by Jake Burt
“Wh-wha?” I stammer. Jonathan shuffles up and tosses an arm around my shoulder.
“Charlotte,” he says sheepishly, “welcome to your first pig-pickin’. Everyone, this is my daughter, Charlotte.”
I think they all say their nice-to-meetchas, and I think I dodge a bunch of handshakes. I hope I’m smiling at everyone. I’m not sure, though, because I keep staring back at that pig. Eventually, Jonathan leads me to a picnic table. Brit scoots in next to me, and Jackson joins us a few moments later, carrying two paper plates piled high with meat and things of other colors. He slides one in front of me, and he crows, “Enjoy your lunch, sis!”
“I tried to tell you, Charlotte,” Brit murmurs apologetically. “It can be a bit shocking at first.”
My stomach growls. The sight of that pig still has me shaking, but the smell screams, “Dig in!” Jackson catches my eye and shovels a forkful of the meat into his mouth. Smiling, he starts chewing with his mouth open, working the shreds of meat around like laundry in the dryer.
“Mmm!” he says, spitting pieces of pig as he talks. “Tasty!”
It’s all to freak me out, I know, but something happens.
“Wait a sec,” he says, and takes another bite. “Actually, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I’m not kidding. The best…”
We watch as he takes his phone out and snaps a picture of his plate. Then he resumes shoveling.
“We often lose northerners to pulled pork,” Brit whispers.
I pitchfork my meat around a bit but don’t take a bite.
“Are you a vegetarian?”
I shake my head. “No, but…”
Jackson jumps in. “But she tried last year, to impress some guy. It didn’t last, though. I caught her up in the middle of the night eating leftover bacon. Just shoveling it into her mouth. She had a piece hanging out like a lizard’s tongue or something.”
My head snaps up, and I narrow my eyes. Jackson is still talking—with his mouth full, no less—but he’s grinning mischievously all the while.
“Uh-huh! Big bowl full of bacon. You should have seen her. She looked so stupid!”
Brit seems incredibly confused, and I grit my teeth. Two can play at this game. I think about bringing up his little evening excursion from a couple of nights ago, but my conscience wins out … kind of.
“Yeah. My vegetarian days—back in Ohio, where we lived—didn’t last so long. But my adorable little brother here wouldn’t have caught me if he hadn’t been up looking for someone to help him change his sheets. He still, you know, has bladder issues every now and again. Speaking of which, you might want to take it easy with that lemonade, buddy.”
Jackson makes some sort of awful choking sound, coughs, and spits a wad of corn and collard greens back onto his plate. Brit murmurs, “Ewww…” and we both watch as he sweeps up his plate, growls angrily at me, and stomps away.
The next hour is spent schmoozing with people and casually laughing off my shock and horror at seeing the poor pig on the barbecue. Jackson mopes by himself, Jonathan hovers around the grill, and Harriet alternates between chatting with Nancie and fretting over Jackson and his bad attitude.
Eventually, I do try the pig. Jackson was right. It’s delicious. I’m just glad nobody told me its name.
* * *
Messaging ON
10:37 PM
Hey Jackson … Are you there?
I h8 U. Leev me alone
I see your new phone works. You’re welcome!
Hold on Let me check sumthin Ya I still h8 U
Joy. You’re like my rock of stability. Life gets tough, I can always say, “Hey, at least Jackson still hates me.” There’s comfort in that, you know? Sun rises. Dog barks. Jackson mopes.
Shut up
Anyways, I’m not writing to make you mad. I just wanted to see if you’re okay about school tomorrow. I’ve been to lots of schools, and I’ve done 6th before, so if you wanted to know stuff …
I dot wanna kno U *don’t
Maybe not. But it might be nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who knows who you really are. So you’ve got me if you need me.
[USER HAS EXITED CHAT]
K.
Good night, little brother.
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Battlefield: School
The first time I crashed a new school midyear was a disaster. The second time was … well, okay, that was a disaster, too. By the third time, though, I started getting the hang of it. I guess that’s one of the reasons the marshals picked me—I’ve done this sort of thing before. Granted, not as Charlotte Trevor, and not with people’s lives at stake, but I know enough by now to have a plan of attack.
I take a shower as soon as my alarm goes off. The clothes are easy—dark-green-and-black-plaid skirt, white collared shirt with three-quarter sleeves that I roll up just above my elbow. I had Brit preapprove it as school-worthy. My makeup is light as usual, hair in a quick updo, and my new gold studs in place of the Swarovskis. It’s all just enough to show that I care without drawing attention to myself. But the smell? The smell is something I fret over. I know I’m going to be the new girl; I just don’t want to be the pungent new girl. So I go with one shot of body mist—a gentle hint of violet, vanilla, and sandalwood right at the nape of my neck, and that’s it. If it’s still too heavy, I can rely on Jackson to make fun of me for it before we even walk out the door. Obnoxious little brothers make great early-detection systems for embarrassing moments.
After breakfast, Jonathan gathers us for a pep talk. Jackson, dressed in black cargo pants, his new black skate shoes, and a white undershirt, is already seated on the couch. He is glaring at Harriet, who just tossed him a button-down shirt and demanded he put it on, pronto. I sit right next to him, even though there’s a full cushion-length to my left. He turns that glare on me but says nothing, even when I hold my chin high and expose my neck.
Good. No odor issues.
“Good morning, children. Son. Daughter.”
Jonathan takes a moment to look at each of us. He nods like a captain inspecting his troops. “Your mother and I know what a leap this has been for both of you and understand the gravity of what we’re asking you to do here. Lucas … Jackson, my boy, we cannot tell you how much we appreciate your sacrifice. You gave up your friends. You gave up your family—cousins, aunts, uncles—to help us do the right thing, and years from now you’ll be able to look back on this with pride, knowing that you played a part in justice being served. For now, though, we have to ask you to give a little more. Can you do that for us today? Be good. Be kind. Listen. Make friends, but don’t make waves. Deal?”
Jackson just turns his head and pouts.
“Deal, son?”
“Deal. Fine. Deal,” Jackson murmurs.
“Thank you. And you, Charlotte. We’re relying on you. Watch out for Jackson. He’s new to this, and we’re depending on your support. Keep him and yourself under the radar. Make sure things go smoothly. God, but we’re glad to have two pairs of eyes at that school, looking after each other. We’re so grateful for the peace of mind that brings us.”
“And you,” I reply. “The same goes for you and Mom at work.”
“Don’t call her Mom. She’s not your mom,” Jackson grumbles.
I reply nonchalantly, “As soon as we get to school, she is. Same as I’m your sister, whether you like it or not.”
“Not,” he says.
I shrug. He’s nervous, and layered on top of his usual grumpy, it makes him even more displeasing. But I’ve got bigger pimples to pop today.
The drive to school takes us through the Duke Forest, and it’s a bit otherworldly, to be honest. Though the pines are packed close together, they have no lower branches—all their needles, some still green, some brown, are bunched up in the canopy. It looks like a never-ending army of upended brooms swaying gently with the breeze. The ground is carpeted with needles. It’s both dark and peaceful at the same time, and I decide I like it.
Loblolly Middle School, it turns out, is named after all these pine trees—they’re loblolly pines. Jackson announces as much from the backseat; it’s the first thing he’s said all drive. Jonathan hums appreciatively at that little nugget of knowledge, but then scopes out his son in the rearview mirror and starts harping on him to put away his phone. I’m not really paying attention. My mind is way too loud right now. I’ve got a jumble of questions popcorning around in there, and they only multiply when we join the line of minivans waiting to pull into the school parking lot. Our car slows to a crawl, giving me a chance to check out the school grounds.
Loblolly is a lot like the facility in Glynco. It’s spread out, different buildings nestled between stands of pines. Kids are running along needle-covered walkways while teachers patrol the grassy patches, pointing at classrooms and shooing students along. The closest building has one of those signs that lets you pull the letters off and replace them, kind of like they have on the poles out in front of McDonald’s. This one says Welcome to Loblolly Middle School! School of excellence, 10 years running. Serving 403 students and supporting 84 faculty members. Go, Fightin’ Pinecones!
We’re the Fightin’ Pinecones? I suddenly get this vision of a giant mascot, all spiky and terrible, chasing little kids around and trying to hug them.
“Gotta take you into the main office. We meet with the vice principal, who will give us a little tour and tell you where your homerooms are,” Jonathan explains once we’re parked.
I grab my backpack and hop out. The smells of pinesap and coffee are light in the air, and a chilly breeze whips around the car. I zip up my jacket and fold my arms across my chest, tugging at the straps of my bag. Jackson’s hair, which he finally washed last night, frames his face as he scans the buildings.
“Come on, brother. Let’s make this happen,” I say, and with a deep breath I follow Jonathan up the hill toward the main office. Jackson slings his backpack over one shoulder, mutters something, and scuffles along behind, kicking up piles of needles with his shoes.
I check out the other girls. How do my clothes compare? Am I taller than they are? Do I walk differently? Will they be able to tell I’m a northern, skyscrapers-and-subways City girl?
From what I can see, I’ve done just fine with the uniform. It seems I’ve actually taken a bit more care than most of the other students, but that’s easy enough to explain away. Any new kid at any school would want to look her best at first, even halfway through the fall. The boys try to be as sloppy as they possibly can—shirts untucked, pants sagging low, and buttons skipped. I silently give Jackson his props. His style actually seems to fit.
Double doors open onto a reception area. A cold draft sneaks in with us, fluttering bunches of announcements and sign-up forms on a bulletin board. Thick carpet stretches down the center of the room, the image of a huge pine tree sewn in. Underneath are the words Commitment, Achievement, Respect, Excellence, Scholarship—Loblolly CARES. A long hallway to our right bristles with doors, and I assume they lead to classrooms. To the left, an open doorway is flanked by four padded chairs on one side and a table on the other. The table features a green cloth stitched with the same slogan as the carpet, and atop this sits a woven basket filled with pinecones. The whole place smells, appropriately, like Pine-Sol.
“Can I help y’all?” a cheerful voice chirrups from the room to our left. Jonathan follows the voice, and we, in turn, follow him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jonathan says to the woman behind the long desk. “We’re the Trevor family. This is Jackson—he’s twelve, enrolling in sixth grade—and this is Charlotte, thirteen, going into seventh.”
“Oh!” the curly-haired lady replies. She grabs a pair of reading glasses from where they dangle on her chest and lifts them to her eyes without actually slipping them on. Shuffling through stacks of paper, she says, “Here y’all are. Trevors. Right on time. You must be Jonathan Trevor, the father?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’d be me,” Jonathan says congenially. “I’ve got some paperwork here for the kids.”
“Good!” the secretary replies, and she hands him a clipboard. “I have to chase most new families all over God’s creation for those things. Glad you’re on top of your game, Mr. Trevor. Medical forms can be stapled to the blue sheet in there. If they still need physicals, just have the pediatrician mail us the info.” She turns her attention to us, letting the glasses fall back down to bump against her white sweater. “Y’all don’t have any allergies, do you? ’Cause we’re not a peanut-free campus.”
“No, ma’am,” I say politely. I wait for Jackson, but he’s busy reading a pamphlet he grabbed from her desktop. I sigh. “Same with my brother.”
“Good. That’s good. Tell you what—Mr. Jessup’s waitin’ for you in his office. You two can head in while your dad here fills in the necessaries. Go on. He’s a nice man. Don’t bite hardly at all!”
She chuckles at her own joke, and she’s so cheerful that I can’t help but smile, too. It’s obvious from a scan of her desk that she’s got a system down. A thick stack of pink attendance sheets are impaled on a long spike, and she’s got four colors of Sharpies neatly arranged near her computer keyboard. A glass jar shaped like an apple holds mints, and a smaller matching one has paper clips inside. All of this sits atop a panel of thick, clear glass, underneath which she’s collaged pictures of the same seven or eight kids. I’m guessing grandchildren. The topmost row on her phone says Front Desk—Mrs. Childers.
“Thanks, Mrs. Childers,” I say, and I nudge Jackson toward Mr. Jessup’s office.
“How did you…” Mrs. Childers begins, but then she picks up on the evidence and chuckles again. “Oh, clever girl! I like you!”
Thanks, Mrs. Childers. I like you, too.
I’m still smiling as I lead Jackson down the little hallway. I only hope the vice principal is as welcoming as the secretary.
Our knock seems to be swallowed by the carpet and ceiling tiles, but the door swings wide. Standing there is a tall, strikingly handsome man in a decent suit (Perry Ellis Portfolio, side vents, four-inch-deep front pockets and button-closed back ones). He looks like Denzel Washington, if Denzel was a little younger and completely bald.
“Welcome, welcome. You must be the Trevors,” he says. His voice is gentle—reedy and reassuring. “I’m Mr. Jessup. I’ve been waiting to meet you all for weeks now, ever since we heard you were coming!”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to be welcomed.”
“She talks!” He chuckles to himself. “Sorry. Most new kids are so scared I can barely hear them. Your response, Charlotte … it is Charlotte, right?”
I nod.
“Well, Charlotte, your response speaks highly of your confidence. And this is…”
“Jackson. I’m Jackson,” he murmurs, averting his eyes. At least, I think that’s what he says—his lips moved, but no sound really came out.
Mr. Jessup shoots me a knowing wink. “That’s more like it.”
The vice principal indicates a couple of chairs across from his desk. I plop down my backpack and sit. Jackson hugs his bag to his chest. The shades are drawn, but the lamp in the corner casts a comfortable glow on the bookshelves all around us.
Mr. Jessup takes a seat in his squeaky leather chair and folds his hands in front of him. “Know why I’m so excited to meet you both?”
At first, I think it’s a rhetorical question, but he’s staring at us with intense brown eyes, and the silence lasts too long. He wants an answer.
“You both?” I echo, my brow furrowing. I tap my lip with my index finger and repeat, “You both … you both … Not y’all. You’re not from here, Mr. Jessup. I’m guessing you’re…”
I peek at his desk for clues, and my gaze settles on a blue-and-white Xavier University mug. I remember the name of the place from our training. I remember where it is, too. Of course. We just got here, and they fire this cannonball for us to dodge. Well, here we go.… “You’re from Cincinnati.”
; He beams, sitting back in his leather chair and clapping his hands once. “Montgomery, to be more precise. Moved here about fifteen years ago. Tell me a little about the Queen City these days. How’s she holding up?”
Jackson actually squeaks. Mr. Jessup says, “Yes, Jackson?”
“N-nothing.”
“It’s like nothing?”
“No. I mean, I dunno.” Jackson shrugs. I believe if he could unzip his backpack and crawl in there, he’d do it, like one of those little dogs rich people tote around.
I frantically try to think through all the information that the marshals taught us, but for some reason it’s just not coming up—at least nothing relevant anyway. I could spew out our fake street address, the name of the school I never actually attended, and the county we’re supposedly from, but I don’t think, “Hurr durr … Osage Road, Indian Hill Middle School, Hamilton!” is quite what he’s looking for.
The seconds stretch out like gum between a hot sidewalk and a shoe. Fortunately, before my shaky left hand shoots out to swipe the calculator off Mr. Jessup’s desk, something comes to me. It’s not from the marshals’ training, though, or from any file. Rather, it’s from an old book I read at the Center. Thank goodness for books.
“Well,” I finally say, “you know. It’s like Twain said. If the end of the world is coming, I want to be in Cincinnati, because—”
Mr. Jessup jumps in. “Because Cincinnati is always twenty years behind the times!” He laughs and smacks his desk. “I love that saying. So darn true. It’s probably about the same—you’re right, you’re right. Well, anyway, it’s great to meet two students from my hometown. Don’t worry. You’ll like it down here. Durham’s actually not that much different from Cincy, except maybe in how we handle ribs. Still can’t beat the Montgomery Inn, for my money.”