by Jake Burt
Apparently, I’m from Indian Hill, Ohio, just outside Cincinnati. The Trevors—Jonathan, Harriet, Charlotte, and Jackson—lived there until Jonathan’s company moved its headquarters to Research Triangle Park in Durham, North Carolina. Jonathan’s a consultant—for what, it doesn’t really say—and Harriet is joining the legal team at IBM, the computer place. Both Charlotte and her younger brother, Jackson, will be attending Loblolly Middle School in Durham.
Loblolly? I’m going to a school called Loblolly?
That’s what has me crinkling my nose as the door opens behind me, and I’m still wearing that expression when I turn around. There, standing in the doorway and shooting me a nearly identical look of disdain, is Janice. I shake the half cringe, half sneer off my face and find my smile as quickly as possible.
“Hello, Janice! I haven’t seen you in two weeks! How have you been? Because I’ve been good. Well. Good.”
“Have you read the file yet?” she asks curtly.
“Yeah, Janice. It’s unbelievable! The Cercatores! Why didn’t you guys tell me the first time we talked? Oh, and by the way, isn’t it weird that when I first saw you, you were reading files about me, and now you come in and I’m reading the files? Coincidence? I think not!”
She acts like I’m puking words all over the floor, rather than just making conversation. Sighing, she sits down across from me, adjusting the collar of her shirt while she arranges her papers just so on the table.
“Memorize that, Charlotte. All of it. You have exactly one week to learn who you are, and you can’t take that envelope with you once you leave for North Carolina. While there, you must maintain your persona at all times. A single slip may jeopardize the safety of the Sicurezzas.”
“You sure do put the nice in Janice, you know?”
“Charlotte, it is precisely that flippant attitude that will endanger this entire operation. Focus!” she says, slapping the table for emphasis. “Now, for the remainder of this week, we will be training you in how to avoid detection. This will include intense exercises in surveillance, local customs, and communication. Do you understand?”
I nod quickly. Janice really does seem to be in a mood; her hair is pulled back so tightly she can hardly blink, and she’s keeping her teeth bared as she talks, even though they’re not moving much.
“None of that, however, will be as important as you learning the rules for staying hidden.”
“The rules?” I ask as meekly as I can.
“Yes. The rules. Everything from this point forward is about maintaining an air of normalcy. That is how to avoid detection by the Cercatores, who, we are confident, will be looking for Elena and her family.”
“So, basically, stay normal?”
“Basically, yes. We have done considerable research on families in the Durham area in general, and on girls your age in particular. Via the data we procured, we have distilled a profile that you will adhere to as closely as possible.”
“So I’m going to act like the girl in this profile?”
“What you’re going to do, Charlotte, is act normal.”
“Implying I’m not normal right now?”
She scowls at me. I think she’s trying to say “Well, obviously,” but she doesn’t want to stoop that low. I get the message anyway and shrug.
“Rule one,” she snaps, plowing right through the drifts of awkward that piled up just then, “you will not commit any criminal acts, including theft, breaking and entering, trespassing, or vandalism. Again, Charlotte: no theft.”
I hold up my hands. “Got it, got it!”
“Rule two: You will maintain a B-minus average in school. No higher, no lower.”
“Holy hell, are you serious? An exact B-minus?”
I’ve always been more of an A girl. When it’s not family you’re going home to, it’s a whole lot easier to jump into your homework after school. Other kids I know haven’t been as lucky as me; my grammy taught me to read like nobody’s business, and I didn’t get put into any absolute pits like Emmy did. She’d been with only one foster family, but it was a nightmare, and she lost an entire year of school because of it. I feel like I owe every A I get to all the other kids at the Center who struggled. Now I have to get B-minuses?
“First, watch your language. And second, yes, that is the average for a seventh-grade Caucasian female in your school district in North Carolina. Now, the Sicurezzas—that is, the Trevors—have requested that their son be placed in a high-achieving school. Loblolly Middle School has been recognized as a school of distinction, and its students consistently do well on state achievement tests. A B-minus there should allow you to maintain a low profile.”
“So a B-minus at another school would be … what, good?”
“We’re taking no chances, Charlotte.”
“Can you pay for college? Not exactly scholarshipping it up with a B-minus my entire academic career.”
“This is serious, Charlotte. B-minuses will ensure that you do not garner attention for your academics, whether your grades are too high or too low.”
I’m imagining a big, white refrigerator, the entire front plastered with papers covered in red B-minuses, held on by Great Job! magnets. Yeah, that’s normal.
“Rule three: No online presence. You will not create a Facebook page, a Twitter account, or any other social media avatar, unless expressly required by your school. You will be given an e-mail account by the marshals’ tech department for communications with us only, and we will monitor all incoming and outgoing messages.”
“Can you clean my spam folder?”
“Rule four: You will maintain a clean, moderate appearance at all times. Attire will be preapproved by this department, as will haircuts and other body modifications.”
“Body modifications? Does that mean my SpongeBob facial tattoo is out? Because I was going to get Plankton on my left cheek, Patrick on my right, and SpongeBob on my forehead. Well, okay, not SpongeBob. Just his pants. What do you—”
“Enough!” Janice barks. I jump in my seat, thankful that kids don’t get heart attacks as a general rule.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean … I mess around sometimes, when things get to be a lot … I … well, I’m sorry.”
She snorts like a bull deciding a puny matador isn’t worth charging. I grab my shaky left hand with my right. The urge is suddenly overpowering, but … rule one. Instead, I just whisper, “Go on. I’m listening.”
“You will engage in two extracurricular activities—one sport and one nonathletic. Our studies show this is the median number for a child your age. You will not excel at either of these activities, but you must maintain your position in the groups.”
I nod, even though this makes no kind of sense. I’m starting to question whether Janice was ever a kid herself.
“You will also maintain regular friendships: do not withdraw, or become a loner, deadhead, goth, vamp, emo, punk, or skater. These types are regularly targets of school administration probes focusing on antisocial behavior.”
I want to ask her how many of those names she had to Google before coming in here, but I keep my mouth shut. And anyway, deadhead? Is that even a thing?
“Nor are you to achieve too prominent a social position. Popularity, though alluring, is not your ally here.”
I sigh. “So fit in, but don’t stand out?”
Janice’s eyes widen briefly. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Yes, Charlotte. That’s it exactly. Thank you.”
I wonder how much pressure you could lift off new kids at a school if they could say, “Sorry, I’d try harder, but the U.S. government ordered me not to be that cool.”
She continues, “Rule five: Maintain a respectful, caring front in your familial relations when you are in public. Do not, under any circumstances, let on that there is something unusual about your family dynamic, and do not do anything destructive in private to erode their trust in you. Your father is normal. Your mother is normal. Your younger brother is normal.”
At t
hat point, I have to clear my throat.
“Yes? Something the matter, Charlotte?”
“Well, it’s … it’s just that nobody, and I mean nobody, not in the history of ever, has had a normal younger brother.”
“You do, starting now.”
I think she thought I was kidding.…
“It’s just that no kid I’ve ever known or read about, no girl my age, has ever said, ‘Oh, that’s my normal little brother. Look at him trying to drink Coke from a saucer like a dog. Totally normal.’”
Doing her best to stampede over what I think is a valid point, she demands, “Repeat those rules as I’ve given them to you, Charlotte. They are your new code of conduct. You don’t leave this room until I’m satisfied that—”
“Rule one: No crimes.
“Rule two: B-minus.
“Rule three: No Facebook.
“Rule four: No personality.
“Rule five: Happy family.”
She raises a thick eyebrow, but then she nods, satisfied. She gathers her papers and stands up to go. But she pauses, seeming to suddenly remember I’m still there. Grumbling, she says, “Oh, yes. Do you have any questions?”
Only about five billion.
“A couple, yes.”
She purses her lips, throwing a snarl in there for good measure, and sits back down.
“Proceed.”
I take a breath to steady myself because I don’t want to forget any of these. They’ve been beating against my brain for two weeks, and I need to let them dance a bit.
“How will I get in contact with the marshals if I need to? I know I’ve got the e-mail, but what about dire emergencies?”
“You’ll have a contact person here. We will provide you with a phone number to call. If you notice something of concern, call your contact, and you’ll receive the assistance you need.”
“Who is my contact?”
Janice taps her left index finger on the table a few times. Oh, lord …
“You? You’re my contact?”
“And supervising officer. I trust that won’t be a problem?”
“No,” I say, smiling broadly, trying really hard to make it seem genuine. “No, that’s great, Janice. Fine. Yes. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You … you and Eddie…”
“Not Eddie. Eddie is assigned to another case. He doesn’t even know where you’re going, for the safety of all involved.” She pauses and then waggles her and-another-thing finger at me for good measure. “You really should refer to him as Deputy Marshal Harkness. And me as Deputy Marshal Stricker, for that matter.”
“Yes, I will. Deputy Marshal Stricker. Got it.”
“Now, if we’re finished…”
I raise my hand. Silly habit, but I’m a kid, after all.
“What now?”
“Well, you wanted me to look presentable at school. I … I don’t exactly have the clothes for it. In fact, I really don’t have anything for it. I’m betting you don’t want me wearing my U.S. marshals sweats, and rule one implies you don’t want me taking care of the problem myself.”
“Shopping. When you get to Durham … we’ve given your family a thousand dollars on a preloaded debit card to take care of those things you’ll need for school. We can’t buy them here, because there are regional fashion considerations to take into account.”
I lean forward. “I get a thousand dollars?”
“Your family does, though it’s earmarked for you. Each family member has a similar budget.”
Score.
I decide to press my luck.
“And if I need to protect my family? Myself? Do I get a Taser?”
Janice mutters a curse under her breath. “What is your obsession with Tasers?”
“They’re cool! Haven’t you ever seen any of the videos on YouTube?”
Her dour look leads me to believe she hasn’t.
“Oh, you totally should! There’s loads of videos out there, just of guys getting tased, and they’re all hilarious. There’s this one of a dude who’s drunk, riding around on a lawn mower, and he starts just cruising through everyone’s lawns, like all their flowers and stuff, right? And the police tase him while he’s on the mower. His hands come up by his chin and his teeth pull back—guy starts chittering like a psychotic squirrel wearing sunglasses. It’s all like gikkagikkagikkagikka…”
I’m doing a darn good impression of tased lawn mower guy at this point, but Janice is having none of it; she’s giving me the old arms-crossed head shake. I wipe a little bit of spit from my chin, lower my hands, and cough. A good ten seconds of silence pass, and then I say, “So, um, yeah. Can I have a Taser?”
She’s still shaking her head—though to be fair, I think that’s just her natural state.
“C’mon! You’ve seen what the Cercatores do to people!” My hands wade through the papers until I find the photo. “How am I supposed to protect them from this? I’ve learned a few cool moves in my classes this week, but seriously … check out this poor guy’s mouth.… I think they actually shoved a bird in there. I’m pretty sure that’s a real canary! And it’s not like I’m asking for a gun or anything. You want me serious? I’m being serious. This is me taking this seriously.”
I tilt my head forward, looking up at her through my lashes. I’ve got my jaw set, lips sealed, and nostrils flared. As far as faces go, mine can’t get any more serious than this. Granted, it might have helped to avoid the Famously Fuchsia glitter lip gloss this morning, but other than that, I’m gravitas personified.
Janice leans in, bringing her own face about a foot from mine.
“No.”
Heck. She does serious face better than me. She even has a poppy vein up there. I can’t compete.
“Okay,” I mutter grudgingly. “But pepper spray?”
“You’re not here to protect the Trevors. You’re here to help hide them. The best way to do that isn’t with a Taser, or pepper spray, or with your ridiculous attitude. It’s to be who we’re telling you to be. So pick up your files, Charlotte. Take them to your room and study for the rest of the day. Also, review the included list of extracurricular activities at Loblolly Middle School. You’ll need to choose two—one sport, one academic. Make sure none of your choices compete for awards. No geography bee, no choral competitions, no debate club.”
“But what if we win whatever sport…”
“You won’t. Loblolly Middle School isn’t known for its athletics. The Sicurezzas requested academic excellence.”
“Two extracurriculars. Got it.”
“Oh, and Charlotte?”
I pause my search for the form.
“Yes, Deputy Marshal?”
“Set your alarm for six a.m. Make sure to take a shower. You’re meeting the Trevors tomorrow at seven.”
“Wait, Janice … I mean, Deputy Marshal … but … hold on.… They’re … they’re here?”
Without responding, she stands up and marches out. I lean back, both hands in my hair as I look out over the tableful of strewn papers.
The Trevors.
Tomorrow.
Whoa.
CHAPTER SIX
Tea with the Trevors
I’d like to say I’m as cool as a cucumber this morning, but I’d be lying. It’s 6:45 a.m., and I’m not even dressed yet. I’m still staring in the bathroom mirror, practicing faces. Do I go in all serious? Miss On-a-Mission? Or should I go with calm, confident, ready-to-be-the-daughter-you’ve-always-wanted? One thing’s for sure, I can’t be panicky, nervous-giggle girl. Unfortunately, that’s who keeps showing up in the mirror, despite my best efforts: I even use my fingers to try to squishify my face into a more professional look. That doesn’t work, either; I end up looking like a Muppet. Finally, I pull my hair back so it doesn’t seem like I’m hiding anything, put in my Swarovskis, and use just a little bit of the rose lip gloss Erin lent me; it’s not the Famously Fuchsia, but I’m thinking that’s not a bad thing.
I’ve haloed out all my clothes on the bed, and it’s pathetic. Ba
sically, my choices are the outfit I flew in with, a pair of jeans and a Sweeney Todd T-shirt, or some of my U.S. marshal couture. That thousand bucks can’t come fast enough.
I decide on my black skirt and a gray marshals tee, though I quickly wish I had some color to throw in there. Just as I’m slipping into my shoes, there’s a knock at my door. It’s Janice, and she’s wielding a clipboard in one hand and the biggest mug of coffee I’ve ever seen in the other.
“The Trevors are waiting for you in Special Deputy Marshal Coustoff’s office. Come. I’ll lead you there.”
If Janice’s lips part more than a centimeter at any point, I don’t see it. Apparently, my already-grumpy contact isn’t a morning person. Great.
I follow Janice down the hallway, up a short staircase, through a doorway, and into a well-lit, inviting foyer. There are several office doors that open onto this central space, and they’re all closed, the occupants hidden behind panes of frosted glass. Janice sits down on one of the blue couches lining the walls of the room, and I start to sit next to her.
“See the door with the doctor’s name on it?” Janice growls. “Go knock. They’re waiting.”
I swallow, take a deep breath, and stride toward the door. Instead of knocking, I listen at the glass for a moment. There’s a man’s voice, then a woman’s, then another woman’s. Yep, they’re in there.
“Knock,” Janice commands from behind me.
“Just … um … gonna get a drink first,” I ad-lib, spinning off toward the water fountain nearby. It’s one of those obnoxious ones where you push the bar as hard as you can, but only a trickle comes out. You’re basically French-kissing by proxy whoever used it before you. Still, I’m supposed to be stalling here, so I take a sip and churn it across my teeth about fifty times.
When I turn around, Janice is standing behind me. Good thing I swallowed, or I’d be doing a scared-stiff spit take into her face.
“Get in there, Charlotte,” she whispers.
