Page 40 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
I wince at how casually he said that, my fingers hesitating on my iPhone screen before completing the flashcards.
Mother’s occupation? Junkie.
Father’s occupation? Pimp.
Asher stops talking and pulls out a slip of paper from the back of his binder. He places it in front of me. It’s a nondisclosure agreement.
I skim through it, as he says, “You need to sign this before I continue.”
I nod and sign it after reading the whole thing. It’s pretty straight forward. I don’t have to give up the blood of my firstborn or anything… but under no circumstances can I disclose anything about my time with Asher in relation to the fake nature of the relationship. I am also not allowed to discuss any sensitive information regarding Asher or his businesses with anyone other than him or any other relevant, involved parties. Basically, I need to use some common sense when talking to people about Asher.
After I hand the signed NDA back to him, I begin my turn:
“My name is Lucy Ives.” Currently true, previously false.
“I don’t have a middle name.” False.
“I also don’t really know much about my biological parents.” False.
“I don’t know where I was born either.” False.
“Someone dropped me off at a fire station.” Truth.
“And social services came to pick me up.” Truth.
“As for my foster parents, there have been way too many to count.” Truth.
“I’ve had a lot of foster siblings, too, but I was never close to any of them.” Truth.
“I never stayed anywhere for more than a few months anyways.” False.
“Should I name all of my foster dads, moms, sisters and brothers? I really don’t want to.” Biggest Truth I’ve told yet.
I don’t want to open up the Pandora’s Box that is Steve and my name and, most embarrassingly, the way I ran away from my problems rather than facing them. It’s also disconcerting how much of my life is a lie. Asher may have a dubious background, but so do I. I have no right to be alarmed by him when my history has just as much gray matter as his.
There’s a contemplative look on Asher’s face before he shakes his head. “If it comes up, I’ll just say that you bounced from foster home to foster home, never staying anywhere longer than a few months.”
&n
bsp; I nod, hiding my relief behind a trite smile. I’m happy to be done with my round of lies. Honestly, I’m wondering why I didn’t go into politics. With all the lies I’m used to telling, I think I would be pretty good at it. Politifact would probably give me a pants on fire rating on their Truth-O-Meter™, but that seems to propel careers rather than damage them.
I’m picturing myself in a stuffy pantsuit, speaking at dozens of campaign rallies, when Asher gestures for me to continue. I do, endeavoring to be as truthful as possible from here on out. Because, honestly, who am I kidding? I can’t pull off a pantsuit, I’m afraid of public speaking, and I usually fall asleep within the first few minutes of a lecture, let alone hours of congressional hearings. The only political trait I possess is a thoroughly sculpted affinity for telling lies.
“The foster homes were in the High Desert of California, above the Inland Empire. It’s a pretty poor area with a high crime rate and ridiculously high temperatures.” I wince. “You can probably guess what type of place that was.”
Not all of it was bad, but it certainly wasn’t safe or fun. It’s the meth lab of the nation. From what I remember, there are a lot of trailer homes there that house meth labs. It wasn’t unusual for a home to suddenly go up in flames, and when that would happen, everyone knew what type of home that was.
At Asher’s silence, I continue, figuring it’s safe to mention my social worker, “My social worker’s name is Mary Peters. She was my social worker from the time I entered the system to the time I aged out. She’s good people. She’s probably the closest thing to a parental figure I’ve ever had, but even then, we’re not really close. I haven’t talked to her since the day I aged out.”
I really should talk to Mary, but I’m too ashamed of myself. I ran, even though she’d advised me not to jeopardize my future like that. She told me we could do something about Steve, but I didn’t believe her. I still don’t, but I do feel bad about losing touch with her. She went above and beyond for me. There’s no denying that.
As we continue, I’m relieved and amazed to see there’s no judgment in Asher’s face. He just nods and internalizes the information I give him, easily memorizing it with that savant brain of his. Me? I have over a thousand flashcards by the time we’re done with the questionnaire. I now know way more than I ever expected to know about Asher.
I have flashcards full of mundane stuff, like:
Name? Asher Aaron Black.
Favorite color? Black.
