Greetings from Witness Protection!

by Jake Burt

  She punctuates that last statement by reaching into her lunch bag and pulling out a paper plate wrapped in cellophane. She sets it down in front of me and peels off the plastic.

  “By the way, I plumb almost forgot. I made you cookies to welcome you to Loblolly!”

  “Whoa,” I mutter. “Good call, MZ.…”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just said thank you. For the cookies, and for letting me know about the student advisory committee. It sounds like a great opportunity.”

  “Yep! Sure is! Let’s just hope I win! I mean, I can count on your vote next week, right, Charlotte?”

  I take a smiley-face-frosted sugar cookie from the plate and salute with it. “Sure thing, Holly,” I reply.

  “Great! Well, it was awesome chatting with you. I have another club meeting now, but I’ll see you in Latin class. Take care!”

  Holly’s entourage leaves with her, and Brit and I watch her go. We finish the rest of our lunches in relative peace—it was actually chili, not stew—and toss our trays. Brit heads out toward the classrooms on the other side of campus, and I pause to check my map. When I look up, I’m surprised to see Deidre and company in front of me.

  “That was, like, super charitable of you, sitting with Gut at lunch today.”

  “Um, thanks?” I reply, and I casually start walking toward … well, somewhere. I figure I’ll get away and reorient myself from there. Unfortunately, Deidre matches my pace, her perfect bun bobbing as she walks.

  “So anyway, Charlotte, was that Holly I saw you talking to over there?”

  “Sure was.”

  “What about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “The student council election. Why?”

  “Ugh!” She groans, and her posse shares it around. Once the chorus quiets, Deidre continues, “I knew it. You know she’s only being nice to you to get your vote.”

  I shrug. “She seems sincere to me. And hey, I got cookies, so, bonus!”

  “Well, anyway, friend,” she says, teasing that word out as she glances back at the other girls, “you know you can sit with us any time you want. And by the way, I’m running for student council, too. Holly’s not the only one who controls things around here.”

  “I can … see that?” I murmur.

  Deidre nods. “Science, right? That’s where we’re going, too. It’s over here.”

  Having no other choice, I walk with Deidre, and after the requisite Hi-I’m-Charlottes, the teacher plunks me down next to her. I spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Deidre whisper about Holly, about the election, and about how she is so totally and for sure not a thief. That one, at least, I’ll give her—we thieves are generally less devious and manipulative.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  How Do I Kill Thee? Let Me Count the Ways.

  By the time we meet Harriet in the parking lot after school, I’m ready to fall asleep with the window down, just listening to the car speed past the trees. Jackson seems similarly beat; he’s dragging his backpack along behind him, leaving a sluglike path through the pine needles. Harriet, on the other hand, is twitching with excitement.

  “So, how was it? First day of school!”

  “Fine,” we both say in unison. I don’t even have the energy to call jinx.

  “Just fine? Come on! How were classes? Are your teachers nice? Did you make friends? Are you going to be happy there?”

  “Just drive, Mom,” Jackson mutters, his head lolling back.

  Harriet inhales sharply and starts the car. As we pull out, her fingers start drumming on the wheel.

  “Seriously?” she presses. “That’s it? Come on! Each of you tell me one awesome thing about today.”

  I yawn. “The library is really cool,” I manage.

  “Thank you, Charlotte! What about it is cool?”

  “I dunno. Stuff.”

  That’s really all my brain can manufacture right now, though this conversation is familiar. Other “parents” have asked me these questions before, and I’ve answered in the same way. I think sometimes they forget that kids are putting on performances all day, just acting like the people we think we are until, like, ten years from now, when we figure out who that actually is. At least I had my personality handed to me in a file.

  “Well, maybe this will brighten your spirits. The cable company came, and we’re all hooked up for TV and internet.”

  “That’s … yeah … that’s good,” I reply as my cheek slides down the seat belt. Next thing I know I’m blinking prickles of sunlight out of my eyes and staring up at my maple tree. Harriet has already opened the passenger door and grabbed my backpack. With limbs like lead, I crawl out of the car, trudging my way up the steps.

  It takes a snack, six splashes of cold water to the face, and nearly falling over in my chair to get through my homework, but I manage. The math in particular takes twice as long as it otherwise would—I have to answer all the questions correctly, then go back through and change just enough of them to get a B-minus. What’s worse, we have to show our work, so I can’t just erase a two in my answer and replace it with a seven. I’ve got to get under the hood of the problem and mess with the wiring. I will admit that by the end, I think I’ve learned the quadratic equation better than I would have if I was just blitzing through the worksheets.

  A quick call downstairs reveals that dinner’s not quite ready yet, so I finally have some time for me. I arrange a few things in my room, pick out my outfit for tomorrow (more black and green. Yay!), and carefully take Harriet’s jewelry from my top drawer. I look at the ring in particular as I lie on my covers. The rhinestone catches the light from the window. It’s technically not a diamond, but it still sparkles like one: Little motes of light, each one a spectrum, dance around on my arms, on my pillow, on me. It would look good on Harriet’s finger.

  A wave of guilt rolls over me. It feels just like getting carsick.

  I glance over at Fancypaws, who gives me the old button-eye stare. She still doesn’t seem too happy with her perch on the bedside table. Next to her is my new tennis ball, and I grab it. Holding the jewelry in one hand and the ball in the other, I start my routine. It’s harder, since my bed isn’t nearly as close to the ceiling as my bunk back at the Center, but I still get a pretty good rhythm going.

  Well, at least until Jackson bangs on my door.

  “Stop it with that noise!” he yells. “I’m trying to do my homework!”

  “What noise?” I ask just before I fire the tennis ball at the ceiling again.

  “That one! That bouncing noise! It’s like a jackhammer!”

  “Ohhhhh,” I go on, “you mean this one?”

  I give it five more good throws.

  “Yes!”

  “Okay!” I shout, and I replace the ball, the ring, and the bracelet, making sure the two stolen items are well hidden. Another surge of guilt wells up, but I suppress it. When I open the door, Jackson is still there, his face scrunched like that of a bulldog trying to get the last bit of peanut butter out of a jar.

  “What were you doing, anyway?”

  “Practicing.”

  “Practicing what?”

  “Is dinner ready?” I ask, ignoring his question. The smell coming from downstairs is quite intriguing—something rich and spicy. My unease is swiftly overruled by hunger. I slip past and race downstairs, with Jackson tromping after me.

  Harriet is putting plates on the big coffee table in front of the TV, and Jonathan scoops lasagna onto each one. They both smile when they see me. Harriet looks so happy, and Jonathan, too, that I banish any last wisp of a thought about bringing up my secret; whatever good I might do for my own conscience surely wouldn’t be worth ruining this moment. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  “This is a family specialty,” Jonathan explains. “There are four kinds of meat in here!”

  I nod appreciatively—it looks delicious, and I’d settle for anything that wasn’t mango, uncertain stew, or sacrificia
l pig.

  “I hope you don’t mind—we watch the news while we eat dinner,” Harriet says.

  Jonathan continues, “Yes … it’s not that we’re trying to be antisocial, but we’ve been a little obsessed with the news ever since this whole ordeal started.”

  I shrug, find a spot on the big blue recliner, and pull up my legs to sit crisscross. Harriet hands me a bowl of salad, and I dig in.

  “How’d homework go?” Jonathan asks, balancing his plate and bowl on the arm of the couch.

  I twist a forkful of spinach around. “So-so. We’ll see if I actually pulled off a B-minus.”

  “About that…” Harriet says ominously. “Jonathan and I have been talking, and we’ve come to a decision.”

  Jackson freezes, a steaming dollop of lasagna poised inches from his mouth. I hear him whisper, “Oh no…”

  “Oh no?” I echo. “What’s ‘oh no’? Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Char,” Jonathan says. He’s smiling like a doctor trying to hide a tetanus needle. “Your mother and I have decided that we’d like you to show us all the homework and tests you get back from your teachers at school.”

  I nod congenially. “No sweat. I’ll just give you my folder when—”

  Jonathan cuts me off. “So we can have you redo them properly afterward.”

  “I knew it!” Jackson growls. “I knew you’d do something like this!”

  “You know how important school is to your father and me,” Harriet says, her voice as soothing as she can make it.

  “Char, you understand, right?” Jonathan asks hopefully.

  I put down my fork. “Not gonna lie, Dad. That sucks a little.”

  “It sucks a lot!” Jackson yells. “And he’s not your dad!”

  “Oooh, hey!” I say. “Jackson and I agreed on something! Not, you know, the dad thing … but about the sucking of your plan! We should celebrate by not having to redo all our schoolwork!”

  “It’s not a discussion, kids. You’ll do it, and we’ll check it. It’s a time commitment for us, too.”

  Waving my spinach wand for emphasis, I counter with, “Yeah, but if we double down on our homework, we’re likely to get significantly smarter. And if we do that, it’ll be twice as hard to hide our brilliance at school. Soon enough we’ll be making honor roll, winning geography bees, giving valedictorian speeches, and facing the eternal, hell-fiery wrath of Deputy Marshall Stricker.”

  “Charlotte!”

  I shrug. “Just sayin’.”

  “Well, you can stop sayin’. It’s final.”

  “Wait, just so we’re clear, does this family go with the ‘ask again in two weeks’ version of ‘final,’ or the final ‘final’? It’s helpful to know in advance.”

  “Final-final…” Jackson mutters, and it’s clear from the angle of his eyebrows that he means it.

  “Fine,” I add, mollifying myself with some lasagna.

  Jonathan fiddles with the new TV for a few minutes before he figures out which of our five hundred channels broadcasts local New York news. My ears perk at the mentions of traffic on the Tappan Zee, rescheduled Moon Festival activities in Chinatown, and the shellfish situation in the Sound. It’s comforting, in a way, to have that connection back to the City, but I’m not holding out hope that a picture of Emmy or Wainwright will flash on the screen.

  Really, it’s just as interesting to watch my family as it is to watch the TV. Every time a story switches, every time a new headline flashes on-screen, they lean in, unblinking. When they find out it’s not about the Cercatores, they slouch, allowing forks to find food again. They keep up this rhythm until the anchor says, “And turning to legal news, an apparent prosecutorial error in the ongoing Cercatore case has led to a significant development.…”

  Utensils clatter to plates. Harriet puts hers down entirely and scoots out from under Jonathan’s arm. In fact, she’s so tense that I’m not sure she’s sitting on the couch at all anymore; it’s like she’s hovering just above it, every muscle locked and eyes narrowed.

  “While ADA Petersen has criticized the defense for hanging its strategy here on a technicality, Judge Lin sided with the defense in its motion to dismiss all charges. As a result, Arturo Cercatore, the man authorities have taken to calling ‘The Bard,’ has escaped conviction. Here he is on the courthouse steps.…”

  “Damnit!” Harriet shouts, slamming her hand down on the ottoman in front of her. It shocks Jackson so badly he tosses his lasagna in the air. I watch it soar upward and then break apart like an asteroid hurtling through Earth’s atmosphere on its way down. Jackson tries to maneuver his plate underneath to catch all of it, but little meteors of cheesy meat and pasta pepper his pants.

  Jonathan hovers ineffectively between rubbing his wife’s shoulder and paper-toweling his son’s clothes. I’m paralyzed, just watching the spectacle. Arturo’s face is still on the screen. He’s a young man with a thick, shaggy mane of black hair. It’s in weird opposition to the flamboyance of his suit, which features a purple silk scarf and matching pocket handkerchief. His strong chin and thick lips give him an air of power, but the gray of his eyes is the most startling. Whereas Harriet’s eyes are tempestuous, Arturo’s are all about distance. Even in the close-up shot, it seems like he doesn’t care about anything.

  Or anyone.

  We watch the rest of the news in silence, and after Jonathan has cleared the dishes and Jackson has stalked off to change his clothes, it’s only Harriet and me. I start to stretch a foot toward the floor, thinking I’ll slink away as well, but Harriet sits forward abruptly. With her head lowered, fingers rubbing at her temples, she says, “He’s my brother.”

  “Jackson’s uncle?” I ask, and she nods.

  “Yes, though Arturo would never care about something like that.”

  “He knows you testified?”

  “Oh yes,” she confirms. “And if he’s free, we’re in greater danger than we ever were before.”

  “Why?” I dare to ask.

  “Arturo is the head button for the family, and he loves it. Or, rather, I guess he doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t even think twice about it.”

  “Button?”

  “Hit man. Assassin.” She moves her fingers from her temples to her forehead and covers her face. “God, I was afraid of this.”

  “How could they let him go? I mean, you told them he was a killer, right?”

  “Of course I told them,” she laments. “Much good it did, though. He’s The Bard. He’s always got an answer.”

  “The Bard?” I ask. “Like Shakespeare?”

  “He’d get a kick out of that, I’m sure. But no. It’s a nickname the media gave him after his fourth acquittal. It’s an acronym that stands for ‘Beyond a Reasonable Doubt,’ as in precisely what no prosecutor has ever been able to prove. He’s as careful as he is ruthless, Charlotte, with an angle and an escape for every situation.”

  “Will he come after us?”

  “I’m almost certain he’ll try—if my family is going to send anyone, it’d be Arturo. In fact, if he’s not on the trail already, it’s only because he hasn’t decided how he’ll get away with it yet.”

  “But he’s your brother! Maybe he’ll ignore their commands and leave you alone?”

  Harriet laughs, but it’s not because she thinks my idea is funny.

  “For Arturo, I’m afraid the promise of blood is more powerful than blood, if you follow my meaning,” Harriet says, shuddering. “Of all my relatives, I fear Arturo the most. We all should.”

  It was one thing when the Cercatores were just an idea, were just the bogeymen up north. Now that they have a name, a face, and soulless eyes, it seems much more real.

  “He’d kill us all, wouldn’t he?” I whisper gravely.

  “In un baleno,” she replies. “In a heartbeat.”

  * * *

  To: Stricker.Janice@usdoj.gov

  From: Trevor.Charlotte@usdoj.gov

  Subject: AC?????

  Dear Deputy Marshal
Stricker,

  How are things in Georgia? We’re settling in okay in North Carolina. We got our internet up and working, obviously, and today was our first day of school. It went all right. I’m doing a decent job of making friends; I think it’s actually helping that I’m not trying too hard. There’s one girl who I think will be a really good friend, and a few more who I met are nice. I’ve also got the inside track on my sport and on my club. Classes will be fine, too.

  I wanted to let you know we saw a news report tonight that really freaked us out. H’s brother is free. I’m sure you guys are up on the news, so no big surprise, but just in case, I thought I’d send along the information. Maybe y’all (see? I’m getting the hang of this already!) could keep an extra-close eye on him?

  Say hi to Eddie for me!

  Also, if we promise not to tell each other where we are, can I write to Erin or A.J.? It’d be cool to have someone else to talk to about all this.

  Anyways, I hear the phone ringing. Gotta go answer it. Write back if you can.

  Thanks,

  N/C

  * * *

  To: Trevor.Charlotte@usdoj.gov

  From: Stricker.Janice@usdoj.gov

  Subject: Emergencies Only!!!!!!

  Charlotte,

  As you have already been informed, this e-mail address is for emergencies only. Do not write again unless you have identified a pressing threat to the Trevor family.

  We are aware of the AC situation.

  No, you may not write to Erin or A.J.

  —JS

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Deidre for the Block, Charlotte for the Steal, Holly for the Win

  It turns out Janice was spot-on about Loblolly’s sports prowess; the girls’ basketball team is so terrible that I don’t even need to try out. I just walk into the gym teacher’s office, ask about basketball, and they’re handing me a uniform. Two days after that, and I’m in my first scrimmage. I score two points and do absolutely nothing worthy of any attention. The coaches are super impressed that I know how to dribble, though. Guess that tennis ball work helped.