by Jake Burt
My hands trembling, I drift over to Harriet and offer to help her up. She shakes her frown off and reaches out. I clasp her wrist and tug her to her feet, careful not to actually hold her hand.
“Thank you, Charlotte. I’m sorry I’m in such a mood.”
“No problem,” I say, my own nerves settling almost immediately. “Nobody will notice, I’ll bet, and if they do, just tell them the truth—you spent all day yesterday moving boxes and unpacking, and in the craziness you misplaced your ring.”
“You’re right, Charlotte. Such a good girl. We really got lucky with you,” she replies, and her whole face brightens. She gives my shoulder a squeeze and then goes to fret over Jackson. He’s standing in the center of the room shaking his new phone and cursing under his breath about the number of bars he’s getting. When I gave it to him, he just growled at me. I chose to interpret that as Jackson-speak for thank you.
“Put the phone away for two minutes, Jackson. We have to seem neighborly. E per amor del cielo, fix your hair. It looks awful.”
I watch him shoot her a look before he tromps off to the bathroom. Apparently, when Harriet breaks out the Italian, she means business. It makes me wonder what sort of Rosetta Stone she’d roll my way if she found out I stole one of her bracelets while I was helping her up. I’ve got it in my back pocket now, the ruffled hemline of my new shirt hiding the evidence. In my defense, it was getting really uncomfortable in here. Besides, when I’m stealing is the only time I’ve ever been able to stomach people touching my hands, so if I was going to help her up at all, I’d have to be stealing something, right? Right?
Yeah, I’m not even convincing myself. Guilt washes into its familiar place behind the ebbing anxiety, and as I run up to my room, I’m silently yelling at myself to return the circle of platinum I just swiped. Heck, I even manage to sit down on my bed and gaze at the bracelet before stashing it in my sock drawer next to the ring. But again, something stops me from doing what I know I should. Instead, I do what Charlotte Trevor has gotten pretty good at already: I slide a bunch of socks over the purloined pieces and push the drawer closed, hiding Nicki Demere away for another afternoon.
When I march downstairs, everyone else is ready to go—even Jackson. We take a collective breath, and Jonathan opens the front door. The music from the party twangs its way in, accompanied by the smell of charcoal. We head out, the whole Trevor family ready to appear in public together for the first time. Here’s hoping I pick pigs better than I police myself.
We follow the music two doors down to a sturdy brick home ringed by pine trees. There’s enough space between the houses for gardens, side yards, and tire swings. If this was New York, we could have built two whole other houses in there, but here in suburban North Carolina, they like their homes to have a bit of elbow room. Nancie Guthrie is in the driveway, and as soon as she sees us, she waggles her hands in the air and shouts like a bee just flew up her dress.
“Ohmyohmyohmy!” she screeches. “You’re here! Hey, y’all, the Trevors are here! C’mon, everybody, and meet the Trinity Park Neighborhood Association!”
She bounds down the driveway, and she grabs me by the shoulders. “Goodness me, but you have better taste than my Brit. Lovely new shirt! What fun!” Then she turns to Harriet and Jonathan. “You must be Charlotte’s parents. Sweet girl you’ve raised there. Welcome, welcome to y’all! Get yourselves on back there and say hello to Jeff Royster, host of this shindig.”
Jonathan nods and sets off with Jackson in tow. I aim to follow, but Nancie blocks my way. “Brit’ll be along directly. Had some sort of event going on with her computer. But let me tell you, Charlotte, you made an impression on her. She came home smiling. Still panicky like she always is, but smiling, too. You’re gonna be good for her. Anyways, you ready for a party?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply once my mind has replayed Nancie’s words at a normal speed. “I’ll go find Brit, if that’s okay. Then I’ll be ready to pick my pig.”
Nancie arches one of her painted-on eyebrows at me, but only for a second. Then she swoops toward Harriet like a hawk spotting a wounded rabbit. “And you, Mama—Harriet, was it? I’m Nancie! Charlotte probably told you all about me, and that’s fine, but I’ve gotta say, the ladies and I have been swapping speculation about you and yours faster than green grass through a goose. Not that I’m a rumormonger, mind you, but I do like to have things right, and if you don’t mind my saying, there’s a certain degree of respect afforded to the girl who gets the gossip first, if you get my drift. So, pretty neighbor lady, do tell—where’re you from, exactly, and what’s brought you to Durham, North Carolina, here in the southern U.S. of A.?”
Wrapping her considerable arm around Harriet’s shoulders, Nancie pulls her down a few inches and leads her into the backyard. I’m left standing in the driveway. I shrug and head over to Brit’s house.
Nancie wasn’t lying when she talked about her brass knocker. It’s the head of a bull, with the ring dangling from its nostrils serving as the business end of the device. I knock gingerly, unsure of how much noise this thing actually makes, and I’m half expecting it to come alive and snort at me.
After a few seconds, I try the door. It’s unlocked—yay, the South!—and I push it open.
“Brit? Hello? It’s Charlotte!” I yell. I don’t actually know if any other people might be here. Or vicious guard dogs, now that I think about it. In all our time yesterday, Brit didn’t mention her dad, or siblings. So I yell again. Fortunately, or maybe not, there’s no reply.
Inside, it looks like a craft store exploded all over Brit’s living room. There’s an impressive TV in an entertainment unit, but where you’d expect there to be pictures, or maybe a DVD collection, there are instead big skeins of yarn in all colors and patterns piled up and shoved in every nook and cranny. Still more yarn overflows from a basket on the floor near the couch. Long, red needles stick out from the tangle, as if the Guthries just brutally and efficiently put down a yarn insurrection, leaving the rebels where they lay as a warning to other fabrics that might have ideas. Several stands along the wall hold crocheted blankets, and a huge quilt has been hung like a tapestry behind the couch. Its colors are vibrant, almost garish, all purples and pinks and turquoises. They remind me of Nancie’s eye shadow.
From above me comes a creak, like somebody moving around. The stairs are to my left, much broader and more inviting than those in our house, except that there’re piles of yarn festooning every step like sleeping Technicolor cats. I hop my way up carefully. When I get halfway, I can hear a voice—Brit’s, I think—from behind the closed door just off the second landing.
“Fremo, this is why I told you we don’t play pugs! God, you’re acting like a Silver Five out there!”
That’s Brit’s voice all right. Playing pugs? Silver Five? And who’s Fremo? I press my ear to the door and hear more.
“You get all weird and try to ninja them.… No, no, you do. Don’t argue with me. I’ll just loop the demo of you doing exactly that, post it on Twitch, and let the world laugh at you. No, I’m serious! They’re just camping the bomb. You run in there like you’re the Batman or something, and we all have to Leeroy to save you. There’s a reason I’m the caller and you’re not. Deco round? Are you serious? You’re not good enough for a deco round.”
Again, Brit’s voice, but there’s nobody responding. She’s either on the phone or talking to herself. What’s more, she’s speaking effortlessly—no stammer, no hiccups, none of the shy Brit I’ve heard before. I push open the door just in time to see Brit swivel around in her chair. She’s got an exasperated look on her face, and she’s wearing a headset, complete with a mic attached.
“Eaack!” she screams, rocketing backward in her chair so hard it bangs the desk behind her. The computer screens—two of them, both bigger than some TVs I’ve seen—jiggle and sway on their stands, and she wrenches around to steady them.
“Sorry!” I exclaim, holding up my hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”
>
With eyes wide, Brit scrambles to pick up various little objects on her desk: figurines, toys, wrappers, and pens. She dumps them all in a drawer so quickly that I can’t tell what’s trash and what’s treasure. Then she squeaks into her mic, “No. No, Ashea, I’m okay. My neighbor just showed up, IRL. Gotta go. Yeah, see you tonight for the tournament. Tell Fremo to cut that junk out, or we’re gonna lose.”
So that’s it—she’s talking to people online. On the screens are images of what looks like a Middle Eastern city, all dusty and derelict. There’s a score tracker at the top, and it shows the counterterrorists beating the terrorists three to two.
“It’s … it’s not what … I mean, I was just … how … how did you know I was here, Charlotte?”
“Your mom told me. The doors were unlocked. Um…” I pause. She’s still panting, her face so pale I can make out the blue of the veins in her forehead. “So … you’re a gamer. That’s cool.”
“What? Oh,” she mumbles, immediately looking down at her feet and pulling her shoulders in. “Yeah.”
I regard her setup—the double screens, the futuristic computer tower to their left that glows red like some alien’s body armor, and her impressive headset. My attention is drawn back to the right-hand screen, where there’s a list of what I can only assume are other players. At the top of the list is the name BR1TN3YSP34RGUN. I puzzle it out for a second, then ask, “Britney Speargun?”
“Um, yeah.” Brit laughs nervously. “That’s me. It’s like, you know … like, when I kill someone, it says on their screen, ‘randomguy has been killed by BR1TN3YSP34RGUN.’ And then they hear my voice, or see my live stream of a game, and they realize that I’m actually a girl, and it’s … it’s just for fun. I figure if I’m stuck with this name, I might as well use it.”
“It seems like you’re really good at this, Brit. You’re at the top of the leaderboard!”
“Yeah, well, yeah. It’s Counter Strike, so I’m pretty good. I’m not as good at some others. But if we win tonight, I might get an invite to join a pro team.”
She’s blushing with embarrassment and pride. I’m betting Brit is truly awesome at this game stuff, which explains a lot: Brit has a thing. Sure, some people might label her a geek, but this just makes Brit that much more valuable a friend. I’m betting she knows computers, same way I know pickpocketing. So we have something in common, even though I can’t really tell her about it.
“It does seem kind of violent. Does your mom know you’re so good at it?”
“My mom?” Brit whispers, her words almost dying in her throat. “N-no. Not really. Well, I mean, she knows I play games. I do summer work, at camps and stuff, to pay for it … but I use the headphones so she … so she doesn’t really hear. She’s at work a lot of the time anyway.”
“Can I see you play a round?” I ask.
“Wh-what?” Brit whispers. Her eyes are narrowed, like she thinks I’m setting some sort of trap.
“Hey, it’s not every day you get a chance to see BR1TN3YSP34RGUN in action. I want to say that I saw you owning scrubs online before you get famous.”
There’s just a hint of a tic at the corner of her mouth, and she adjusts her glasses. Then she cracks her knuckles. “Well, okay. I can play one really quick.”
“Awesome!” I say, and I cast around for someplace to sit. There’s a ridiculously poufy beanbag chair in the corner, and I toss myself down. It takes about a minute for the thing to stop making Rice Krispies noises. I can’t help but sigh happily, and I wriggle my way as deeply into the bag as I can.
“Here goes,” Brit murmurs after a moment of loading.
I can barely follow what’s going on, Brit is flying around so fast. She dodges explosions and bullets, leaps off buildings, and issues orders through her mic, using so many acronyms she’d give WITSEC a run for its money. With her attention so squarely on her screens, I can kick back, watch Brit do her thing, and take a break from Charlotte Trevor. It feels good. It feels a whole lot easier than the pig-pickin’ is going to be, or school tomorrow.
It feels, for this brief little window of time, normal.
On the screen to Brit’s right, there’s a score counter. BR1TN3YSP34RGUN leaps to the top of the list and stays there the entire match. When the pixel dust settles, Brit has logged forty-three kills and is named the game MVP. She takes off her headset, shakes her hair out, and turns around.
“That’s … that’s about all there is to it,” she says.
“That was incredible! You shredded them!” I exclaim. It’s only now that I realize I’m standing up, having leaped to my feet after her thirty-fifth kill or so.
“I guess … I guess I did all right. It was fun having an audience.”
I laugh. “Any time! Wow … Do the kids at school know about this?”
Brit gasps. “No! And please, please don’t tell them! Can it … can it be our secret? If Deidre found out—”
I wave my hands rapidly to cut her off. If there’s one thing I can sympathize with, it’s having a secret to keep.
“No worries, Brit. I won’t tell, I promise. And hey, speaking of Deidre, can we check her blog? I want to make sure we’re not in it.”
“Oh!” Brit smiles—an honest, unhidden grin. “That’s no problem. Anything you need computer-wise, or on the ’net, I can do!”
Within seconds, I’m looking at Deidre’s blog. Appropriately, it’s titled Because Y’all Love Me—a Blog by Deidre, about Deidre, and for Fans of Deidre. The font is some hideous alphabet soup of puffy Ds, heart-dotted i’s, and o’s with smiley faces inside. At least the actual entries aren’t in the same type. I watch as Brit scrolls down to the most recent one.
LIFE IS UNFAIR!!!
Hello, blogfans! Big news! You know how I sometimes blog about a certain someone and her totally forgetful streak? Well, this unnamed girl, whose nails, BTW, are conveniently identical to my most recent mani, finally took it to a whole new level today at the mall. Like, freak-level stuff! So we’re coming out of dELiA*s (shoutout—thanx for the awesome boots! Très cute!), where we all bought something, and unnamed paranoid girl says she wants to get a pretzel. So, being an awesome friend, I agree! We get over there, she goes to pay for her ’zel, and BOOM, her credit card is missing. Same with last week’s BFF, who has now been demoted to just F (that’s what you get!). Of course, because I’m nice, I offer to pay for both of them. I open my bag, and there are their cards!!! They immediately accuse me, ME, of stealing them! I totally didn’t! I don’t even know how they got in there! Probably they forgot them on the counter at dELiA*s and I picked them up for them by accident. It’s amazing what people will accuse you of, even when you’re doing nice things without knowing about it. God! How unfair is that? Of course I gave them their stuff back. But if you’re reading this, you two, you have a lot of apologizing and explaining to do. And try not to be so forgetful next time!
Deidre OUT!!!
I hum appreciatively when I finish reading it. “See? No mention of us. It’s too bad she sells out her friends, but I get the feeling that they’ll just come yapping back at her heels on Monday.”
“You’re not wrong,” Brit confesses. “I wish…”
I wait, but she seems to have packed that thought away in the drawer with the rest of her knickknacks. Instead, she sighs and smiles at me.
“Well, at least you won’t have any trouble making friends, Charlotte. You’ll have a ton of them. Girls like you always do.”
Girls like me? Ones that need governmental intervention just to get adopted? Who steal from their fake mothers? Girls on the run from vicious killers? Girls who can’t even share their own names?
“Girls like me?”
“Yeah, you know. Pretty. New. Good with makeup. Funny. Smart. Nice.”
I blush. “Thanks for all that. But I don’t really know what’s going to happen. I’ve got a few plans, but I’d like to concentrate on just getting settled first. Besides, I’ve already got one friend, and that’s more than good enough f
or now. Especially since she kicks butt with virtual assault rifles.”
It’s Brit’s turn to blush, and she turns her face away. Closing the webpage and setting her computer to sleep mode, she says, “Do you maybe wanna go to the party now?”
“Sure,” I reply. “I’m as ready to pick a pig as I’ll ever be. When you moved in, did you get to pick a pig?”
Brit shakes her head, arching her eyebrow warily like her mom did. “No … I was born here. We didn’t have a pig-pickin’ for me. But I’ve been to a few.”
“Are they cute? Or is it a football thing?”
Brit wrings her hands nervously. “I think you’d better just see for yourself.”
I shrug. “If I get a little runty one, I’m naming it Wilbur. Wouldn’t that be funny? Charlotte and Wilbur? Or maybe I’ll name it something elaborate. What do you think of Ivan Totrufflehunt?”
“It’s … um…” Brit stammers. She’s a step and a half behind me now, and I just keep chatting all the way up to the Roysters’ backyard.
“If I’m feeling spiteful when I get there, and it looks at me crosswise, I might name the little guy Jackson. Or Deidre if it’s a girl, especially if it pushes the other pigs around with its snout and grunts orders at them. And hey, what smells so good? It’s like a mixture of barbecue and Italian dressing and somethi … Ohmygodwhatisthat?!”
I freeze, and so does everyone else. A gaggle of neighbors and parents, mine included, stares at me, which is appropriate, I suppose, given that I just screamed. I continue to point, even as Jackson brays with laughter nearby.
“Your face!” he cries, the red cup in his hand sloshing lemonade all over the place. “Your face is hilarious! You should see yourself, Charlotte!”
I’d find a mirror and look if I wasn’t paralyzed by the sight before me. Yawning open is a coal-black steel drum, laid on its side and propped open like a coffin. Tendrils of shimmering heat warp the air, but I can still see clearly enough. There, spitting and hissing over a steel grate, is an entire pig, its head brown and shriveled and its hairless legs left to dangle over the edge. Where its body should be, no … where its body was, is shredded meat, piled like grass mulched out the side of a lawn mower.