?”
Peter smiled understandingly at him. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk it through, buddy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Let’s make that perfectly clear.”
He smiled back, relieved. “OK.” A minute later, they pulled up to the charter school Neal attended for gifted students.
“I’ll see you at your game later, OK?” Neal, like his dad when he was a kid, was the star pitcher of his Little League team.
“4:00 and don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Peter said, and reached over to ruffle the hair on his son’s head. “Go be extraordinary, kid.”
Neal rolled his eyes - his dorky dad always said that when he dropped him at school - but he secretly enjoyed it.
----
Neal and his best friend Teddy had their heads bent over Teddy’s new smartphone, checking out all the apps he’d downloaded, when a clearing throat at the front of their homeroom got their attention. Teddy quickly stowed the phone away - they were supposed to stay in kids’ lockers - and he and Neal regarded the newcomer at the front of the class with innocent expressions.
“Good morning, class, my name is Mr. Koehler. I’ll be substituting for Mr. Fricke, who has - had to take a leave of absence.”
Neal looked at the man with interest. He was of medium height, old - like, 40 - and had dark hair that he kept neatly combed back. His dark eyes were narrow, squinched up with pronounced laugh lines that didn’t make him seem very happy or funny, and he wore a suit with an open-necked shirt, which Neal thought was odd for a substitute teacher.
The class broke out in a low rumble of excitement - substitute teachers usually took it easy on them - but Mr. Koehler snapped his fingers at them diffidently.
“Now, class, don’t think you can take advantage of a naïve, new substitute teacher. I’ve been where you’re sitting, so I know all the moves.” The man gave off an air of control that was immediately picked up on by the class, who settled down immediately. He picked up the class roster. “Let’s take attendance, shall we?”
Homeroom passed with no other drama, and Neal stayed in his seat and pulled out his Algebra text when the bell rang - Mr. Fricke was his math teacher, and Algebra was his first period class. He felt rather than saw a presence standing over him and looked up at Mr. Koehler.
“Neal Burke,” he said. “I think I grew up with your father. Isn’t he from around here?”
“No, sir. He’s from upstate.”
“Ah, my mistake then. You just look so familiar to me.”
“I get that a lot,” Neal replied. He didn’t like the intense looks Mr. Koehler was giving him. The tension was broken as the other students began to arrive and take their seats.
----
That night, Neal had another nightmare.
He was in a big, fancy house, in a small room with shelves lining the walls, and on those shelves were boxes and boxes of comic books. Neal wished he could look inside the boxes - see some of the older issues of Justice Lad that were there - but suddenly, his dad was there, running toward him. Another man came up behind him suddenly, leveling a shot gun at them both.
Neal was scared, but he thought fast - he picked up the strange wooden box on the table, triggering the room’s security system and a bulletproof door dropped down just as the young man pulled the trigger. But then all the air in the room began to be sucked away and Neal couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and he was frantically trying to look for something - something important behind all the boxes. He thought he found it but he wasn’t sure - there was no air.
And he couldn’t breathe.
He banged on the wall to get his dad’s attention, but there was still no air. And the room was getting dark.
“Help!” Neal gasped in his sleep, kicking at the covers around his legs.
Elizabeth was alerted by the strange sounds coming from her son’s bedroom. “Honey?” She found him still sleeping, but clawing at the bedding, face contorted in agony. “Peter!” she yelled, running to Neal's bed and taking him into her arms.
“Peter! Help!” Neal gasped, and then he was awake.
“Neal?” El said.
“El, what is it?” said Peter, running into the room.
Neal was panicking, taking great, sobbing breaths as he clutched at his mother’s sweater. “I couldn't breathe. There was no air and I couldn’t breathe!”
“Shh, it’s ok, my love,” El soothed, rocking him. “You can breathe now. You’re safe.”
“There was no air,” he repeated. “And he had a shotgun.”
“Who had a shotgun?”
“Avery. He was gonna shoot Dad!”
Peter and Elizabeth froze as Neal said the words, traded looks. “What was that, Neal?” Peter asked.
Neal sat up and wiped his eyes with the heels of his right hand. “The man had a gun and he was going to shoot you.”
“Do you know why?”
“No,” he sniffled.
“Do you remember anything else from the dream?”
Neal shook his head - it was all fading away again - and El hugged him closer, rubbing his back with her hand. “It’s OK, honey, it was all a bad dream.” She held him until he fell asleep, then set him down, covered him up and kissed him on the forehead before leaving the room. She shut the door, but the knob didn’t catch, and soon the door swung open, hitting the back wall with a dull thud. The sound woke Neal and he lay in his bed, listening to his parents talk about him again.
”You heard that, Peter, it’s all coming back!”
“I heard him, El. But it’s only one thing.”
“For now! What next? Kate? The U-boat? This has to stop.” Neal could hear the heels of her bare feet pounding as she paced in their room.
“How are we going to stop it?”
“They said this wouldn’t happen. They said he wouldn’t remember, that a child’s mind couldn’t hold on to all of that, that his brain wasn’t fully developed.”
“They said he might not remember, hon. They were clearly wrong.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
“I wish I knew.”
----
“Be extraordinary, Neal,” Peter called through the open car window and Neal smiled, waved at him until the Taurus was all the way around the corner.
Neal thought it was best not to share his fears about his dreams with his mom and dad until he could sort out what they meant for himself. He suspected there must be something up - something his parents were keeping from him - but he also had faith they were doing it to protect him. Why else did they sound so worried?
He wasn’t sure what it all was, but he did think it had to do with his past. He knew he was adopted - maybe his birth parents were shady or otherwise dangerous. His dad was an FBI agent - maybe Neal's biological parents were in witness protection. Maybe his dreams had to do with something he’d witnessed as a baby. Maybe he was the protected witness.
A hundred possibilities whirled through his brain, and he was more subdued than usual all day at school. As he was leaving for the day, his route took him past a park adjacent to the school where old guys sometimes played chess. There were tables set up in the shade, and sometimes he and Uncle Mozzie would go there in the summertime and play, Neal sucking on a Polish ice as Moz taught him chess theory and stratagems. As he walked, he spotted Mr. Koehler seated at one of the tables, alone, moving pieces around the board, lost in thought.
“Hi, whatcha doing?” Neal asked, approaching the teacher. Despite a rocky start the other day, Mr. Koehler had proven to be a pretty good teacher, cracking jokes and driving his students to work hard at learning the material and applying it to real world examples, like money and race cars. Neal liked that he provided that kind of context, because he could relate better to it all.
“What does it look like?” Mr. Koehler said, but he wasn’t being rude; Neal felt like he was pressing him for an educated answer.
Neal stared at the board and wracked his brain. “Is that Fischer vs. Spassky?”
“Which one?”
Neal groaned. “First game - 1972?”
“Is that an answer or a guess?”
“An answer,” Neal said, his voice confident.
“Correct. I didn’t think kids cared much about chess these days.”
“My Uncle Mozzie started teaching me when I was little.”
“Your uncle huh? You play a lot?”
“When I have time.” Neal found himself drawn to the board - after a few years, he and Moz no longer challenged each other.
“Have a seat, set up the board,” Mr. Koehler said, sitting back and smiling kindly while Neal did it. “I see you’ve taken white.”
“I’m sorry - did you want it?”
“No, no. I should give you the benefit of the doubt - you’re just a kid after all.”
Neal smiled at him winningly and made his first move; he had Koehler in check within fifteen minutes, and checkmate five moves later. “You being easy on me, Mr. Koehler?”
Koehler laughed loudly. “I thought so, but I see the error in my assumptions. Rematch?”
“Sure!”
They played two more games; Neal won the second, and the last ended in a draw; then Neal had to be going. “If I’m not home in the next fifteen minutes, my mom’s gonna have a cow.”
“Your mom overprotective?”
“Only when she has to be. Thanks for the game, Mr. Koehler.”
“I’m not done with you yet, kid. I need a rematch.”
“Sure,” Neal said, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Awesome!” Neal ran off towards home.
----
A week later, Neal was sitting on the patio sketching for his Art class at school while Elizabeth prepared to grill some fajitas for dinner. “I’m home!” Peter called from the front of the house.
“Out here, hon!” she called.
He came through the door, Jezzie on his heels, and kissed his wife, then slipped a hand around Neal's shoulder and hugged him to him. “Whatcha drawing?”
“A painting I saw at the Channing during our field trip today,” he answered distractedly. “Wish I had some pastels.”
Peter glanced down at the sketch and Neal could feel his arm tense where he was holding him. “You saw that at the Channing?”
“Yeah. Young Girl with Locket by Haustenburg. I really like it - she’s pretty.”
“You’ve sure captured the essence of the painting,” Peter said, and Neal didn’t miss the gruffness that had entered his father’s voice. When he looked up at him, Neal caught the look he shared with Elizabeth, but looked down right away - he still didn’t want them to know that he suspected there was something going on.
“You know, they sure don’t hire the smartest people at that museum,” Neal said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Oh?”
“The tour guide said the subject in the painting was the painter’s sister, but I had to tell him it was really his daughter.”
“Really. And how did you know that?”
“Research, Dad. It’s a pretty famous painting, you know. Something wrong?” Neal noticed that his father was running his fingers through his hair, something he only did when he was mad or upset. Neal half turned in his seat, concerned.
“It’s nothing, Neal. Hard day at work, that’s all. Gosh, I could use a beer.” Peter retreated into the house, and Neal watched him walk over to the fridge, only instead of taking a beer, he grabbed the vodka bottle from the freezer and poured some into a glass.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Neal finally said. “You and Dad have been acting weird for a week now.”
Elizabeth looked at him, startled. “What makes you say that?”
“There have been a lot of whispered conversations. I’m not stupid you know.”
“No, honey, you are not stupid. If you must know, your father and I disagree on whether or not to allow you to skip those grades at school. I am against it, and he thinks it should happen.”
“I thought it was up to me?”
“It is, but can’t we have an opinion?” she snapped.
She walked into the house to fetch the chicken that was marinating in the refrigerator, and Neal watched her as well. When she approached Peter, he started to say something, but she said one word and glanced out at Neal. Now they were both looking at him, and as much as he usually thrived on being the center of attention, it now made him feel like he was an alien being dissected in a government lab. He didn’t like it. And it seemed that his mother had finally noticed.
Ducking her head, she returned to the patio and slipped an arm around his collarbone, leaning down and resting her cheek next to his. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Neal,” she said into his ear. “This is not about you, I want you to know that. Your old Mom is just having some issues with her baby growing up too fast.”
“Really?” he said. He didn’t like how small his voice sounded in his ears, didn’t like that this was upsetting him.
“Really. I love you so much, it hurts sometimes. I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry.” She kissed him on the ear and stood up, ruffling his hair fondly. Neal leaned into her caress and tried to feel better.
That night, he dreamt of planes exploding, and when he woke screaming, he told his dad it was because he’d played Zombie Apocalypse 3 before bed.
----
“You OK, Neal? That’s the second game in a row you’ve tanked.” Mr. Koehler reached out and squeezed his hand.
“Yeah. No. Sorry - it’s just stuff at home.”
“Your dad the FBI agent? Neal, he’s not… there’s not a problem there? Abuse?”
“No! No, nothing like that. God, no. Tell me you don’t think that, Mr. Koehler!”
“Relax, I don’t, but when you’re a teacher, they drill it into you to be on the lookout for these things. So, what is it, the usual pre-teen tribulations? Girl troubles? Somebody steal your bike?”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Koehler. it’s - well, it’s complicated.”
“Does it have anything to do with the fact you’re adopted?”
“No, I - wait a minute, how do you know that?”
“It’s in your school records.”
“No, it’s not.”
Mr. Koehler looked like he knew he was busted for a second. “You’re right, it’s not. Listen Neal, I haven’t been straight with you. When we met and I said I thought I knew your dad, it’s because I do. I mean, I did.”
Neal looked at Mr. Koehler suspiciously. “You’re not my bio dad, are you?” he asked quietly.
“No! For God’s sake, no. But I didn’t lie - I knew him. His name was Neal - just like you. Neal Caffrey, and you are the spitting image of him.”
“I am?”
Mr. Koehler nodded. “When I saw you I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
“So, he’s dead, then?” Neal asked, trying to hide his disappointment.
“I’m sorry, but yes.”
They sat in silence while Neal fingered his Queen-side knight. “How did you know him?”
“We came up together, he and I. You could say we were kindred spirits.”
“You were friends?”
“At one point.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
A pained look crossed Mr. Koehler’s face. “Well, let’s just say that Caffrey didn’t usually find himself on the right side of the law.”
“He - he was a criminal? Did he kill people?” Neal's head was reeling, and he could feel his ears get hot as they turned bright red
“No! No, he was what you might call a gentleman thief. Very slick. And unfortunately, it was ultimately the end of him. He finally stole from the wrong people.”
Neal looked down at his hands, tears burning his eyes. Darn it, he didn’t even know this man, why was he getting so upset? “Did - did you know my mom too?” he asked in a quiet voice. He couldn’t look up at Mr. Koehler.
“I did. Her name was Kate, and I’m sorry, but she’s dead too, Neal. She was in a plane that exploded. She was murdered.”
Neal's head snapped up and the tears brimming in his eyes fell as he looked sharply at Mr. Koehler. “What did you say?”
“She died in an explosion, right in front of your father. It was very tragic. He was sad for a long, long time. ”
“Mr. Koehler, I - I think I was there when my mother was killed,” Neal said, his eyes wide, scared. The tears were streaming down his face now, and he couldn’t control them.
“What? You would have been so little.”
“I was, I was. I’ve been having nightmares about it. I see it happening. I REMEMBER IT ALL!” Neal was hysterical now, shaking and crying, and Mr. Koehler got up and sat on the bench next to him and put an arm around him.
“It’s OK, kid.”
“No, it’s not! My mother died and I saw it happen!” Neal sobbed into his shoulder.
“Shh, come on, it’ll be OK,” Mr. Koehler said, patting him on the back. “It’s OK to remember everything,” he muttered.
But Neal couldn’t stop the huge, gulping sobs that stole his breath and energy. When he’d cried himself out, he felt worn down and sick, his head all stuffed and dizzy.
Mr. Koehler handed him a bottle of water. “Here, it’ll make you feel better.”
Neal took a few deep breaths and accepted the water. “Thanks.” He sat dejectedly on the bench, exhausted. Now he knew why his parents were lying to him, and it made his head swim. He suddenly felt hot all over. “I’ve got to go home,” he said and stood.
When he swayed on his feet, Mr. Koehler steadied him with a hand on his arm. “You all right, Neal? You want a ride home?”
“No, it’s not far. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go!” He grabbed his backpack and hurried away.
By the time he walked the eight blocks home, the fuzziness in his head and the queasiness in his stomach had firmly taken hold, and he headed immediately up to his room once he got inside the door.
“Neal?” His mom stood in the door, her brow furrowed as she saw him sprawled on his stomach in bed. “You feeling OK?” She sat beside him on the bed and petted his hair.
“No,” he said miserably.
“Belly or head?”
“Both.”
She pushed his hair back from his forehead and felt it with the back of her hand. “Feels like you’ve got a temperature.” She tugged his sneakers off his feet and stood. “Get your jammies on, I’ll be right back.” She returned with water and Tylenol and made him swallow the pills and get under the covers. “Try and get some sleep, all right?”
He nodded, then remembered something. “But the meeting with the guidance counselor is tonight.”
“We’ll reschedule. Get some rest.”
He slept all afternoon and through dinner, and when he woke at midnight he felt mostly OK, if a little shaky. He got out of bed and went to his desk, switched on the computer and started researching as much as he could about a man named Neal Caffrey.
----
“I looked up my bio dad’s name online,” he said to Mr. Koehler over their chess game two days later, when he was back at school.
“And?”
“It was all there - he was a criminal. And he went to jail.”
“Anything else?”
Neal looked at him quizzically.
“Did you know it was your father the FBI agent who caught Caffrey - sent him to jail?”
“What? That’s impossible.”
“It’s true. Your parents adopted the child of an ex-con.”
“But why? Did they know him? Did my dad have something to do with - with Neal Caffrey’s death?” Neal was suddenly angry, and felt like a fool for not having seen it before. The reasons for his parents’ lies were becoming more and more clear; what wasn’t clear was why they’d keep this from him.
“Hey, now, wait a minute, wait just a minute,” Mr. Koehler said, putting a steadying hand on Neal's shoulder. “Don’t be angry with your father, you can’t know his motivations. He and your mother must love you very much.”
But Neal wasn’t hearing his words, all he could think was that he needed to know. He needed to know why his parents would take in the child of a criminal that his father had sent to jail. His mind could not fathom a single, possible motivation or reason for it.
Neal went home, pretended he had a lot of homework and kept to his room all afternoon, pausing only to eat dinner. He went to bed as usual, though tonight there were no whispered conversations about him coming from his parents’ room, which was just as well, because he didn’t think he could take any more revelations.
He lay in his bed wondering about his biological father, and what his life would have been like if Neal Caffrey hadn’t died. Would he have followed in his footsteps? Would he have taught him how to lie, cheat, steal? He didn’t think he would like that, but he wondered if he’d have any choice. He wondered if he had any choice now - would he turn out to be just like his father anyway? Was it his destiny - would he grow up to be a criminal? Didn’t they always say the apple never fell far from the tree?
His mind flashed on an image of his mother’s disappointed face, and he was looking at her from behind bars, and it made him want to cry. He flipped over onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head, trying to banish such thoughts. But he couldn’t, and he tossed and turned the whole night, convinced he was destined to repeat the crimes of his biological father.
In the morning, he got up, ate his cereal and rode to school with Peter like every other day. “Be extraordinary,” his dad called after him, and he couldn't suppress a flinch at those words - did he really feel them? Was his father really so proud of him? Or did he just feel sorry for him - son of a low-rent criminal that he was.
He watched his dad drive away and when he was sure he was completely out of sight, Neal doubled back and walked towards home. He wanted more answers about his past, and he knew where to find them.
His mother had a client meeting in the city that day - she had left before Neal had even gotten out of bed, and wouldn’t be back for hours. He used his key to get into the house, disengaged the alarm and patted Jezzie on the head when she came to greet him. But there was no time for play - he needed to find the information he was looking for.
Neal knew that his father kept all the family’s important papers in the wall safe in his bedroom. He found the key easily enough - it was in the junk drawer in the kitchen and he’d seen his mom put it there before. What he didn’t know was the combination. He trotted up the stairs and into his parents’ bedroom.
He paused just inside the door, taking in the familiar decoration of the room - how many nights had he spent lying between them when he was little, convinced there were monsters under his bed? Somehow, doing this felt wrong, like a betrayal, but his need to know was stronger - strong enough to push whatever guilt he felt at being dishonest out of his mind.
He dragged the seat from his mother’s vanity over to the mantle and began to clear the photos and other knickknacks away so that he could work on the safe. He paused when he picked up the picture of him and his father fishing at Lake Placid two summers ago. They were both laughing at something his mom had just said before snapping the picture. His dad was wearing the goofy fishing hat with all the lures on it that he’d picked up at some outdoor store in Manhattan, and his mom had called him a Great Outdoorsman. But the fish they’d caught was delicious, even if no one could figure out how to get all the bones out. Neal had fallen asleep that night with his head in his dad’s lap, and his feet in his mom’s and had never felt safer in his entire life. He shook his head and set the photo aside - he couldn’t think about that now - he had a mission.
He tried a few different combinations before one worked - his birthday, and he decided to think about that later as well. Inside, he found passports old and new, insurance policies, bonds, stock certificates. At the bottom of the pile, in a thick manila envelope labeled “Neal” in his mother’s handwriting, he found what he was looking for.
He jumped down from the seat and went to his own room to inspect what was inside. On top were his adoption papers, with a bunch of stuff about home studies and petitions to the court that looked really boring. He kind of expected to see that, so he set it aside. Under that, he found two birth certificates stapled together - on top was one that listed Peter and Elizabeth Burke as his parents. Below that was what he assumed was his original birth certificate, which he also perused carefully. What he saw didn’t make sense.
On the original it said:
This is to certify that a birth certificate has been issued for
Neal George Caffrey
Born on: October 11, 1980 in New York, New York
Father: George Brian Caffrey
Mother: Jane O’Neal Caffrey
“I thought my father’s name was Neal too,” he said aloud shaking his head, then his eyes zeroed in on the birthdate. “1980?” The other certificate, for Neal George Burke, stated that his birth date was October 11, 2009. “What the heck is going on?”
The final thing that was in the envelope was an extremely thick sheaf of papers that had a lot of big legal words and motions and stuff Neal didn’t understand. At the bottom of it was a decree signed by the governor of the state of New York that seemed to reclassify one Neal George Caffrey as a “minor adult” and resetting his birth year to 2009.
Neal stared at this document for a long, long time, his mind reeling, his fingers ghosting over the governor’s signature, the raised seal where it was notarized. None of it made sense, none of it. But he thought he knew where he could find the answers he needed.
----
“I thought you said you knew my father,” Neal said to Mr. Koehler. It was lunch period, and the substitute usually ate alone in his classroom.
“Hello, Neal.”
Neal walked into the classroom and stood beside the desk at the front of the room. “I thought you said you knew my father,” he repeated. “This says his name was George.”
Mr. Koehler picked up the birth certificate Neal slipped across the desk and studied it for a moment. “It also says that Neal Caffrey was born in 1980,” he pointed out quietly.
“Why? Why does it say that? Who is Neal Caffrey?”
Koehler looked up at Neal and into his eyes. “I think you know the answer to that already.”
“No.” Neal shook his head emphatically, but Mr. Koehler continued to regard him soberly. “It’s impossible.”
“And yet you hold the proof of it in your hands. You are Neal Caffrey.”
“I’m not, I’m just a kid.”
“You’re Neal Caffrey.”
“Neal Caffrey should be like, 40. I just turned 11.”
“I’m not saying I understand why it happened, but it’s a fact. You know it is.”
“I’m a dirty thief who conned people out of their money and art? I am?” Neal asked incredulously.
Mr. Koehler nodded gravely. “I’m sorry, Neal, I really am, but it appears to be true.”
There were tears in Neal's eyes suddenly. “No. Nononononono.”
“Your parents have been lying to you.”
“I need to go,” Neal said, his voice hitching. He gathered up the papers he’d brought, shoved them into his backpack and headed for the door.
“Neal!” Koehler called out to him, but he began to run - he had to get away.
----
Neal sat in a tire swing in the school’s playground. He had his original birth certificate in his right hand, his left arm hugged the chains of the swing, and he was spinning around on a tight axis maintained by the toe of his sneaker in the sand. He heard Mr. Koehler sit in the swing right next to him, but he didn’t look up. He just kept spinning.
“I’m sorry, kid, I am.”
“You didn’t do anything.” Neal was angry - angrier than he’d ever been in his whole life, but he couldn’t be mad at Mr. Koehler, who had nothing to do with it. So he tried to keep his voice calm.
“You know what I mean. This is a tough thing to take, and I’m sorry.”
“Did you know all along? Who I was? What I was?”
“Not until I saw you. No one looks that much like a parent, no matter what people say. I knew who you were the minute I walked into that classroom. I knew you were my old friend, who’d disappeared so long ago.”
“Your friend the thief and liar. That’s what I am,” Neal said bitterly and stared up into the sky, trying to keep the angry tears at bay. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“I wish I could tell you. Help you. But you should talk to your mom and dad, see what they have to say - ”
“I won’t! I won’t talk to them!” Neal said vehemently, looking Mr. Koehler in the eyes. “They lied to me. Built my whole life on a lie - how can I go back there?”
“So what, you’re just going to run away? Don’t you think they’ll be worried about you? They love you.”
“I don’t care,” Neal said viciously, his brows knit together in anger.
“Well, you can’t just run away, it’s not safe.”
“I’ll go to the city - lots of places for a kid to disappear in Manhattan.”
“Lots of places for a kid to get killed. I won’t let you do that, Neal.”
“You can’t stop me!”
“But I can help you.”
“What?”
“Come to the city with me. You can stay at my place until you can figure things out. At least you’ll be safe.”
“You - you’d do that for me?”
“Hey - I’ll be doing an old friend a favor, won’t I?” He stood and held a hand out to Neal, who jumped down from the swing and picked up his backpack. Koehler put a hand on the back of his neck and smiled. “It’ll be just like old times.”
END PART 1
Part 2