Who I'm Not Read Free

Canada. It didn’t matter. All I needed to do was get everyone confused long enough for me to get away. I clicked back through the screens, closing them as I went, cleared the history and got out from behind the desk. While I waited for the monitor to go dark, I stuck the business cards back in my pocket. Names can come in handy.
    The monitor blanked. Harley was gone. I was on my own. I walked out into the front room. Josh was slouched in a chair, holding a Starbucks tall cup, laughing about something with two hardcore-looking girls. He turned and saw me.
    I waited a heartbeat. I said, “My name is Danny.”
    â€œHey, later,” Josh said to the girls. He stood up, tossing the cup at the wastebasket. Then he walked toward me.

THREE
    My name is Danny Dellomondo. I was born November 9, 1994. I am short and slim, with curly black hair, a long nose and a cocky, wise-guy kind of smile. My eyes used to be gray-green. I had a mole on my right shoulder blade, a scar on my right calf where I got cut by a wire fence when I was little. I’m right-handed. I like honey-garlic wings, cookie dough ice cream, Medal of Honor on PlayStation, metal bands, Star Wars and mirrored aviator sunglasses. I toe out when I walk. I use the word sucker a lot. My mother is Carleen. My older half brother is Tyson and my older half sister is Shannon. I live at 1787 Coach House Road, Grafton, Ontario, K2R 3P5.
    I disappeared the afternoon of Tuesday, April 27, 2006, when I didn’t take the school bus home and hung out with friends instead. About 5:30 I phoned Tyson on a friend’s cell and asked for a ride. Carleen was supposed to take me to the mall that night and I was scared she’d be mad and change her mind if I was late. Tyson said no. I started walking. I was wearing a black rapper’s toque with a little brim turned to one side, a blue puffy vest, a black Slayer jersey, baggy jeans slung low over Simpsons boxers, and gray Vans skate shoes. I was carrying a purple and black backpack with Led Zeppelin written on one side in marker. I had a gold chain with a letter D on it around my neck. At the corner of Dairy Street and County Road Two, my friends went one way and I went the other. That was the last time anyone saw me.
    Until yesterday in Tucson, Arizona.
    I stood in the washroom, staring into the mirror, running over the sketchy line I’d fed Josh about being kidnapped and held captive.
    My biggest problem when I’m snowing a mark is that I get carried away. I say too much. I’m probably saying too much right now. Anyway, this time I’d done my best to keep it simple, even if it sounded stupid. I’d tried to follow Harley’s rules: No details, no confusion and It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it . So I made it too awful for me to talk about—I stopped and started and shrugged and looked away, like I’d done all those times in all those principals’ offices back in the Bad Time.
    I only got fancy once, because parts of Danny’s description didn’t match me. That came after I said I’d woken up in a place with barred windows where everyone spoke a different language. I whispered, “I…just…they…they did something to my eyes. With a needle. It hurt. Now they’re brown.” I twisted my leg around. “And I had this mark on my leg where I cut it when I was little. They took it off too.” Could you do that stuff? I didn’t know. I think it was all in a spy story I’d read in some crummy motel where they didn’t have cable. Did it matter? It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.
    â€œWhy did they do that?” Josh had asked, still leaning back, watching.
    I’d hugged my elbows, as if I was cold. “They said that way…no one would believe…and they wanted…me to…us to…look…uh…certain ways…for…”
    Josh’s Conversed foot came down off the desk.