Greetings from Witness Protection!

by Jake Burt

  To my great relief, Jackson nods at my explanation. He may hate me and everything I represent, but he must detest having to say awesomesauce in front of an audience of adults more.

  Harriet doesn’t miss that little moment. “Dr. Coustoff,” she says, “my daughter is one hundred percent correct. We have to be able to figure some of this out for ourselves. Otherwise, we won’t seem authentic. And isn’t that the point?”

  She’s staring at me now, smiling softly. A strange, terrible, incredible feeling sweeps over me. It’s almost heart-stopping, and it brings tears to my eyes, which I blink away quickly. This woman I barely know, who looks like me, who agreed with me, just called me her daughter after knowing me for less than a day. I’m suddenly petrified by her, because it’s finally dawning on me what I’ve truly gotten myself into.

  Now, for the first time since my grammy died, I’ve got someone I don’t want to disappoint.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Durham Bound

  I’m quiet for the remainder of the rehearsal, which we ad-lib our way through. The rest of the week, I’m like a fanatic. I throw myself into every training exercise, every lesson with Janice. I actually know more about countersurveillance techniques than I do about algebra now. I’m seeing pages of Charlotte’s backstory in my sleep. Thanks to the daily dialect classes Jackson and I take, I’ve weeded most traces of New York from my vocab—I’m even calling a can of Sprite pop now without having to think about it. And it’s all because I’ve got this sudden weight behind me. It’s like an Indiana Jones boulder rumbling along as I scamper ahead. That normally wouldn’t be a problem—I’m generally pretty speedy in my own metaphors. However, in this one, I’m carrying the entire Trevor family on my back, and it feels like that stone is going to catch us any second. So when Janice announces that we’re meeting in our little room for the final debrief, I’m so hyper I can barely stand it.

  “Deputy Marshal Stricker, should I go over the rules one more time?” I ask as I twirl my pen around my fingers like a miniature baton.

  “No, Charlotte. You’ve recited them six times already this morning.”

  “What about more practice losing a tail? I’m basically a ninja in crowds, but what about if there aren’t many people around, and somebody sketchy is chasing me down the street? What do I—”

  “You could turn around and chat them to death,” Janice grumbles as she checks off boxes on a to-do list.

  “Hey!” I exclaim. “You made a joke! That’s awesome, Jan … I mean, Deputy Marshal. Granted, you’re trying to get me to shut up, but still, this is a breakthrough! I think that—”

  “Here,” Janice says, sliding a school health form across the table. “Sign this. You’ll need it on your first day at Loblolly.”

  I flick the cap off my pen so hard that it shoots away, pinging against the wall. Sheepishly, I glance up at Janice, but she’s peering at another piece of paper. “By the way, Deputy Marshal Stricker,” I say as I scrawl out my new name, “I wanted to thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let the Trevors down. Or you. I won’t let you down, either. I’ve been working really hard, and I know our backstories as well as I do my own life. I’ve got Charlotte Ashlynn Trevor memorized but good.”

  “Next form.”

  She pushes another sheet toward me. It looks like there are fifty more where that came from. I continue to chatter as I sign page after page. She may think that she’s wearing me out with all this paperwork, but I’m still bouncing around like a bug in a stiff breeze.

  “I’ve been thinking, Deputy Marshal,” I buzz, “and I’m pretty sure this is the best thing that could have happened to me. I mean, it’s direction, right? Everyone needs direction. And you’re right. This really is up my alley. Not that I hang out in alleys. That’d be all shifty.”

  I fling another form into the “signed” pile and reach for three more. However, before I can finish the first flourish, Janice stands up and circles the table. She leans over me, her forehead inches from mine. Then she reaches down and grabs my shoulders.

  “Stop, Charlotte. Just stop. Breathe.”

  “Um, I’m … breathing, Deputy Marshal Stricker.”

  She locks gazes with me.

  “Slow your head down, child.”

  “But we need to get all this done by—”

  “No, you need to slow down. Look, I’ve never seen anyone work harder than you have this week, Charlotte. Not any kid, not any adult. You keep pushing yourself, you’re going to make a mistake, and as your contact, I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “But the Trevors are relying on me to—”

  She squeezes my shoulders a little harder. “You are a Trevor, Charlotte. That’s what you need to focus on. Not thanking me, or losing tails, or reviewing rules we already know you’ve memorized.”

  “I’m scared, Janice.”

  Well, that just sort of popped out. I meant to say excited, or maybe ready.… but scared? I almost take it back, but the more it hangs there, the more it seems true. Janice purses her lips and squints, like she’s looking for something in the small space between us.

  “Scared of the Cercatores?”

  “No,” I say quickly, but realize that’s not quite right. “Well, yes. But that’s, like, a faraway fear, like cancer or killer bees. I know they’re dangerous, and I know they could be just around the corner, but I’m not obsessed with them, not fearing they’re under my bed or behind that door. I’m worried that I’m not going to be able to do this.”

  Janice nods. “It was the same for me when I first joined the marshals. It wasn’t the criminals out there. It wasn’t the murderers, or the kidnappers, or the mob bosses. What made my skin crawl, turned my dreams into nightmares, made me work myself to exhaustion, was the fear of failure. That’s what you’re feeling now.”

  “Are you saying we’re kind of … alike?”

  She draws back, exhaling sharply. “I wouldn’t go that far, Charlotte. But I do think you’re starting to appreciate the responsibility we’ve asked you to accept, and that’s a step in the right direction. It’s … encouraging.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Marshal.”

  “It makes me feel a little less uneasy about giving you this.”

  I watch as she reaches down into the black duffel beneath her chair. She pulls out a package wrapped in plain brown paper.

  “Did you buy me a present?” I ask skeptically.

  “No. Got it from the supply room. But from what I saw this week, what I’m hearing now, I think you deserve it. Being standoffish, mouthy, and unruly does not inspire confidence, but hard work and well-placed fear does. So take it. Hide it. You don’t have a permit for it in North Carolina, so keep it at home and understand it is only for the direst emergency.”

  I gasp. “Janice, you didn’t…”

  “Actually, Charlotte, I did.”

  I peel the paper away carefully, just enough to reveal the box art for an official U.S. marshal’s Taser. I nearly drop it, I’m shaking so badly. Janice has turned her attention back to the paperwork, but she says over her shoulder, “No thank-yous. No ridiculousness. Just promise me you’ll never, ever use it, unless absolutely necessary.”

  “I promise, Deputy Marshal,” I spout. “Thank you! Er, I mean, no thank you. Or … wait…”

  “You leave for North Carolina in three days, which gives us enough time for only a few training sessions. Three days to prove you can handle it.”

  “I will,” I say quietly. Popping open the box, I see the black-and-yellow plastic of the barrel. The whole thing is incredibly light, and only about ten inches long. Whispering down into the box reverently, I murmur, “I shall call you Glamdring, Foe-hammer that the king of Gondol—”

  “Charlotte! Don’t name your Taser.”

  “But…”

  “No!”

  “Yes, Deputy Marshal,” I say, chastened.

  We get back to signing, and I’m on my thirty-fifth form or so, the Taser tucked beneath my seat, when I have an ep
iphany. I put down my pen and look at Janice.

  “What, Charlotte?”

  I smile and just keep staring.

  “No, seriously, what is it, Charlotte? We don’t have time for games.”

  I give it a few more seconds and then whisper, “You watched the videos, didn’t you? You did! Did you see the one of all the police and army guys taking it right between the shoulder blades? They all make these hilarious pinchy faces.…”

  She rolls her eyes, but as she turns away, she makes a little noise in her throat.

  “Was that … was that a laugh?”

  “Mind your own business, Charlotte.”

  “You laughed! You totally laughed!”

  Janice grabs the stack of forms, pulling them into a pile and bouncing them ruthlessly on the tabletop to force them to fall in line. Then her eyes snap back to me.

  “Don’t make me regret giving you that.”

  I put my hands up, surrendering. “Yes, Deputy Marshal.”

  * * *

  Janice makes good on the Taser training, even though I never actually get to fire one. Halfway through, I think she’s trying to punish me for the YouTube clips, because for every one of those I’ve seen, it seems like Janice finds a technical video that’s eye-wateringly, soul-crushingly boring: The history of the Taser. The proper way to grip a Taser. How to reset and reload a Taser. A virtual tour of a Taser factory. I swear, I’ve had substitute social studies teachers who have shown fewer videos.

  By the time the training is over, I’m glad I hid Glamdring away, just so I don’t have to read the safety warnings again. It gets packed with the rest of our things as Janice and I load box after box onto our moving truck. When we’re through, we shove the ramp underneath the truck and close the rear door. Just as we slam it into place, the rest of my new family arrives, all wheeling small blue suitcases behind them. It’s a warm day even for Georgia, and Harriet is wearing a broad sun hat and stylish sunglasses. My eyes widen as I see that she’s now a blonde, her hair the color of honey. It makes me wonder why the marshals didn’t ask me to dye my hair. Maybe because the Cercatores don’t know me anyway. Or maybe because they sensed I’d fight them on it tooth and nail.

  Jonathan has a newspaper rolled up under his left arm and his phone against his ear. From the sound of it, he’s talking to his new employer—“Starting next week,” “A corner cubicle will be fine,” “Yeah, I’ll fax it over as soon as we arrive”—that sort of thing. Jackson is looking at the pavement, little headphone buds shoved so far into his ear canals that I think he might have tied them into a knot right where his cerebellum should be.

  I give Harriet a hug, and Jonathan offers me a wave with his newspaper—he’s picked up on the no-handshakes thing. I force a smile at Jackson, but he doesn’t respond. I think his strategy is to deny my existence. That’s good. I can have a lot of fun with that one.

  “Hey, Jackson!” I shout, interposing myself between him and the truck. “Whatcha listening to?”

  “None of your business!”

  “Now, now, Jackson. Rule five!” I tease. I grab at the cord for one of his earbuds and manage to yank it from his ear. As he reaches up to try to stop me, my left hand flashes and pulls the other one free.

  “Why are you being such an annoying tweak, Charlotte?” he huffs. Not sure what a tweak is, but he says it with enough venom that I’m pretty sure it isn’t good.

  “I’m your older sister now, Jackson! This is what older sisters do, especially if their younger brothers just ignore them and sulk around on what’s supposed to be a big, new day. We’re moving to North Carolina, man. Your mom is, like, Wonder Woman, your dad is cool, and you’ve got me now! Lighten up!”

  I totally realize I’m being mean—“lighten up” was a low blow. Jackson has earned two or three months of moping cred at least, given what he’s had to leave behind because of his mom’s decision. Still, I’m too excited to stop, and how else will I know if light teasing cheers him up? It’s worked with other foster brothers I’ve had, and I’ve been pulled out of a funk or two when Emmy pointed out my drama-queening.

  Unlike Jackson, apparently.

  He crams the earbuds back in, shoots me a look, and shoves his way toward the car.

  We’ve been given a used Prius by the marshals, a nondescript four-door. It’s silver and so terribly usual that I don’t think they could have designed better urban camouflage. It’s got Ohio plates with the words Beautiful Birthplace of Aviation stenciled across the top, along with a cute little biplane hanging in the sky over an aw-shucks farmstead.

  I point to the back bumper. “Isn’t that the Wright Flyer? I thought our new state was where the first flight happened.”

  “That is the Wright Flyer, Charlotte,” Jonathan explains. “And you’re right. The Wright brothers tested their plane at Kill Devil Hills in North Carolina. But they lived and worked in Ohio. I guess both states can claim to be first in flight, or the birthplace of aviation.”

  “North Carolina’s not jealous, is it? Nobody’s going to freak out if we say we’re from Ohio?”

  “I don’t anticipate so. They’re far more likely to freak out if you say you’re a North Carolina Tar Heels fan. Duke University and UNC are huge rivals.”

  “And we’re moving to the Dukey part of North Carolina?”

  That came out wrong. Jonathan seems not to notice.

  “Yes. Maybe when you and Harriet go clothes shopping—”

  “I should pick up a Duke sweatshirt or two?” I ask, and he nods.

  Janice hands Harriet and me new phones. She tries to give Jackson one, too, but it’s clearly not as fancy as his other one, and he turns his shoulder away without even saying “thanks but no thanks.” I do a quick check on mine. It’s got Jonathan’s, Harriet’s, and Janice’s numbers preprogrammed in, but that’s about it. Still, it’s nice to have, and I squirrel it away into my bag while Janice uploads the directions to Harriet’s and Jonathan’s phones.

  We decide that Jonathan and Jackson will take the truck while Harriet and I lead the way in the Prius. Jackson actually suggests the arrangement, and he makes no attempt to hide his reasoning; he simply refuses to ride with his mom. Harriet sighs, and Jonathan opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then shakes his head and offers Harriet a kiss on the cheek. Whatever he was going to say has probably already been said, and screamed, and begged, and threatened. I try to lighten the mood by clapping excitedly, and I scurry over to the car, calling out, “You can pick the first song, Harriet!”

  In the rearview, I watch Jonathan kiss Harriet again, this time on the forehead. Harriet seizes Jackson before he can slink off, and she gives him a long hug, his own arms dangling limply at his sides. Finally, he squirms away, stalking toward the truck and straightening his shirt.

  “He’ll get over it,” I offer as Harriet slips into the driver’s seat.

  She takes a long time to respond, instead fiddling with her seat belt, the height of the steering wheel, and the AC. Once she finally does, she just says, “He’s young.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I know what that’s like.”

  I manage to coax a smile out of Harriet, and that gets her talking. I learn a lot about the real Harriet—that is, Elena—in that first hour of driving. Both her family and Pietro’s came over from Italy about a hundred years ago; they are both third-generation Italian-Americans. That background is why her grand-uncle, the head of the Cercatore family, consented to the marriage. The way she describes it, it sounds like some sort of arranged deal, but she makes sure to mention repeatedly that she is in love with Jonathan, and deeply: She never would have had the conviction to testify against her family without his support. It makes total sense to me, and I wonder what I could do with someone caring about me like that.

  After we cross into South Carolina, the subject turns to me. Harriet asks about where my actual (former? real? I’m not sure what to call it) name comes from, and all about what I like and don’t like. She pointedly avoids qu
estions about my birth parents or my foster experiences. Mostly, it’s just silly little questions. It’s fun, and it turns into a kind of game.

  “Cats or dogs?” she asks midway through our rapid-fire round.

  “Cats. I can’t stand dogs.”

  “Why not?”

  “Slobbery.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Dark or milk?” I shoot back.

  “You’re talking to an Italian woman here, Charlotte. It’s not that simple for us. Chocolate is an art form. Making it that cut-and-dry is like asking Michelangelo whether he liked blue or red better. He’d reply, ‘Which shades?’ and ‘For what purpose?’ and ‘In what light?’ Do you see?”

  I hold up my hands. “I see, I see! But let’s say you just had a terrible day, and your choice is a Hershey bar or dark chocolate. What then?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” she responds wryly. “I actually thought you were going to ask me a legitimate question.”

  I giggle. “Yeah, I’m kidding.”

  “Then that one doesn’t count. Ask a new one.”

  “Favorite color?”

  She thinks for a moment. “I wonder if I should change it.… It’s emerald green, but I’ve always been partial to royal blue, too.” She wistfully holds out her left hand, fingers extended. At first, I think she’s trying to block a bit of glare from the windshield, but then I realize she’s looking at her engagement ring. When she speaks again, there’s a touch of melancholy in her voice. “They gave me a new one, you know. My actual engagement ring is in my jewelry box, buried in the truck. A tiny marquise surrounded by emeralds. Pietro … that is, Jonathan … he knew they were my favorites. Now I have these.…” She flicks at the new rings with the curled tip of her pinkie.

  “Lemme guess,” I say, “rhinestones?”