Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Questions the government will not want to answer.

  “Is everything else ready?” I ask.

  Rose nods. “Everyone involved in the rollout has been told our former designer Chris Tapper created the logo and Mom has the paper trail to prove it. We’ve got this.”

  With Rose’s help, Mrs. Webster spent the past weeks creating a false electronic trail that would lead anyone questioning the origins of the logo to Chris Tapper, a real Gloss designer who abruptly resigned via email a few weeks ago. According to his resignation message, he was moving across the country to take a job at a friend’s company, but not one person has been able to reach him since that day.

  Our guess is that the designer had been made to disappear by the Marshals. If we’re right, the government won’t be surprised when they discover he is credited with the new logo design. If he, like Isaac, is in their custody, we are counting on the Marshals not believing his denials. If not—it’s all so much easier.

  Mrs. Webster and Rose are counting on me to continue the fight. I hate that for their sake I am hoping Chris Tapper is dead.

  Loud conversation causes us both to glance down the hall as a few Gloss staff members head to their work spaces. Soon the entire floor will be buzzing with people. Before I lose the chance, I ask, “Did you see your father last night? Did he say anything new about Isaac?”

  Her eyes harden. “Nothing new. According to him, the mayor is negotiating Isaac’s return from the gang. It doesn’t look like he’s getting much sleep. I’d feel sorry for him—if I didn’t know he’s lying. If he just told us the truth and was willing to help us . . .”

  “The only thing that matters right now is that Isaac’s still alive,” I say. Part of me wonders if I believe that. The other part is certain Mr. Webster wouldn’t be losing sleep, worrying, or spending so much time perpetuating the lie if he knew Isaac were dead.

  “I keep telling myself that whatever else my father has done, he loves Isaac—so he’s not going to let anything happen to him. Right?”

  “Right,” I agree, because I tell myself that, too.

  Rose takes a deep breath and nods as two more employees come down the hall. “Let’s get you settled and working. Things are quiet now, but they are going to be busy around here today. A new intern will want to be a part of it all.”

  I hand Rose the Gloss design tablet Mrs. Webster gave me to work on the logo. She leads me through the blue-gray cubicles and glassed-in offices used for tech support, sales, and customer service until we finally step into a large space filled with drafting tables, silver and blue stools, and dozens of wall screens displaying e-zine pages. Standing at one of the drafting tables is a woman with lots of dark brown hair piled on her head. She is wrapped in an oversize off-white man’s dress shirt, baggy denim pants, and beat-up blue sneakers that look seriously comfortable—nothing like the fashions advertised in Gloss. The woman stabs at the screen several times and appears ready to jab the design tool at Rose when my friend says, “Mrs. Meacham, this is the new design intern. I was told to bring her to you.”

  “Well, she’s here. I’m sure you have something else you can do now.”

  Rose gives me an encouraging smile and then bolts, leaving me alone with my boss. Mrs. Meacham moves around the design table and crosses the room with long, comfortable strides that make me yearn for my normal sneakers.

  “What’s your name again?” she asks.

  “Merriam Adams.”

  She gives me a tense smile. “Nice name. Don’t expect me to remember it. Mine’s Nicolle, but I probably won’t answer to it and if I’m working to meet a deadline I won’t answer no matter what you call me.”

  I blink as the telltale sounds of people arriving for work float into the space.

  Nicolle shakes her head at my silence and heads back to her worktable. “So what’s your story? Can you actually draw or are you hoping to become a model and took an intern position in my department as a way of getting discovered?”

  “I can draw,” I say.

  She glances down at my uncomfortable shoes as two twentysomething women in bright button-down tops, jeans, and heels come into the space. They are followed by a slightly older guy holding an almost impossibly large, steaming orange mug.

  “For both of our sakes, I seriously hope so. We’re doing a public rollout of the new logo today. If you can make yourself useful, good for you. If not—pick a table in the corner, stay out of our way, and keep your mouth shut. Everyone!” she shouts as several more designers come through the door. “Let’s get to work.”

  Every time I had visited Gloss in the past, there had been an upbeat energy and a low hum of conversation as people calmly went about their business. Today, it was as if everyone had plugged their fingers into a light socket.

  The designers shout at others across the room, drink cup after cup of coffee, and pace while they wait for word to come from Mrs. Webster and her team about the rollout of the new Gloss logo and design. More than anything, I want to do what they’re doing— debating accent colors and shadows and shifting lines so that the viewer’s eye will be drawn to exactly the right place. Instead, I fetch coffee, crawl under tables when a stylus goes missing, and watch as the sharp angles and sweeping curves that for the last several weeks I’ve changed and changed and changed again fill the wall screens.

  Tweaks for my design are debated. Adjusted. Lines shifted slightly to the left or right. Thickened. Sent back upstairs for everyone to wait again. Until finally, Nicolle claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and announces, “We’re locked!”

  The design team stops working and exchanges smiles and high fives. A guy with spiky blond hair wearing a bright green shirt slaps his hand on one of the tables and says, “I knew we nailed it.”

  I smile even as I clench my hands under the design table. When everyone quiets, Nicolle continues, “The ads are being uploaded to the public screens. They will go live in two hours. Mrs. Webster has asked that we all meet her outside to watch when that happens. I’m giving you ten minutes to celebrate and refuel. Then I expect you back at your stations working on the layouts for next week’s issue.”

  Designers grumble, but I get the feeling it is exactly what the team expected to hear. A few of them wander off to grab a snack or coffee. Nicolle heads to a meeting and the rest settle back in to work. No one seems to remember that I exist. I glance at the clock—one hour and fifty-two minutes until the Gloss ads with the new logo go live across the country. I’m glad Nicolle didn’t let any of us go to lunch or I’d be throwing up.

  I shift in my seat and doodle on the screen in front of me as the minutes tick by in the ever-thickening air. I’ve been anticipating and dreading this moment with equal weight. We have all agreed it is the best way forward—but . . .

  “Well look at that.”

  I crack my knee against the table as I jerk around to see Nicolle looming. Her pale, hazel eyes narrow as they shift to my screen. Streaks of electric blue, pink, and yellow wind over a backdrop of silver. In the center of the image is a large handbag, like the ones pictured on dozens of advertisements on the electronic pages of Gloss. The black lines are woven to give the bag texture. Sharp, hard gold colors the geometric fastenings lending them weight. But it is the handles of the bag that I spent the most time on. Each line created to lend depth to the braids. But if anyone looked closely in the shadows and empty spaces, they’d find fanned out V’s like the ones in the new Gloss logo. V’s that formed the open pages of a book. V’s for “verify.”

  I hold my breath as Nicolle studies my work. Takes in the details. The flaws—because there are dozens of them. So many places to refine and rework and reimagine. If I had several more hours, it would be better. I could . . .

  “Huh,” Nicolle says, shifting her intense gaze from the tablet to me. “You can draw. Maybe by the time the summer is over, I might actually try to remember your name.”

  Before I can react, she turns her back on me.

  The crawli
ng minutes speed up as the end of the day approaches. I drop my stylus several times and can barely draw a straight line by the time Nicolle announces, “Okay, everyone. It’s time!”

  My stomach flips. I shut down my screen, retrieve my phone out of my bag, and hold it tight to my chest, then hurry after everyone as they stream into the hallway. We join the rest of the Gloss staff as they make their way out of the office.

  The sidewalk is jammed. I shove through clusters of Gloss workers and look for Rose. I spot her hurrying across the street to the other side, where her mother stands at the edge of the sidewalk surrounded by several fashionably attired individuals I assume are top Gloss executives. Sunlight gleams off Mrs. Webster’s jewelry as she stares at the enormous public screen far above the Gloss entrance. A blond man in a ruby-red shirt moves to the side as Rose walks beside her mother. Without looking at her daughter, Charity Webster reaches out and clasps Rose’s hand tight in hers. They know the risks they are taking even if the others chattering excitedly around us don’t.

  “Any minute!” someone shouts from nearby.

  I shove my way through the crowded sidewalk and step between two cars parked at the curb just as the chirpy brunette on the screen ends her broadcast. She tells everyone to stay tuned for the five o’clock news that will start after the commercial break.

  The credits roll. I clutch my phone tight. Everyone around me holds their breath. Then a rainbow of brilliant color explodes onto the screen. Music blares. Lights pulse as if dozens of photographers are taking the images that follow one after another. Shots of the American Dream pop band, women walking down Michigan Avenue in high fashion as if they are on a catwalk, the president of the United States and her husband waving from the balcony of the White House—the American flag fluttering behind them. The images pass too fast for me to catch them all. Smiling families. Tourist attractions. Sports. Models in stunning dresses walking on a creamy-white beach with a compelling female voice narrating over the kinetic images and music and the excited shouts of the staff around me about how Gloss is always where you want to be.

  I stumble and have to catch my footing, but I look up in time to see the flashes of colors—pink and blue, orange and yellow. They alternate faster and faster as the music grows louder until there is a cymbal crash and the new logo for Gloss appears.

  It isn’t exactly the same image that I drew. It’s better. The designers worked their magic so the colors almost leap off the screen, which will hopefully make it impossible to ignore.

  Down the street, in the distance, other public screens are filled with the same image as the narrator’s voice says: “A new Gloss—so you can be a brand-new you.”

  The Gloss staff cheers and exchanges congratulations as the next commercial, one praising the stepped-up recycling program, plays followed by a Pepsi ad.

  Employees on the sidewalk start to stream back into Gloss. Several cars honk their horns. I step back onto the sidewalk and spot Rose and her mother waiting at the crosswalk for the light to change.

  My new phone vibrates. With an unsteady hand, I punch up the text message.

  THEY’VE AGREED TO MEET. SEE YOU TONIGHT—STEF

  Satisfaction flares. Step one is done. Now we have to move on to step two and hope that nothing goes wrong.

  I start to text Rose, when I notice the shoes of the woman strolling past me on the sidewalk. They are the same as the man in the gray suit that appears on the sidewalk across the street—and the woman who comes to stand beside the bus stop only a few feet away from me.

  Black running boots with metal straps.

  The Marshals—the people responsible for taking Isaac, and killing my mother. The people who have been searching the city for me—are here.

  Two

  A female Marshal dressed in gray slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and carrying a large brown handbag stops in front of Gloss’s front door.

  I hold my breath and prepare to run.

  The last time I faced the Marshals I survived, but Spine and so many other Stewards did not. When the Marshal’s eyes sweep my way and she doesn’t immediately show any sign of seeing the real me under the makeup and fashion-forward hair, I stay put and attempt to take normal breaths.

  We knew the logo would gain unwanted attention. We knew there was no avoiding Marshals asking questions when they saw the ad. But we never dreamed so many would arrive just moments after it played for the first time.

  The female Marshal steps around a twentysomething couple who are hurrying down the sun-streaked sidewalk. Then she turns in my direction.

  Don’t stare, I tell myself. Pretend not to notice the male Marshal in the suit who is currently crossing the street to this side—right behind Rose who has no idea he is there.

  The bus stop Marshal moves in my direction. Her leather bag brushes my side as she walks by. There is something hard inside that bag. I’m pretty sure I can guess what it is.

  “Watch it!” I snap, stepping away from the woman, trying to get some distance between us, and hoping she only hears the annoyance I am trying to convey and not the fear pounding in my heart.

  “Sorry,” the woman murmurs. She doesn’t bother to look at me. Instead, her eyes stay focused on Rose and Mrs. Webster who are stepping up on the sidewalk on this side of the street.

  Fingers shaking, I type the message THEY’RE HERE on my phone, but stop myself from sending it because the Marshal behind her has moved. Now he can see over her shoulder. They move toward the entrance to join the rest of the Gloss employees heading back to work. I can only watch helplessly as that Marshal and another who appears beside him follow Rose and her mother into the building. The Marshals are not in the reception area when I finally make it through the door. And I don’t see them in the hallway as I head back to work or in any of the nearby cubicles. Mrs. Webster’s office is on the second floor. Maybe—

  “You—intern!”

  I turn and see my new boss, Nicolle, standing in the aisle between a bunch of cubicles. She points behind her and sighs. “Design room is this way.”

  “Right.” I turn my back on the stairs and follow Nicolle into the design room. The screens are now filled with images of page design options for the next Gloss issue. Once again, I am told to sit in the corner while the others work on making the interior page design reflect the new logo and color scheme.

  After about ten minutes, Nicolle declares everyone useless. She tells the team to go celebrate the launch of the campaign and to expect to work late every day until the new issue is put to bed. No one reminds Nicolle that it is already past time to leave as they gather their things. While they head out, I look around the workroom for an excuse to stay.

  “I can take the coffee mugs back to the break room.” I jump up and start gathering the mismatched ceramic mugs that haphazardly decorate the tables in the room.

  Nicolle places her hands on her hips. “Do you think cleaning coffee mugs is going to impress anyone?”

  “Not if they like drinking coffee out of dirty cups.”

  She stares at me, her eyes hard and narrow behind the large frames. I stand perfectly still hoping she cannot see how desperate I am to stay. Mrs. Webster said she could deal with the Marshals, but if she and Rose are in trouble, I have to try to help them.

  Finally, Nicolle nods. Her lips twitch. “You have a point. Clean up. Don’t touch anything you shouldn’t or I’ll know. Be here early tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.” With that she heads back into her adjoining office and shuts the door.

  Juggling six mugs, I hurry to the break room. Some people are cleaning up their desks or calling for friends to meet them for drinks. Others are hunched over computer screens or tablets—clearly planning to work into the evening hours.

  I wash and put away the mugs in record time and go back into the hall. No Nicolle. My heart hammers as I head up the steps and I hold my breath as I slowly open the door and step onto the second floor of the Gloss offices.

  The offices and cubes are bigger on
this level. I can see the outlines of people moving around behind opaque glass and hear the low murmur of voices as I take slow steps down the royal-blue carpeted aisle. Mrs. Webster’s office takes up the back corner of the floor. I am almost to the door when someone touches my arm.

  I jump, and swallow down my yelp as I face the woman whose large brown leather bag bumped me out on the sidewalk. Standing beside her is a tall, lanky man in a blue button-down dress shirt. I don’t have to look to know what shoes he is wearing.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the Marshal offers with a quick smile. “We got turned around. We’re looking for Chris Tapper’s office. Can you direct us?”

  “Chris Tapper?” I repeat the familiar name and look down the hall toward Mrs. Webster’s office.

  “You seem kind of jumpy,” the man says. My heart goes still under the man’s piercing gaze. “Is there a reason you’re nervous?”

  Only dozens of them.

  “Today is my first day working at Gloss,” I say, hoping they won’t question that truth. “I’m an intern.”

  The two exchange a look as Rose steps out of an office and into view far down the hall behind them.

  “I’m sorry we startled you,” the female Marshal says with a toothy smile. “I hope you enjoy working here.”

  Rose takes a step toward us and begins to gesture—clearly wanting to know if I need help—as the Marshals begin to turn.

  “He’s not here!”

  The Marshals’ heads swivel in my direction before they can see Rose and make the connection between the two of us.