Target on Our Backs (Monster in His Eyes 3)

"I just…" I think she's serious. Like, honestly serious. "I don't even know what to say to that."

"Me, either," she says. "But you know, like Dr. Seuss said, we all make mistakes, so I guess we can forgive hers."

"I don't think he said that," I point out. "I don't think Dr. Seuss said we all make mistakes."

"How do you know? He's been alive for like, a hundred years… I'm sure he probably said it at some point."

There's so much wrong with what she's saying that I'm not sure where to begin, so I don't even bother trying to correct her. It's not like it matters, anyway. We've gotten so off topic that I can't remember what the hell we were talking about to begin with.

"I should get going," I tell her, shoving my chair back to stand up. "I'm going to be late for class if I don't get out of here."

"Boo… you sure you can't skip? We hardly get to hang out anymore."

"I skipped it last time," I say, "and one day last week."

"Well, what are you doing this weekend?"

"I don't know… the usual, I guess."

Sitting at home.

Doing nothing.

"Let's go out," she says, her expression brightening. "We can go to Timbers. It'll be just like old times! Oh my God, I think it's even eighties night!"

I want to argue.

I try to argue.

I try to tell her it's the worst idea in the world, the two of us going to Timbers again, especially on eighties night. I remember what happened last time, and although things have worked out since then, I certainly don't want a repeat of that night. But she doesn't give me a chance, doesn't let me get in a word edgewise. She's already on her feet, planning, giving me a quick hug as she rushes toward the exit.

"I'll call you," she says excitedly. "I can't wait!"

Sighing, I watch her disappear from the café. Picking up my still warm, untouched drink, I walk over to the trashcan, dumping the thing in. Pity, you know, wasting it, but I've got a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can't quite shake.

If Naz taught me anything, it's that sometimes coincidences aren't really coincidences.

Sometimes they're orchestrated.

* * *

My entire life was chaos growing up.

New places, new faces, never the same thing twice. We were on the run from the day I was born until the day I finally put my foot down and moved to the city, wanting nothing more than to actually experience New York. I craved stability. I was desperate to find something of my own.

I have it now.

I have those things.

I have permanency. I have somewhere to call home.

I have a routine.

But sometimes, I realize, that's really fucking boring.

Don't get me wrong… I love the life we're building.

And, God help me, I certainly love Naz, too.

But there's something to be said about predictability, about rarely being surprised anymore. Naz has become a creature of habit. Hell, maybe he was always this way. I don't know. But when I come home from class, he's always here, sitting in the den, reading the day's newspaper. He's always wearing the same black suit. His hair always looks the same. He never has the TV on, never listens to music, which okay, is probably a good thing if what he'd listen to is Hotline Bling.

But doesn't he ever get bored of things just always being the same?

It's like I'm living out Groundhog Day.

"Anything interesting today?"

His gaze flickers to me when I ask that question before he turns back to his newspaper.

"More of the same," he says. "Corrupt politicians… tax evaders… bomb threat in a school. A pub caught on fire in the meatpacking district. The New York Rangers are actually doing good. A man shot his lover's husband in Harlem. Oh, and a guy was found unconscious near the East River."

"Awesome," I deadpan.

He closes the newspaper, folding it up, and tosses it right in the trashcan beside his desk. "What about you? Anything interesting happen today?"

I drop my bag to the floor beside the couch. "I met Melody's new boyfriend."

"She has a new boyfriend?"

I look at him incredulously.

And he accuses me of not paying attention.

"Uh, yeah, remember? She was here getting ready for her date."

"I remember," he says. "I was just unaware it was that serious. You can date without being in a relationship. In fact, I took you out a few times before you were anything more to me than just a date."

"I was never a date," I tell him as I plop down on the couch. "I was more of a target."

"And I hit my mark, didn't I?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

"Then sure." I unzip my bag to pull my schoolwork out. "You hit it."

"Over and over again."

I shake my head, deciding not to respond to that.

I know a sexual innuendo when I hear one.

Turning on the TV for some kind of background noise, I grab my things for History class and settle in to write my paper, to get it over with, before I forget about it. Napoleon Bonaparte, average-sized dictator with one hell of a complex. I skim through some sections in my book, nearly dozing off at the boring text, before resorting to searching him on my phone, looking for something even remotely interesting.

"So, tell me about him."

"Uh, he probably wasn't afraid of cats, even though some people seem to think so," I mumble, scrolling through some Wikidepia-esque website, "and God help us, but apparently he wrote a romance novel or something."

Naz is silent for a moment. "He wrote a romance novel."

"Yeah," I say. "Or I guess it's more of a short story, since it's only like, twenty pages. I don't know. I don't even know what to do with that information."

"Me, either," Naz says. "And is this literal cats you're talking about, or are you speaking metaphorically about pussy?"

Whoa.

That gets my attention.

I blink a few times, glancing over at Naz. "What?"

"Is he afraid of pussy?"

"Oh, uh…" I grimace. "I'm gonna say no, since he fathered some kids."