The Inner Circle

much midwestern kindness in her to ever say it to me. The phone buzzes again.

I don’t pick up. But by the time I look back at Clementine, all the confidence, all the conviction, all the fearlessness is gone-and I’m reminded that the real reason she came to the Archives wasn’t to share old scars or see overmuscled Secret Service agents.

Last year, Clementine’s mom died, but it wasn’t until a few months back that Clementine called in sick to the radio station and went back home to clean out her mom’s closet. There, she found an old datebook that her mother had saved from the year Clementine was born. Sure enough, on December 10, there were hand-drawn hearts and tiny balloons on the day of her birth, there was a cute smiley face drawn on the day she came home from the hospital, but what was most interesting to Clementine was when she flipped back in the datebook and saw the entry on March 18, which had a small sad face drawn in it, followed by the words Nick enlists.

From that, she finally had a name and a lead on her dad.

From me, thanks to our recent emails, she had the Archives.

From those, I had only one call to make: to our facility in St. Louis, where we store the more recent army enlistment records.

Ten minutes ago, Clementine was in front of me. But now, as I head for the metal door ahead of us, she starts falling behind, going surprisingly silent.

In life, there’s the way you act when you know people are watching. And then there’s the way you act when no one’s watching, which, let’s be honest, is the real you. That’s what I see in Clementine right now: I spot it for just a half-second, in between breaths, just as I take the lead and she ducks behind me, thinking I can’t see her. She’s wrong. I see her. And feel her.

I feel her self-doubt. I feel the way she’s unanchored. And in the midst of that single breath, as her shoulders fall, and she looks down and slowly exhales so she won’t explode, I spot that little dark terrified space that she reserves for just herself. It only exists for that single half-second, but in that half-second I know I’m seeing at least one part of the real Clementine. Not just some fantasized cool jazz DJ. Not just some ballsy girl who took on the bully in seventh grade. The grown her. The true her. The one who learned how to be afraid.

“I should go. I hate when I’m all woe-is-me-ish,” she says, regaining her calm as I tug the metal door and we leave the stacks, squeezing back out into the pale blue hallway. She’s trying to hide. I know what it’s like to hide. I’ve been doing it for the past year of my life.

“Don’t go,” I shoot back, quickly lowering my voice. “There’s no-They said they’ll have the results within the hour and… and… and… and we’ve got so much stuff to see here… if you want.” I bite my lip to stop myself from talking. It doesn’t help. “Listen, I didn’t want to have to do this,” I add. “But if you really want, we can take out the Louisiana Purchase and write ‘Clementine Rulz!’ along the bottom.”

She barely grins. “Already did it on the Constitution.”

“Fine, you win,” I say, stopping in the center of the hallway and leaning on the marble wainscoting. “You want to meet the President, I’ll take you to meet the President.”

She doesn’t blink. “You don’t know the President.”

“Maybe. But I know what room he goes to when he does his reading visits.”

“You do?”

“I do. Wanna see?”

She stands up straight and twists her forearm back and forth so her vintage bracelets slide from her wrist toward her elbow and her scars. “Is it far from here or-?”

“Actually, you’re standing right in front of it.”

I point over her shoulder, and she spins to find a metal door that’s painted the same color as the pale blue hallway. Easy to miss, which is the whole point. The only thing that stands out is that the square glass window that looks into the room is blocked by some black fabric. Down by the doorknob, there’s a round combination lock like you’d find on a safe.

“That’s it?” Clementine asks. “Looks like my old gym locker.”

I shake my head. “SCIFs are far safer than gym lockers.”

“What’d you call it? A skiff?”

“SCIF-Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility,” I explain, rapping the knuckle of my middle finger against the door and hearing the deep thud that lets you know just how thick it is. “C’mon, when you read a classified document, you think you just open it at your desk? People are watching from everywhere-through your windows, from listening and video devices-Big Brother doesn’t just work for us anymore. So all around the government, we’ve got rooms built and certified by the CIA.”

“Skiffs,” she says.

“SCIFs. Walls with quarter-inch metal shielding, floors with eight-inch metal plates to stop eavesdropping, no windows, copper foil in the corners to stop transmissions, bars over the vent shafts so Tom Cruise can’t lower himself on his trapeze…”

“And you have one of these SCIFs here?”

“You kidding? Our legislative guys alone have sixteen of them. Every major building in D.C.-the White House, the Capitol, every Senate and House building-if you’ve got a bigshot in the building, we’ve got a SCIF in there too. And the biggest bigshots get them in their homes. Tiny little rooms for you to read the world’s most vital secrets.”

“Can we peek inside?” she asks, rapping her own knuckle against the door.

I force a laugh.

She doesn’t laugh back. She’s not trying to pry. She means it as an honest question.

“If you can’t, no big deal,” she adds.

“No, I can… I just…”

“Beecher, please don’t make that stress face. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m not uncomfortable.”

“Let’s go do the other stuff,” she says, already walking away.

“Oh, just take the damn girl inside already,” a deep voice echoes on our left. Up the hallway, an older black man with a caterpillar mustache heads our way carrying an oversized cup of coffee. Despite his age, he’s still got the muscular build that first got him the job as one of our uniformed security guards. But one look at his dimpled chin and big-toothed smile, and it’s clear that Orlando Williams is more pussycat than lion.

“This that girl you used to have a crush on? The one that’s gonna mend that broken heart Iris left you?” Orlando shouts even though he’s only a few steps away.

“Who’s Iris?” Clementine asks.

Every office has a loudmouth. Orlando is ours-or more specifically, mine, ever since he found out that:

a) I was from his home state of Wisconsin, and

b) I was the only archivist willing to give his brother-in-law’s boss a private tour of the Treasure Vault.

For better or worse, he’s determined to return the favor.

“Just take her inside-I won’t even put you in my floor report,” he adds, tucking his clipboard under his armpit and taking a deep swig from his coffee cup.

“Orlando, I appreciate the kindness, but would you mind just-”

“What? I’m trynna help you here-show her your love of… adventure.” Turning to Clementine, he says, “So he tell you about his wedding photographer days?”

“Orlando…” I warn.

“You were a wedding photographer?” Clementine asks.

“After college, I moved here hoping to take photos for the Washington Post. Instead, I spent three years doing weddings in Annapolis. It was fine,” I tell her.

“Until he got the chance to help people directly and then he came here. Now he’s our hero.”

Clementine cocks a grin at Orlando. “I appreciate the unsubtle hype, but you do realize Beecher’s doing just fine without it?”