by Jake Burt
Jonathan wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly. Together, with Harriet blazing a trail forged of polite pardon-mes, we manage to make our way to the gym entrance. The outside is mere steps away, and we’re almost free. However, just before we slip out, I feel someone grab my shoulder. I’m pulled from Jonathan’s sheltering embrace and spun around. There, inches away, is Archer Brantley’s perfect, smug grin. In his left hand, he’s holding his camera.
“See, Charlotte,” he says, grinning, “I knew you were hiding something!”
Stepping back, he aims the muzzle of his Canon at us, and he presses the button. The camera clicks away like machine-gun fire, taking picture after picture. All three … no, four of us—Jackson’s slipped in right next to Harriet on our way out—wince in unison. I suppose from some sort of angle, to some terribly blind person, it might seem like we’re smiling.
“There! These’ll look nice on the website—the entire Trevor family, together!”
Before any of us can make a desperate grab at the camera, or come up with some excuse to get those photos deleted, a flood of families pushes us out the door. I wrench around, clambering and fighting against the surge, but it’s no use. As we’re swept into the parking lot, all I can see is Archer’s perfectly combed hair, sinking into the masses like the disappearing fin of a well-sated shark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fault Lines
“It’s not the end of the world,” Jackson argues as we stumble into the kitchen. “It’s just a stupid basketball game.”
“It is the end of the world, Jackson!” I yell. “Our faces are going to be on the school website. The internet-searchable, super-readable, browse-in-prisonable school website!”
“Oh,” he mumbles.
I collapse into a chair. “I’m sorry. I should have stopped. I just didn’t know, you know? I spent an entire season on the basketball team aggressively trying to suck at it. Besides, it’s not like it was the state championship! We lost by forty in a game that’s just for fun!”
“We told you it was okay, Char,” Harriet says as she strokes my hair. “You can’t hide everything all the time, and it’s not fair for anyone to expect you to.”
Jonathan comes in from the kitchen and sets down his phone. “Well, Deputy Marshal Stricker says she’ll see what she can do, but she wants us to try to contain it ourselves, if we can.” He pauses, his brow furrowing and lips tightened in his best Janice impersonation. “‘We’re not the CIA, you know!’”
“Can’t we just go into the principal’s office and ask her to—” Jackson offers, but Jonathan cuts him off.
“Janice said it was out of the question. It would draw too much attention. And besides, we may not have time to go through the school bureaucracy anyway. The marshals are worried that the Cercatores might be using picture-scanning software to monitor the internet. We’re on the clock here.”
We sit there for another awkward minute, chewing nails, drumming on tabletops, or scratching at itches that aren’t there. Finally, looking at Harriet, Jonathan, and Jackson, I say, “I’m very tired.”
We agree to go to bed and talk again in the morning. And I am tired, but I don’t feel well, and I spend an hour twisting and turning, above the sheets and beneath, hugging pillows and flinging them to the floor. None of it works. So I decide to read.
As soon as I’ve slipped my black velvet bookmark free, I’m calmer. I curl myself against the headboard of my bed, leaning so close to the words that they go fuzzy for a moment. My hair falls around my face, framing the book and cutting the light from my bedside lamp. In that veiled space, I disappear.
I put down my copy of The Amber Spyglass only when I hear movement outside my room. My clock says it’s one a.m., and when I stretch out, my entire bed creaks. In response, Jackson’s voice whispers through the keyhole.
“Hey, Charlotte. Are you awake?”
Opening the door, I see not only Jackson, but Jonathan as well. They’re wearing matching Duke T-shirts, and it looks like both of them have been lying awake as long as I have.
“You actually seem like you’re better off than you were five hours ago, Char,” Jonathan notes.
“I was reading. It settles me down.”
“That’s good. Harriet managed to fall asleep,” Jonathan says. “I figured I’d spare her my own nerves. Jackson found me on the couch. We’re going to think some more, maybe over pizzelles and milk. Care to join us?”
I nod, and in a few moments, Jackson and I are seated at the kitchen counter. Jonathan slips a plate of pizzelles in front of me.
“I grabbed my best wristwatch,” he says, holding his arm out. “In case, you know, you needed to…”
I sigh. “Mom told you about that?”
“Yep. We’re kind of married. She tells me about everything.”
I smile and shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay with cookies.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
I grab a pizzelle, sweeping a finger along the delicate ridges and grooves of the cookie. The scent of vanilla fills the space between us.
“I can’t figure out what to do,” I admit.
Jackson pulls his phone from the pocket of his PJs.
“The pictures aren’t up yet, at least.”
I shrug. It’s only a matter of time. “This is all my fault, guys. I’m so, so sorry.”
Jonathan picks out a pizzelle of his own and takes a ruminating bite. Then he waves his finger.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. You’re not the one who took that picture, or the one who put us in danger in the first place. It’s like I tell Elena…”
“Harriet?”
“Your mother … it’s like I tell her every time she’s up at night crying about destroying her family. It’s not her fault they’re criminals. Their behavior tore apart the Cercatores, not her. It’s the same with you. None of us blames you. Not even Jackson!”
Jackson furrows his brow. “Well…”
Jonathan starts sliding the plate of cookies away from him.
“Fine. No. It’s not Charlotte’s fault.”
Shaking a few clingy crumbs from my fingers, I nod. “Yeah, I know, but…”
“But you just really wanted to hear someone else say it.”
I eventually smile; for not being my real dad, Jonathan does seem to have me down pretty well.
“So the pictures aren’t up yet, right?” I mutter, rubbing at my temples like Harriet sometimes does. “What if I confront Archer? Ask him not to post the pictures? Maybe we could tell him that Jackson shouldn’t be in the picture, like he’s too young, or something. And maybe I can bribe Archer. I’ll offer to sit with him at lunch.”
Jackson grins. “I thought you said you’d bribe him, not threaten him.…”
“Funny. Anyway, we’ll tag team it. He’ll have a more difficult time saying no if we’re both there asking.”
Jonathan scoops up the empty plate and drops it in the sink, letting it clatter with finality. “Then it sounds like we have a plan. Put it in the corner of your minds, let it hibernate there until morning. We all need the rest.”
After grimly toasting with the last of our milk and cookie shards, we head up to bed. I can’t even imagine what it would’ve been like trying to cope with this before Harriet found my secret; knowing that my family trusts me is the only thing keeping me from completely losing it. But Harriet and Jonathan won’t be at Loblolly to help me. All I’ve got is Jackson, the kid who spent the better part of a year punching pillows and imagining they were my face. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like enough, because this problem isn’t like the others. It was one thing when I was helping Holly with Deidre, or telling Brit’s mom about her combat-quilting, or deleting Jackson’s Facebook page. It’s another thing entirely when Charlotte Trevor is the one front and center, all because I allowed a little bit of Nicki Demere to shine through.
[BEGIN RECORDING]
* * *
So, Mr. Cercatore, I take it the time
has come to discuss the particulars of my role in your efforts to find your sister?
-As usual, you are being retained to consult on legal matters, and particularly in my defense, should it be necessary.
You have established a plausible alibi?
-Perhaps.
Only perhaps? I do take it that you’ve found some evidence of your sister’s whereabouts?
-Yes. A photograph, posted online this morning.
Have you located her for certain, then?
-Very nearly. There remains a complication.
How’s that?
-A girl in the photo. She is identified as a member of the family, though she is no relation of Elena’s.
But you are certain the woman pictured is your sister?
-Yes. Her husband and son are there as well.
This girl–is she, maybe, the same one your nephew mentioned in his Facebook post? The sister?
-I believe so. I should not have been so quick to dismiss that evidence.
Well, then, if the girl doesn’t belong to Elena, who does she belong to?
-That is where you come in. You get your legal sources to answer that question, and I’ll have my alibi.
I shall start making inquiries immediately, Mr. Cercatore.
* * *
[END RECORDING]
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Boom
I’m peering over Brit’s shoulder in homeroom. Her laptop is open, and staring back at us is one of the pictures of my family. We look like some sort of troglodyte clan, just emerging into the sun for the first time.
“We’ve got to get that picture down,” I growl.
“No, it’s okay, Charlotte. You still look pretty.… It’s … it’s not that weird of a smile,” Brit says. I mutter a thank-you, but I can’t concentrate; it’s hard not to cast glances Archer’s way. As soon as the bell rings, Jackson and I are cornering him outside the door.
“Hey, Charlotte!” he says as he sees me hovering in the breezeway. “Noticed you were staring at me all through homeroom. Like what you see?”
I resist the urge to throw up in my mouth a little.
“Yeah, actually, I was,” I admit. “I … that is, we’ve got a favor to ask of you.”
Jackson shuffles up next to me, his own dark hair falling over his eyes in a way that seems to mock Archer’s perfect blond bangs.
“We? What we? Oh.” He purses his lips. It makes him look like a well-groomed duck. “The Trevor clan. What can I do for you?”
“The pictures from yesterday … the ones up on the school website. We’d like them taken down.”
“And the files deleted,” Jackson adds.
“Huh? No! I like those photos!”
I breathe deeply. We anticipated this.
“And they’re great photos,” I lie. “But Jackson doesn’t like pictures of himself online. They make him uncomfortable, and you didn’t have his permission to…”
“Tough luck. He was at an all-school function. I have a right as part of the yearbook committee to take photos at any event that includes the entire student body. Yesterday totally qualifies.”
“We’re asking you to be nice, Archer.”
“It’s out of my hands!” he says, raising them as if to show us. “They’re already up!”
With a sigh, I resign myself to plan B.
“If you take the pictures down, Archer—”
“And delete the files!” Jackson interjects again.
“Yes, and delete the files, I’ll sit with you at lunch for the rest of the week. Everyone will see, and you can—”
Archer laughs, throwing his arms up in the air in a weird hallelujah. He goes on laughing until he has to catch his breath by leaning against one of the metal breezeway supports. I cast a glance at Jackson, who shrugs.
“Now?! Now you’ll give me the time of day?” Archer gasps, his smile so wide I can see his wisdom teeth. “After every time I tried to talk to you after class? All our one-sided conversations in the library? All those times I called your house and hung up, just to see if you were home? All those…”
He keeps talking, I think.
All those times he called my house and hung up …
Jackson is tugging at my sleeve, I think.
Those hang-up calls …
My hand sweeps around so quickly that even I can’t see it. I miss his face, but the slap pings satisfyingly off the metal support, shocking Archer into silence and probably pummeling his eardrum. It feels good enough that I do it again, hitting the metal three more times before I lunge forward.
“It was you,” I hiss.
“Charlotte, don’t…” Jackson warns, but I’m too far gone: The nightmares, the disrupted evenings—evenings we could have been sharing as a family, rather than hoping the phone wouldn’t ring again.
“You can’t just do that, Archer! You can’t play those stupid games with me!”
“Why not? Everybody does. I like you, so I—”
“I don’t care!” I scream, smacking the pillar again with my palm. “How? How could we not trace your call?”
“It’s just an emergency phone my dad got me! It ran out of minutes last week anyway, so you don’t have to worry.…”
I blink back tears. “We always have to worry! That’s the point! You don’t get to call our house like that! You don’t get to mess with us!”
As my voice gets louder and louder, Ms. Millar opens her door. Jackson actually puts his hand over my mouth to shut me up. I nearly bite him.
“What is going on out here?” she demands. “And why aren’t you three in class?”
I try to respond, but the exhaustion of the last six months hits me like a train. I swoon, and I have to grab the support. It’s Jackson who saves us.
“Just doing a scene from a TV show last night. Stupid, I know. We’re done. I’ll get my sister to class.”
“Well,” Ms. Millar huffs, “this is my planning period. I need it quiet out here, and you all need to move before I call Mr. Jessup.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Archer, still stunned, stands there until Ms. Millar closes the door. Jackson turns to him next.
“Go away, and don’t say a word of this to anyone. If you do, I’ll tell all Charlotte’s friends that you made her cry. I’ll tell Holly that you were mean to Charlotte.”
Archer blanches, grabs his backpack, and stumbles off. I doubt Jackson’s threats held much weight, but when punctuated by the death stare I was giving him, we probably bought ourselves a few hours, at least. I slump down against the pillar and hang my head.
“Well, that couldn’t have been part of the plan,” Jackson says, sitting next to me.
“I blew up,” I admit.
“Oh yeah, you did. Big-time.”
I exhale raggedly, wiping at my eyes with my sleeve. “We’re doomed, Jackson. Janice will have to move us, and we’ll have to start over. We’ll have to…”
“Why?”
I sniffle. “Because it’s not safe here anymore. I … I guess it never was, but it’s worse now. I’ve been so busy trying to fit in by helping Holly and Brit and everyone else that I didn’t realize that I had nobody who could help us if we needed it. I can’t risk involving a teacher, Mom and Dad can’t help, and Janice is hundreds of miles away. We really are alone here, Jackson.”
“Tell Brit.”
“What?”
Jackson waves his phone around. “She knew how to deal with my Facebook thing. Maybe she can fix this?”
“Oh right,” I grumble. “‘Hey, Brit, can you just hack the school website for me? I’d, like, totally owe you!’”
“No, Nicki. Tell Brit.”
The sound of my own name, my real name, shocks me. When I don’t respond, Jackson continues. “I saw how upset you got about the gloves—and no, I know it wasn’t just your weird, creepy hand thing. You got upset because they were from her. Your best friend, and she had no clue.”
“Yeah, so?” I manage.
“So it�
�s obvious.”
I scowl, which must look absolutely terrifying when layered atop everything else I’m feeling.
“Jeez … chill for, like, half a second. What I mean is, when I’m going nuts, when I can’t handle it, I get to be mad. I get to freak out and have people defend me. Like Mom and Dad do. Like my older sister did.”
“Harriet and Jonathan would defend me,” I argue, thinking of my room, and of my drawer.
“Sure, Mom and Dad will listen, and they’ll do what they can to help. But they’re parents, too. There’s gonna be stuff you can’t talk to them about. Stuff you won’t want to talk to them about. Believe me, I know.”
I think of Jackson outside Harriet and Jackson’s room, so lonely and afraid that he couldn’t sleep, but so mad that he couldn’t turn that knob. I nod.
“And I don’t want to have to be the kid you unload on,” he continues. “That’s what friends are for. So tell Brit, because you need her.”
He gets up, shrugging his backpack over his shoulders. As he walks away, he adds, “And we need you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Promises, Promises
“Brit,” I say just as the bell rings. “Can you meet me in the bathroom during language arts? Tell Ms. Drummond I’ve gone to the nurse, then ask to use the restroom, like, ten minutes in? We need to talk.”
“Huh? Are you not feeling well?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine … sort of. Late night last night, but yeah, I’m well enough. We … we just really need to talk is all, and it can’t wait.”
“Um, okay, Charlotte. I’ll be there, if you’re … you’re sure you’re all right.”
Brit hugs her laptop to her chest. It wasn’t my intent to scare her, but I don’t have time to explain—especially not here.
“Just … I’ll see you in the bathroom,” I say, wrinkling my nose. As far as good-byes go, that’s about as awkward as it gets.
Those ten minutes are excruciating; every time a sixth grader rolls through, I have to pretend I’m washing my hands. By the time Brit slips in, my fingers are all pruny, and I’ve shredded half a loblolly’s worth of paper towels.
