by Jake Burt
Janice sighs. “Charlotte, then.”
“There are no flights soon that go to Georgia.”
“We don’t fly coach, Charlotte.”
I don’t really know what that means, but I nod anyway and throw in a “Figures,” just to be safe.
After the big board, the airport blooms into this weird mix of mall, festival, golf course, campground, and middle school hallway the moment the bell rings. Two ladies walk past—one is decked out in a gorgeous black business suit, silk blouse, pumps, leather purse, the works. The other, chatting with her, is wearing pajamas and moon boots. We dodge a dude driving a little train of elderly people down the middle of the way, and I nearly bump into a guy shoveling a massive cinnamon roll into his face at the same time he’s texting on his phone. And everywhere, everywhere, there are people rushing, zipping, bouncing from stall to stall, store to store, desk to desk, barely paying attention to anybody else around them. They have to avoid folks who are sleeping, actually sleeping, in torturous positions near just about every gate. My first time in an airport is noisy. It’s chaotic. It’s frenetic.
It’s beautiful.
This is a pickpocket’s paradise. My eyes are wide, my hands slicing through the air, swerving and sweeping in that sweet dance. I’m not actually taking anything—willpower, Nicki, willpower—but I’m pretending, practicing. A man stops in the middle of the flow, looking down at a map of the terminals. My hand brushes lightly against his pocket, and he doesn’t even glance up. Could have had a smartphone there. A college-age girl has her purse next to her on a bench, and she’s chatting with her friend on the opposite side. She’s not even looking! I casually time my movements with the beeping of one of those golf carts that’s passing, and I manage to flick open the clasp of her purse, pick up her wallet, and drop it back down again without her, or Eddie and Janice, noticing. And this is all while we’re still hurrying along.
A girl could get rich in an airport.
“Sorry we’re rushing you, Charlotte,” Eddie says as we navigate our way around a kiosk of prewrapped muffins, water bottles, and gum. “Gotta get to our gate, though.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I reply, only half listening—there’s a boy ahead of us with a backpack on, and it’s half unzipped already. I’d just match him stride for stride, slip my left hand in there, take what’s for taking, and then spin him around with a cute little smile. He’d be blushing while I skipped away with a new PlayStation Vita.
Eddie smiles. “You’re taking all of this remarkably well, Charlotte. We had in your records that you’ve never flown before. What with how nervous you were at the Center—totally understandable, by the way—I’d think you’d be worried here.”
“No, big crowds are kind of my thing. They keep me distracted, keep me from being afraid. I feel safe here,” I explain, leaving out the part about everyone else not being safe from me. “Because, like, if you were to suddenly turn out not to be U.S. marshals, but just clever kidnappers, well, I could scream all sorts of things here. Or I could run, and I’d have about eight phones in my pocket before you caught me, all of them dialing nine-one-one at the same time. Being trapped in the transition room with you two gave me the heebees much more than this.”
Eddie slows down, casting me a look. He’s just remembered he’s escorting a first-rate pickpocket through a bustling airport. I smile innocently and turn out my pockets, and he takes a deep breath. Then he adds, “Yeah, sorry about the Center. Had to be done, though.”
“No worries,” I offer. “I’m excited about all this, really. Haven’t quite wrapped my mind around it yet, but I’m excited.”
Our conversation carries us all the way to our gate, which is really nothing more than a glass door and a couple of rows of chairs. Two other marshals are there, each one a cookie-cutter copy of Eddie, right down to the brick-wall build and the pockets where they keep their wallets. When they step aside to let us through, I gasp. There are two other kids here!
I quickly sweep my hair behind my ears, using the cover of my hand to check them out. The girl is a few years older than me, and the boy is my age, maybe a little younger. They’re both obviously from the system like me: small suitcases; wide, darting, and distrusting eyes; and crossed arms.
“Hey,” I say to the girl. She’s a little taller than me, with frizzy hair and a great pair of chunky glasses.
“Hey,” she replies. No turn of the shoulder, no blink and glance away.
“My fake name I chose ten minutes ago is Charlotte. What’s yours?”
She laughs, just a titter at first, and then giggles properly. “Erin,” she replies. “I forget my last name, though.”
I snicker at that, and so does the boy. He stands up and joins us. He’s got the blondest hair I’ve ever seen, and it’s cowlicked all over the place.
“I’m A.J., but I haven’t decided what it stands for yet. Are you guys with the marshals, too?”
“Nah,” Erin deadpans, “I just like guys with crew cuts.”
I giggle again, but A.J. looks confused.
“She’s kidding,” I offer. “I’m here with the marshals. Headed to Georgia for training or something.”
“Me too,” both reply in unison.
“Project Family?” I ask, glancing Janice’s way. She’s watching, but not too closely; one eye on us, the other on her phone. I wonder if she’s playing solitaire or something. Probably not.
A.J. and Erin nod. “Yeah,” A.J. says, “Project Family. Do you know what it stands for?”
I shake my head. “Nothing, apparently. Though I think it should. Been working on it, too. Federal Agents Masquerading In Life … Yogurt?”
“Foster Assets Making Invisible…” A.J. loses steam, scratching in that blond bird’s nest of his. “… Licorice … Yogurt. Yeah, I got nothin’.”
We spend the next five minutes or so coming up with new ones, all of them ending in “Yogurt.” It continues as we board the plane, and between talking to Erin and A.J., thinking of a middle name, and playing “most useless thing on the page” with our copies of Skymall, I survive my first flight without getting too jittery. I only hope I’m just as distracted in Georgia.
Oh, and it’s Ashlynn. Charlotte Ashlynn Trevor. Pretty nice ring to it, I think.
* * *
Dad,
I’m gone. Done. Not even going to sign this letter. I don’t know where you are, but I know you’re alive, and that you’re out.
I know you don’t care.
So have fun sweeping floors, or fixing cars, or moving furniture, or doing whatever other crummy post-jail job you scored. Maybe rob somebody again, if that’s what you do for fun. Does it beat going to the park with your daughter?
My therapist, if I still had one, would call this letter “venting.” And I’ve got to admit, it feels pretty good. So don’t look for me. I’m disappeared. For real. Of course, you and ol’ birth mom know just what it’s like to disappear, don’t you?
Tell you what—I’m going to do you a favor that neither of you ever did for me.
Check it out.
Here it comes.
Are you ready?
Bye!
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
Backstories
Glynco, Georgia, is a whirlwind. The complex is huge, like they took Central Park, doubled it, and replaced the playgrounds and monuments with shooting ranges and dorms. There are troops of men and women jogging around, all wearing T-shirts and track pants. At first, I think we’re going to be doing the same intense boot-camp stuff; I’m half expecting to army crawl through mud with Fancypaws held above my head like an AK-47. Fortunately, our physical training never gets quite that intense. Most of the time we’re in courses on math, writing, and science meant to get us ready for our placement schools and grades.
Erin, A.J., and I, it turns out, are a fourth of the kids in Project Family, and for the first two weeks of training, we’re together. We train together, we eat together, we relax together, and we speculate
together. That’s the big pastime—trying to figure out what the heck we’re doing and where they’ll ship us off to. I have to say, these are two of the best weeks of my life. The weather is so much better than in New York, I’m busy, I’m learning, and I’m in it with other kids just like me.
I haven’t even felt the urge to nick something this entire time.
Not that I completely abstain, of course … I just don’t feel the urge. A.J. loves putting on his jacket, loading his pockets with stuff, and walking by me. Then he tries to guess what will be missing. He gets it wrong every time, though I think he might be doing it just to flirt with me. He’s always all, “That’s incredible! Do it again, Charlotte!”
The kid seriously needs an Xbox.
Erin and I, meanwhile, grow closer and closer. Her background is similar to mine—dad in jail, grandma taking care of her. She’s also been in and out of foster homes, and we get to swap descriptions of the cruddiest bedrooms we’ve had, compare our shortest stints with a family, and see which one of us has had the weirdest foster experience overall (she wins; I can’t beat staying with a couple who collected taxidermied housecats). Through conversations like these, and laughing at A.J., we become as good of friends as you can in two weeks.
It can’t last, though.
* * *
On the morning of our third Wednesday, they herd all of us into a room. It’s got tiers of padded seats that swivel. At the front of the room is a big table, and on that table are envelopes. As I file in and sit down, I manage to catch a glimpse of the topmost envelope. It says Charlotte Trevor on the label.
A short, matronly lady comes in after a while, and twelve swiveling kids all come to an abrupt stop. Well, eleven of us. There’s one kid, made-up name of Charles “Chuckie” Islip, who doesn’t notice the lady and just keeps working that chair back and forth, eyes closed and lower lip sucked in as he hum-grunts “We Will Rock You.” It’s only when the rest of us back him up with a little chorus of “Go, Chuckie! Go, Chuckie!” that he opens his eyes, blushes, and apologizes. The lady takes off her glasses and pretends to clean them as she waits for us to stop laughing. Her gaze never leaves us, though, and our snickering dies off. There’s almost pity in her look, like she’s saying, “Enjoy that laugh. It’s the last you’ll have for a while.”
Erin is clearly spooked. She reaches down to hold my hand, but I manage to yank mine away in time, pretending to pick at something between my teeth.
“For those of you who have formed bonds over the last few weeks, I am sorry,” the lady begins. “Your lives have been defined by relationships cut short, and I want you to know that we sympathize and understand. I am Special Deputy Marshal Dr. Helena Coustoff, and I’m Glynco’s on-site psychiatrist. I am here to talk to you about the next phase of your training.”
I cast a glance over at Erin. She’s got both hands pressed between her thighs and is leaning forward intently, shoulders frozen. My leg has started bouncing a bit as well.
“Starting today, you’ll be separated, because each of you will be learning about your new family and relocation site. We cannot under any circumstances allow you to share this information with one another, as it would jeopardize the safety of both you and the people you’re helping to protect. I’ll call your names one at a time, and you’ll come down to get your information packet.” She pauses, holding up the first envelope on the table—mine. “Then you’ll be escorted to a soundproof room, where you’ll be joined by the marshal who will be your point of contact with us from here on out. I’m sure you’ll have lots of questions, and we’ll try our best to answer them.”
A few kids raise their hands, but she subtly shakes her head, and the hands go down. I guess by “try our best” she meant “just not right now.” As she starts riffling through the folders, we get the sense that it’s time to say good-bye.
A.J. taps my shoulder, and I turn. “Good luck, Charlotte. You’ll be great at this! And who knows—maybe we’ll meet each other totally randomly one day, like, in college or something.”
I grin. “Yeah, and if we do, we’ll go out for coffee. I’ll buy.”
“Awesome.”
“With your wallet,” I add under my breath.
Erin overhears me. She half laughs, half sobs, and it comes out like a hiccup. Covering her mouth in alarm, she waves at the air with her other arm and leans in for a hug. Hand-holding I can’t do, but hugs I can, and I squeeze her tightly. It’s brief, but it’s enough, and when we pull away, we both nod at each other. Short, intense, and awkward—the foster farewell.
“Charlotte Trevor,” Helena announces, staring right at me. “Room one.”
I get up slowly, aware that everyone else is watching how I handle this. I ease my chair back into position and tug the hem of my marshal-issue T-shirt down. With my head held high, I stride along the row, screaming at myself not to trip over anyone’s foot. A couple of kids want high fives, but I pass them by. I grab my folder quickly so nobody sees my trembling left thumb, and I head toward the door. Just before I leave, though, I turn back. Making sure I’ve caught Erin’s and A.J.’s eyes, I whisper, “Good luck!”
Then I’m gone.
There’s a marshal waiting outside the door to move me along, and he points to a hallway off the central room. It is carpeted, unlike the rest of the facility, and it has a single track of fluorescent lights. I follow the lights until I get to the numbered rooms, march all the way down to the end, and slip through the glass-and-steel door labeled 1.
It’s small, sort of like a converted closet, and it smells like fresh paint and drywall. There’s a round table in the center of the room, a U.S. marshal logo mug situated in the center, bristling with pencils. Three chairs flank the table, and I pull one out. As I sit, I grab a pencil, slipping it into the seam of my envelope and ripping it open in one smooth motion. A picture of the Trevors—the same one Eddie and Janice had back at the Center—falls out, and there’s a thick stack of papers as well, loosely clipped together. Upending the envelope, I allow them to shuffle onto the table.
At the top is written Sicurezza Case File, along with a bunch of numbers and random letters, probably to help with filing it in some sort of system. I scan it quickly—it’s mostly data about the family, like their birthdays, hair color, income (whoa, nice work, Elena!), and driver’s license numbers. I’m guessing all of that will change. Will I get a new birthday, too? Maybe I can wrangle an extra one so I can turn fourteen ahead of time.
I’m still skimming along, picking up tidbits of info here and there, when I flip the page. At that point, I freeze. There, smack-dab in the middle, is a picture of a dead man.
No, not just dead.
Murdered.
Very murdered.
The picture is grainy, but a few things are clear enough: He’s been shot repeatedly. What’s more, someone has done something horrible to his eyes, and even worse to his mouth. I’m no expert, but I’ve been around enough to know how to read this. The guy had snitched. The eyes mean he had seen something, and the mouth? He had talked.
I take a moment to rub at my temples. It suddenly feels colder in the room, and my arms are covered in goose bumps. I inhale deeply and flip the picture over.
The next page is a dialogue, like a transcript or something. I dive in.
“Please state your name for the court.”
“Elena Sicurezza.”
“Is that your family name?”
“No.”
“Married name?”
“Yes.”
“Please state your maiden name.”
“Elena Cercatore.”
“In addition to your family affiliation, what are your ties to the Cercatores?”
“I am, or was, a lawyer in their employ.”
“And what were your responsibilities as their lawyer?”
“I was one of many lawyers, responsible for the day-to-day document processing and oversight for their legitimate businesses, such as Facciata Cleaning Services and the West Nook Bistro
.”
“But you had other responsibilities, too, correct?”
CLERK’S NOTE: Mrs. Sicurezza hesitates.
“Mrs. Sicurezza? Your other responsibilities?”
“I drew up contracts.”
“What kind of contracts?”
“Agreements between the Cercatores and small business owners for protection, primarily against the actions of the Cercatores themselves.”
“In other words, you personally witnessed key members of the Cercatore family engaged in protection racketeering, extorting money and favors in exchange for protection against the Cercatores’ other criminal activities.”
“Yes. Some of the contracts stipulated that the syndicate would agree not to sell or make drugs, launder money, or house their enforcers in a two-block radius of those who paid the monthly bribes.”
“And how much money did the Cercatore crime family…”
CLERK’S NOTE: Defense objection: inflammatory. Sustained.
“How much money did the Cercatore family make from these activities?”
“Upwards of seventeen million dollars a year from the racketeering alone.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sicurezza. No further questions.”
I blink several times, then swallow slowly. The Cercatores … no wonder the Sicurezzas need WITSEC! Everyone has heard of the Cercatores, at least enough to know you don’t mess with them. It was big news when eight of their most powerful members were sent to prison last year. It never occurred to me that for that to happen, someone would have had to talk. For that someone to be a Cercatore herself, for that someone to be my new mom …
Grinding through the rest of the papers reveals more information about the Cercatores and the Sicurezzas. I read as hard and fast as I can, until my eyes water. It’s heavy stuff—some of the legal jargon I don’t understand, but this much is clear: When Eddie said that Elena was a brave woman, he wasn’t kidding. She ratted out her own family. Even I know you don’t rat out blood, and I don’t have any blood to speak of.
I’m about to sneak another scare-myself-silly peek at the picture of the dead guy when I notice one more form. It’s not about the Sicurezzas or the Cercatores, or about Nicki Demere. It’s about the Trevors. As I scan, I realize it’s all about the Trevors. I’m looking at their entire history, conjured up and laid out neat.
