by Jake Burt
* * *
Dear Deputy Marshal Harkness,
What a terribly pleasant surprise it was to see you and your beautiful son playing in Central Park yesterday! It warms my heart, Eddie, to see a man so invested in his job show the same dedication to his family. In fact, it led me to wonder: To which is this man more dedicated? If asked to choose, would he favor his government’s responsibilities, or his precious son’s safety? An intriguing question, don’t you think?
Very soon an opportunity will arise, Mr. Harkness, which will allow us to answer the conundrums above. A representative from my family will be in touch and will have a few questions for you. You may choose to answer them, or you may choose not to. I believe your son would urge you to answer the questions—perhaps he’d do so just after getting home from his pee-wee football practice, on Tuesday afternoons at 3:45 p.m., or maybe upon returning to New York after visiting his beloved granddad in his apartment on Communipaw Avenue in Jersey City. Yes, I believe your son would very much like his loving father to answer those questions.
If you choose not to answer the questions, or if you share this letter with anyone, I would be forced to visit you myself. The outcome of that meeting, I fear, would be unpleasant.
Most sincerely,
A friend
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Eye of the Storm
Math goes about as well as math can, I suppose. Mr. Alcontera shouts a lot, but he’s manageable. Turns out he declined getting a SMART Board or any other technology in his room—he’s paranoid that kids will calculate with something other than their brains. So I watch as my classmates march up to an actual chalkboard and crumble, smudge, and squeak their way to algebraic answers. I quickly realize the best way to pass the time is by counting the number of times Mr. Alcontera says the word algorithm. It beats looking up at my classmates, only to see them staring back—the ones from my homeroom especially. The sweaty-forehead boy, it turns out, sits right next to me, and he spends half of the period poking his pencil with his finger, letting it tumble to the ground like I’m going to snap my hand out and be his savior. Eventually it gets so annoying that I whisper, “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Cuss,” he replies.
I glare at him, and he elaborates.
“It’s a nickname. Short for Atticus.”
I shrug. “I guess that beats Tic … or Attic.” Thinking about it for a second, I shake my head. “Actually, no, it doesn’t.”
“Do the pencil thing!” he says eagerly, and flicks his to the ground.
“I don’t do requests,” I retort gravely, and then I tilt my head toward Mr. Alcontera, who is turning around again, adjusting his belt and scanning the classroom for his next volunteer. Cuss quiets down, but he doesn’t stop letting his pencil dribble to the floor every two minutes. By the time the period is up, I’m feeling a powerful urge to steal every dang pencil in the place, just to keep people from bugging me with them.
My next class is language arts. It’s always been my favorite subject, and the teacher has to be right. Now, I’m not asking for a storybook teacher like Miss Honey, Mrs. Jewls, or Ms. Frizzle—heck, I’d settle for a Lupescu, McGonagall, or Retzyl. But whoever it is has to let us read. I take a deep breath, swing the door open wide …
… and nearly get run over by a stampede of students headed out. Brit and I get swept up in the tide, and it’s all I can do to ask her what’s going on.
“Library day!” she mouths just before being backpack-battered away.
“Sweet,” I whisper.
The teacher, Ms. Drummond, is as no-nonsense as the rest of them; she’d do a decent Defense Against the Dark Arts class. She brings up the rear, stomping along to keep the herd moving. There are a few stragglers, but as far as I’m concerned, she needn’t bother. I’m scampering ahead to get to the library as fast as possible.
At first, I think I’ve accidentally entered an aquarium. There’s a huge circular fish tank in the center of a sunlit atrium, and its base is surrounded by a velvet-cushioned bench. More benches line the walls of the entryway, and several kids are reclining on them, the books in their hands held skyward like an offering to the sun. Past the fish—and a turtle, all native to North Carolina, a plaque says—the library opens up into one of the finest marvels I’ve seen. It’s two stories tall, with wooden spiral staircases in each corner. In the center is the circulation desk, and off to the right, a lushly carpeted reading corner. At the back, nuzzled between the shelves, are individual little carrels, each one boasting one of those bendable reading lamps, a flat-monitored computer, and a view out into the pine forest. And the shelves! There are dozens of them, each one labeled meticulously. It even smells like books—bindings, old dust, and new discoveries. I pause for a moment and just breathe.
By the time I’m done soaking it in, everyone else has already slipped silently into the stacks. No teacher gave instructions or groused about proper etiquette. They just did it on their own. Curious, I seek out Brit, who is trying to choose between two fantasy novels.
“Go with The Last Unicorn. It’s awesome,” I whisper.
Brit puts a finger to her lips, even though I was quiet. So softly that I have to turn my ear to her just to get anything, she replies, “What do you think?”
I take another look around. “This is like a church!”
“I told you we had awesome facilities. Wait ’til you see the computer lab.”
“Not gonna,” I say. “I’m never leaving this library.”
Brit giggles, which earns a disapproving glance from Cuss at the end of the row. Wow. Even he takes this place seriously.
“So what are we doing?” I ask.
“Just browsing. Once a week, Ms. Drummond brings us here. We get the entire period to just read or check stuff out.”
“Don’t mind if I do!” I smile, and Brit stifles another giggle as she watches me skip down the first row.
I reach out with both hands, pressing my fingertips to the spines of the books to my left and right. As I walk, I trace their shapes, feel their textures, and inhale their scents. When I reach an old friend, I stop and mouth the title to myself, letting the memories of all those adventures echo in my mind. I whisper hello to Bud (not Buddy), Tarzan, Gilly Hopkins, and Hugo Cabret and proudly let them know that I’m finally not the only orphan in the library without a tale to tell.
A few minutes of wandering leads me to the reading corner, and I notice there’s a bulletin board there. A couple of kids are looking at it, so I step in behind them to peek. In the top corner is a bubbled-lettered list of the “Academic Superstars” of the previous year; apparently, the students on the list got the top ten scores on last year’s EOG. We had tests like these in New York, but I’ve never been to a place that took them so seriously before. I guess if it gets Loblolly the funding for a library like this, I can understand. Still, that’s a lot of pressure.…
Farther along on the board, a familiar face beams at me. It’s a picture of Holly, and she’s holding up a pinecone in one hand and a miniature American flag in the other. The caption reads Holly Fiellera—Isn’t it time you had a friend on student council? Vote Holly, by golly! Below that is a countdown to election day, which is next week. I turn to one of the girls looking at the board and ask, “Who is Holly running against?”
The pigtailed girl smiles. “Oh, right. You’re new. Have you met Holly yet?”
I nod.
“Let me guess—she baked you cookies and threw a party to welcome you?”
Smiling, I say, “Cookies? There were supposed to be cookies? I think I got hosed.… She just volunteered to be my buddy.”
“Yep. That’s Holly. She’s running against a lot of people, only most don’t campaign like she does.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Yeah. Anyway, there are six student council members. It’s supposed to be two from each grade, but everyone can vote for anyone, and you get two votes. The student with the highest total overall be
comes student council president for that year.”
Hmmm. Holly didn’t list that one on her verbal résumé.
“Who else is running?” I ask.
“Why? You want to run?”
I laugh—I’m sure Janice would love that.
“No thanks,” I reply. “I’m Charlotte, by the way.”
“Like the city?”
“No, like the skating move.”
“Oh…” she says, perplexed. “Well, nice to meet you. I’m MZ. It’s short for Mary-Elizabeth, but everyone just calls me MZ.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Gonna keep checking out this sweet library.”
“I know, right?” she says, and we go our separate ways.
I use the rest of the time to commit the layout of the library to memory. I have a feeling this is going to be my happy place here at school, and I want to stake out which carrel will be my go-to spot, where my favorite authors live, and which seat is the comfiest. I also make note of the exits, and I decide this is a good place for Jackson and me to meet if something goes haywire. I wouldn’t have thought of these things last month, but in Charlotte’s reality, knowing where to hide is a thing.
In the end, I settle on a quiet little carrel nestled between L’Engle and McGraw. I’ve got C. S. Lewis and Lois Lowry in easy reach, the view out the window is peaceful, and nobody’s carved any inappropriate pictures into the surface of the desk. On the whole, I couldn’t ask for more. It almost makes me forget about the rocky start to my morning. Between my room at home, Brit’s comfy beanbag, and the library, I might just be able to make something of this place.
[BEGIN RECORDING]
* * *
Welcome back, Mr. Cercatore! Congratulations on your victory!
-Must all our conversations take place with that device on?
Come now, Mr. Cercatore. You know anything said here is protected by attorney-client privilege. And besides, I’d think a man of your talents and extremely impressive list of accomplishments would take it as an insult if his lawyer didn’t go to at least some lengths to protect himself. Consider it a compliment.
-I suppose you know why I am here.
I suppose I do. Your family has loose ends to secure, and nothing does that better than a button, am I right?
-Amusing.
I do try, Mr. Cercatore.
-…-
Yes, well … ahem. As per usual, I’m guessing you want as much plausible deniability as possible, Mr. Cercatore.
-Naturally.
That will be exceedingly difficult in this case. She is your sister, after all.
-They are my family, yes.
And are you sure you want to go through with this? That’s got to be tough–your own flesh and blood.
-…-
Right. Yes. Sorry I asked, Mr. Cercatore. Tell me, though: Have you found them yet? I suppose you’re calling house by house, if you have to. And what about when you do find them? Surely you know the trail will lead straight back to you.
-No. We have not found them. But we will. And when we do, I am certain that options will present themselves. All in due time.
* * *
[END RECORDING]
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Lunchroom
Entering the Loblolly cafeteria at lunchtime is a bit like stepping from a primeval forest into the New York Stock Exchange during a sell-off. In the corner, there’s one of those traffic signal noise monitors, the kind that switches from green to yellow and eventually to red when the decibel count reaches earsplitting. When I walk in, it’s as crimson as a tomato. Of course, that only makes it worse when above the din, a single sentence rings clarion-clear.
“Hey, it’s pencil girl!”
I watch as the traffic signal flickers for a second, then shifts to yellow, and then settles at green. When I look back at the tables, I see the eyes of every seventh grader at Loblolly Middle School locked on me. I can feel the blush in my cheeks firing up as fast as the signal winds down, and now I’m the one glowing red. I clutch at my skirt pleats and scan the crowd.
Thanks a million, Cuss.
I have only a fraction of a second to respond, and so I fall back on that old standby: I level a soul-crushing stare at Cuss, then roll my eyes and click my tongue disapprovingly. As I turn away, I brush an errant strand of hair behind my ear and shake my head. This is universal girl-speak for “Ugh. Boys are stupid.” When the cafeteria explodes into frenetic noise once more, I know it’s worked.
Once I’ve collected my green beans, grits, and … something else—stew? I think it’s stew?—I slip back into the lunchroom. I know that I should keep my cool, especially given my unique situation, but I can’t help it—my eyes dart frantically about the cafeteria for someone to sit with. Here, I’m grateful for my tray of whatsit, because if I wasn’t holding it I know I’d be tempted to nick the forks off the plates of everyone who walked by. After a couple of tense seconds, though, I spot Brit sitting alone at a circular table near the back windows. I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
As I’m dodging through tables and skirting around chairs, Brit sees me, too. She puts her spoon down, sweeps her hair from her eyes, and smiles. I return her grin, but then feel a tug at my sleeve. I can tell it’s going to be trouble before I even look down; Brit’s smile disappears instantly, and she practically buries her face in her food.
“Hey, you’re that girl from the mall, aren’t you?” a familiar voice says.
“Yeah, the one with BritGut!” another adds.
I grit my teeth, but at least manage to wipe the frown from my face before looking to my left.
“Oh, hi. Deidre, wasn’t it? And … friends. Nice to see you again.”
Deidre sizes me up quickly. Her eyes flick from my shoes to my lips to my hair to my earrings and back to my skirt before she decides I’ve passed the eyeball test. When she’s finished, she says, “Sit down and tell Bethanny here that there’s no way I stole her credit card at the mall. You were there. You saw us.”
God, Deidre is a pro.… She doesn’t even glance at Brit; I have to figure out the game from one of her other friends at the table, who hides her knowing, evil little smile behind her straw. If I sit down next to Brit’s mortal enemy, she has to watch as Deidre spends the next thirty minutes buttering me up, and I become one of her little Deidrettes. That, of course, isn’t happening.
“Actually, Deidre, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a thief. I mean, to afford that incredible Gucci bag you had? I was, like, totally jealous. You have great taste!”
Deidre beams, unable to avoid being pulled in by the irresistible magnetism of herself.
“So, yeah, I’m going to let you guys work out the who-stole-what thing,” I continue, “but enjoy your lunches!”
When I sit down across from Brit, she gasps. She was actually shaking a little, and it takes her a couple of seconds to pull her arms away from the hug she was giving herself.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I reply.
She exhales sharply and her whole face brightens. “I thought for a second there you were going to sit with Deidre.”
“We still can,” I joke, picking up my tray. “C’mon. We’ll see if she’ll let us lick her boots for dessert.… That is, if there’s anything left after her friends are done.”
Brit laughs, and we tuck into our lunches.
About midway through my green beans, a shadow falls over our table. Before I can swallow, the other six seats around us are filled, and there’s Holly, her yellow-and-blue lunch bag unzipped and handmade tortillas unrolled. Five other girls join her.
“Like, hey, Charlotte! I’m glad I found you! And hey, Britney!”
Brit glances nervously at all the sudden company but doesn’t say anything.
“Hey, Holly. Wow,” I say, “lots of people.”
She grins. “They’re my campaign managers. I’m running for student council this year. Elections are next week; we’re totally busy, but I’m your volunteer welcome buddy, so
I wanted to make sure you were having a super day!”
“So far, so good,” I reply. “And I heard about the election. Good luck!”
“Why, thank you so very much!” she exclaims, putting her hand atop mine. I pull back quickly, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “I was thinking, Charlotte. You said you wanted to join a club, and I have just the thing! After elections, there’s a group that forms. It’s called the student advisory committee. Basically, they help the student council by bringing stuff to our attention that we should talk to school administrators or the PTA about. Wouldn’t that just be perfect? There’s no pressure, and we’d get to work together!”
“Wait, why does there need to be a student advisory committee to tell the council about stuff when the council is made of students anyway?”
One of the girls, her hair in the most elaborate cornrows I’ve ever seen, says, “It’s one of those clubs kids form just so they can say they’re in a club. Holly started it last year when she didn’t win.”
“Tanika!” Holly gasps.
“What? It’s the truth. Anyway, it’s not a bad thing. I joined, and I had fun.”
Appeased somewhat, Holly says, “Anyway, Tanika is right. It’s a lot of fun. And if I win the election, there will be a vacancy. I could nominate you to fill it!”
“Sounds intriguing,” I admit. “But I’m kind of looking for something behind the scenes.”
“Oh, this is totally behind the scenes,” Holly assures me.
Tanika nods. “Yeah, trust me. Holly and the rest of the student council will be the ones front and center. She’s basically an attention sponge.”
Rather than seem insulted, Holly beams and nods. “Yep! It’s just … I need to win first.…”
