by Jake Burt
“You took my phone!”
Jackson is there, my calculator in his hand. He’s holding it like he’s going to throw it at me. I look around quickly for Harriet.
“She ran to the store, Nicki,” he spits, adding as much venom to my real name as possible. “Give me my phone.”
I inhale sharply and set my jaw. Then I stride right up to him. “Not only did I take your phone—I deleted your stupid Facebook account. What the hell were you thinking, Jackson? You could get us all killed!”
He snaps; there’s no other way to describe it. His eyes jerk wide, his jaw drops, and he swings the calculator at me. I duck, and it hits the kitchen island, exploding into bits of plastic and circuitry. Before I can regain my balance, he pushes me down to the floor. I roll under the table near the bay window, narrowly avoiding a kick.
“I don’t care anymore!” he says, half screaming and half crying. “I want my old friends back. I want my grandma, and my aunts, and uncles, and cousins! I want my old house, and my old school, and most of all I want you gone! You’ve destroyed my life!”
I back into the corner and pull a chair in front of me; pieces of broken calculator and fruit from the bowl on the island crash and spatter onto my makeshift shield.
“I didn’t destroy your life! I’m trying to save it!” I retort.
“Shut up! Shut up!” he cries, his voice breaking.
“And your mom didn’t destroy it, either! Your mom is the hero here, not the villain!”
All I get in reply is a bunch of bananas nailing the wall near my head.
“I know, Jackson! Believe me, I know! Here!”
I slide his phone across the floor, where it glances off his foot. He picks it up, and for a second I think he’s going to throw it, too. However, he instead goes into a frenzy of fingerwork.
“You … you really did it … you deleted my page!”
“For your own good, Jackson. Think about it, please!”
“You destroyed the one thing that I had.…”
“Let’s talk to our parents. Talk to Janice. We’ll find something else for you!”
He kicks the table, and I wince.
“They’re not your parents! They’re mine! It was always us. Now you’re here, destroying that, too!”
“Jackson…”
“That’s it! I’m gonna show you how it feels! I’m going to destroy something precious to you!”
I flinch again, thinking he means something like, oh, maybe my skull, but instead I hear him tear out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I hear his footsteps above me, right where the door to my room sits. I hear him kick the door open.
Oh God …
Fancypaws …
“Jackson, no!” I screech as I throw the chair aside. Slipping on pieces of apple and banana, I hurtle into the hallway. Just as I reach the stairs, I hear a terrifying, short gurgle of pain, followed by a sickening thump. I use my hands and feet to scramble up the steps like a desperate dog. When I skid to a stop at my room, I gasp.
There, in the center of the hexagon, sitting just as primly as you please, is Fancypaws. She seems utterly unfazed. However, trailing from under her right armpit are two wires, the insulated cords of the marshal-issue Taser I hid in her well-stuffed torso. It’s where I had always hidden my treasures, ever since Grammy first taught me to steal. It’s been home to wallets, to billfolds, to diamonds, and to dog tags. I couldn’t think of a more perfect place to hide Janice’s gift, even when I was desperate for a place to stash Harriet’s ring and bracelet. I felt safe with Fancypaws by my bedside, always within easy reach.…
Quickly, I follow the path of those wires around my bed. Jackson is on the floor, stiff as a board, his shoulders and legs still twitching. His head is turned to the side and his jaw is locked tight. I check to make sure the wires aren’t live anymore, and then I rip the probes out of his shirt.
“Jackson … Jackson! Are you okay?” I ask.
“Ct … ct scrtchd mmm…” he mumbles.
“What?” I say, rubbing at his arms like the helpers in Janice’s Taser videos.
“Ca … ca … cat … scratch … scratched mmmeee…” he manages as control of his jaw gradually comes back.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “Well, yes. Jackson, meet Fancypaws. Fancypaws, this is my dumb brother, Jackson.”
It takes me another twenty minutes to get Jackson sitting upright again, and ten more to reset the Taser and restuff Fancypaws. Fortunately, Jackson seems a lot calmer, or at least warier, as he recovers.
“Better now?” I ask, helping him to his feet.
“Yeah. I’m … I’m sorry I threw all that stuff at you.”
“It’s okay. Your aim is terrible. All you did was make a mess.”
“What are we going to say if Mom sees it?”
I hesitate for a moment, but then lean forward and kiss him on the forehead. He makes a face like he just got tased again, but he doesn’t take a swing at me or anything.
“I’ll try to clean it up,” I say as I carefully repack the Taser. “If Mom comes home before I can, well, I’ll think of something.”
I grin at him as I swing the door open. Just before I head downstairs, I glance back.
“Maybe I’ll just tell her you were showing your butt.”
He cocks his head in confusion, but I don’t give him time to ask.
When Harriet bursts through the back door, I’m still on my hands and knees scrubbing at fruit. She’s on the phone, frantic.
“Yes, I’m home! I see Charlotte, but not Jackson! I know I should’ve checked my messages, and I’ll leave my ringer on at work from now on, but we can talk about that later. Let’s deal with one crisis at a time!” Holding the phone to her chest, she shouts, “Jackson! Get down here, now!”
I sit up. “Is that Janice?”
Before Harriet can respond, Jackson stumbles his way down the hall. He’s moving oddly and his hair is all over the place, but it looks like he just woke up from a power nap. I’m hoping that’s what Harriet thinks.
“What, Mom?” Jackson mutters.
“Jackson!” Harriet gasps, grabbing her son by the shoulders. The phone is still in her left hand, and I can hear Janice yelling right along with Harriet. “How could you? How could you make a Facebook page? We need to—”
“I took care of it!” I exclaim.
Harriet freezes. Jackson nods.
“It’s true, Mom. Charlotte deleted it.”
Exhaling slowly, Harriet swoons away from Jackson, her free hand groping for a chair. When she sits, I slip over and pry the phone out of her hand.
“It’s taken care of, Janice. I got rid of it.”
Jackson is watching my face as I endure a round of cursing from Janice. He winces every time I do. When she’s finally out of breath, I respond.
“I’m sure he realizes how stupid it was. Yes. A huge mistake.” I pause, making sure Jackson’s still looking. “He’s a little shocked at how everyone’s responding, but he gets it.”
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. Janice, on the other hand, isn’t done.
“Don’t defend him, Charlotte. He needs to learn, and if you’re protecting him—”
“That’s why you put me here, Janice! Because I get it. I get him, whether he likes it or not. He’s angry. Angry kids lash out. Just be grateful that we caught it so quickly.”
That seems to calm her down, and when I’m finally able to hang up, we take a collective deep breath. Wearily, Harriet says, “Jackson, you owe your sister one huge—”
“Thank you,” Jackson whispers.
I smile, and, to my surprise, he does, too. Harriet rises from her chair and beckons us both to the kitchen, where we still have a considerable mess to clean up. We work together, scraping and scrubbing in silence. As we do, the phone rings three more times, with nobody on the other end. It’s enough to have me checking the clock every few minutes to see if it’s time for Brit’s game to start. Finally, I say I’m going to go over early to h
elp her set up. Harriet gives me the go-ahead, and I dash off before anything else can happen in this strange little house of ours.
Brit greets me at the door, her finger pressed to her lips. The sound of the TV blares from behind her, and I nod my understanding. Together, we creep toward the stairs, pausing with every shuffled step to see if Nancie is going to catch us. I tiptoe around yarn balls and stacks of Good Housekeeping magazines, knowing full well that one misstep might doom us to twenty minutes of conversation. I’m careful, I’m precise, and I’m graceful.
It doesn’t matter, though.
It’s just as we reach the landing that Nancie appears at the bottom of the stairs. I offer Brit an apologetic shrug as her mom starts to speak.
“Charlotte! Tell me that daughter of mine isn’t forcin’ you to watch her play those ridiculous games again! You’d think a girl her age would be listenin’ to music, talkin’ about boys, and watchin’ scary movies. But no, she’s plugged in ’n’ tuned out. Some friend she must be!”
Brit gasps, and I jump in. “No, Mrs. Guthrie. I really like watching Brit play. She’s good!”
“You’re too kind to her, humorin’ her like that. She’s gonna think it’s okay to be a recluse, never talkin’ to anyone, all the kids thinkin’ she’s a geek or dweeb or nerd or—”
I wave my hand to disperse her swarm of synonyms. “Actually, Mrs. Guthrie, it’s pretty cool. Lots of kids play games these days. And I mean lots.”
She trails off, and I can see her eyes dart between us as she thinks.
“Lots?”
“Way lots,” I assure her. “It’s basically like the new quilting!”
I hear Brit sputter behind me.
“Quiltin’?” Nancie asks hopefully.
“Oh, for sure! Only Brit, you know, is basically quilting with people all over the world. It’s one huge quilting bee! And let me tell you, Mrs. Guthrie … if it’s a bee, your daughter’s the queen.”
Nancie casts a glance back at the yarn baskets in her living room and at the quilt hung like a Picasso over her couch. Then she looks at Brit for a long moment. Finally, she says, “Huh! Good for you, Britty! How about that? My daughter, stitchin’ and grinnin’ in the virtual world. Why didn’t you tell me, girl? I’m proud of you!”
Nancie ambles off, not even staying to hear Brit murmur, “Thanks, Mom.” When we’re sure she’s settled in front of the TV again, we scamper into Brit’s room. I throw myself onto her beanbag with abandon and let my hair shield my face. Then I giggle. Brit joins in a second later.
“A … a quilting bee?”
I shrug playfully. “Knitting buddies, counterterrorists … what’s the difference?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t give you a kill count after you complete a successful cross-stitch,” Brit says, and we both laugh again. We’re only interrupted by a notice that chimes on her computer: Her game starts in ten minutes. Brit settles into her chair, tinkering with some monitor settings and making sure she’s in the right chat room. I look up at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars she’s got glued to her ceiling.
“Did you fix the Facebook thing?” she asks after a few moments.
I nod. “Yes, thanks to your advice.”
“Do you … do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head emphatically. “Please, no. I just want to watch you win.”
Brit swivels to face me, her sneakers squeaking on the plastic mat beneath her chair. She grabs a toy, a cute little Totoro, from her desk and starts fiddling with it. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk? Today is the first time I’ve ever seen you get upset about anything. Erik was right. You were a bit of a ragebeast.”
I snarl playfully at her.
“Don’t worry!” she says, shielding herself with Totoro. “It was cute! I just mean that normally, you’re so, you know—separate from things.”
I sit up, tilting my head to the side. She continues. “It’s like … the way you just took care of my mom—saying my games are cool. She completely believed you, no questions asked. And at school, you could sit with Deidre every day, right? But you don’t. And Archer…”
I roll my eyes.
“Fine, fine,” she says. “I won’t bring up Archer. But you’re different, Charlotte.”
My heart skips a beat. I’ll admit I went a little nuts today when Brit told me about Jackson, but was it enough to tip Brit off? I brace myself for the worst, hiding my hands just in case.
“Different … how?”
To my surprise, Brit hangs her head. She sets her little toy down and folds her hands in her lap.
“Things changed somehow a while back, you know?” She peeks at me through her lashes long enough to catch my puzzled expression, then drops her gaze again. “I mean, like, before you got here. Everything was fine in elementary school. Then, though … well, it’s as if there was a huge popularity lottery in middle school. Only I missed it. I didn’t even get a ticket. Like, I’m doing fine in fifth grade, and then all of a sudden, being me somehow isn’t good enough.”
She sniffles softly. I want to go console her, but when I try to move, the beanbag creates a cacophony of crackling, so I freeze.
“That’s how you’re different. You came into Loblolly, and somehow, some way, it didn’t grab you. You’re separate from all of it. You … you can actually see me. You even helped my mom see me, at least a little bit.”
Heck with the beanbag chair. I stand up and hug her.
“I so see you, Brit.”
She nods, and when I pull away, she’s smiling. I smile, too, though my heart is still pounding. Yes, I was worried that she knew my family’s secret, but part of me was hoping she did. I was hoping she saw me, too. I melt back down into the beanbag chair, watching as Brit gets ready for her game.
When it starts, I cheer and clap, adding commentary like I’m her own personal sportscaster. She demolishes the competition, and we’re all hugs again as she finds out she’s made the team. But after I say good-bye and slink home, I slump against the door, my mind racing. Today was the wildest yet, and not even retreating to my room or to Brit’s house seemed to help. I’m still totally grateful for both, of course, but it’d sure be nice to have a place to go where I wasn’t hiding something.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Almost Christmas
Dear Deputy Marshal Stricker,
Before you get mad, this IS an emergency.
Kind of.
It’s almost Christmas, and our neighborhood is lit up like Times Square. The Roysters have an entire neon nativity scene in their front yard, the Guthries are sporting a strobing Santa, and the people at the end of the block have inflatable wise men that dance when it’s windy. And Deputy Marshal, it’s pretty windy here.…
I guess what I’m saying is that our house is looking dangerously drab. Can we decorate for Christmas? Like, lights and stuff? I know you already told Harriet and Jonathan no, but our lack of holiday cheer is making us stick out like a sore thumb.
Speaking of Christmas, happy holidays! Do you celebrate Christmas, or Hanukkah, or something else? Whatever you celebrate, I wish you a merry that thing, because you’re sort of the only person in the world who knows all about me. That makes us familyish, and I’d hate to go through the holidays without sending greetings to my family members. Well, the ones who didn’t abandon me, at any rate.
So let us know about the decorations! And tell Eddie and Dr. Coustoff I say hello!
Yours in seasonal secrecy,
N/C
P.S. We’re still getting those creepy phone calls. Any luck tracing them?
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Almost Christmas
Charlotte,
I will inquire about the Christmas decoration issue.
We are still investigating the calls.
-
JS
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Almost Christmas
Dear Deputy Marshal Stricker,
Thanks! Happy holidays!
-N/C
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Almost Christmas
Charlotte,
Please find attached the WITSEC parameters for your decorations. Have them up in the next two days, and take them down no later than the fifth of January. Also, stop responding to these e-mails just to say thank you. We need to keep the inbox clear for emergency messages.
And yes, happy holidays.
-JS
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY
Happy Holly Days
My fingertips ache, and I press them to my cheeks to try to warm them. That just makes my face colder, though, so instead I wiggle them around. Jackson, who is sitting in the frost-covered grass of the front lawn, sniffles and yanks the earflaps of his toboggan hat farther down.
“Hurry, Charlotte! I’m freezing out here,” he whines. Then he looks up at Jonathan, who’s perched on a ladder that leans precariously against our porch roof. “How much longer?”
Jonathan ignores him, instead calling out, “More slack, Char!”
“Working as fast as I can!” I reply, shoving my fingers back into the tangle of cords balled in my lap. I’ve got the pattern now, at least—yellow light, blue light, green light, red. “Better learn to decorate, or you’ll be dead…” I murmur aloud.
Hmm. Maybe not the best rhyme to whistle while I work. I feed the Christmas lights up to Jonathan as he stretches to clip them to the gutter. After I navigate a couple more kinks and hitches, the festive little rat’s nest unravels completely.