by Jake Burt
The sixth grader stands there stammering, “But … but that wasn’t mine! I didn’t … didn’t…”
I gasp innocently, my non-mustard hand over my mouth.
“Pick it up, kid!” the eighth grader yells as his gaze bounces from the accident to me and back to the accident. The poor little kid fumbles around with the carton, and while he does get it off the ballot box, he ends up sploshing the rest of it on his shirt.
“Awwww, man…” he grumbles as he runs off to find the closest sink. “Not again!”
“Again?” I whisper, but I don’t have time to ponder the boy’s ill fortunes. The attendant is staring at the box, frozen, a hand pressed to his forehead.
“Whaddawedo? Whaddawedo?!?” he shouts.
“Quick!” I respond. “Open the box! Save the ballots!”
He grabs the lock, fiddles with the dial, and pops the thing off in one smooth rip. Milk cascades onto the table and the floor as he springs open the box. We both grab for the soggy ballots, but I let him nab the top ones; I figure the stack of forged slips has to be farther down. He takes ten or so; I grab about fifty.
“Check to see if they’re still readable,” I say, and I fly through each one, passing them back to the attendant after I make sure they’re not Deidre’s planted papers. He’s shaking off the wettest of the ballots, trying to decipher the names. I figure I have at least another twenty seconds with my stack.
Fortunately, I need only five—the Holly/Holly ballots are still bunched together, and I count them all out before sticking them in my hoodie. I’ll need to wash it later to get the chocolate milk out of my pockets, but a quick glance at the eighth grader shows me my ploy was successful.
“There,” I say. “All these are still good.”
I pass him a big spaghetti-tangle of ballots just as he carefully replaces the last of his into the box. He breathes a sigh of relief, closes the box, and gives me a suave smile.
The results are announced during an assembly at flex time. We’re all packed into the gym, and Miss Treadway, our business-suited, silver-haired principal, with Mr. Jessup to her right, reads off the names of the winners.
“Andrew Chissolm, sixth grade!”
A cheer erupts from the sixth-grade section.
“Megan Gillette, seventh grade!”
Our turn to applaud—Megan, from what I know, crushes math tests, captains the tennis team, and, if the rumors are true, has a boyfriend at another school. A perfectly reasonable choice.
“Deidre Mendelbaum, seventh grade!”
It’s easy to spot Deidre, since everyone’s head turns toward her at the exact same time. She waves and smiles, though it might also be a wince, since she didn’t win president. I applaud just like everyone else. I don’t think she bothers to look at me.
“Derrick Carver, eighth grade!”
This receives a thunderous ovation. Football player, maybe?
“Eduardo Perez, eighth grade!”
Another roar. Brit leans in and says, “He was Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls last year,” as if that explains everything.
“And your student council president for the upcoming year will be…”
We all lean forward, craning our necks as if getting physically closer will let the announcement hit our ears that much quicker.
“Holly Fiellera! Congratulations, Holly, and congratulations to all our council members. I look forward to working with you this year to uphold Loblolly’s traditions of student pride and academic excellence! We’ll dismiss by grade.…”
Cheering and relative chaos ensues. While most people are clamoring for a look at Holly’s joyous, gracious celebrating, I’m zeroed in on Deidre. She’s sitting cross-legged, clapping with just two fingers against her palm. Her mouth is pursed into a little bee-stung button, and she’s glaring at her clique. I can’t help but smile, and when I finally do catch a glimpse of Holly, she meets my gaze and mouths, “Thank you!”
I nod and wave in reply, my hands completely clean.
* * *
{INCOMING CALL – 5:47 pm}
Hello, Trevor residence. Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?
Hellooooooo? Huh … [Call Disconnected]
{INCOMING CALL – 7:51 pm}
Hello, Trevor residence. Hello? Look, if you’re talking, I can’t hear you. Hello? Geez … [Call Disconnected]
{INCOMING CALL – 8:32 pm}
Okay, look. You really need to stop calling. Either your phone isn’t working, or you’re being intentionally creepy. Either way, we’re not picking up the phone again. {Who is it, Charlotte?} I don’t know. Probably some stupid machine. Maybe we should check in with … [Call Disconnected]
* * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jackson’s Dangerous
“Wow! That’s a lot of B-minuses!”
I look up from my carrel, where I’ve got five tests splayed out. The last six weeks have been tense; in addition to scaring ourselves silly every night watching the news and dealing with these weird calls on our landline, we’ve run into the heart of our school schedules. Homework, projects, and essays have started piling up, leaving me with precious little patience to deal with other distractions.
Like, for instance, Archer Brantley.
“Shhh,” I hiss, using my pencil to point at the books around us.
Archer puts two hands on the back of my chair and leans over me.
“Hey, you know, I could help you with this stuff. Like, tutor you or something. I’m really good at lit exams and simplifying equations!”
I toss my hair back to tie in a ponytail, making sure most of it hits Archer in the chin.
“What?” he says, pulling a black strand from his mouth. “You don’t want to get good grades?”
I swivel around. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” I whisper.
“It’s flex time. I can be wherever I want to be,” Archer says casually, and he leans up against the edge of the carrel.
I decide to adopt a different approach. “And I’m flattered you’ve decided to spend it with me, Archer, but as you can see, I’ve got so much work to do.…”
“What about after school? I could help you out then.…”
“I have basketball practice,” I fib.
“Skip it! You guys have lost, what, six straight?”
“Seven, which is exactly why we need to practice.”
“I watched you in the games, you know. I’m the head photographer for the yearbook committee. I keep trying to get a picture of you in action, but, well, you’re never in the action, so I have to just stare and wait.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not creepy or anything.”
He holds up his hands defensively. “I mean, I’m a fan is all. And you, well, you’re fast, you move well, and you pass well, but you score two points every game. It’s like you’re only sort of trying.”
“And does it look like I’m only sort of trying here?”
“No. You’re in the library almost every day, studying or reading.”
“Yes. I work hard. I’d like to be working hard right now.”
Archer shrugs. “You could get better-than-average grades for all that work.”
“It actually takes me a lot of work to get those B-minuses.” Technically it’s true, especially with the redos Harriet makes us hammer out.
“Well, you just gotta work smarter, not harder!”
I smirk. “Are you saying I’m not smart?”
“No, no!” He backtracks, laughing. “No! It’s just that, you know, you seem better than this, more interesting, like you’re hiding something.…”
“That’s disdain. And I wasn’t trying to hide it.”
Archer actually is kind of cute when he’s flustered, and he’s got a pretty good blush going. It almost makes me want to tell him he’s barking up the wrong tree. Between the Cercatores, the rules, and just being Charlotte Trevor, boy drama is the last thing I need. It’d be a different story if I had to be popular; then I’d have to cultivate crushes and
get myself a boyfriend for a couple of weeks, at least until I could dump him, cry a little, and soak up the sympathy. That’s a different kind of exhausting entirely.
“So you’re saying … Okay, I don’t get what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying thanks for the offer to help, but I’m going to do this on my own. I don’t care how many hours in the library it takes.”
“Well, all right. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Will do,” I mutter, returning my attention to the papers in front of me. He lingers for a bit, but then wanders off, letting me pack up my stuff so I can go find Brit. Her last tryout game is tonight, and she’s invited me over to cheer her on. I could definitely use the distraction.
The sharp smell of winter, accompanying a stinging-cold breeze, greets me as I step out onto the path outside the library. Brit is already there, hunkered over her laptop. Her face is obscured by the ring of fake fur surrounding her hood, but I can tell it’s her—nobody else’s fingers move across the keyboard that fast.
“Hey, Brit. You’ll never believe the weird conversation I just had with Archer. He was all like—”
Brit holds up her hand. “When I told Erik Bemmelhaus I was meeting you, he told me something about your brother.”
“Erik who?”
“He’s a sixth grader in my programming class last period. He was like, ‘Charlotte? She’s Jackson’s sister, right? Man, he keeps showing his butt on Facebook. It’s hilarious.’”
I drop my backpack.
“He’s … he’s showing what? On where?” My voice reaches an octave I didn’t think it could, and Brit scoots away a few inches, like she’s scared I’m going to explode—which I just might.
“Butt. Facebook,” she repeats, and squints down at her screen. “I’m trying to check on it.”
“You’ve got to take it down right now! Brit, take it down!”
“I’m not on his page yet. It’s Jackson, like, with a C-K, right?”
I’m panicking so badly I have to sit down, and I trap my hands between my knees as I peer over Brit’s flying fingers. “Yeah, C-K.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I don’t see a page for a Jackson Trevor that looks anything like him. There’s a Trevor Jackson, a Jackson Five fan page, and a Trent Reznor page. Nothing about your brother.”
I force myself to breathe. “Could Erik have been lying?”
She shakes her head. “No. He had it open on his laptop—at least, I think he did.”
“We need to find that kid.”
I dart up, leaving my backpack behind. Brit grabs it as she stumbles after me. “Wait, Charlotte! He might not even be in the lab anymore! There’s only five minutes left before the dismissal bell rings!”
I barely hear her. “I’m gonna kill him. Wait. No. First I’ve got to get that Facebook page down. Then I’ll kill him.”
That is, if the Cercatores don’t get him first. Or Janice.
“But why, Charlotte? What’s wrong with Facebook?”
I gnash my teeth. “It’s … it’s against our parents’ rules, that’s what.”
Yeah, we’ll go with that.
When I reach the lab, I burst through the door. Programming class is clearly over, but there are still a few kids fiddling around with iPads and such.
“Which one of you is Erik Bemmelhaus?” I fume.
One kid is so shocked he almost drops his laptop. Another squeals in fright. The rest look at a round, waxy-faced kid in the corner. Brit pokes her head in behind me and points. “That’s him.”
I stalk up to the kid and plant my hand on the tabletop beside him.
“Jackson Trevor’s Facebook page. Show it to me. Now!”
“But … but…”
“Yeah!” I rail. “That’s the problem. Are you his friend? Did you encourage him to post pictures of his butt? Of all the stupid, immature, bizarre things to…”
“Wait … huh? Post pictures of his … his … like, eww!”
I lean in so close I can smell the Doritos on his breath. “You told Brit my brother was showing his butt.”
“Yeah, you know … like, complaining and raging. Showing his butt!”
Brit gasps. “Oh … oh, I’m sorry, Charlotte! I thought you knew!”
I rub my temples. “Knew what?”
“Show his butt … it doesn’t mean … Wow, I’m so sorry.… It doesn’t mean to really, you know, show your butt. It’s just something we say … like an expression. People don’t say that in Ohio?”
“No, people don’t say that in Ohio! Nobody says that!”
“We do,” Brit responds sheepishly. “It’s a southern colloquialism.”
“Yeah! That!” Erik adds.
I think both of them are surprised when my mood doesn’t change. Erik yelps when I snag his collar and turn his head back to the screen.
“Raging, mooning, I don’t care. Show me his Facebook page.”
“Okay, okay! Jeez! Just a sec!”
I watch, tapping my foot impatiently as he navigates to a page. Sure enough, there’s Jackson’s picture, though it’s tricky to tell since his face is buried deeply behind the hood of his black sweatshirt.
“No wonder I couldn’t find it,” Brit says. “He’s made up a fake name—‘Luckson Siccurevor.’”
“That little moron!” I growl. Couldn’t he at least have come up with something more clever? And using part of his old name, at that? I scan the rest of the page, my teeth bared and fingers balled into fists.
Smack dab in the middle of the page is what Erik and Brit must have meant by Jackson “showing his butt.” There’s a long column of rant, complete with extra punctuation and continuous capitalization:
Luckson Siccurevor
December 13
I H8 the SOUTH!!!!
School every day, no xcape from the STUPIDITY!
And Y do they talk so weird??? It’s the same in all my classes. Even my teachers! No wonder I don’t want 2B friends with any of these kids. All the people here R backwards stupid country hicks. If U R one of my friends from home, hit me up here. I promise I’m still the same LS U knew. METS 4EVA, older sisters NEVA!
PS J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!
“See? It’s frickin’ hilarious!” Erik says. When he sees my eyes, he adds, “I mean, to other people. Not to me. Nope. Very serious to me. I … hey!”
I grab the laptop from him, ignoring his protests. Quickly I click Jackson’s profile. The page has only been up for a day. He’s got nine friends so far, but there’s no way to tell if any of them are from New York, or from his Cercatore family. I click on the list of friends and shove the screen back in Erik’s face.
“Tell me who these people are. All kids from Loblolly?”
“Man, are all the Trevors ragebeasts?”
“Just look!”
He runs a finger down the screen. “I … I think most of them are, yeah. Not sure about a couple.”
I rip the laptop away from him again and push it into Brit’s arms.
“Please, Brit! Take it down.”
“I can’t! I’d have to have his password!”
We spend the next five minutes entering everything I can think of. While Jackson is dumb enough to create a Facebook page, dumb enough to risk everything, he’s apparently too savvy to use password as his password.
“There’s got to be another way,” I grumble.
“There isn’t,” Brit concedes. “Not unless you managed to get onto his page after he signed in.”
“Wait,” I say, “can you stay signed in even if you’re not on Facebook?”
“Yeah. A lot of people do that with their phones.”
I breathe, maybe for the first time since the library. “So if I can get his phone, and he’s autosigned in, I can take the page down?”
“Yeah, you can do that.”
I nod grimly, but Brit isn’t satisfied.
“But Charlotte, why can’t you say that your parents will be upset? Maybe he’ll take it down himself!”
Part of me just wants to tell her, to explain that right now, Jackson’s little internet tirade is basically a blinking beacon to gangsters. She’s certainly earned my trust, but without knowing if my wrecking ball of a brother has actually done any damage, I certainly can’t risk blowing our cover. Instead, I just murmur, “He won’t.”
“Okay. If you say so,” she says, and she hands me my backpack.
“Thanks. Oh, and regardless of how this goes, I’m going to need some serious beanbag time tonight.”
“Deal,” she says, and we split up. I make a beeline for the parking lot.
I watch Jackson in the rearview mirror of the car all the way home. He’s got his phone cradled in his lap, and he’s smiling as he swipes the screen. I want to announce to Harriet what he’s done, but he’d deny it and probably lock his phone, too, ruining my chance to reverse the damage. So I wait, and I stew. There’s no way I’m giving up my friends, my room, my spot in the library, and my life for Luckson Siccurevor’s butt-showing. Why can’t he cope with good old-fashioned screaming, stubbornness, and petty larceny like the rest of us?
When we’re out of the car, I hit Jackson with a bump-and-switch, leaving my calculator in his pocket where his phone should be.
“Gonna go check the locks on the cellar and back gate!” I yell, and before Harriet can protest, I’m sprinting around the side of the house. I hunker down just behind my maple tree and take my own phone out of my backpack. The first order of business is to see if Janice knows.
I’ve got eleven new text messages, all from Janice, all within the last two hours.
Yup, she knows.
I replace my phone with Jackson’s and flicker my fingers across the screen. Sure enough, he’s still signed in to Facebook, and I’m able to delete his page in a matter of moments. I do try to check who else has looked at it, but I can’t find a way, and I’m not about to go ask Jackson to show me how. When I’m done, I briefly consider digging a nice, deep hole and burying the phone next to the remains of good ol’ Trudy. I manage to restrain myself, though, and my step is a billion pounds lighter as I skip into our kitchen.
