Invincible

A letter is something to get excited about, no matter what it says. They always deliver news; good, bad, or neither. A lot of important news is delivered through letters like college acceptances, monetary awards, family deaths, legal documents, and so on. I have never received a letter. The first one I ever got was not even sent to me, not that there’s an address to send it to anyway. No, I win one off of someone. I know, I know. Winning a letter. It doesn’t sound too rewarding, but this one was. People don’t send letters anymore...unless it’s imperative it’s kept a secret. Too risky for email, too unbelievable for a phone call. That’s what this letter was; that’s what the people who received them in the mail thought when they opened theirs. Young adults off at Ivy League schools in the top programs in the country saw it as a challenge worth the triumph, soldiers in the army thrilled at the idea of an adventure, and the special ones were just happy their talents were recognized. Not me. I read the letter and knew what it really was; a chance.

Friday night is always spent playing cards. Ever since I turned eighteen a little over three years ago, I never miss the appointment once a week. Besides the fact that I find it enjoyable, I need the money. All of us from the shelters do. I have bounced around from homeless shelter to shelter all over Chicago since I was a kid, and never once have I met one of us who could hold down a job. Getting one is hard, but keeping it is even harder. No home, no family, nothing to do the first few weeks you save up; the whole situation creates a lack of motivation. Even the toughest of us get put down.Anyway, everyone in the shelters turns to surviving, stealing and pawning, selling drugs, or gambling. I survived for six years. Now that I’m of age, I use one of the many skills I’ve picked up to make it easier.

Alex lets us play in the back of his bar. He always liked me and a few of the others, and it’s a good spot because he gets a lot of white collar customers who feel like they can take on the city’s “dirtier” bunch (their term not mine). It works in my favor a lot, so I take it.

It’s a normal night, for the most part. Alex rounds up some guys and a girl for the game. I sit at a booth in the back, snacking on some pretzels he offered me with no money for a drink, only enough to play without losing. I’m just waiting, like usual, and that’s when Bobby Sheppard walked into my life. That’s when everything changed, and I didn’t know it then but I would soon enough. Just by looking at him I knew something was on his mind, something was stressing him out. He trudged in with a wild look in his Irish green eyes and his gelled dirty blonde hair was out of place as if his hands hand been running through it. His body immediately goes to the bar where Alex serves him a drink, the guy not looking much older than me. I watch him, try to figure the guy out as he drinks and keeps tapping his suit jacket pocket as if to check if something is in it. It makes me curious, but not enough to go join him and make small talk. Guys in a bar either respond with disgust or complete lust to me, two things I don’t need.

A familiar face from the neighborhood slides into my booth comfortably, a little too comfortably for my taste. Jim is an acquaintance, not too friendly but not too rough either. His short, dark red hair and beard with his flannel shirt makes him look like a nice lumberjack, but his company says otherwise. Jim hangs out with Calhoun Cortese, a dangerous drug dealer from the streets. Cal and I never get along, so I’m always wary of his henchman. Jim never bugs me much, though.

Jim eyes the crowd and receives a knowing nod from Alex. “We’re heading to the back. Coming?” I don’t say a word, just respond by moving out of the booth putting my poker face on right away.

Jim, some guys, a girl, and I walk past the bar to the back. When we pass, the guy who came in looks up at us. “Where are they going?” He asks out loud.

Alex replies “Black and red tiles in the back.” Code for the game. Cops don’t care too much, but Alex has to try to be discreet about it.

The guy downs his shot, slams it on the wooden bar counter, and stands up in an uncoordinated fashion. “I’ll come.”

One of the guys eyes him suspiciously. “Do you have money for it?”

He pulls out a wad of cash. “This enough for ya?”

Jim grins and shakes the guy’s hand. “Let’s play.”

Our group enters the back room and takes a seat at the card table. Jim shuts the door behind us, sitting a few people down from me. I’m between two of the guys with the late joiner right across from me. Jim deals. The first few rounds go by pretty quick. The guy on my right is terrible, laying money down like there’s no tomorrow but loses every time and finally calls it quits when he completely runs out of chips. The girl next to Jim is fine but has an obvious tell, touching her eyebrow. Jim, the late comer, and me get her every time until she quits. The other two guys are okay, making it ten rounds until it’s only Jim, the guy from the bar, and me left. Then things get interesting. The others all leave, not curious to see how the game turns out. I’m doing pretty well tonight so I let myself hope; some money could get me a warm meal and a good night’s sleep.

Jim slides the deck to me. “Your deal, Taylor.”

I take it, shuffling smoothly as I pretend not to watch the other guy. He catches me. He smiles; I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t dashing. And for someone stressing about something, he can hold himself in a card game. “Taylor, that’s a nice name.”

“We aren’t much for conversation, buddy.” Jim warns him, but I let it go.

He ignores him. “You look like a nice girl.” He’s not exactly flirting, just making small talk. He doesn’t seem nervous or confident, just happy to still be playing. Jim will destroy him, and I’ll take what’s left.

I keep shuffling. “Hmm, I bet I’m not as nice as the girls you’re usually with.”

He chuckles, smoothing back his disheveled hair. “You’re probably right, but that’s not a bad thing.” He stares at me for a minute, seeming to think something over. I hold his eye contact, not backing down from whatever game he’s playing. Then, he simply responds with “I like you.”

Not sure what to say, Jim saves me. “Quit talking and deal.” I do.

For someone who is usually good at reading people, I misread the guy. He kills Jim, completely annihilates him. I suspect he threw Jim off with our chit chat, and that’s just fine by me. Pissed as hell, Jim kicks the empty chair next to him and curses. The guy ignores him, shuffling and smiling at me once again. “I’m Bobby.” He keeps shuffling. “I’m not supposed to be here, you know. I’m supposed to be out celebrating but....I don’t know. I ended up here. What’s that tell you?” Once again at a loss for words, I simply nod. Bobby seems a little odd in addition to stressed, but still pretty calm for whatever’s bugging him. It pisses Jim off even more, but he doesn’t leave. He takes a seat by the door, watching us.

Bobby deals, and we start our round. I get a pretty good hand so I place my bet. Bobby throws the last of his money in. I win the round, and the game since he’s out of cash. But for a nicely dressed guy, he might have something else to throw in. I take the cards and cast him a questioning look. “Good game, unless you want to keep going?” I place some money on the table.

He checks his pockets, and when he hits that specific one, his whole body freezes. Bobby’s hand slides inside and he swallows hard. I’m about to take my money and tell him good game again, but he pulls out an opened envelope. Bobby throws it in the pile of money. “Deal.”

I raise a brown eyebrow at him. “More money?” I deal the cards and place the deck on the table between us.

Bobby gives me a smile that seems to make his green eyes sparkle. “Something even better.”

“Only money or obvious valuables, douche-!” Jim screeches at him meanly.

I shut him up. “It’s fine, Jim. I’ll play.” I only bet five dollars anyway; I bet his envelope is worth the same or less. Whatever.

We play, and when all the cards get flipped over, I beat Bobby by one point. “Damn, Taylor. You’re good tonight.” Jim says from his spot across the room.

I take the money and envelope from the middle. “Good game, Bobby. It was a close one.”

“Yeah,” he shakes his head to himself, “and I’ve never been good at cards.” Then why did he play? If you know you’re gonna lose... I shrug it off, placing the money in my jeans pocket and taking the envelope, ready to find out what he dumped on me. “Not here.” Bobby mutters, deliberately keeping his voice down. He stands up, his Irish eyes on Jim in the corner. “Let me buy you a drink.”

I stand with him, sliding the envelope into my waistband with a cynical look. “With the money you just lost?”

His answering smile warms me. “Alexi knows my dad. It’s fine. Let’s talk.” Bobby lets me lead us back to the front, Jim’s eyes following my every move. I don’t forget for a second who he really watches out for; Cal. My every move and everything I say will be reported back tonight so nothing sketchy or suspicious can happen. Cal will come asking if he thinks I get more than just money from a card game.

I take a seat at the bar and Bobby joins me, adjusting his nice pants when he sits on the stool. Alex approaches, his eyes cautious when he sees me voluntarily sit next to a guy. I never sit with or talk to guys at the bar. “Everything okay, Taylor?” He might know Bobby’s father, but Alex has always liked me.

I smile and nod to the bar owner. “It’s fine, Alex. A shot of whiskey.”

Bobby whistles in admiration. “Whoa, a girl who can handle her liquor. I like that.” He looks to Alex. “I’ll take a tequila sunrise.” Alex places the two drinks on the table and Bobby nods. “Just put it on my tab, Alex.” The bar tender nods and goes to the other end of the counter, helping someone else.

Bobby takes a sip of his drink, I take my shot. I’ve only been of age for a few months, but I’ve tasted alcohol over the years. I’ve always been partial to the harder stuff. No shocker. I have a lot to swallow as it is, and no money to get buzzed on girly drinks. He turns towards me, clearing his throat. “That letter...open it when you’re alone. And I can tell you’re smart, but be careful with who you trust with that. Power does crazy things to people...” He takes another drink, mumbling to himself.

Power? What now? “Excuse me?” I ask.

“The letter. It’s in the envelope I gave you. I know what you’re thinking. You scored big with the money tonight, but you’re wrong. Money buys you time, that envelope...it’s gonna give you so much more, Taylor. Don’t underestimate it. Don’t be like the others.” Bobby shakes his head, his eyes going a little dark as he talks.

I’m so confused. What letter? What does it say? Others? “Bobby, I have no idea what we’re talk-.”

He takes another long sip and wipes his lip on his suit jacket. “Just listen to me. When you read the letter, see it for what it is. An opportunity, okay? A chance at a life you didn’t know you were hoping for, a ticket to go places you never let yourself dream of going, power everyone wants.”

I pick up on the sadness of his tone. Bobby doesn’t want the letter, he didn’t bet on it; he gave it up. “Everyone except you?”

His fingers tap the side of his cool glass. “I know who I am and who I’m not. People like me, so they look up to me. That’s not what they need. They need someone strong, someone smart, someone they can teach. People who see me think I fit that profile, but if you know me...I’m just not built for it.”

“And I am?” God, I have to read this letter. What is he talking about? What opportunity? What chance?

Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know you, but you seem to handle yourself well. Read the letter and make your choice. Just...if you make the right one, leave me out of it, okay? If they ask, you don’t know Bobby Sheppard.”

“Okay, why so secretive?” This seems sketchy as fuck...

“I just want to get back to my life and if my name’s floating around the press, it’ll be hard to do.” Translation: I want to get back to my home, my job, my family, my life. It sounds nice. Bobby downs the rest of his drink. “Good luck, Taylor. I hope you make the right choice. And watch your tail.”

I throw a casual eye over my shoulder, catching Jim look away. He no doubt was trying to eavesdrop, and based on how much he heard, I could be in trouble. If he believes a word Bobby said, he’ll tell Cal. If this letter is somewhat valuable, I’m dead. “Uh, okay. Thanks-.” I turn but Bobby’s gone. Just like that he whisked into the bar and now whisked out.

With Jim lingering, I decide it’s time to go. I leisurely make my way outside into the cool January wind, the sky already dark. Car horns blare, the L train’s brakes squeal, and the sounds of the city fill the air. I would take my time and enjoy the walk with money in my pocket, but I also have a secret letter shoved in there. And I’ve learned you can never enjoy a walk with money on you.

I take my time getting down the block to the closest corner, knowing Jim will be behind me. As soon as I turn the corner, I take off. If I disappear, he’ll let me go. If he chases me, I can lose him but Cal will be coming with backup. It’s how he keeps us “street kids” in line he says. Ever since we were young, Cal assumed the position as leader over me and some of the other runaways, always manipulating, controlling, and exploiting. I have been one of the few to stay out of his grasp. I run down the first alley and turn again at the first opening out. It takes me to the back side of the block on the other side of the bar. After ducking into a dark doorway for a few minutes, I’m sure the coast is clear.

Bobby insisted I need privacy to read this letter, but I’m sure he wasn’t aware of my extreme lack of privacy. I haven’t lived anywhere since I was twelve and I am currently living between a shelter and with my friend and her boyfriend who I’m not a fan of. So I settle for the first diner I pass. Spending some of the money on food was the original plan and I stick to it, ordering some breakfast for dinner and a large orange juice and water. When the waitress leaves me to it, I pull out the envelope.

On the surface, the envelope looks normal and white, but then I catch the official looking stamp in the corner. Advanced Human Association. That looks important. Never heard of them, but then again I don’t hear about a lot. The seal is already broken, so I slip out the letter. It’s only one page for something so important.

Dear recruit,

Congratulations! Due to presentation of a certain valuable skill, talent, and/or ability, you have been selected to be considered for admission into our new program. This program is the training and deployment of a private, specialized militant unit that will carry out different types of missions all over the world. You will be trained extensively and paid handsomely for the job. There will be multiple classes of specialty in this unit and a hierarchy of command that will all be explained further upon your acceptance. Housing and meals will be provided as well as further education opportunities for those interested. For further consideration or information, please show up for your trial of admittance at Navy Pier tomorrow at noon sharp. Wear the button clipped to the bottom of this paper so it is visible to the employees. We understand this letter is very vague but this is necessary due to the sensitivity and secrecy of this program. Everything will be explained upon admittance. We hope you do consider to join us here at the AHA.

Sincerely,

Advanced Human Association

P.S. Position being considered for: General

I read the letter three times before I fully comprehend what this is: a job offer. Or a life offer as I see it. This company is offering Bobby Sheppard a job, a home, a salary, a life...and he turned it down. Now he gave it to me. My whole body breathes a sigh of relief at the realization, no matter what the costs. Sure, I have never ever considered being part of a private military before, but I learned long ago you don’t think about opportunities; you take them. Besides, how hard could it be? They’re going to train me so I’ll learn everything I need to know. That’s something that’s always came easy to me. Learning. I am one of the only runaway kids I know who graduated high school on time with a diploma. No matter where I was, where I was staying, or what school I was currently enrolled in, I got through school. I kind of liked high school; I liked reading, learning new things, taking tests, and doing homework. Learning, figuring out problems, and finding answers has always been the easier part for me. I struggled with the social part. It’s hard to make friends, talk about normal stuff, and just be a teenager when all the other kids around you go home every day to a normal life when you’re just trying to survive yours. I was never really worried about it, about not ever having a best friend, a boyfriend, or going out for a normal night on the town because it never concerned me. Now it might. If I have to get a real job with other normal people...I’ll have to blend in.

Once again, I reread the letter. What about this made Bobby turn it down? What about it made him so sure he couldn’t handle this? I catch the little bolded piece at the bottom.

P.S. Position being considered for: General

Well, that could complicate things. So this isn’t just a job. This isn’t just something I can show up to, learn about, and do while other people are telling me what to do. I’ll be doing that. Telling people what to do would be my job. How can I do that? My whole life I’ve only taken care of myself, even before I was on my own I was alone. How am I going to take care of others? If I’m on a mission, I’ll be in charge. How can I do that? This is what scared Bobby off; the responsibility, the pressure. I don’t know how to be in charge, what’s his excuse?

I shake my head, clearing the thoughts away. Okay, how bad could it be? Tomorrow’s just a trial of admittance, I can go and see if I even get in. They might take one look at me and know I’m not right for the job. Then the panic sets in. They’ll take one look at me and decide I’m not right for the job. Holy fuck, this is a job, a life, something I’ve never had. This is the chance to get out of the life, off the streets. I can imagine it; no more shelters, no more carrying everything I own in a backpack, no more gambling, no more favors for food, no more pain. They want me to be the General? Call me General.

I rush through dinner, something I never do, to get to my friend’s boyfriend’s place. I’ve been sleeping on their couch off and on, more off since her boyfriend is a class A prick and a total pig. But tonight I need it. I need the sleep and a favor.

I knock on the door and thankfully Kate answers. She smiles. “Good, you came back. I was hoping you’d spend the night here with your stuff left behind and all...long walk to the shelter.” She opens the door and walks into the living room.

I follow, smelling cheap fast food and seeing remnants of it on the small, two-person kitchen table. “Yeah, I figured I’d stay one more night, then tomorrow I’ll be out of your hair.”

Kate sits on the couch, waving the thought away. “No problem. I’m fine with you staying here, Taylor. I know what it’s like, remember.” That’s how Kate and I know each other; she used to be like me, but now she’s shacking up with her boyfriend and has moved up a peg in the poor world. Instead of being broke with nothing, she’s broke with a roof over her head.

“It’s not you that bothers me...” I relax next to her, the remaining money from tonight and the envelope in my pocket pressing against my hip. She doesn’t reply, knowing my issues with her significant other are valid and called for. I change the subject. “Can you do me a favor? Or another one, I guess?”

She nods. “Sure, what is it?”

“Can I borrow an outfit for tomorrow? I have a job...interview.” I can’t say trial of admittance and not raise red flags.

Kate’s brown eyes go wide and she has to blink a few times before speaking. “A job? Wow, sure. Good for you, girl. Let’s go take a look.” The two of us head into her room. It’s empty, so we must be alone. I sit on her bed as she opens her closet to see my options. “Where’s it at?”

“Not exactly sure yet. I got it from someone I know and I’m meeting them at Navy Pier.”

She frowns at her closet. “Your boobs are too big for my dresses, but you could probably fit into my pants. Nicest thing I have is jeans, unfortunately. But they’re clean and not too skinny or baggy.”

Jeans might be the best way to go. If I overplay it, they might expect more than I can provide; exaggerated expectations. I already have to lie my way into this thing so I can’t bite off more than I can chew. If I can’t get in the door because of my outfit, that’s the least of my problems. “That’s fine, Kate. I don’t even know how formal this thing is.”

She pulls out a cute long sleeved black sweater. “And this would look great on you. And wear it with this.” She hands me the jeans, sweater, and a black leather jacket.

Now my eyes widen. “How did you afford this?” It’s beautiful and smells expensive.

“Ed got it for me.” She turns back to the closet.

“He bought it for you?” I ask, but she doesn’t reply. The silence confirms my suspicions. “He stole it.”

“For me. It’s sweet!” She comes to her boyfriend’s defense.

“It’s wrong.” I argue, hating that he is getting her to believe that he cares by breaking the law. He did it just to do it, not because he cares about her.

“Don’t get on your high horse, Taylor! We can’t afford nice things, okay?” She says it like I can. Is she high? She has an apartment to come home to; I go to sleep every night prepared to be back on the street in the morning. How can she say that to me while we are standing in her bedroom?

“It’s wrong because he stole something he could have bought if he saved money from his job. He’s lucky enough to have a steady income, one that he can pay rent on. We’d all kill for that, and he went and risked it by breaking the law. That’s what’s wrong, Kate. Can’t you see that?”

She crosses her arms angrily, not wanting to admit it. “He’s good to me, Taylor.”

“When? It must be when I’m gone because I never see it.” Kate isn’t exactly a good friend, but I care enough to try to make her see things for what they are. He treats her like shit, and she gives him everything he wants whenever he wants it.

“It doesn’t matter, okay? I’m happy. Stop worrying about me; take care of yourself. Get that job tomorrow. Get what you deserve.” She signals that the conversation is over by going to her nightstand and grabbing a pair of panties and bra for me.

Now she’s the one to change the subject. “Did you hear about Micki?”

My heart hurts at the thought. Micki was a girl we both knew from the life. I met her back when I first ran away, maybe eight years ago. We have always been friends, catching up when we’re in the same place. “Yeah, how did she die?” I heard from a person I knew and hoped it wasn’t true.

Kate’s hands freeze on the drawer and she pulls in a long, shaky breath. “Cal.”

Sonofabitch. I knew he was bad, but a killer? Damn. “Why?”

She gets a hold of herself, hands me the clothes, and sits beside me. “Same as always. She owed Cal money. He came to collect and she was broke. He said she could get on her knees to pay it back, but you know what her answer was.” Micki and I were one in the same on that topic; we’d never trade sex for anything, even just third base.

I shake my head, hating that Micki would be stupid enough to take a loan from Cal. Girls can never pay him back, he makes sure of it so he gets what he wants in return. “I guess he bought a gun. Shot her twice in the stomach so she bled out. The guys just left her in an alley until someone found her.”

My stomach knots up at the image. A cold, pale-skinned Micki lying on the dirty ground among the trash with blood-soaked clothes. That’s how we’d all die eventually if we didn’t get out or starve to death first. My hands holding the clothes for tomorrow tighten, grasping this dream acceptance so it can’t slip away. I have to do it. I can’t become like Micki or so many of the others. And if Cal has a gun now...I can’t be getting into scuffles with him anymore.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you didn’t run, Kate? What it would be like?” I question, the thought often haunting me.

She answers my question with another question. “Do you ever think about going back?”

“Never.” I don’t have to think about that one. There’s a difference between never leaving and never going back.

Kate strokes her comforter depressingly. “I do. Sometimes I think after all this time, maybe my mom will love me more. But then I remember all those times she hurt me, all those bruises, all those stitches...living with nothing on your own is a whole lot better than living in hell.”

“Amen.”