by Jake Burt
“Can you come with me?”
Janice shakes her head slowly.
“Fine! I’m going, I’m going! Just give me a second.”
I feel like a year wouldn’t be enough time to get ready for this. However, Janice is already taking the liberty of knocking. Dr. Coustoff answers, sees me, and smiles, ushering me in with a broad wave of her clipboard.
“Come in, dear, come in! We’re all very excited to meet you!”
I smile too, nod, and hide my shaking left hand behind my back. Then I walk into her office.
The man and the woman from the photograph are there, in living color. She’s standing, holding a bouquet of flowers in her left hand, and he’s seated on the edge of the doctor’s desk, fretting over the arrangement of the baby’s breath, carnations, and yellow roses. He murmurs, “It’s fine, hon. I’m sure Charlotte will be happy just to—”
He looks up and notices that I’m standing there, and his hand drops from the flowers to his lap. “Goodness,” he says, and again, “Goodness…”
Elena, or Harriet, I suppose, gasps. She presses a hand above her heart and stares at me. I can actually see tears welling in her eyes. They’re just like mine, only darker, more strained than they were in the photo, like she’s seen a hurricane or two in her time. It makes my skin prickle and my heart race.
I’ve met with many families in the last few years, and it’s been so businesslike. We meet in the transition room. They ask me questions. I behave politely, and they go to sign the paperwork with Wainwright. This? This is just paralysis. I want to say something. I want to seem eloquent, and strong, and brave. I have to say something. Someone should say something. Someone should …
“Well, at least she’s kinda hot.”
That’d be Jackson Trevor, the shaggy kid sitting in the doctor’s chair, his feet up on the desk. At first, it’s hard to recognize him; he was clean-cut in the photograph. Now he’s all greasy bangs and slumped shoulders. He sneers at me. Mr. Trevor—Jonathan—swats his son’s shoes off the desk, mutters something harsh in what’s probably Italian, and turns back, smiling.
“What he means is that your photo didn’t do you justice, Charlotte. You’re the spitting image of my wife.”
“No, I meant she’s kinda hot.”
First, ew.
Second, I can tell when another kid is angry. Under normal circumstances, I’d be sympathetic. This can’t be easy for him: moving away abruptly, all the danger his mom is in, suddenly having an older “sister” shoved into his family. I get it. However, this is supposed to be my moment. My debut. As a result, I’m going to have to go with you shutting your face up, Jackson Trevor.
I shoot him an absolutely withering stare, and he turtles his way down, eyes settling on the screen of his phone (better not be tweeting, kid. Rule three). Then I turn my attention back to Harriet. She inhales sharply, nods, and steps forward, holding the flowers out.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting them with my right hand. “They’re beautiful.”
I don’t expect to get crushed in a hug, but Harriet sweeps in before I can interpose any carnations between us. Her arms are around me, her cheek on my head, and she whispers, “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for my family. There are no words.”
She’s right—at least, there aren’t any words I can think of. Instead, I just stand there. I don’t even return her hug, though I want to. Her scent is all lilacs and lotion, and I can still smell it as she pulls away.
“Charlotte is a brave girl for volunteering to help you,” Dr. Coustoff says.
I’m already blushing, so a bit more can’t hurt. Murmuring, I add, “Not half as brave as you, Mrs. Sicurezza. I read the files. What you did—”
“Better go with Mrs. Trevor,” she interrupts softly, smiling. “We should start getting used to it now.”
“Actually,” Dr. Coustoff interjects, “Charlotte should be calling you Mom.”
Jackson grunts at that. I think it was supposed to come off as a laugh, but instead it just sounds like a warthoggy protest. Dr. Coustoff narrows her eyes at him, but this time I’m inclined to agree with my new kid brother. Mom isn’t exactly a term of endearment in my life, and I shuffle nervously at the silence that follows. It’s Mr. Sicurezza, or Trevor, or Jonathan, or Dad, or whoever, who breaks it.
“I’m sure we’ll all need a little time to acclimate to this new situation, Doctor. No need to rush things.” He turns to me, his softening smile echoing Harriet’s. “Charlotte, basically what we’re all trying to say is, welcome to the family. We’re lucky to have you.”
I nod, grateful that I pulled my hair back this morning. Otherwise, I’d be chewing it like a cow.
Before another awkward silence can descend upon the room, Dr. Coustoff has us all sit in a circle, our chairs close to one another. She offers tea, which everyone refuses. I put my flowers on the table near the window and take a seat. Harriet is on my right and Dr. Coustoff is to my left. Jonathan drags Jackson over, using a few choice threats to motivate him. My favorite is “It’s not too late, you know. We could still change your name to Dweezus.” When he comes to the circle, I can smell him—Cheetos and Axe body spray. It’s basically the calling card of every twelve-year-old boy I’ve ever met. I have to stifle the compulsion to inch closer to Harriet’s lilac hair.
Dr. Coustoff starts. “Welcome, Trevor family. From now on, you are precisely that. Charlotte is one of you, just as each of you is hers. As we speak, the U.S. marshals are hard at work creating photo albums, schoolwork, old family vacation itineraries—everything necessary to fill in your backstory. You will drive into the East Campus neighborhood of Durham, near Duke University, in a moving truck filled with exactly these sorts of items. Each one will attest to your identities.”
Jonathan and Harriet seem impressed, though weary. He rubs his eyes slowly, then runs his fingers up his forehead and through his thinning hair. Harriet sighs softly. My gaze ping-pongs between the two of them, and soon I get it.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
“Pardon, Charlotte?”
“Excuse me, Doctor—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just … well, I’m sorry, is all. I know what it’s like to have to leave everything behind. New stuff seems cool until you realize you’d fallen in love with the old stuff.”
I look right at Jackson—this is my olive branch. He rolls his eyes and slouches farther down into his chair, until his chin is resting on his chest. A stern humph from Jonathan has him sitting just a little higher, but as soon as his dad looks away he sinks back down again.
“That’s a nice sentiment, Charlotte,” the doctor says, “and a point well made. But this new stuff, as you say, may very well save this family. At the very least, it will help. The bulk of the work, though, of the camouflage, will come from you. That is why you’ll be training together for the rest of this week. Every day, after Charlotte is finished with her classes, she will join you for lunch or dinner and an evening of role-play. We will simulate various public family events that you may encounter upon arriving in the city.”
“What about the rest of today?” Jonathan asks.
“We’ll be here, getting to know one another in a safe environment. We will go over each of your backstories, embellishing them with the details that will make the Trevors come to life. It is not enough to know one another’s birthdays. You need to know what happened on one another’s birthdays. Did Charlotte have a sleepover party? Did Jackson get a video game last year for Christmas? These are the details you have to share with one another.”
“I don’t get it,” Jackson mumbles. Every head turns toward him.
Dr. Coustoff nods. “I’ll explain it a different way, then. Lives become believable when there are shared details to give them authenticity.”
“Still don’t get it.”
“What part don’t you get?”
“Her,” he says, pointing at me. I flush again and frown, slipping my left hand beneath my right arm and clamping down.
/> “Charlotte? What about her?”
“Why do we need to make up new stuff? Why can’t she just learn about us? I actually had a tenth birthday party. We went to laser tag, had pizza, and Matt Kroger threw up in the car on the way home. Make her learn that.”
I manage to smile stiffly. “It’s okay. I had a tenth birthday party, too. I wasn’t just animated from dead girl body parts yesterday.”
Nobody laughs. Nobody even acknowledges that I spoke. They’re all still drilling holes into Jackson with their eyes.
“Jackson,” Dr. Coustoff says softly, “those kinds of details—though precious memories, no doubt—are the very things that people might use to track you.”
Some kid puking in your car after laser tag is a precious memory? Okay, Doc.…
Jackson apparently doesn’t appreciate the doctor’s analysis, either, because he screams, “It’s not Jackson. It’s Lucas!”
He shouts this so loudly that I jump, and my left hand pops free of my armpit. Though everyone’s looking in horror at Jackson, I panic. Before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, a viper’s strike, and returns. Instantly I feel better, calmer, like I’ve just been sung a lullaby, heard a cat’s purr, and spent an hour on my therapist’s couch, all in the span of a second. I can breathe again. So it’s perfectly cool, and I’m perfectly in agreement when Dr. Coustoff tries to reason with Angrypants von Outbursten over there.
“Jackson, you have a right to be upset. No one here will tell you otherwise. However, you’re old enough now to accept the responsibilities that come with…”
clickaclicka
“… with your family’s position. For their sake and your own, the faster you come to grips with your situation…”
clicka … clickaclicka …
“… the faster … faster that…”
clickaclickaclicka …
“Wait … one moment. Charlotte, would you please stop clicking my pen?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I mutter, and then freeze. There, in my left hand, is Dr. Coustoff’s pen—the same one that about fifteen seconds ago resided quite happily at the top of her clipboard. Blushing furiously, I lean over and return it.
“Where did you get this, Charlotte?” she asks skeptically.
Sheepishly, I reply, “It must’ve fallen. There … there you go … oh, wait … yeah, there. Got it. All better. Carry on.”
I can see her wheels spinning, her eyes flickering from my hand, to the clipboard, to the floor, back to my hand. Still staring at me, Dr. Coustoff finally declares, “Actually, I think perhaps a break is in order. Why don’t we head to our rooms for a bit? It’s been a big morning. We’ll review our backstories in our folders, reconvene after lunch, say twelve thirty, and start with our role-plays.”
“Yes,” Harriet says, “I think that might be wise.” From what I can tell, she didn’t even register my theft of the pen. She’s still fuming at Jackson for his performance. Standing up, she takes him by the wrist and starts for the door. I rise and offer her a little wave. Though her brow is knitted and her nostrils flared, she nonetheless manages to sneak me the faintest of smiles. I’m still waving when Jonathan steps in front of me. He extends his hand, which I politely decline, and he claps me on the shoulder instead.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Charlotte, and I can’t wait to get together again after lunch, when hopefully your brother will be in a less sour mood.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “He’s going through a lot.”
“Aren’t we all!” he replies quickly. “Aren’t we all.”
“We’ll do it, though, Mr. Trevor.”
“Yes, Charlotte, I suspect we will.”
He claps me on the shoulder again and turns to go.
I exhale softly. This might have been the weirdest fifteen minutes of the weirdest three weeks of my life, but I got through it. As I grab my flowers and bury my nose in the petals of the yellow roses, I push the thoughts of Jackson and the pen out of my mind. I concentrate on the way my heart skipped a beat when I saw Harriet. I focus on Jonathan’s little message to me there at the end, and I smile. I have no idea if WITSEC’s plan will work, if I’m cut out for this, or if we’re doomed to fail like every other family I’ve ever been in.
What I do know, however, is that I’m not dreading twelve thirty, and that’s a start.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Places, Everybody. Places.
I should have been dreading twelve thirty.
It turns out that after lunch, I’m having lunch again—only this time, it’s fake. Dr. Coustoff and Janice lead me into a side room where they’ve set up a table like in a restaurant—checkered cloth, a little ceramic container of sugar and Equal packets, silverware and cups, and a single plastic tulip hanging limply from a vase. I’m the first there, so they tell me to wait, although they give me a menu to look at while I do.
“Before you make any snide remarks, Charlotte, that’s not an actual menu,” Janice explains. “This is a situational role-play to get you acclimated to spending time in public as a family. Inside that cover is your script, which we expect you to read line for line.”
“Yes, Deputy Marshal Stricker.”
“I wrote all the scripts for this week myself,” Dr. Coustoff declares. “I think you’ll be pleased, Charlotte. Adolescent socialization is one of my specialties.”
I smile and flip open the leather-bound menu. Sure enough, the first page is a cast of characters. Oh, good. I’m playing Charlotte Trevor. It actually says CHARLOTTE TREVOR played by CHARLOTTE TREVOR. Four lines beneath that, it says WAITRESS played by JANICE STRICKER. My smile widens, and I look up at the deputy marshal. She glowers at me and shakes her head. I just keep grinning.
The rest of my new family is a few minutes late, and they make an awkward entrance, stage left. They all squeeze through the doorway at the same time, with Jackson leading the way and a parent’s hand on either of his shoulders. I can tell by the scuffling walk and the way his nostrils are pulsing that Jackson received a talking-to. Harriet and Jonathan lead him directly up to me, so close that to avoid eye contact he’d have to look straight down at his shoes.
Which, of course, is precisely what he does.
“I’m sorry for before, Charlotte,” he drones. “I should not have said those things, especially since it disrespects the incredible sacrifice you have made on behalf of our family. You have my assurances that it won’t happen again.”
I’m almost tempted to sweep my hand above him, just to check for strings. Instead, I reply, “Thank you, Jackson. I understand.”
Both his parents nod, satisfied, and let go of his shoulders. As he’s wriggling free and dashing to the corner to wallow, he whispers, “No. You don’t.”
Before I can respond, Dr. Coustoff claps her hands twice and announces that it’s time to begin. As Harriet and Jonathan wrangle Jackson into his seat, I flip to the first page of the script and read the little italic stage directions.
Family of 4 sits at reasonably priced restaurant. It has been a long day, but they are happy to see one another. After they receive their drinks, Mr. Trevor addresses his children.
Jonathan blinks, and then he clears his throat. “Oh yes. This would be me, I guess. Ahem. Right,” he mutters, eyes scanning the text quickly while Dr. Coustoff spins her hands behind us to urge him on. “So, kids … how was your day at school?”
He smiles broadly and breathes a sigh of relief. The next line is mine.
“Thanks for asking, Daddy!” I read. “It was totes cray-cray!”
I only realize what I’m saying after I’ve said it, and I wince. Harriet forges on.
“Oh, Charlotte, you’re so silly,” she says woodenly, eyes riveted to the script.
I pause before reading my next line and look at Dr. Coustoff, who is beaming proudly and nodding to goad me on.
“No, Mom,” I manage to mutter. “For realz. It was sooooo obvz!”
“What does that mean?” Jonathan whispers to Jackson. His son doesn’t
respond, but he’s sitting up now, a weird smirk twitching at the side of his mouth. I think he’s starting to enjoy the awkwardness, at least the part where I get embarrassed.
Back on script, Harriet turns to Jackson and says, “Was yours the same, dear?”
Now it’s my turn to fight off a giggle. Jackson peers down at his menu, then gives Dr. Coustoff the pleading “Do I have to?” face. She nods vigorously.
“Yeah, Mom,” he growls, “it was…”
“Go on,” I say sweetly. “You can do it, Jackson.”
I feel a breeze tickle my ankle, the hem of my skirt swiped ever so softly. Yep. He just tried to kick me. I smile all the wider.
Huffing, he finishes, “It was … awesomesauce.”
I tilt my head toward him in mock appreciation, and he sinks back down in his chair, defeated. Score one for the older sister.
“Well,” Jonathan reads, “I’m glad to hear it. Work for me was just fine. We’re one step closer to consolidating the merger, and I got a promising text message from HR today. I think that promotion’s just around the corner. That’s why I brought you all out to celebrate!”
“That’s so boss!” Harriet exclaims. She starts to blush immediately and leans toward me. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. That was your line. Go ahead.”
Despite my little victory over Jackson, I can’t take any more of this. I put down my menu and wave Dr. Coustoff over.
“You’re doing great so far, Charlotte. All of you. How does it feel? Developing any of the family dynamic?”
“Dr. Coustoff,” I say gently, “it’s, um, a nice first try, really. And I appreciate that you’ve watched the Disney Channel, read Seventeen magazine, and maybe Googled the word tween, but I’m…”
How do I put this?
“… slightly worried about this dialogue.”
Dr. Coustoff rests a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry, Charlotte. I had four of the other marshals read it, and they all thought it was great!”
“Yeah,” I offer, “I’m sure they did. And that’s nice, really. But trying to write the way kids talk is kind of impossible. Anything you put in here will be out-of-date before people even get a chance to read it; we evolve faster than you can write. So if you want us to blend in, let us figure out what that means. That, Dr. Coustoff, will seem normal. Not crash-landing in an unfamiliar city, busting out of our UFO, and boldly speaking … whatever this is … to the natives. No offense.”
