The Rules for Disappearing

by Ashley Elston

  I started it the same time as the go-bag. It’s full of personal things, but also some short stories, poems, and just random stuff that floats through my head. The suits would be pissed if they knew I wrote about what we’ve been through, so I have to hide it. I don’t use our names or the cities we lived in, but I write about what this ordeal has been like. It’s the only place I can be honest.

  We travel for almost an hour before we come to a stop. I figure we’re getting out for a bathroom break, so I’m really surprised when we unload in the middle of a driveway that’s sandwiched between two rows of cottages tucked back off the main street. They’re made of old brick, and French doors with tall wood shutters span the front. It’s charming until you get close—the chipped paint and rusted handles remind me that we’re not in the best part of town. This must be it, our new, albeit temporary, home. At least it’s not one of those gross apartment complexes.

  I grab my bag, putting Teeny’s book back inside, and we follow the suit to one of the middle houses. The same woman who cut my hair opens the door to #12.

  “Hello, Jones family, welcome home.” Her bright cheery smile is overdone, and I can’t help but groan out loud. “Since this is a college town, no apartments were available on such short notice. These are old Creole cottages, and I thought it’d be more of a homey feel anyway.”

  Dad nods at her and says, “Agent Parker, nice to see you again.”

  “You too, Mr. Jones.” She points to a small building at the end of the long driveway and says, “You’ll find washers and dryers in there.”

  It’s totally depressing on the inside. White walls. Brown carpet. It’s sparsely furnished with secondhand furniture that doesn’t match. The material is worn through in some places, showing the outline of the springs, and you can see remnants of stains. Yuck.

  “This is a two-bedroom.” She looks at me quickly with a small frown and says, “Sorry, Meg, but you and Mary will have to share a room.”

  “That’s fine.” Truthfully, it’s better this way.

  “Let me show you around.” Her arms spread wide likes she’s one of those game show hosts and the curtain’s just been pulled back.

  There’s no reason for a tour. The den, kitchen, and small eating area are basically the same room. There is a short hallway with three doors, which I assume are two bedrooms and the bathroom.

  I don’t wait for the suit to show me the way—I just start opening doors. The first one has two twin beds with matching comforters in pale pink. Obviously our room. It also has a small desk and chair and a polka-dotted beanbag chair on the floor.

  The next door is the bathroom. It’s tiny, with room enough for just a small counter with a sink, toilet, and bath/shower combo. The lingering smell of cleaner stings my nose but makes me feel better about taking a bath later. The last door is my parents’ room. A double bed covered with a frayed quilt sits in the center, and a single wingback chair takes up the corner next to a small dresser.

  I walk back to my room and open the closet door. I already know what to expect: very generic clothes for us both.

  Teeny comes in a few moments later, and I let her choose her bed. She sits on it and picks at the comforter. “I’m glad we’re sharing a room.”

  “Me too.” After fleeing our last placement in the middle of the night, I want Teeny right next to me.

  “Are you nervous about school?”

  She leans down and pulls her book out of my bag. “No.”

  I lie back on my bed and think about tomorrow. Coming in mid-year sucks, but this time I don’t care.

  So much for senior year.

  Teeny and I hole up in our room the rest of the evening. She falls asleep early, but it’s harder for me. I toss and turn most of the night until I can’t stand being in the bed a minute longer. As the soft morning light filters through the small window, I give up the fight and grab my jacket and journal to escape outside.

  It’s cold. A fine layer of dewy ice coats the front steps, so I sit on my jacket rather than wear it. No one is out this early, and the only sounds come from the occasional bird searching for its first meal of the day. I rub my hands over my arms, hoping the friction will keep the chill away.

  Aside from the first placement, I started every new school believing that we would last. I made friends, joined school clubs, and in the third placement even got a spot on the dance line—anything to make that new school feel like home. But each time, those men in suits showed up. I lost everything over and over. There are countless friends I’ve made around the country who must think I fell off the face of the earth. Not again. If our track record shows anything, it’s that we won’t be here more than a month. I can’t do it again.

  Opening the journal, I find a crisp blank page and write:

  1. I will not join any clubs

  2. I will not try out for cheerleading or any other sport/team

  3. I will not make any friends

  4. I will discover the truth no matter what

  I underline and star number four until it’s almost hard to read. The list is short but powerful, and I make a vow to live by every word.

  I tiptoe back into the cottage and get Teeny up for school. Looking at the clothes makes me depressed. The last person who stocked a closet for us at least had a small sense of style. No luck this time. The choices seem pitiful even by Witness Protection standards. I pull out an ugly gray hoodie and it makes me laugh. I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing anything like this just a few short months ago, but now it seems like the best option for today.

  I shower, dress, and put on makeup in record time. The stupid brown contacts give me a little trouble, but I finally get them in the right spot. Hair is towel dried. It’s so short, there aren’t a lot of options, so I leave it sticking up everywhere.

  “Sissy, where are we again? I forgot.” Teeny’s fumbling with her hair, and I step over to help her fix it. The second I take over, she slumps down. She would have never tolerated being babied like this in our old life.

  “We’re in Louisiana. The city is named Natchitoches.”

  Reciting the major facts again, I try not to think about how much of her slips away with every move. I quiz her on our new identities, and she answers most of them right.

  “I think I should stay home today.”

  Teeny says this every time she’s about to leave wherever it is we’re living. She’s terrified we’re going to be relocated without her. “No, you’ll be fine. I’ll see you right after school. Mom will be here when we get home. It’s all good,” I answer. In the second placement, the suits packed everything while Teeny was gone, and she came home to an empty house. She freaked and it took her forever to believe we wouldn’t leave without her.

  Dad’s dressed and waiting for us in the kitchen, but Mom’s a no-show.

  By the fourth placement, Mom had changed. She lost all desire to keep the apartment clean or pay attention to Teeny. Back home, my parents were very social. We always had people over for some sort of function or another—any excuse to have a party. Mom loved to entertain. And she would drink—beer and margaritas around the pool, wine with dinner, gin and tonic late night—but only when we had people over.

  I close my eyes and picture Mom in the kitchen of our old house. She’d dance around, mimicking some move she’d seen somewhere, and sing along to the music using a cooking utensil as a microphone. Even though it was embarrassing, my friends loved hanging out with her and thought she was the coolest mom. She was the life of the party.

  Her favorite thing was to throw these ridiculous formal dinners that lasted forever. The only ones I looked forward to included Dad’s boss, Mr. Price, and only then if his son, Brandon, came. I can’t remember a time in high school when I didn’t have a crush on him. I would beg Mom to let me be in charge of the seating, and I always made sure to put him right next to me. Those were the only nights Mom’s dinner parties were too short.

  I push thoughts of Brandon away. Thinking about him always makes
me feel raw inside.

  But two placements ago, Mom moved the drinking to a whole new level. She wasn’t drinking to be social—she was drinking to get drunk. Dad won’t talk about it. He just cleans up her mess or hides her from us. The suits must know her drinking is getting out of control since they didn’t find her a job this time.

  “I can take you and Teeny to school today. My job doesn’t start until tomorrow. After that, you’ll have to take the school bus.”

  “I don’t get why I can’t have a license. You and Mom get them in your new names.”

  Not the first time we’ve had this discussion. Dad lets out a frustrated snort. “I don’t know why either. They have a certain way they do things, and one of them is no minors get licenses.”

  Teeny scans the room. “Where’s Mama?”

  Dad rinses out his coffeecup, ignoring her.

  Then the coffeepot.

  Coward.

  I move to Teeny. “Sleeping in. She doesn’t feel good,” I answer, and lead her outside and wait for Dad to show us which car is ours. A funny feeling says it’s the old green station wagon with wood paneling down the side.

  And sure enough, Dad heads directly to the driver’s side. The suits must really hate us—this is the most hideous ride I’ve ever seen.

  With one car and Dad working twelve-hour shifts, it looks like Mom will be stranded here all day.

  But then again, she probably won’t get out of bed, so it really might not matter.

  RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

  BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

  Don’t make eye contact or strike up conversations with random people. This may make you seem interesting and therefore attract the attention of others. And you don’t want that…right?

  THERE’S nothing really exciting or different about the area, just the same as our last three placements, until you go a couple of blocks toward the historic district.

  The town is cute. Really cute. Everything’s old but in a cool way. Front Street runs right next to a river, and the road is paved with old cobblestones. Driving over them sends vibrations through the wagon. Little restaurants and bars mixed with souvenir shops line the sidewalk. Most buildings are made of old brick and wood, like our cottage, and have second-story balconies trimmed in scrolled black iron. It must be like walking into someone’s home rather than their store.

  We cross a narrow bridge, and the shops turn into houses, the rambling kind with big yards, porch swings, and shrubs so thick and full they look like small trees.

  We pull up to a school, and I see all the little kids.

  “Okay, Teeny, we’re here.” Dad peeks at her in the rearview mirror. The worse Teeny gets, the less Dad deals with her. It’s like he’s not equipped to handle this change.

  She’s crouched down in the backseat, her backpack clutched to her chest. I paste the biggest, brightest smile on my face. “Teeny, you’ll do great. I’ll see you after school. No worries.”

  She smiles, but it’s forced. She gets out of the car, and Dad and I watch her walk slowly toward the building. Her head hangs low and her shoulders hunch over.

  The air is heavy with all of the things we both want to say to each other, but neither of us speaks. I fiddle with the heater vent and Dad scrapes away something nasty from the windshield.

  Once Teeny’s out of sight, Dad pulls away from the curb.

  At my request, he stops a block away to let me out. He mutters something about being here after school, but I’m out before he finishes.

  Going in with The Plan does little to ease the nerves in my stomach. I take my iPod out and put in the earbuds.

  It’s easy to blend in with the crowd as everyone heads to the front door of the old school. Stealing glances at the kids shows me there’s money in this area as well—lots of designer clothes and bags, everyone very put together. And I thought I’d blend in with these hideous clothes.

  The halls are crowded and filled with the sounds of lockers banging open and shut. By now I thought I’d heard every accent out there, but these voices are so different—definitely Southern, but something else, too.

  I spot the office and inch the door open. The woman behind the counter is frantic, shuffling papers around and barking into the phone. Her expression is exhausted even though it’s not even 8 a.m. I take one earbud out. “This is my first day. I need my schedule.”

  The woman starts flipping through papers again. “Name.”

  “Meg Jones.”

  She rustles through another pile. “Have a seat. It’s not in this stack.”

  The only vacant seat sandwiches me between two very different-looking guys with the same problem. They both got the crap beat out of them.

  The one on my left has a swollen eye and a cut lip. There’s blood covering his varsity jacket, and he’s wiggling what may be a loose tooth. The one to my right has the beginnings of a bruise that covers his entire cheek. It’s mostly red and swollen, rimmed with purple. Even with half his face discolored, he’s cute, in a bad boy sort of way. The sleeve of his camouflage coat is hanging by a thread, and his boots are caked in mud.

  The jock looks straight at me. “New girl?”

  I blink a few times. “Uh, yeah. First day.”

  “Cool—don’t get many transfers. You’ll like it here. One piece of advice—stay away from that son of a bitch sitting on your other side and you’ll be just fine.”

  Camo boy leans forward and says to the jock, “Hey, how about you take your advice and shove it up your ass, you stupid prick.”

  The jock lunges toward camo boy, and I cover my head with my hands, preparing for impact, when a sharp command stops the boys in midair.

  “That’s enough! In my office immediately.” Both freeze with fists cocked back and swivel around to face the man in the doorway. I peek through my fingers. The voice belongs to a very tall, heavyset man dressed in a suit that seems way too nice for someone who works in the public school system.

  Camo boy and jock stand up, but it only takes a few seconds before they’re both blaming each other again. The man holds up his hand.

  “No one breathes another word until I give you permission to do so. Understood?”

  The guys quiet down and follow him into an office marked PRINCIPAL. Just before the jock goes inside, he raises one eyebrow and says quietly, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Welcome to Natchitoches High School.

  I take two wrong turns and finally find my homeroom after the final bell rings. The teacher looks up from her podium and gives me a quick glance. “You must be Megan. Go find a seat.”

  Looking across the room, I see an empty one in the back row. Thank God. Everyone scans me up and down and then dismisses me. The urge to pull my hoodie up over my head is overwhelming. I know what I look like to them—I would have acted the same way if some freak-looking girl showed up at my old school—but it doesn’t make the stares hurt any less.

  A loud screech fills the room, and I’m on the floor near my desk before I even realize I fell. The announcements start playing over the intercom, and the room fills with laughter.

  “It’s the intercom speaker. It’s busted and sounds horrible when it comes on,” the girl in front of me says. She looks sorry for me, which I hate, but at least she’s not laughing like the others.

  I put my earbuds back in and wait for the bell to change classes.

  The morning goes by in a haze. New teachers, new classes. All these schools are starting to run together. This one isn’t that big, so I share most classes with a handful of the same people.

  I follow the crowd through the double doors into the cafeteria. A few girls I had a class with this morning, including the one from homeroom, signal me to sit with them. My legs itch to walk to their table and drop down in the chair they have pulled out, but before I take the first step, I check myself and remember The Plan. No friends. Grabbing a banana and a bottle of water, I give a half wave in their direction and flee the cafeteria.

  Lu
gging my go-bag, I walk down the hall in search of a quiet place. Deep down there is a twinge of regret for isolating myself like this. I knew it would be hard, but I never believed it would be this hard, and it’s only the first day.

  The windows down a side hall overlook a small deserted courtyard, a circular area with several stone tables and benches surrounded by overgrown bushes. It’s the perfect hiding spot, so I decide to brave the elements. January is colder than I thought it would be in Louisiana. I figured the hoodie would be enough, but the temperature is hovering around the freezing mark.

  The benches are too cold to sit on, so I plop down on the mossy ground, pulling the hood over my head and sliding my earbuds into place as I crank the music. I take out my journal and write a while before my thoughts start to wander. One month. One month to figure things out. If I fail, I’ll have to start all over in the next placement. The thought of this isolation being permanent makes me almost throw up, but I know I’m stronger than that now. The old me wouldn’t have been able to do this. I shove the banana into my bag along with the journal and use the bag as a pillow. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me and try not to think.

  A dark shadow passes over. I jerk upright.

  It’s camo boy. His lips are moving, but my music is so loud I can’t hear what he’s saying. I take the earbuds out, and he repeats himself.

  “Not fitting in so well, huh? Must be pretty bad in there if you decided to freeze your ass off rather than sit inside with everybody else.” He drops down beside me.

  “Are you always so blunt?”

  “Yep.” He pops open a Coke. “What’s your name?”

  “Meg.”

  “I’m Ethan Landry. So, Meg. What’s up? Why all alone out here?”

  I shrug and lean back against my bag. If I ignore him, maybe he’ll go away. I give him a quick once-over, noticing that the caked-on dirt covering his boots is also on his jeans and jacket. Why is he so dirty at school?

  “Did you roll around in the mud or what?” I want to clamp my hand over my mouth the second the words leave my lips. So much for ignoring him.