Greetings from Witness Protection!: Chapters 12–16

I spend two hundred on school-appropriate clothes alone. Another hundred disappears on a decent winter jacket. Then come shoes; a nicer outfit for assemblies, dinners, and whatnot; and the requisite stock-up on underwear, socks, and toiletries.

“I can see that being easier,” I concede, and she exhales.

Again, the voice rings out, emanating from the direction of the dELiA*s across the way.

Granted, I doubt the Cercatores are perusing the blogs of preppy public schoolers in the Tar Heel state, but at the very least I’ll get a vicious talking-to from Janice if WITSEC finds Charlotte Trevor on this girl’s website.

Then I grab Brit by the sleeve and tug her away. She gamely follows behind me until we reach the airbrushed T-shirt kiosk, where I pretend to look at a Hello Kitty shirt.

“Let’s just say Deidre has something else to blog about now instead of your sojourn to the mall with your nonfriend.”

My first thought is to hug Brit, and my second is to walk over to Deidre and give her the U.S. marshal-issue chop to the larynx.

I wouldn’t call Harriet frantic, but there’s definitely some desperation percolating as we’re getting ready to head across the street for our pig-pickin’ party.

She points at the sofa with poised fury.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Its colors are vibrant, almost garish, all purples and pinks and turquoises.

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.

On the screens are images of what looks like a Middle Eastern city, all dusty and derelict.

I think about bringing up his little evening excursion from a couple of nights ago, but my conscience wins out...kind of.

The next hour is spent schmoozing with people and casually laughing off my shock and horror at seeing the poor pig on the barbecue.

“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.”

His voice is gentle—reedy and reassuring.

“So you’re an athlete, Charlotte? What’s your game?” Other than legerdemain and sneak-thiefing?

Nothing about cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages.

In the bottom-right corner, there’s a yellow sticky note haphazardly flapping in the wind.

She grins, exposing the most perfect set of teeth I’ve ever seen. They match her thick but impeccably sculpted eyebrows, olive skin, and her immaculate hair.

A few more seconds of awkwardness ensue, like those moments after you pour pop into a glass filled with ice, and you’re wondering if it’s going to fizz over.

Some kids snicker, and one boy near the back hee-haws like a donkey before turning Coke-can red and joining Brit in the seat-slide. Most are still locked on me, though.
Holly is as impervious as her hair.

Holly levels a formidable frown at him.

I nod almost imperceptibly.

Then I join Brit near the door, where she’s skulking.

It’s a map of campus, painstakingly drawn and color coded. So Brit can add cartography to her list of talents.

“They all really want you to do your best, especially on the EOG.”
“EOG?” I ask, pronouncing it like the name of a particularly loathsome under-the-bridge troll.

If asked to choose, would he favor his government’s responsibilities, or his precious son’s safety? An intriguing question, don’t you think?
Very soon an opportunity will arise, Mr. Harkness, which will allow us to answer the conundrums above.

At the back, nuzzled between the shelves, are individual little carrels, each one boasting one of those bendable reading lamps, a flat-monitored computer, and a view out into the pine forest.

No teacher gave instructions or groused about proper etiquette.

As per usual, I’m guessing you want as much plausible deniability as possible, Mr. Cercatore.

Of course, that only makes it worse when above the din, a single sentence rings clarion-clear.

As I turn away, I brush an errant strand of hair behind my ear and shake my head.

“By the way, I plumb almost forgot. I made you cookies to welcome you to Loblolly!”

“Um, thanks?” I reply, and I casually start walking toward...well, somewhere. I figure I’ll get away and re-orient myself from there.

I spend the rest of the afternoon listening to Deidre whisper about Holly, about the election, and about how she is so totally and for sure not a thief. That one, at least, I’ll give her—we thieves are generally less devious and manipulative.