Chapter One

The story you are about to read is 100 percent true.

No, honestly.

Of course some things have been changed to protect the innocent. But you'd expect that. It's standard operating procedure when it comes to based-on-true-events stories. If this were a techno-thriller, I could say SOP. And I suppose I could anyway. Parts of my story are quite thrilling, though there really isn't anything particularly techno about them. Except for this one part where...

Okay. Wait.

I can't believe this is happening.

I'm only a couple of paragraphs into this, and already I'm starting to tell things out of order. A thing which is pretty danged annoying, I must admit, though it does bring up an important question, which is as follows:

Where does my 100-percent-true story truly start?

I suppose you could say the whole thing started the day I was born. I'm thinking that's a bit extreme, though. As an alternative, I'm going to go with the third grade, which I think makes me about eight years old. I'm choosing this because that's the year my mom died, and my dad and I moved for the very first time.

Actually let me rephrase that. This is an important point, and I need to make sure I get it just right.

That's the year my mom was killed in a hit-and-run collision, and my dad and I moved for the very first time.

Way back then, of course, I had no idea that these events were related, or that changing location on the spur of the moment was, paradoxically, about to become one of the most important constants in my life.

Just how often did we move? Let me put it this way: To the best of my knowledge, I am the only person in the entire United States to have attended fourteen different elementary schools between the third and sixth grades.

That's 3.5 schools a year, in case you're counting.

The pace slowed down a little bit in junior high to 2.5 schools a year, then settled down to an even two for the years I was in high school. Except for senior year, of course, but I'll be explaining more about that in a moment.

Why did we move so much? You're no doubt also wondering. The answer to this one is pretty simple.

I don't know.

Or, here's more of that getting-it-just-right thing again: I know now, but I didn't know at the time. I didn't even ask about it, to be completely honest. By the time I was old enough to question the way we lived, I was so used to the way Dad and I did things that I thought it was normal.

I did stop unpacking my suitcases after a while. This isn't nearly as weird as it sounds. You put your clothes away in dresser drawers. I put mine away in suitcases. In both cases, folding was involved. It also wasn't nearly as depressing as you might think. In fact, you can pretty much stop waiting for me to reveal my inner-trauma girl about this, because I simply haven't got one.

Over the years my dad and I developed a routine when it came to moving. Actually two routines: One for leaving a place, and another for arriving in one. But no matter where we went, the living quarters were always the same: a furnished apartment. This was another aspect of life I simply never thought to question. I think I was about twelve before it finally dawned on me that not all dwelling places came complete with couches.

Regardless of the apartment's location, my father and I always performed the same action upon stepping across the threshold for the very first time. We looked for the perfect location for this big gold-framed photo of my mom. Dad packed it in one of his own suitcases, but he always let me pick out the spot for it. Without fail, I looked for a place that would let me see Mom's picture the moment I walked in the front door.

Not that we were morbid about this or anything. We both knew my mom was gone. But we didn't have to pretend she'd never existed, my dad said. Getting out the photograph was just one way of demonstrating the way she lived on in our hearts.

Our leaving routine was slightly more complex and involved two distinct phases. Phase one involved Phone Calls of Mysterious Origin. These always came in late at night and went on for several nights in a row. Though the calls were another thing I got so used to I never questioned my dad directly, I did come up with a couple of theories about them: