“It’s still sensitive information.”
“Is it? We talked mostly about Plank, which, we all know, only Plankers care to hear about. Dave and Sailor told me Toni was probably a bad recruiter.”
Micah smiled. “They’re right. She fell in love with me that weekend we met, and everything went downhill from there.” He blew on his hands before rubbing them together for warmth. “Though she did enjoy being the only woman in a sea of men.”
“More like a pond of boys.”
“More like pond scum.”
Cal laughed. “And you liked that she chose you.”
“Are you kidding? I loved it. It’s probably why I got so involved. I’d been singled out, made to feel like I was destined, like the Sun King.” He paused. “And it’s probably why I was so devoted to her. At first.”
“‘At first’? You always said you were totally faithful, that she was crazy for being so jealous.”
“She was, but that doesn’t mean she was wrong. I did have a wandering eye. She simply couldn’t hold my attention.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Micah said.
“Where’s Toni now?” Cal asked.
“She’s not in the Group anymore, you knew that.”
“Are you?”
“Yes and no.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Micah stood up and stretched. Cal waited for him to finish.
“Micah?”
“When the Plank boys first joined us, I asked them about the farmhouse. I don’t like nostalgia, it’s useless thinking, but I found myself missing those years, wanting to bring some of that time back. Not that I could ever do that, not really.”
“I can’t blame you for trying,” Cal said. “It was beautiful there.”
Micah closed his eyes, and for a moment Cal saw him as his old roommate. Micah’s cluttered desk and unmade bed, the socks he’d wear two days in a row before changing into a new pair. They’d stay up so late some nights, reading, drinking, talking—about what? T-ball. Adorno. Whose grandparents were weirder. What if they’d been born in 1472. Or 1981. Or 2015. Or tomorrow: “Abort me, Mama” was all Micah would say about that hypothetical. After nights like those, they’d be yanked awake just an hour or two later by sunlight pouring into the room. One time, Micah groaned and threw a sneaker at the window; the shoe bounced off the glass, thankfully. Neither put up a sheet to cover the light or even discussed it. That wasn’t how they did things at Plank.
“Come on,” Micah said now, opening his eyes. “I want to show you something.”
Micah began walking toward the stage, and Cal followed. He no longer felt restless; he was calm, as if he’d slept deeply all night long.
“Where’s Peter?” Cal asked.
“In bed,” Micah said, without turning.
When Micah reached the door behind the pulpit, he lifted his pant leg and pulled a ring of keys from his boot.
“Better than a knife,” Micah said, and turned to open the door.
The door had just one locked knob, but when Micah opened it, there was a second door, also locked.
“Two doors?” Cal said. “Wow.”
Micah wrestled with the lock. “Came like this. It’s mostly for show. Nothing that can’t be bulldozed or blown up.”
“You should know,” Cal said. “Or, no, I guess not.”
“Touché,” Micah said. “But just because I wasn’t killed by a bomb doesn’t mean I don’t know how to make one. Remember how the guys and I used to blow up the empty feed containers?”
“You totally freaked out the livestock.”
Micah hooted. “That’s about all. They weren’t very powerful explosives.”
Cal had to step out of the antechamber so there was room for Micah to pull open the door.
“Here we go,” Micah said, and Cal peered over Micah’s head to see a short, narrow staircase, carpeted with what looked like Astroturf after one too many minigolf games.
Cal wasn’t sure what to expect. Were they headed to the war room? He imagined more maps, maybe a wall of weapons—machetes, machine guns, and sparkling, sharp daggers. Bombs. Bricks of gold.
Micah Ellis as James Bond? Oh come on, Cal, he thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, just as Micah did, arms winged, hands not holding anything.
As Cal took in the room he caught himself feeling grateful. No Bond here.
There were books. Real ones, with spines that cracked, pages that you could fold over, underline, tear out, even. Most were hardcover; Cal hadn’t seen those in years, not since he’d graduated from Plank. There was no way Micah would have shown this to Frida.
“Awesome, right?” Micah said.
Pushed against the opposite wall was a ratty couch made of crushed velvet so green it was yellow. Chartreuse, that was the word Frida would use. At one end of this couch someone had flung two gingham pillows, badly sewn, probably stuffed with the feathers of a sad, small bird.