My Fake Family - Chapter 1

First chapter of my contemporary story. (Edited)

My Fake Family

Chapter 1

Who would you like to be your fake dad?
Great question, heck if I know, I thought.
I had stared at the first question on the piece of paper that I was supposed to fill out for so long, it made my eyes blurry. I had no trouble filling out my name (Rachel Bogdonavic), my age (thirty-two), and the age I portrayed on my last mission (fifteen). This was the first question that actually required a written answer. I had already filled out all the other questions on the two-sided page, but this very first one proved challenging, because it required some serious thinking.
I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. Why is this so difficult? I wondered. It should not be this hard. It should be easy. It should not take me over an hour to fill out this paper.
Usually, I could complete this paper in ten minutes and be one of the first people to turn it back in. Now, after ten years of being in of the Fake Family Division of the International Spy Team Organization, filling out the same piece of paper countless times, and I kept asking myself this same question: who would I like to be my fake dad? I needed someone to have my back when times get tough, when shit hits the ceiling fan, literally and figuratively. I had no desire to be paired up with someone who can’t make the tough decisions when they need to be made.
I needed someone who is a leader but isn’t a douchebag about being a leader and thinks that they are better than me because they are the leader. Someone who is open to feedback and willing to have conversations if I disagree with how things are going during the mission.
I sighed loudly. Actually, now that I think real hard about it, there is only one person that could fit the bill. Someone who is all those things and more. Someone who is also my mentor/trainer/homie. And that would be-
Jason MacIntyre
I wrote his name in the best cursive handwriting that I could muster. It had kind of improved since I first learned it in third grade, but not by much. The teacher had passed out giant workbooks for us to practice our cursive handwriting; there had to have been 150 pages in those workbooks, just pages and pages of words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and short stories. Of course, we only completed maybe thirty pages during the school year, if that. So, come summertime, my mom had this brilliant idea that I should finish the entire workbook myself, in order to practice my handwriting, and make it look readable. I ended up doing this the next two summers after that too, because each year we kept getting new workbooks, and we never finished them in school.
When I got to middle school and high school, I would hand in worksheets, essays, and tests written in my cursive handwriting. I’m not sure how many of my teachers could actually read my handwriting, but a few of them thought it was cool that I was trying to keep up with it as none of the other students did.
Jason MacIntyre is the closest thing I’ll ever have to a dad, even if we are a fake father-daughter duo, I thought. Granted, we’ve been on so many missions together, we basically are father and daughter. Our job, whether we are paired together or not, was to be so convincing as a father-daughter duo (sometimes we had other fake family members too) that people thought that we were father-daughter. They didn’t know that we weren’t related, and that’s how it was supposed to be.
And rightly so. He had no children, (I don’t even think he’s been married) and the person who is my father has never been in my life. I don’t know his name, what he looks like, or if he’s even alive. He literally could be dead, and I wouldn’t know. I’ve read online that if people grow up without a dad, that means they have “daddy issues.” (Whatever the heck that means).
That would be so funny if we got paired up again, I thought, smiling to myself. Lord have mercy.
I pictured him in my head, rolling his eyes when he found out I’d be working with him.
“Eww,” he’d say. “I’m stuck with you again?” But his tone would be light, and he’d offer me a fist bump, like we usually do upon greeting each other.
Maybe he’ll wear his glasses this time, I thought. Then we can be matchy-matchy.
I sighed again. “I guess I’d better go hand this in.” I muttered to myself. “The big wigs are probably wondering what’s taking me so long, when I’m usually pretty fast.”
I got up from my chair, too fast apparently, because the next thing I know, I’m flat on the floor.
“Damn, why do I have to be such a klutz?” I groaned.
I glanced up to the small camera at the corner of my office, the tiny red dot letting me know it was still recording live. Because why would it not be recording? It’s main job was to record us and make sure we were “kept on task.”
Hmm, that was awkward. With my luck, the director herself saw that and is laughing her head off, I thought. Now, the question is, do I pull out my giant wedgie that I currently have, or should I pick my nose? Or, better yet, give that damn camera the bird, which I’d love to do. J.K. make that two birds.
I awkwardly picked myself up and decided to bow to the camera instead.
I did that on purpose, you stupid camera.
“Girl, what are you doing?” a voice called out, interrupting my thoughts.
“Julia! Hey, girl, hey!” I responded with a bright smile. Awkward, did she just see me bow to the camera?
My co-worker, Julia, was standing in the doorway of my office. I rushed over to hug her. I could see why many of our other co-workers thought we looked alike: we both wore bangs, my hair was shorter than hers, and hers was curlier, whereas mine was thick and wavy. We currently both sported purple glasses and were nearly the same height. It was weird though; I was the same age as her eldest daughter, and Julia was kind of motherly to me, in a nice way, not creepy way.
“Did you just bow to McKenna?” Julia asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Now who named the camera system McKenna again?” I wondered, dodging her question on purpose.
Julia shrugged. “Heck if I know. Somebody made a comment that McKenna sounded like a stuck-up snob name “kinda like how the big wigs are stuck-up snobs.”” She added air quotes for emphasis. “Anyway, the director wants to see you.”
“Again? She, like, just saw me earlier today!” I huffed. “What does she want now?”
“I think she’s getting worried that you haven’t completed your fake family form yet,” Julia said, lowering her voice.
“I was on my way now to turn it in,” I said, waving the paper at her. “I took a while because I was answering the questions thoughtfully and truthfully.”
“All right, then, good luck,” Julia said, waving goodbye.
I began puttering my way to the director’s office, taking my time to pause and look at our current “Most Wanted” listings. These listings featured both domestic and international individuals. They included men and women, all different skin tones, ages from fourteen to some man in his eighties.
I cringed, looking at the mug shots. Ugh, you people look gross. Worse than the tweakers I used to deal with when I worked at Fred Meyer.
“Rachel! Get in here, now!” the director hollered, startling me.
Damn, she must have seen me take my sweet-ass time, I thought nervously. What if I’m actually in trouble this time? What do I say, I plead the fifth? Deny anything and everything? Blame someone else?
I hurried the rest of the way to her plush office. The door was shut automatically behind me, loudly, and I jumped.
Kelly Hotchkiss stared back at me. “Why are you always so jumpy?” She was wearing her usual power bitch suit with her crayon yellow hair color. Her makeup looked pristine as always, if not overly done; it didn’t matter if it was the dead of summer and 110 degrees or the middle of winter, twenty-five degrees and snowing.
“I dunno, just a reflex I guess,” I mumbled. What is this conversation about again?
She pointed to the empty chair that I was supposed to sit in. “Sit down. We have serious business to discuss.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, sliding awkwardly into the chair. What kind of a shitshow did I just walk into?
“All right, Ima cut to the chase,” the director said. “Have you heard the rumors about there being a mole in this agency?”
Well, that is an awkward question indeed. Technically speaking, I have, but I am currently talking to Kelly Hotchkiss, a.k.a., the agency director, a.k.a., a hella hard-ass, a.k.a., pretty sure this chick has hated me since day one. And with my luck, the next thing she’s gonna ask me is who I think is the mole, why I think they are the mole, and how I think they are the mole, and then if that happens, shit is really going to hit the ceiling fan, literally and figuratively.
“Yes, ma’am,” was all I said.
“And? What have you heard?” She tapped her fake nails on her desk.
I was silent, not sure how to approach answering her question.
“You do realize that if this is true, then this whole agency could get shut down, right?” the director said.
“That’s allowed?” I asked. “Someone could shut down this organization?”
“Yes, they can,” she replied.
Huh, I didn’t know that, I thought nervously. That is bad news indeed. I love working here, pretending I’m still a teenager, going full-on drama queen mode on the daily, freaking out because I have a pimple on my face, feeling like I’m not a freak of nature when I get to have a fake dad and a fake sibling because in real life I have neither. It would be sad if someone shut us down because of the supposed mole within the agency.
“Now, let me ask the question again: what have you heard?”
“Well, you know, just rumors, nothing fancy, just random crap that people talk about in passing,” I said vaguely. “I don’t really contribute, though. I’d rather not get in trouble for spreading rumors that may or may not be true.”
The director stared at me. “And what kind of “random crap” do people talk about? Please do elaborate, Rachel.”
Damn, shit got real awkward, real quick, I thought uncomfortably.
“Um, well, someone thought that the mole is Zach,” I ventured cautiously.
“Zach?” the director asked. “My tech guy? HA! Boy, that is a good one!” She laughed heartily. “You must be joking.”
You wish I was joking.
I began chuckling too. “Another person thought it was Moira.” I paused. “And then someone had the audacity to suggest that it was Jason, which I said, ‘there’s no way it’s Jason.’”
The director narrowed her eyes. “And why do you think it’s not him?”
Great question . . . well . . . I . . . uh . . .
“I can’t see him hurting anyone like that, he cares so much about his teams and this agency,” I stated confidently. More like he cares too much, but hey, I’d rather work with someone who cares too much, than someone who doesn’t care at all, and not be looking out for his co-workers, especially us younger ones.
“What if you’re the mole, Rachel?” the director proposed.
“Say what?” I blurted out. “Are you frickin serious, Kelly?! Why in the universe would I be the mole?” Ooh, this frickin ho just pissed me off!
“Yeah, you’re right. You wouldn’t be the mole. You’re too jumpy and everything scares you,” the director fired back, displeased that I exploded at her. “Even after being here ten years, you’re still so timid.”
I am cautious not timid, I corrected her in my head.
We stared at each other for a hot minute in silence.
Ooh, Kelly, you haven’t even heard the best one that I heard, I began in my head. Of course, if I told you, you’d shit yourself. But then again, the look on her face would be so great.
“Would you like to hear the best rumor that I heard about who the mole is?” I asked haughtily.
“Is it any better than the ones you’ve already listed?” the director sniffed, unimpressed.
“Oh, it is,” I smiled sweetly. “The best one that I heard was that someone thought that the mole was you, Kelly.” Now, would you like to explain to me why your staff would think that you are the mole, as the director of this agency?
“Don’t fuck with me, Rachel,” the director hissed. Her facial features didn’t miss a beat. Maybe someone had accused her of being a mole before. I was expecting her to fly off in a rage, but she was barely reacting at all.
“I’m not,” I stated. “You asked me what kinds of rumors are flying around, and I told you.” That ain’t my fault if you don’t believe me.
“So, you guys really think I’m the mole, huh?” the director said.
“Well, someone suggested it, but I can’t remember who,” I said nonchalantly. I actually did remember who said it, it was Julia, but our conversation at the time was more like her saying, wouldn’t that be crazy if the mole were Kelly herself? That’d be nuts!
The director let out a huge sigh. “You know what I think?”
Since when did you even think to begin with?
“What’s that?” I replied.
“I think you know exactly who the mole is,” she stated, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow. It looked like it was stenciled on her face.
“HA! Yeah right,” I exclaimed. I plead the fifth.
“Do you have any ideas on who it is, any guesses?” the director prodded.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” I replied with a shurg “It doesn't matter though.”
“And who do you think it is?” the director continued. “Come on, give me something to work with.”
“Yeah, I’m not telling you that,” I said, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with our current conversation.
“Why not?” the director demanded. “Whatever we say in here, stays in here, I don’t go around and blab about what people tell me in confidence!”
“I am not telling you who I think the mole is because I don’t trust you,” I stated angrily. “My opinions don’t matter to you.” Or to any of the other higher ups in this company, for that matter.
She balked at me. “Since when did you not trust me? Since when did your opinions not matter to me?!”
Clearly she doesn’t remember Zagreb, or Vancouver, or Austin, Texas, I thought. All prime examples when I put my trust in her and she has failed me, time and time again.
“Remember in Zagreb?” I began.
“No, what happened in Zagreb?” the director asked, looking hella confused.
Does she really not remember any past missions? Damn, she really is a dumb blonde.
“I specifically told you in the van that I don’t feel comfortable being shot at,” I recounted. “And then twenty minutes later, you told the guy to shoot me, not once, not twice, but frickin three times, and I had to frickin play dead like I was a dog!”
“Hey now, I gave you a bullet proof vest, and the guy shot you with blanks,” the director said, always quick to defend her actions, even if they were sketchy at times. “Plus, you’ve got your theater background, so that means you’re a drama queen and you can act like you’re dead.”
“I was a theater major, not an acting major. And I never learned how to fake death,” I stated. Just like I never learned how to fake cry, both of which would have come in handy with this job.
“So, you’re still mad at me about that?” the director scoffed. “Girl, you need to let it go.”
More like I haven’t healed from the trauma and fear of what I experienced that day.
“How do I know you’re not going to do something like that to me again?” I asked. “How do I know the next time I tell you that I don’t feel comfortable doing something that you aren’t going to go behind my back and do the exact opposite?” Yeah, I don’t know that.
We went back to staring at each other, exasperated by the other’s presence.
I have to say, though, the best part of that day, was right after that happened, and we got our suspect, Jason frickin cussed Kelly out, right in front of everyone, talking about how I was still fairly new, and she needed to respect my boundaries, and if she couldn’t do that, she shouldn’t be a leader. But the downfall of the conversation, he got demoted, in a way. He couldn’t lead any missions for five years after that.
I decided that I was going to leave this office. Getting up, I handed her my paper. “All right, I’m going to leave, because this is a super awkward conversation.”
She sighed loudly and scanned my paper. “I need you to report to the safe house on Washington Avenue tonight. I have a new mission for you.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. Geez, Rachel, don’t cry now.
“Report there at ten thirty tonight,” she continued.
“Ok, I’ll be there.” Geez Louise, what part of the English language did she not understand? I thought. If I said I’ll be there, then I will be there.