by Jake Burt
Around the circle we go, fawning over and giggling about each gift. Holly gets a day planner for all her activities, Jessica scores her favorite nail polish, Tanika opens an ornament Jessica brought back from her Thanksgiving trip to Disney World, and Brit gets this special cloth and spray for cleaning her computer screen. When it’s my turn, I shred through the tissue paper atop Brit’s present, ignoring Holly’s pleas to save the stuff “Because you can reuse it for Valentine’s Day.”
Once I’ve disintegrated the tissue paper, I peer down into the bag. I must turn snow-white, because even Jackson notices. From the couch, he says, “Charlotte, you look weird.”
I rip my gaze from within the bag, snapping at Jackson. “I’m fine!”
I’m not, though.
“You … you don’t like them?” Brit asks, her voice trembling.
“No!” I shout, and then force myself to take a deep breath. “No, Brit. They’re beautiful. You … you knitted them yourself, didn’t you?”
I reach into the bag to pull the gloves out. Brit has sewn an intricate pattern with pomegranate-purples and teals, a perfect interlocking of my favorite color and hers. The other girls gasp.
“Wow, Brit! Those are super-gorgeous!” Jessica exclaims.
Holly asks, “Where did you learn to knit like that?”
“From … from my mom.”
“You’ve gotta try them on, Charlotte!” Tanika demands.
“You’re sweating!” Jackson notes. He’s not wrong; I can feel it beading beneath my hair.
“Yeah, Charlotte … are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah … just … just nervous with all the attention on me, I guess,” I lie. I try to throw a fake giggle in there, too, but it sounds like I’m strangling myself.
“I can make a new pair if you don’t like the colors, Charlotte,” Brit mutters, crestfallen. “It’s just that I see you at school with no gloves, and you’re always putting your hands into your pockets, or blowing on them. I thought a good pair of gloves…”
I shake my head. “No, Brit. You’re totally right. And they are amazing. Here. I’ll try them on.”
Swallowing, I clench my teeth and demand that my hands stop shaking. They completely ignore me, so I gather the gloves into my lap, hiding them with my knees. Fighting off the urge to cry out, I slip my hands into the gloves. They fit perfectly, which only makes it worse—it feels like the music, the lights, everyone’s stares, all of it has taken physical form and is pressing against my skin, prickling everywhere and all at once. It’s so hard to breathe that I’m trying to gasp through my nose and mouth at the same time, which must look really strange. Somehow, though, I manage to squeak out a “Thank you, Brit.”
It takes every last bit of energy I have to watch MZ open her present. I nearly pass out when she hugs me, my trapped hands waving in the air as she buries me in her excited embrace. My saving grace is Holly’s parents, who sweep in bearing plates of freshly baked cookies. I’m able to shed the gloves—thank goodness for frosting—and my hands calm down almost instantly, even if I don’t. Fortunately, I’m able to make it through the rest of the party, though I do catch Brit looking at me every so often. I smile back every time, but I know I’ve got another trial coming, and it arrives soon enough.
“It’s cold out there. Don’t forget your jackets!” Mrs. Fiellera says at the conclusion of the party.
“Or your gloves!” Jackson adds, grinning.
I elbow him in the ribs, but the damage has been done: all the girls are looking at me, waiting for me to put them on. Wearing the biggest smile I can force, I turn around and will my hands back into their cashmere cages. They’re the softest I’ve ever felt, but I might as well have wrapped my entire body in the scratchiest of Christmas sweaters. Still, I hug Holly good-bye, and I manage to get out the door and into Nancie’s car.
The ride home is agony, at least for me. Every time I try to slip off the gloves, Jackson mentions them again. For everyone else, it’s a wonderful end to a great evening. Nancie, of course, loves hearing about how the other girls carried on about her daughter, and Brit is starry-eyed. Were I not in an absolute panic, I’d be reveling in her success; if anyone deserved a great night out, it’s Brit. She actually tells her mom about it and uses multiple words in each sentence.
When we’re finally home, Brit walks Jackson and me to our porch. My hands are in my pockets, fingers twitching, nails digging into my palms at a fiery itch that won’t go away. The frigid air does feel good on my forehead, even if my lips are probably turning blue.
Standing beneath the soft glow of our Christmas lights, Brit says, “I can’t thank you enough, Charlotte, for inviting me. For being my friend. For everything. I’m … I’m sorry about the gloves, if you don’t—”
I cut her off. “I love them, Brit. And there’s no need to thank me. You did me the favor by coming. Watching you have a great time made my night better.”
With tears in her eyes, Brit hugs me. I hope she doesn’t notice that I don’t use my hands to hug her back.
Once she’s gone, I dart into the house and yank off the gloves, tossing them into the living room. I sink to the floor, cradling my hands to my chest. Jackson deals with the alarm, and then he strides over to pick up the gloves.
“What’s your problem with these?” he asks. “Not that it wasn’t fun to mess with you.”
“I can’t wear gloves,” I reply, flexing and curling my fingers, letting them enjoy their freedom.
“But you did.”
“Because they were from Brit!”
“Why is Brit so important anyway?” Jackson asks, waving the gloves around for emphasis.
“She’s Charlotte’s best friend.”
“Huh?”
“Charlotte’s best friend,” I growl. “Was I wearing gloves, Jackson? It might have looked that way. Or was it Charlotte Trevor? Yeah, she can wear gloves without feeling like she’s going to die. Charlotte Trevor gets thoughtful, beautiful gifts from her best friend. Charlotte Trevor has a best friend! What do I have?”
Before I can melt down any further, I spring up and dash to my room. On my way, Jonathan comes home, poking his head through the front door.
“How was the party?” he asks.
“Fine!” I manage. Then I scramble up the last few steps and slam my door shut. As I throw myself onto my bed, I can hear Jonathan grilling Jackson about why I sound so upset. He has no clue, of course, and, in truth, neither do I. Brit is my best friend. But something about tonight bothered me, even more than the shock of the gloves.
I was at a party with my friends and brother, and not one of them knew who I was.
A few days later, we do have a nice, quiet family Christmas, at least. Nobody gets me gloves, and I receive enough books that I can comfortably excuse myself to my room to read. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that between the gloves and the guilt, the phone calls and the pretending, something is going to have to give.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
What Gives?
We manage to keep our heads down through the rest of the winter, and on the surface everything seems all right … at least until March, when the weather starts getting warmer, the birds return, and Harriet decides to put away my laundry for me.
Holly’s mom drops me off after we go to a movie on a Friday night. It’s raining buckets, so I scamper up the front steps, barely remembering to jump the third one so I don’t wake anyone up. It’s nearly midnight, so I ease the key into the lock and turn it so slowly I can hear each individual tumbler fall into place. Then I slip inside and reset the alarm.
The entryway, hallway, and kitchen are mostly dark, though Jonathan left the little light over the fireplace on, just like he said he would. I slip off my soppy shoes and barefoot my way to the steps. Harriet and Jonathan’s door is closed, but I can hear him snoring softly, even so. I crack a smile, wipe an errant droplet from the tip of my nose, and sneak upstairs.
When I get to the top, I’m puzzled—my bedroom door is clo
sed, but there’s a light on in there. I’m pretty sure I turned them all off before I left. I creep forward, keeping my feet as close to the walls as possible; the hardwood floor creaks otherwise. Stooping to peer through the old keyhole, I can see that the lamp on my dresser is on. I tell myself it’s nothing, but a little projector in the back of my brain is running grainy footage of an assassin jumping on me from the shadows as soon as I open the door. Before I can muster my courage, a quiet, familiar voice emanates from within.
“Charlotte, I know you’re out there. Come in.”
Harriet?
“Hey, Mom,” I say. “Thanks for waiting up! I’m all wet, so I’m gonna just change into my PJs after I…”
I trail off. Harriet is sitting on my perfectly made bed—a bed I left bedraggled. Next to her, pillowed on the comforter, is a row of neatly spaced items:
A platinum bangle bracelet.
An old wristwatch.
A pair of opal earrings.
A mother-of-pearl makeup compact.
And her rhinestone engagement ring.
“I found these,” she says, her hands clasped around her phone, arms pulled tight over her lap.
I feel suddenly nauseous, a soda, popcorn, and sixty or so Sour Patch Kids sitting heavy in my stomach. I glance toward my bathroom, then force myself to look at Harriet. As tears well in my eyes, I desperately scan her face. It’s unreadable.
“Please,” I beg, my voice wavering. “Please don’t call Janice.”
“I already did,” she responds, and she sighs deeply.
I can’t hold it back. My tears patter softly on the carpet, and my arms and legs start shaking. I spin and rush to the bathroom, barely making it in time before my body betrays me.
I alternate between sobs and sickness for what seems an eternity, my hands on the porcelain trembling so badly the toilet seat rattles.
“Every time,” I say, coughing. “I ruin it every time.…”
Janice will come. She will be furious, and disappointed, and condescending. She’ll make me pack up my perfect, beautiful room. I’ll try to say good-bye, but Jonathan and Harriet will shake their heads and just turn away from me. I’ll never see Brit again. Everything I’ve done will have been for nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Another wave slams me, bending me over again. This time, though, I’m aware of a coolness at the back of my neck. It’s a slip of softness that calms me, and as I slowly rise to a kneel, I realize it’s Harriet’s hand, holding my hair back.
“I’m … I’m sorry I made a mess,” I whisper. She hands me a tissue, flushes the toilet, and closes the lid. Then she sits down. She takes my head in her lap and rests her palm against my cheek. The rain drives briefly against the windowpanes, then relents.
“I can leave tomor—”
“Shhh,” Harriet says, putting a fingertip on my lips. “Just shhh.”
We sit there in the dark, her hands upon me, my body seizing with silent sobs. Twice more I think I’m going to be sick, but I’m already empty, guilt settling deep in the hollowness.
“I found these things in your drawer,” she finally says. “And I called Janice. Do you know what she told me?”
I shake my head, cheek pressed against the soft cotton of her pajama pants.
“She told me a story that I should have listened to a long time ago. It was about a girl—a confused, hurt, terribly strong little girl. A girl who I hadn’t bothered to learn about, because I was so very concerned with my own life, my own hurt.”
I feel her hand stroke my hair, fingers sliding softly through the rain-soaked tangles. “And I tell you, Charlotte, this girl … I was so sad to hear her story—but not because I pitied her. No, never that. Rather, it was because I foolishly thought I was better off not knowing who she really was, where she came from. Oh, I was wrong. What a ridiculous thought that was! To not know, to not understand where this girl was coming from … it was a mistake. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because this girl was to be my daughter, and for a mother not to know her daughter is, in my eyes, a crime.”
Harriet cups my cheeks in her hands and lifts my head. I’m too weak to do anything but let her move me. She looks down into my eyes, gray mirrored in gray, and she smiles wanly.
“Hello, Nicki Demere. My Charlotte. My beautiful girl.”
I don’t know what else to do, so I throw my arms around her neck and cling to her.
Still holding me, she stands up. I slip from her shoulders, and she takes me by the hand. I don’t even have the strength to pull away.
“To tell you the truth, Charlotte, Janice yelled at me.”
I smile softly as I sit next to her on the bed. “She’ll do that from time to time.” I sniffle.
“We were supposed to read your file. We should have read it. Then we would have known about your grandma, about your foster families, and your father.”
I wince. “In a way, it was nice not having you know about all that. I could sort of, well, be perfect for you, I guess. Except I failed at that. Majorly.”
“That’s not your job, Charlotte. It isn’t any child’s job to be perfect for their parents. It’s our job to try to be perfect for you, and that means understanding you as best we can.”
I manage a laugh. “I’m thirteen. Good luck.”
She smiles. “Fair enough. But there are some things we can understand. Like this,” she says, and she gestures to the objects lined up between us. “Your therapist’s notes were in the file. We should have seen them, should have been there to help you with it.”
“It’s called kleptomania. I’m still working on it. I might always be.”
“I know, and I get it. In fact, I’ve been doing some thinking in the last two hours. At first, I was very angry, Charlotte. It’s important that you know that.”
I nod. “I stole from you. I totally get how that makes you feel. That’s one of the things I learned in therapy.”
“However, after talking to Janice, I understood. Stress triggers it, right?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, with all we’ve asked of you, I’m surprised, and grateful, that there isn’t more.”
I shake my head. “And there isn’t, I swear. I don’t have anything hidden from school, or from Jackson, or from Jonathan. Just…” I frown, realizing how bad this sounds. “Just from you.”
Her hand comes to rest at the nape of her neck. “I thought as much.”
I push all the things toward her. “Take them back, please. I didn’t steal them to sell, or anything like that. I’d never…”
She holds up a finger. “I know. I know, Charlotte. And that’s why I have a proposal for you.”
I grab a pillow and hold it tightly to my chest. “Okay?”
“All these things—you may have stolen them, but you kept them safe, just like you’ve kept our family safe for the past six months. In fact, they were as safe in your drawer as they would have been in my jewelry box in my room.”
I tilt my head, not understanding.
“Let me put it this way, Charlotte. When I’m searching for something, I’ll have two places to look: in my jewelry box and in your drawer. As far as I’m concerned, from now on they’re the same. I won’t ask how something got in here, or why.”
“That’s … nobody’s done anything like that for me since Emmy…”
She says, “She was mentioned in your file, too. Emmy must have been a very special friend.”
“She was.”
“But Charlotte, I also need to be able to trust you. This is your end of the bargain. If I ask you whether you’ve taken something from me—my ring, my watch, anything—you must answer me truthfully. No secrets between us.”
“What if something really does go missing?”
“I promise not to blame you. If you say you don’t have it, then you don’t have it. I’ll trust you for as long as you allow me to do so. However, that means no hiding things anywhere else other than the drawer
. And of course it would be nice if you could return the objects before I had to look there in the first place.”
Smiling, I reply, “I think I can manage that.”
I watch as Harriet delicately slips her possessions into her pocket. Then, just before she goes, she opens my top drawer, sneaks the platinum bracelet back in, and slides it shut.
It’s a funny thing, getting caught.
Sometimes, it can be the worst thing in the world, but this time?
It makes me feel more free than I ever have before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Testing … Testing …
Starting right after spring break, I’m wrapped up in testing fever. The whole school is. The teachers give us practice test after practice test. They take down the names of last year’s winners from the library bulletin board to make space for the new honorees. We even have a pretest pep rally to fire everyone up. It’s called Test Fest. I’m not saying it’s the most obsessive thing I’ve ever seen at a school, but it’s close. Mr. Jessup dresses up like a giant no. 2 pencil and chases the student council while they wear sandwich-board Scantron sheets. It’s as bizarre as it sounds, but everyone in the gym cheers.
And I have to admit, seeing Deidre’s disgusted face as she shuffles around in a mammoth math test gets me giggling, too. Holly, representing Reading Comprehension, seems to be enjoying it as much as everything else she ever does. After the race, which Writing Concepts and Skills wins handily, we all flood the gym floor to visit makeshift booths. At each one, we get helpful testing hints, or free pencils, or a demonstration of how to correctly bubble. I want to make fun of every part of this, but I stay quiet. Brit, Holly, MZ, and the rest of my friends are into it, so I pretend to be, too.
Secretly, I’m miffed that everything that helped me establish my routine gets shut down. Basketball ends (Zero and seventeen! Woo-hoo!), student advisory committee meetings are suspended, and even our curriculum changes. We don’t go to the library in Ms. Drummond’s class anymore. Nobody has flex time. We stay in our perfectly ordered seats in Mr. Alcontera’s room; no trips up to the chalkboard for us. Just drilling for EOGs.