Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“Michigan,” she quietly whispers.

“Excuse me?”

“You said, they don’t have mountains where you’re from . Well, that’s where I’m from.”

“Michigan?”

“Michigan.”

“Detroit?”

“Birmingham.”

I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel as another bug splats against the windshield.

“That still doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Viv adds.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Up ahead, the walls of the cliff disappear as we leave the canyon behind. I hit the gas, and the engine grumbles toward the straightaway. Like before, there’s nothing on our right or left — not even a guardrail. Out here, you have to know where you’re going. Though it still always starts with that crucial first step.

“So do you like Birmingham?” I ask.

“It’s high school,” she replies, making me feel every year of my age.

“We used to go up for basketball games in Ann Arbor,” I tell her.

“Really? So you know Birmingham… you’ve been there?” There’s a slight hesitation at the back of her voice. Like she’s looking for an answer.

“Just once,” I say. “A guy in our fraternity let us crash at his parents’.”

She looks out her window at the side mirror. The canyon’s long gone — lost in the black horizon.

“Y’know, I lied,” she says, her tone flat and lifeless.

“Pardon?”

“I lied…” she repeats, her eyes still on the side mirror. “What I said up in the storage room — about being one of only two black girls in the school…?”

“What’re you taking about?”

“I know I shouldn’t have… it’s stupid…”

“What-”

“I said there were two, but there’re actually fourteen of us. Fourteen black kids. Swear to God. I guess… yeah… fourteen.”

“Fourteen?”

“I’m sorry, Harris… I just wanted to convince you I could handle myself… Don’t be mad…”

“Viv…”

“I thought you’d think I was strong and tough and-”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt.

She finally turns toward me. “Wha?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reiterate. “I mean, fourteen… out of how many? Four hundred? Five hundred?”

“Six hundred and fifty. Maybe six-sixty.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Two… twelve… fourteen… You’re still pretty outnumbered.”

The smallest of smiles creeps up her cheeks. She likes that one. But the way her hands once again grip the seat belt across her chest, it’s clearly still an issue for her.

“It’s okay to smile,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “That’s what my mom always says. Right after rinse and spit .”

“Your Mom’s a dentist?”

“No, she’s a…” Viv pauses and offers a slight shrug. “… she’s a dental hygienist.”

And right there I spot it. That’s where her hesitation comes from. It’s not that she’s not proud of her mom… but she knows what it feels like to be the one kid who’s different.

Again, I don’t remember much from when I was seventeen, but I do know what it’s like to have Career Day at school when you secretly hope your dad’s not invited. And in the world of Ivy League Washington, I also know what it’s like to feel second-class.

“Y’know, my dad was a barber,” I offer.

She shyly glances my way, rechecking me up and down. “You serious? Really?”

“Really,” I say. “Cut all my friends’ hair for seven bucks apiece. Even the bad bowl cuts.”

Turning toward me, she gives me an even bigger grin.

“Just so you know, I’m not embarrassed of my parents,” she insists.

“I never thought you were.”

“The thing is… they wanted so bad to get me in the school district, but the only way to afford it was by buying this tiny little house that’s literally the last one on the district line. Right on the line. Y’know what that’s like? I mean, when that’s your starting point…”

“… you can’t help but feel like the last man in the race,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Believe me, Viv, I still remember why I first came to the Hill. I spent my first few years trying to right every wrong that was done to my parents. But sometimes you have to realize that some fights are unwinnable.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t fight them,” she challenges.

“You’re right — and that’s a great quote for all the Winston Churchill fans out there — but when the sun sets at the end of the day, you can’t win ’em…”

“ You can’t win ’em all ? Nuh-uh, you really think that?” she asks with complete sincerity. “I figured that was just in bad movies and… I don’t know… people say the government is faceless and, y’know, broken, but even if you’re here a long time… like when I saw you… that speech… You really think that?”

I grip the steering wheel as if it were a shield, but it doesn’t stop her question from stabbing through my chest. Next to me, Viv waits for her answer — and single-handedly reminds me what I’d forgotten long ago. Sometimes you need a slap in the face to realize what’s coming out of your mouth.

“No…” I finally say. “That’s not what I’m saying at all…”

Viv nods, content that everything’s right in at least that part of her world.

“But let me tell you something,” I quickly add. “There’s something else that goes along with feeling like you’re last in the race — and it’s not a bad thing. Being last means you’ve got a hunger in your gut no one else’ll ever be able to comprehend. They couldn’t buy it with all their money. And know what that hunger gives you?”

“Besides my big butt?”

“Success, Viv. No matter where you go, or what you do. Hunger feeds success.”

We sit in silence for a full minute as my words fade beneath the hum of the engine. She lets the quiet sink in — and this time, I think she’s doing it on purpose.

Staring out the front window, Viv studies the long, angled road in front of us and, to her credit, never lets me know what she’s thinking. She’s gonna be a ruthless negotiator one day.

“How much further till we get there?” she finally asks.

“Fifteen miles until we hit Deadwood… then this town called Pluma… then it’s at least a good hour or so after that. Why?”

“No reason,” she says, pulling her legs up so she’s sitting Indian-style in the passenger seat. With her pointer and middle fingers, she opens and closes an imaginary pair of finger-scissors. “I just wanna know how much time we have for you to tell me about your barber shop.”

“If you want, I bet we can grab a bite to eat in Deadwood. Even out here, they can’t mess up grilled cheese.”

“See, now we got something,” Viv says. “Grilled cheese in Deadwood sounds great.”

Janos’s trip took two different planes, one stopover, and a three-hour leg with a petite Asian woman whose lifelong dream was to open a soul food restaurant that served fried shrimp. Yet he still hadn’t reached his final destination.

“Minneapolis?” Sauls asked through the cell phone. “What’re you doing in Minneapolis?”

“I heard they have a great Foot Locker at the Mall of America,” Janos growled, pulling his bag from the conveyor belt. “Getting stuck in the airport just wasn’t enough fun for one night.”

“What about the jet?”

“They couldn’t turn it around fast enough. I called every place on the list. Any other wonderful suggestions?”

“And now they canceled your flight?”

“Never was one — I figured I’d find another connection to Rapid City, but let’s just say South Dakota isn’t the top priority on the airlines’ flight plans.”