The Rules for Disappearing

by Ashley Elston

  Ethan leans across the truck and puts his hand on top of mine, stopping me. “I can take you to shoot targets. Let you get comfortable with a gun. They’re not near as scary once you learn how to use one.”

  My jaw gets tight. “No. It’s fine.”

  “Have you ever been around guns before?”

  The image of a hand with a gun fills my head, but it’s not Ethan’s. It’s a man’s hand. And I’m in that room. I shake my head, hard. Can’t think about the gun. Or the blood. Or the sound.

  “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “I won’t.”

  We ride the rest of the way in silence. I stare at the dashboard, letting myself zone out.

  Ethan moves to get out once we pull in the parking lot, but I stop him. “I’m so sorry about Bandit. Please go check on him.” He starts to argue, but I put a finger over his lips. “I’ll feel so much better if you do.”

  I jump out of the truck before he has a chance to say anything, then tiptoe into the house. It’s late, sometime around midnight, and all I want to do is get into bed and process what happened tonight and why I’m flooded with visions from my nightmares. I’m startled when I see Mom at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, with an empty gin bottle beside her.

  “Mom?”

  She looks up and her eyes are red and swollen. “You’re back.”

  I sit down at the table. I need to ask her what’s happening to me, but she’s stinking drunk. Just when I need her the most. “I thought you stopped.”

  She shakes her head and looks back down. “What happened? You’ve got blood all over you. Are you hurt?”

  “I had some sort of panic attack. I think I’m going crazy.” I drop my head on the table. I have to talk to someone, even if it’s my hammered mother, who won’t remember a single thing I say come morning. “Something is wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is. I’ve been having nightmares for months, but tonight I had one while I was awake. I’ve got things in my head I can’t get rid of.”

  Mom turns toward me and almost falls out of her chair. “You’re not crazy.” She puts both of her hands on my face and pulls me close to her. This is why I hate being around her when she’s like this. The smell of gin is overwhelming. “They said it’d happen like this.” She drops her hands back on the table, then her eyes flutter closed.

  I nudge her shoulder. “Mom, what are you talking about? Mom?”

  She opens her eyes about halfway. “It’s not your fault. Don’t feel bad.” Her words are slurred, but I can make them out. I don’t understand them, though.

  “What’s not my fault? And who are ‘they’ and what did they say?”

  She rolls her head to the side. “Can’t tell you. Dad will be mad at me.” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Ha! Dad’s always mad at me.”

  I lean forward, closer to her face. “Please tell me. I think something is really wrong with me.”

  She props herself up on her elbows, eyes squinting like she’s trying to focus on my face. “It’s not your fault, baby. You weren’t supposed to be there.” Her head falls again.

  “Mom, talk to me. Stay awake. Not supposed to be where?” I get that tingly feeling I had in the woods, and I break out in a sweat. “Tell me, Mom. What’s not my fault?” I pull her head up and turn her face to me.

  One eye cracks open, and she spreads her arms wide. “This. All this. You’re why we’re here. You’re the one they’re after.”

  RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

  BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

  Always stay one step ahead. Then when things go to shit you won’t be one step behind. And things always go to shit.

  MY mother’s words ricochet around my brain. The room. The blood. The gun. Pictures flash across my eyes, and I squeeze them shut. My palms get a little sweaty and my mouth goes dry.

  “Dad did something. We’re in this because of Dad, not me.” Not me, not me, not me.

  Mom is drunk. And out of her mind. But the words echo through my brain, and the images get a little sharper. That room with the stone walls and the giant dark furniture.

  “No, baby girl. It’s you.” She falls backward in the chair. I grab her shirt, pulling her back up.

  “Don’t say that!” I shake her hard, and her eyes open.

  “You saw him. That’s why we’re here. But you forgot. You froze up and now you don’t remember.”

  Mom starts crying as her head falls back down on the table. I sit there stunned. Minutes go by while I watch her cry. My mind is numb, like someone threw an ice-cold bucket of water over my head.

  I get up from the table and run outside, down the steps. Don’t know where I’m going but I can’t stay in that house. It’s got to be Dad, not me.… Dad, not me… plays in my head like a broken record.

  The parking lot is deserted. As much as I hate to go there, I run to the laundry room. I have nowhere else to go. I fling open the door and flip every switch, flooding the space with light.

  I plop down in a chair against the wall. I’m terrified to dig deep in the hazy memories, scared to death of what I’ll find there, but all I’ve wanted to know since this started was the truth, so I close my eyes and let my mind go.

  A light flashes across the room. There are two men. Arguing. Everything is blurry around the edges. Their screams mix with the sounds of the hog and Bandit. I rush to the trash can and throw up.

  At the laundry sink I douse my face with water and rinse my mouth. Dried blood still covers my hands. I rub my skin until it’s raw; the smell of the blood with the water makes me vomit again, but nothing’s left in my stomach.

  The blood is all over my shirt, too. I have to get it off of me. I jerk it off, leaving me in a tank top. It’s cold in here, but I can’t stand all that blood. I fall to the floor.

  The two men. They’re still yelling but also shoving each other, like they’re one step away from a full-out fight.

  I focus on one of them. It’s Mr. Price, my dad’s boss. Brandon’s father. Concentrating on the details of the room, I know where it is. The Prices’ house—I’ve been there a million times, but not often in this room. It’s Mr. Price’s office.

  The other man—he’s tall and big with short dark hair. He’s got a thin scar that starts above his eyebrow, slices through his left eye, making it sag, and continues down the side of his face. It’s hard to look at him without flinching. They circle around each other like caged animals, yelling. Something about ledgers. “Give me the ledgers…” over and over. The nightmare with the books crashing around me fills my head. Books are everywhere. All over me. Every time I touch one, they multiply. I’m drowning.

  I lie on the cold concrete floor, pressing every part of me to the ground, hoping to separate what really happened in that room from the nightmares that have plagued me for months. My breathing steadies and the images become clearer, like someone adjusted the focus. The man with the scar lifts his hand; he’s holding a gun. Mr. Price lunges for it, and they both fall to the floor.

  The noise in my head is like a freight train. It’s coming closer until it’s so loud I can’t hear anything else—no screaming, nothing. And then the gun fires. The sound vibrates through my body, and superfast images of Mr. Price with blood gushing from his chest explode in front of me.

  I drive my palms into my eyes, not sure I can take much more of this.

  Then I see Brandon.

  My heart stops the moment he walks in the room. He’s just a few feet away, but doesn’t see me behind the couch. I want to scream at him to run, hide…anything to keep him safe. But before I get the chance, another shot stops me cold. Brandon, beautiful Brandon, drops to the floor. From behind the couch all I can see are his feet, and they aren’t moving. I look down. I’m covered in blood—Brandon’s blood.

  Then the noise dies down, and it’s finally quiet. All I can hear is the rhythmic dripping from the sink. My face is wet, and I realize I’ve been crying.

  Drip… drip… drip.…


  I can’t move. Or think. Brandon’s dead. Mr. Price is dead. The movie in my mind fades to black. That’s it. That’s the last thing I remember.

  I don’t know what to do. I feel sick again. Those were not just nightmares. They were memories. My memories.

  Oh, God, I can’t believe he’s dead. And I’ll never see him again—he’s gone.

  I curl up on the floor and stuff my fingers in my ears. I can’t take this. Brandon’s dead and now someone wants me dead, too. I’m close to passing out again, just like I did in the woods.

  I start humming.

  Anything to drown out Mom’s words rolling through my head. “It’s you they’re after.… It’s you they’re after.…”

  My head hurts. It feels like ten thousand needles are sticking in my left arm. I try to get up, but the arm buckles underneath me. There is a soft light filtering through the windows of the laundry room. I check my watch. Dad will be up soon.

  I suddenly realize how horrible I’ve been, blaming him for getting us into this, when it was me this whole time.

  Throwing my bloody shirt away, I stagger to the door. In no time, I’m flying down the driveway to the house. Mom’s still passed out on the table, and Teeny’s still sleeping, but I hear Dad starting to stir. He’s probably figured out that Mom never came to bed.

  I lock myself in the bathroom, then turn on the shower, strip, and jump in before the water gets hot. I slide to the floor and pull my knees in close. Questions roll through my brain so fast it hurts. What am I going to do? What does it mean that I remember? Obviously someone is after us because of what I saw. Is it the man with the scar? And why is it a secret?

  Brandon is dead.

  The thought pops into my head and I begin to cry. Hard. I’ve gone this long blocking out his death, and now the only thing I can think of is his crumpled body and the obscene amount of blood that splattered out of him. I try to think of a time when he was alive and happy, but I can’t picture him any other way.

  Why was he there? Why was I there? There’s so much that’s still fuzzy.

  I hear the shouting match between Scar Face and Mr. Price in my head again.

  Where are the ledgers?

  That’s what he kept screaming. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember. I think there was a book. I can see Mr. Price with something, but what was it? Every detail I try to focus on retreats out of my head. Like my mind is playing a game with me.

  Arghhh! This is so frustrating.

  Dad said earlier that going to trial doesn’t mean we’re getting out of Witness Protection. And he’s kept this from me all this time. Why? Will I have to testify? That man didn’t even hesitate before he killed Brandon. Every time I think about Brandon, my eyes swell with tears and I wonder horrible things, like if he knew what was about to happen to him. Or if it hurt when the bullet ripped through his body. I don’t think I could ever be in the same room with Scar Face again.

  I scrub my hair and body as if I could wash away the last twenty-four hours. I have to get out of here. There’s no way to face Mom this morning after our conversation last night. I run from the bathroom in my towel and get dressed in record time. I wake Teeny, rushing her to get dressed, too. I’m scared to see Mom. I’m afraid she’s going to remember what she told me. The only thing I know for sure is I’m not ready to let anyone know I have my memory back until I can figure some things out. I can’t shake the feeling there’s something missing.

  We get outside early to wait for the bus. Teeny’s pouting, walking around the lot kicking loose rocks. I don’t know what has made her madder—that I got her up so early or that we’re back on the bus. I sit on the bottom step and wait. My entire body is in a state of tension I didn’t know existed.

  The bus drags down the street. Just as it stops at the curb, Ethan pulls into the parking lot. Teeny lets out a yelp and tries to get in his truck before it even stops. I walk toward him more slowly. After last night I don’t even know what to do.

  Once I’m in the truck, Ethan says “Morning” to Teeny, then looks at me. “You okay?”

  True concern is written all over his face. He’s worried about me and what happened, and, God, how can I let him be anywhere near me right now? I’m a target, the reason my family lost everything we had and are living with fake names. And Ethan thinks I’m just some girl who freaked out over a dog getting hurt and a hog getting shot.

  “Fine,” I answer.

  Teeny starts jabbering about something. She’ll take care of all the conversation until we pull away from her school.

  “I totally creamed them in Monopoly. You should have seen it. Meg was the first one out and then I went for Dad.”

  Ethan’s laughing. They’re sitting here talking about regular life, and I’m one step from full panic mode.

  Scar Face killed Brandon just for walking into the room. Ethan could be next. Or Teeny.

  The enormity of this is finally sinking in.

  The entire trip to Teeny’s school, I watch the side mirror. I’m close to hyperventilating by the time we drop Teeny off. Every dark-haired man I see makes my heart stop.

  “Man, that girl can talk,” Ethan says once Teeny’s gone. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Hell, no.

  I nod. “I’m fine. I thought you’d be with Bandit this morning.”

  “I was. Dad and I took him over around five this morning. He’s all stitched up and sleeping it off at the vet’s.” Ethan looks at me closely and says, “Maybe you should’ve stayed home today?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m fine, really.” I’d go crazy trapped in the house with Mom and my thoughts all day long.

  We pull into school and walk toward the building. Lots of people in the parking lot this morning, but I zero in on the perimeter. Is someone out there, right now, looking for me? Would he kill Ethan just for being with me?

  Before we part to go to our lockers, Ethan says, “Meet me in the parking lot at lunch. We’ll get out of here for a little while.”

  I nod, then stand there watching him walk away. There’s no chance of a relationship with him now. I won’t go to lunch…or ride to school with him…or anything else. The best thing I can do for him is stay as far away as possible. Anyone close to me is in danger.

  I should have stuck with The Plan. Distance. No relationships. No friends. Definitely no boyfriends. The Plan was in place for a reason.

  More and more details from that night at Brandon’s house have been flooding in. One minute I’m staring at the chalkboard, the next I’m back in that room. I’m remembering weird things, like the vase of flowers that flew off the desk when Mr. Price and Scar Face started fighting.

  I still can’t figure out why I was even there that night. That’s bugged me all morning.

  While my English lit teacher drones on about Macbeth, I squeeze my eyes shut and start at the beginning: walking up the steps at Elle’s house, petting the dog, and Laura’s high-pitched laugh while she made fun of me to Brandon. Oh, God, Laura! She told Brandon she would meet him at his house. Was she there?

  I rack my brain, but I can’t pull up a single memory of Laura at his house that night.

  I know I went to that sophomore’s party and wanted nothing more than to get drunk and forget about what happened.

  I run my hands through my hair as the party gets a little clearer. After downing a few beers I decided to confront Laura and Brandon. I didn’t care anymore what they thought of me. I knew they’d be at Brandon’s, so that’s where I went. I remember stumbling across the lawn, tripping over the garden hose by the back door. I wanted to surprise them, so I didn’t knock, just tiptoed in through the kitchen. The house was dark. And quiet.

  But they weren’t upstairs, so I expanded my search downstairs, wandering into Mr. Price’s office, and saw him behind his desk. After that, my memory gets hazy. He was doing something. Lifting something big, or maybe moving it—I can’t remember. I heard someone coming down the hall, so I dove behind the couch. Everything seemed w
rong all of a sudden—like I knew I shouldn’t be there—so I hid. A few minutes later, Scar Face entered the room and he scared the crap out of me. No way was I coming out after I saw him. I decided to wait them out.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  The bell rings, ending class, and I’m happy to be pulled out of my thoughts. I have to shut my mind down for a while. I’m overwhelmed with the influx of information over the last twenty-four hours and completely numb at this point. I slide a note into Ethan’s locker and hide in the deserted stairwell when the bell rings for lunch. I need to end things with him—push him away to keep him safe—but I can’t handle that right now. And I can’t act like everything is fine either.

  Catherine finds me after lunch and drags me into the girls’ bathroom with her.

  “What happened last night? I checked in late to school and then you were a no-show for lunch. Girl, you had me worried.”

  “I don’t know. Just got a little scared.”

  She steps up to the sink, digging around in her purse. She pulls out three different tubes of lip gloss before deciding which one she wants. She hands one of the other tubes to me. “This one will look great on you.”

  I take the tube from her and stare down at it. “Thanks.”

  Catherine applies the gloss and smacks her lips together a few times. “You looked great Friday night. Ethan couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. And you should have seen him at lunch—lost without you. So what’s up with being Mrs. Frump at school?”

  I blush slightly, shrugging my shoulders. I know how bad I look today. I spent half the night riding through the woods and the other half sleeping on the cold concrete floor of the laundry room.

  I hand the gloss back to Catherine without ever applying any. I’ve got to push her away, too—Ethan isn’t the only one in danger just for being with me.

  “Meg, he’s all yours if you want him, you know,” she says.

  I nod. Wanting him is so not the problem. But after last night, I don’t believe there’s a chance in hell there could ever be a future for us, at least not while Scar Face is after me.