by Jake Burt
I immediately close the door, moving the beat-up aluminum trash can behind it. It won’t prevent anyone from coming in, but it’ll give us some warning first.
“Charlotte, what…”
“Brit,” I begin, my voice breaking almost immediately. My hands are shaking so badly I have to grab the sink next to her just to steady myself. When I continue, I’m looking at her face in the mirror, rather than right at her. She’s blushing, breathing quickly. It’s like we’re staring at each other through one of her computer-game screens. “Remember how … how we got Jackson’s Facebook page down? Can you do the same for that picture of us on the school website?”
She opens her mouth for a moment, and her glasses slip down her nose. She fumbles to push them back up.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, was that what … Wait, Charlotte … but why?”
“It has to come down, Brit.”
She places a timid, trembling hand on my shoulder. “But it’s not so bad.…”
“No!” I say, way too loudly. It reverberates through the bathroom, almost like the dirty pink tiles and infinitely grouted toilets had finally had enough and were rising up in protest of gossip, girlfights, and middle school melodrama. My whisper blends in with the last of those echoes. “No, Brit. It’s not about that.”
“You’re acting like this is a matter of life and death!”
Now I turn to face her, and her hand falls limply from my shoulder.
“It is.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense … and … and taking the photo down, Charlotte … that’s hacking. It’s not just like getting Jackson’s phone and autologging in. I’d have to get around the firewall, and even if I did, they could put it up again if I deleted it. I’d … I’d have to actually mess with the website itself. And if I get caught…”
“Can you do it, though?”
“Yeah … I mean, I think so, yeah, but…”
I step toward her, so close our foreheads nearly touch. She sees the tears welling in my eyes, and she gasps.
“Please, Brit. Please,” I whisper.
“Charlotte, you’re scaring me.…”
I try not to blink, but I fail, and a tear traces its way down my cheek. I remind myself that this is the new plan, but that doesn’t make it easier.
“It’s … it’s not Charlotte.”
It comes out so quietly I’m not even sure I’ve said it, but Brit takes a step backward, so I know I’ve at least done something. She rubs her temple, shaking her head like she’s trying to clear a glitch from her system.
I take a deep, ragged breath.
“My name isn’t Charlotte. I’m Nicki. Nicki Demere.”
Brit simply slips her glasses off rather than mess with them anymore. “But…”
“I’m not from Ohio. I’m from New York City. So is the rest of my family. Only … only they’re not my real family. All of us … we’re in witness protection. Well, they are, and I’m … I’m sort of there to help hide them. Except I seem to suck at it lately.”
A quick glance in the mirror shows me just how scary-desperate I look.
“This is unreal, Charlotte.… I don’t understand.…”
“I can prove it,” I say softly. “Take out your laptop.”
Brit hesitates, like she’s trying to decide whether to humor me or check me for a fever. I murmur, “Please?”
She nods and slides her laptop up onto the corner of a sink. I lean over, typing in the address for The New York Times. When it comes up, I do a search. I’m rewarded with a series of pictures, along with dozens of grim headlines. Below the words Accused Killer Walks Free Again is a photo of Arturo. I step aside, gesturing to the screen. Brit puts her glasses back on and squints at the picture.
“Remind you of anyone you know?” I ask gravely.
“He … he looks like your mom.”
“They’re brother and sister. He’s a Cercatore. So is she.”
“The Cercatores? Like on the news?”
I nod. Brit begins clicking on other pictures, other articles. Each one features an image of one of Elena’s family members. Each one causes her to gasp.
“Oh my God, Charlotte … you’re serious!”
“That’s why…” I pause, struggling. I practiced this speech, like, two hundred times in my head. Not a single word of it is coming back to me now, of course, and before I can concoct something to say, I’m interrupted in the worst way.
A spine-shivering screech claws at our eardrums as the trash can skids across the rough concrete floor. Our heads turn simultaneously, and we see Bethanny Karstens there, staring at us from beneath her blond bob. After she sizes us up, she slips inside.
Sniffling in a desperate attempt to shift gears, I step in front of her. “Do you mind? We were kind of talking.”
She smirks. “I can see that. You two, like, need to get a room.”
I glance back at Brit, who is just stricken. She hasn’t stopped gaping at me.
“Hellooo, Bethanny,” I retort, waving my hand across the bay of sinks. “We kind of did get a room. This is our room.”
“The bathroom … is your room?” she mumbles skeptically.
“Yup. This one’s claimed. Find another one … or I’ll tell Deidre you misplaced her ballots.”
The merest mention of the election has Bethanny scurrying out so quickly she nearly trips. After the door closes behind her, it cracks open again a second later. Her hand snakes around, grabbing the trash can and dragging it back into position. Then the door thuds into place. As a precaution, I yank a nearly finished roll of toilet paper off the holder, bend it in two, and shove it beneath the door like a jamb. It should keep anyone else from coming in, but I leave the trash can there just in case. Brit watches me, dumbfounded.
“So, yeah,” I manage, “I’m serious. And I’m so, so sorry to drag you into this.”
“All those nights you came over … eating lunch every day … the mall, study breaks, all of it … that wasn’t really you?”
I can actually see the hurt beginning to coalesce in her, and I take her by the shoulders, like a field doctor trying to stem the bleeding. “It was me, just … just with the mother of all secrets. I wanted to tell you, you more than anyone, but I couldn’t.”
“So why now, Charlotte?”
“Because I can’t do this without you. And I’m not just talking about getting a picture off the school website. I’m talking about all of it—the hiding, the lying, the distance. You said you like me because I’m not a part of what’s here. I’m sorry, Brit, but I can’t be separate from everything. I need something that’s real. And my time with you? Our friendship? It’s been the closest thing to real I’ve had. That’s why it’s hurt more than anything to keep myself from you.…”
She reaches up, lifting her hand in the closeness between us. It stops the spill of my words, letting the silence scar over the space.
After many moments, she finally says, “So tell me.”
I can’t reveal everything—I know that. It’s too much, and I can’t risk scaring her off or bringing her any closer to the danger we face. So the Sicurezzas, the trial, Janice, Glynco: I can’t tell her about any of it.
But I can tell her about me. And so I do. I start from the very beginning—the Center, my hands, my grammy, all of it. Brit listens, and as I empty out the truth, a heaviness lifts. All my bad things, all my disasters are adventures again, stories to share instead of secrets to keep. It’s better than hiding, better than stealing, better even than the feeling of Harriet’s arms around me.
For the first time in a long time, I am known.
When I’m finished, she hugs me. The combined thumping of our heartbeats feels strong enough to shake the walls. It’s a long time before I find my voice again.
“Yeah, so if that photo doesn’t come down, they could relocate us—make us disappear. Or the Cercatores could find us.”
Brit scowls. “I don’t want you to disappear. I just re-found you. No. You can’t disapp
ear.”
“Or die. Don’t forget the dying part.”
“Yes, both, Charlotte. Promise me you’ll never do both. Or either.”
I sigh. “I can’t promise that, Brit. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that things don’t always work out, and then, well, you know…”
She straightens, her arms folding before her as she steps away from me. “You’ve gotta promise, or I’m not doing this.”
In that moment, I can see Emmy back at the Center, wondering where I’ve gone. I see Erin and AJ, waving good-bye in Glynco.
I see myself, finding out that my dad could’ve come for me but never did.
“I promise,” I reply.
We walk out of the bathroom a few moments later, arm in arm, and we stay like that all the way back to Ms. Drummond’s classroom. When we both enter at the same time, she looks up just once. I think the combined intensity on our faces is enough to keep her from mentioning all the mentionables. A dozen times through the rest of her lesson I catch Brit’s eyes, and we nod. It feels good to have her on my side, finally and for real. I just wish I could take the time to enjoy it. There’s still that nagging little issue of the picture on the website, after all, along with a much, much bigger problem.
I have to tell Harriet and Jonathan about Brit.
* * *
I watch as Jackson reaches for the saltshaker. He taps a few grains into his palm and flicks them around with his thumb. Then he upends the shaker over our kitchen table, slapping the bottom of it until he’s got a fair-sized drift in front of him. With the tip of his finger, he smooths the mound flat and draws a tic-tac-toe board.
“Xs or Os, Charlotte?”
I scowl, showing him my left hand. It’s shaking so badly that I’d obliterate the board if I even tried to play. He shrugs and turns to Brit, who scoots away a few inches.
“Um, when your parents say ‘stay right here’…”
Jackson presses his finger into the center square, drawing a perfect X. “They mean stay right here. And you’re gonna want to. This one time when they were angry, I tried to sneak over to the bedroom door to listen. They caught me.”
“A bad scene?” I ask.
“I believe the words my mom used were, ‘You’re so grounded that the next party you attend will be your own wake.’”
I swallow. “And were they…”
“About half as mad as they looked when you told them Brit knows our secret.”
“But … but they didn’t yell,” Brit offers, biting her lower lip.
“Yeah, you see, my parents…” Jackson pauses, glancing at me for a moment. “Our parents are the kind that have that extra gear of angry. They go right past yelling and into—”
“Seething?” I guess, shuddering. Jackson nods, and we fall silent. I strain to hear anything from down the hallway. I’ll admit, it would be so much better if Harriet and Jonathan were yelling. It’s what Jackson, Brit, and I had planned on when we talked after school: I’d tell our parents that trying to get Archer to take the photo down didn’t work, and we got desperate. They’d yell a bunch, we’d weather it, and then they’d see that it was the best play in an impossible situation. After all, better to risk getting help from someone I trust than leaving the picture up there.
When we finally hear Harriet’s and Jonathan’s footsteps, all three of us wince. Jackson quickly brushes the salt into his lap, folding his arms over the mess. I notice Harriet’s eyes first. She’s been crying, and not a little. The explanation I was going to offer gets swept away right along with Jackson’s salt, and we’re left staring at the floor for a solid minute until Jonathan speaks.
“Brit,” he declares, and she jumps.
“Yes, sir?”
“You took the picture down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“Well,” she says sheepishly, “it was actually, um, pretty easy. I did it in study hall at the end of the day. I just found out when the firewall was due to have its update, waited for the two-minute vulnerability window, hacked in, and changed the website’s HTML code. Now every JPEG they upload will automatically get covered by a new CSS, so that it looks blank. I also went ahead and deleted the photos from their servers, but if Archer or anyone else tries to upload them again, they’ll just be hidden behind walls of nothing. It’s kind of cool, because they’ll think the upload failed, but they won’t get an error message to help them figure it out. I guess…”
She trails off, blushing furiously as Jonathan stares at her stoically. I jump in to try to save her.
“See? Brit knows what she’s doing—”
“Which is more than we can say for you,” Harriet interjects. I slump down in my seat.
“It’s more than we can say for any of us,” Jonathan says, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. I stop breathing for a moment.
“We talked, your mother and I,” he continues. “We don’t blame you for what you did, Charlotte. You made a choice, and it was with our best interest in mind. Know that we appreciate that. We are deeply concerned, however, and we’re disappointed that it seemed to be the only option for you, but we understand—getting the picture down was the priority. Even now, it may be that the damage has already been done. It may be that you’ve saved us. It may be that we’ve traded one danger for another. Time will tell, I suppose.”
Harriet wags her finger. “What is clear, though, is that we can’t take risks anymore. We were wrong to relax, and to encourage you to do the same at your basketball game. From now on, we play our roles every single moment of every single day, no exceptions.”
“But we’re not grounded?” Jackson asks hopefully.
I shake my head. “She’s saying we’re permanently grounded. All of us.”
Jonathan squeezes my shoulder softly, letting me know I’ve hit the mark. Jackson scowls.
“This was a good plan! And it was my idea, by the way. Charlotte didn’t know what to do, so I told her to tell Brit. It’s like you said, Mom! It isn’t fair for anyone to expect us to hide everything all the time.”
Harriet glances at the ceiling; I can almost hear her counting to ten in her mind. Then she exhales softly. “You’re right, Jackson. It’s not fair. But it’s our lives now. This can’t be a slippery slope. There is no ‘Oh, telling Brit solved one problem, so telling someone else is okay, too!’ Regardless of how much good your plan did, it was a mistake. You both need to swear to us right now that this will never happen again.”
“I swear,” I say quickly.
“I swear,” Jackson grumbles.
“And you, Brit,” Harriet adds. “I fear Charlotte has brought you into a dangerous situation, and we must beg your confidence.”
“I understand, Mrs. Trevor,” Brit says. “I’m not going to pry, or anything like that. And I won’t even tell my mom or dad. Charlotte is my best friend. She’s … she’s kind of my only friend. Or was. Is. I mean, because of her I have more friends, but she’s … she’s just really important to me.”
I can see Brit growing more flustered, her hands wringing like she’s trying to mold the crumbly clay of her words into something recognizable. Under the table, I find her foot with mine, and I give it a little tap for support.
“I guess it’s like this, Mrs. Trevor.… If Charlotte got hurt, or you all disappeared suddenly, and I ever found out that there was something I could have done to stop it? I couldn’t live with that. So I’m glad Charlotte told me. I’d hate it if she didn’t, even though I guess I wouldn’t know that I didn’t know … you know?” She grimaces and gives up, sinking into silence as she picks at a little crack in the wood of the table.
Harriet sighs and looks at Jonathan, who shrugs. Then she walks around, taking Brit’s hands in hers. Brit flinches, but she doesn’t pull away like I would.
“We’re grateful for your help,” Harriet says gently, “but it needs to end here. Charlotte is not to tell you anything more about who we are and what we’re dealing with, and you are not to
attempt to help us in any way beyond what you’ve done already. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brit whispers. “Can … can Charlotte and I still be friends?”
“Of course. Based on what I just heard, I doubt we could stop you, and that’s a good thing. But in any case, it’s quite late. Best you head home.”
Brit nods, glancing out the window at the gloom between her house and ours. She grabs her backpack and slips from her seat. At the door, she pauses, looking at me. I muster a smile to thank her, and she smiles back. Then she’s gone.
Harriet takes her place at the table, staring at Jackson and me in turns. I brush the hair from my eyes and ask, “Are we going to tell Jani—”
“No. That would only invite more drama. It’s time to close ranks and put this behind us.”
Jonathan mutters, “So … crisis averted, at least for now. I need cake.”
It’s an awkward ten minutes worth of German chocolate to be sure, but by the end my heart isn’t beating so hard. I even manage a snicker at the gentle sound of salt sifting through Jackson’s shirt and onto his shoes when he stands. As he sputters through an explanation, and as Harriet stifles a giggle with the back of her hand, I allow myself to think that we may have just survived. Yes, it was scary, but we got the picture down, and I know I can trust Brit with our secret. For now, we’re still the Trevors, and we’re okay.
I only hope it’s not too little, too late.
* * *
Incoming Text Msg
From: EnriCercat
To: Rtur0
Touch Yes to Accept
--(start message)--
Li abbiamo trovati.
Address confirmed:
491 Bestel St.
Durham.
--(end of message)--
Do You Wish to Reply?
Outgoing Text Msg
From: Rtur0
To: EnriCercat
--(start message)--
Eccellente.
--(end of message)--
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Too Little, Too Late