by Jake Burt
“I’m good. Met our neighbors. Here,” I say, handing him the card.
“A pig-pickin’? What’s that?” he asks as he flips the card around. “Some sort of football thing?”
“That was my guess!” I say proudly.
Jonathan nods, and then looks at the lonely little mango sitting in the bowl. That, plus his wife’s crystal-clear message about coffee, has him slipping on his shoes and grabbing his wallet.
“Want to come to the store?” he asks both of us. Jackson shakes his head, and I decline as well.
“Gonna get dressed, then talk to our neighbor. I think she’ll help us go shopping later.”
“Don’t go too far!” Jonathan calls as he heads out the back door. A few minutes later, and I’m gone, too.
It’s colder than yesterday, a fine mist dewing on my skin almost immediately. I shiver and cross my arms in front of me, pining for that winter jacket I’m going to buy today. The air smells sort of like fall—chestnut carts in Midtown, dusty heating ducts, the pumpkin-spice candles Grammy and I liked to light—only there’s something thinner about it, like I can’t get enough to latch on to any one memory. I make my way to the street, watching a couple of joggers dutifully pounding their way around the trail that runs inside the stone wall across the street. Sniffling, I blink the mist from my eyelashes, and I set off. The next house over is Brit’s, and she’s outside rummaging through a trash bag, separating different recyclables into colored containers. Nancie is nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” I call from the edge of her driveway. She jumps nervously, clutching the half-empty bag to her chest. When she sees that it’s me, she exhales, sets down the bag, and walks over to talk to me.
“I … um … I’m sorry about my mom earlier. She can be…”
“Hyper-welcoming?”
Brit smiles. “That’s a … way to put it, I guess.”
“It was nice of your mom to volunteer you to come shopping with me, and I’d love the company and the help, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’m happy to,” she says, slipping her fingers through her mist-soaked bangs. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though—it’s not like you need much for school.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What, is Loblolly a nudist colony?”
She laughs, a nervous titter punctuated by the faintest of snorts. “No! But we do have to wear uniforms.”
Well, that’s a wrinkle. I pout, and Brit holds up her arms. “I know, I know!” she says. “But I don’t make the rules!”
In truth, I’m relieved. Removing what to wear from the equation solves a big, big part of my “fit in but don’t stand out” challenge. However, I’m also aware that I’m supposed to balk at such restrictions; if I’m going to perform normal girl, I’ve got to freak out at the notion of being forced into fashion conformity.
“What are our colors? And do we have to wear pants? What about makeup and earrings?”
Brit shakes her head. “You’re not going to like this, either. Our school colors are green and gold.”
My face scrunches up, and I stick out my tongue. She hurriedly waves her hands at me, trying to ward off my feigned hissy fit.
“But the dress code says girls have to wear navy blue, black, or dark green skirts or pants. No jeans, nothing above the knee—and they do nail you on it if you’re even a finger’s width too short. Shirts have to be white with a collar, for both girls and boys. Sneakers for everyone except on assembly days. You can wear earrings and makeup, but I’m … I’m not the best person to ask about those kinds of things.”
“It’s okay,” I respond. “What about jackets or sweatshirts?”
“Yeah, you can wear a coat or sweatshirt, but make sure they don’t advertise anything or have another school’s name on there. You can’t even wear a Duke hoodie.”
“Well, that sucks, but I still wouldn’t mind it if you came shopping with us today. That is, if you’re cool with it.”
“My mom won’t let me say no. She’s kind of…”
“I saw,” I say as she trails off. “I’m just sorry she forced me on you. You probably have better things to do than babysit the new girl in town.”
“No!” Brit says quickly, and perhaps louder than she would have liked. She blushes and quickly adds, “I mean, it’s fine. I’m glad to.”
“Cool,” I reply. “I hope everyone at Loblolly is as nice as you.”
“A-heh, um, yeah…” she stammers, gazing down at her shoes and turning away. “Some are, I … I guess.”
“Okay…” I say slowly, offering her a grin. “Anyway, I’m going to walk around a little more, but I’ll call you when we’re heading out.”
As I wave good-bye and start heading up the street, I can hear her sigh behind me. At first, I don’t know what to think about it, but I deftly slip behind a bush and peek back. She’s still standing there, a hand over her heart and another up to her forehead. She’s smiling, and as she walks back up her driveway, I think she whispers, “Yesss!”
Huh. I guess I made an impression.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It Takes Guts
So it turns out a thousand dollars doesn’t go nearly as far as I thought. I spend two hundred on school-appropriate clothes alone. Another hundred disappears on a decent winter jacket. Then come shoes; a nicer outfit for assemblies, dinners, and whatnot; and the requisite stock-up on underwear, socks, and toiletries. After a rug for my room and a backpack for school, I’m left with less than a quarter of my card, and I haven’t even looked at phones for Jackson. Brit says she’s never seen anyone buy so much stuff, ever, and asks if we’re rich.
“No—I wish!” I laugh. Hitting the halls of Loblolly tagged as a spoiled kid isn’t the kind of attention I need. “When my dad got his job, he got a signing bonus on these cards, and he said we had to get ourselves ready for school with them.”
Mental note—tell Jonathan about the signing bonus I just made up.
Brit volunteers to take my newest shopping bag, but she’s already carrying four, so I decline. I do offer to buy her one of those cinnamon-sugary pretzels, though. Can’t go to the mall without getting a pretzel. She whispers her agreement, and we drop off our bags with Harriet in front of Pier 1. If Brit notices that it’s the fifth time we’ve checked in during the last hour, she doesn’t mention it.
“I’ve … I’ve never had one, you know…” Brit says as we’re standing in line.
“Never had a mall pretzel? Not a big shopping fan?”
“No … no, I guess not. I used to come sometimes when I needed to get a game, but now I just order them online or download them.”
“I can see that being easier,” I concede, and she exhales. I think she was relieved that I didn’t say anything about her game playing.
“You come to malls, or … I mean, go to malls often?” Brit asks.
I nod. “Yeah. You could say that. I used to spend a lot of time with my grandma—I called her Grammy. She…” I pause, figuring out how to put this. “Worked at malls a lot. I’d go with her.”
“Oh, did she run a store?”
“Sort of,” I admit, but that’s as far as I’m going to go. I’m not about to explain that malls are a surefire score; everyone there has money, and there are usually a bunch of restaurants, which are prime territory. Just figure out when the waiters and waitresses change shifts, do a bump-and-grab as they’re hurrying outside to smoke, and you’ve got a fistful of untraceable cash. I can still clearly remember how proud my grammy was whenever I’d show her what I nicked after an hour at the mall. She’d even let me throw a few of the coins into the fountain. It didn’t occur to me at the time to feel badly for what I was doing.
Now, of course, I’m wishing as Charlotte Trevor, and she just wants to keep things calm … which, apparently, is easier said than done.
“Is that BritGut?” a shrill voice twangs.
I saw this documentary once about octopi changing colors in the blink of an eye, and even they cou
ldn’t go green as fast as Brit does. She closes her eyes and swallows hard, refusing to turn around.
Again, the voice rings out, emanating from the direction of the dELiA*s across the way.
“It is! BritGut! Ohmygod! Of anyone from school, you’re, like, the last person I’d ever expect to see here! And you’re actually, like, buying new things! Time to replace that sweatshirt finally? I’m totally going to blog about this later! BritGut, shopping! In public!”
I pry my gaze off Brit’s stricken face and trace the voice. It belongs to a girl our age, shorter than us, with an almost perfectly round face highlighted by half the makeup counter at Macy’s. Her hair is in a braided updo, a huge white bow-scrunchie keeping it back. She has perfect teeth, a dance-studio windbreaker, and yoga pants that don’t flatter her nearly as much as she thinks they do. Her fingers, French-manicured nails impeccable, clutch at her purse—a Gucci GG Plus top-handle bag, if I know my stuff. My mind instantly stats it out—zip closure, hand-sewn leather handles, room for about a hand and a half from the back. Looks to be three-quarters full, likely holding nothing even remotely as valuable as the bag itself. Of course, there are three other girls just behind this Gucci-wielder, tittering at everything she says. She flits her way right up to Brit, ignoring me for now, though her trailers give me a serious once-over.
“Can we cut you, BritGut? Thanks!” the girl says as she sidles in front of us.
Brit doesn’t offer any resistance. She just mumbles, “Oh, okay, sure, I guess, Deidre.”
It’s like this girl found the tiny valve behind Brit’s smile, twisted it, and completely deflated her. The other girls chirp, “Yeah, thanks, Gut!” and they fall into formation behind Deidre.
“Gut?” I mouth, looking at Brit. She blinks like she’s fighting off tears, and her fingers are clenched into balls at her side.
Apparently, Deidre was sneaking a peek back at us, because she catches my question and turns around.
“Yeah, Gut! Like Guthrie. It’s her last name.”
“I’m aware,” I say.
“Hi, by the way. I’m Deidre. Brit goes to our school. Are you Brit’s friend?”
There’s a twinge of something in the way she says Brit’s friend, maybe the little snap she puts in the t and the d that makes it seem like she’s painting the tips of her words with poison. Given that each time her mouth opens, Brit goes a little greener, I’m guessing that Deidre can get a whole lot nastier than this.
Before I can reply, Brit murmurs, “She’s … she’s not my friend. Just my new neighbor. She … yesterday … moved in next door. I’m helping … helping her shop…”
Not your friend? That’s fair, I guess.
Deidre laughs, a high, staccato titter that bounces through her posse.
I brush a lock of hair behind my ear and smile. “I’m Charlotte Trevor.”
“What, like the city?”
“Like the queen,” I reply.
“Sure,” Deidre says, looking back at her friends, who dutifully laugh again. I’m still smiling. Funny what being hunted by killers does for your sense of perspective—it makes Deidre seem a lot less menacing. There’s been a girl like her at every school I’ve ever attended. There was bound to be one at Loblolly.
“Well,” I say to Brit, though I’m speaking loudly enough for all to hear, “you’ve been the nicest person I’ve met since I got here, and it’s cool if you don’t think of me as a friend yet. As far as I’m concerned, you’re mine.”
Brit swallows slowly, her eyes darting from girl to girl.
“That’s awful nice of you, Charlotte,” Deidre says. “Brit probably doesn’t know what a friend looks like, anyway. She doesn’t get many. Good luck with it!” Then she turns to her girlfriends and says, “Blogging this one for sure!”
Okay. That’s actually a little menacing. Unless I do something, Brit and I are going to be front and center on the latest post. Granted, I doubt the Cercatores are perusing the blogs of preppy public schoolers in the Tar Heel state, but at the very least I’ll get a vicious talking-to from Janice if WITSEC finds Charlotte Trevor on this girl’s website. Time to take matters into my own hands.
There’s an elderly couple in front of Deidre; the man is counting out exact change from his pocket, pushing a penny at a time toward the utterly bored pretzel boy. I time my positioning just as a family of four tries to squeeze through the line, situating myself so that the stroller they’re pushing will have to go between the old folks and Deidre’s group. The girls step back, and when they do, I’m inches behind them. Two of the girls bump into me. I apologize as they roll their eyes.
Sure, rule one says no stealing. And I still feel terrible about taking Harriet’s ring. Heck, I’m feeling pangs of guilt for swiping from those servers five years ago. However, I’m not stealing the two credit cards and the rolled-up twenty-dollar bill I just slipped out of the girls’ jacket pockets. I’m just relocating them.
“Actually, Brit,” I say loudly, “I’m not much in the mood for a pretzel right now. Let’s head down to meet my mom.”
Brit stammers, “O-okay…”
I lean forward, tapping Deidre on the shoulder. As she swivels, my index and thumb are on the zipper of her Gucci bag. Her twist unzips it for me, and it’s easy to slide the credit cards and cash into her purse.
“It was nice meeting you, Deidre. I’ll see you at school on Monday!” I say cheerfully.
“Yeah, k. Whatever,” she replies, and she steps up to the counter as the elderly couple shuffles off with their coffee. Her own forward motion rezips her bag, and I let go before she can feel any tension. Then I grab Brit by the sleeve and tug her away. She gamely follows behind me until we reach the airbrushed T-shirt kiosk, where I pretend to look at a Hello Kitty shirt. I whisper to Brit, “Watch this,” and tilt my head back toward Deidre and company.
We can’t hear what they’re saying, but we do get to see the look of utter embarrassment on one girl’s face as she tries to pay for her pretzel, only to fumble around in her pocket for her credit card. It’s easy enough to guess what her friend is saying when she steps up and volunteers to pay for it. Then the same look of sickened shock paints its way across her brow as she rummages through her pockets, coming up empty each time. Cue the exasperated sigh from Deidre, who proudly plops her Gucci on the countertop, unzips it with all the flourish of a magician reaching into a bag of tricks, and pulls out her precious little leather clutch. Spilling out with it, of course, are her friends’ cards and cash. I’m not sure exactly how the argument goes after that, but it’s intense.
Puzzled, Brit asks, “What … what happened?”
“Let’s just say Deidre has something else to blog about now instead of your sojourn to the mall with your nonfriend.”
Brit blushes, pushing up her glasses. “I didn’t mean it, Charlotte. About you not being my friend. I’m … I’m sorry I had to say that. But…”
I wave my hand. “Don’t worry about it. I get it. Attention from girls like Deidre isn’t exactly a plus.”
She shakes her head, and I have to lean in close just to hear what she’s saying. “No, Charlotte. That’s not it. I mean, yeah, I’m scared of Deidre. I’ll admit it. But I wasn’t saying that to save myself—I was trying to save you. I—I don’t have many friends … at least, not at school. And Deidre … her and some others … might make it harder for you if they thought you were my friend. I’m not…” She pauses, lower lip trembling, eyes closed. “I’m not popular.”
My first thought is to hug Brit, and my second is to walk over to Deidre and give her the U.S. marshal–issue chop to the larynx. I don’t know what kind of torture Brit’s undergone, but the stoop of her shoulders and the tremble in her voice suggest that life hasn’t been easy for her. She should be tall and willow-graceful, but she’s gotten so good at shrinking herself that I haven’t been able to shake the notion that she’s somehow smaller than me. And the idea that she was protecting me by distancing herself? After knowing me for less than a
day?
Brit, you’re already a better friend than you give yourself credit for.
In the end, hugging wins out, and I wrap my arms around her. She sighs once, trembles, and then pulls away.
“Thanks,” she says. As Brit and I make our way to the rendezvous point with Harriet, all I can think about is how familiar this seems—Brit, Deidre, her friends, the tension, all of it—and yet how strange. I wonder if Nicki Demere would have dealt with the situation differently than Charlotte Trevor. Would I have felt so comfortable sticking with Brit in Deidre’s face if I didn’t have a greater mission? And why is it that it didn’t seem weird to pretend to be someone I’m not? Have I been doing that at every school I’ve ever gone to? With everyone I’ve ever known?
Heck, is there anyone who isn’t doing that?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pickin’ Pigs and Pockets
I wouldn’t call Harriet frantic, but there’s definitely some desperation percolating as we’re getting ready to head across the street for our pig-pickin’ party. She’s got her blond hair tied back, sunglasses high on her head, and bangle bracelets bouncing as she rolls from room to room.
“I swear I did not have it yesterday. And I didn’t go out. I was just working here, putting up pictures that aren’t ours and rearranging furniture that I’m supposed to say has been in the family for three generations,” she says to Jonathan, casting her hand about the living room. She points at the sofa with poised fury. “I’ve gone under this thing’s cushions for my ring five times now. Nobody would keep this couch in their family for three minutes, let alone three generations. Now it’s ours, and we can’t get rid of it, because it’s part of our ‘backstory.’”
She slumps down by the front door as Jonathan searches the corners, picking up pictures, turning over pillows, and scooting chairs around. It’s all I can do not to rush upstairs, get the ring, fall to my knees, and ask for forgiveness. I would, too, except Jackson’s here, and I don’t want him seeing me like that. He’d probably take a picture and e-mail it to Janice. So instead I stew right along with my fauxmily. The longer we wait, the more nervous I get. I have to do something soon if I’m going to maintain my Charlottey composure.