The Rules for Disappearing (3 page)

Dad nods at her and says, “Agent Parker, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Mr. Jones.” She points to a small building at the end of the long driveway and says, “You’ll find washers and dryers in there.”

It’s totally depressing on the inside. White walls. Brown car-

pet. It’s sparsely furnished with secondhand furniture that doesn’t match. The material is worn through in some places, showing the outline of the springs, and you can still see remnants of stains. Yuck.

“This is a two-bedroom.” She looks at me quickly with a small

frown and says, “Sorry, Meg, but you and Mary will have to share a room.”

“That’s fine.” Truthfully, it’s better this way.

“Let me show you around.” Her arms spread wide likes she’s one of those game show hosts and the curtain’s just been pulled back.

There’s no reason for a tour. The den, kitchen, and small eat-

ing area are basically the same room. There is a short hallway with three doors, which I assume are two bedrooms and the bathroom.

—S

I don’t wait for the suit to show me the way—I just start opening

—N

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doors. The first one has two twin beds with matching comforters in pale pink. Obviously our room. It also has a small desk and chair and a polka-dotted beanbag on the floor.

The next door is the bathroom. It’s tiny, with room enough for just a small counter with a sink, toilet, and bath/shower combo. The lingering smell of cleaner stings my nose but makes me feel better about taking a bath later. The last door is my parents’ room. A double bed covered with a frayed quilt sits in the center and a single wingback chair takes up the corner next to a small dresser.

I walk back to my room and open the closet door. I already

know what to expect: very generic clothes for us both.

Teeny comes in a few moments later, and I let her choose her

bed. She sits on it and picks at the comforter. “I’m glad we’re shar-ing a room.”

“Me, too.” After fleeing our last placement in the middle of the night, I want Teeny right next to me.

“Are you nervous about school?”

She leans down and pulls her book out of my bag. “No.”

I lie back on my bed and think about tomorrow. Coming in mid-

year sucks, but this time I don’t care.

So much for senior year.

Teeny and I hole up in our room the rest of the evening. She falls asleep early, but it’s harder for me. I toss and turn most of the night until I can’t stand being in the bed a minute longer. As the soft morning light filters through the small window, I give up the fight S—

and grab a coat and my journal to escape outside.

N—

It’s cold. A fine layer of dewy ice coats the front steps so I sit on 14

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my coat rather than wear it. No one is out this early, and the only sounds come from the occasional bird searching for its first meal of the day. I rub my hands over my arms, hoping the friction will keep the chill away.

Aside from the first placement, I started every new school

believing that we would last. I made friends, joined school clubs, and even in the third placement got a spot on the dance line— anything to make that new school feel like home. But each time, those men in suits showed up. I lost everything over and over. There are count-less friends I’ve made around the country who must think I fell off the face of the earth. Not again. If our track record shows anything, it’s that we won’t be here more than a month. I can’t do it again.

Opening the journal, I find a crisp blank page and write:

1. I will not join any clubs

2. I will not try out for cheerleading or

any other sport/teams

3. I will not make any friends

4. I will discover the truth no matter what

I underline and star number four until it’s almost hard to read it. The list is short but powerful and I make a vow to live by every word.

I tiptoe back into the cottage and get Teeny up for school. Looking at the clothes makes me depressed. The last person who stocked a closet for us at least had a small sense of style. No luck this time.

The choices seem pitiful even by Witness Protection standards. I

—S

pull out an ugly gray hoodie and it makes me laugh. I wouldn’t

—N

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have been caught dead wearing anything like this just a few short months ago, but now it seems like the best option for today.

I shower, dress, and put on makeup in record time. The stupid

brown contacts give me a little trouble, but I finally get them in the right spot. Hair is towel dried. It’s so short, there aren’t a lot of options, so I leave it sticking up everywhere.

“Sissy, where are we again? I forgot.” Teeny’s fumbling with her hair, and I step over to help her fix it. The second I take over, she slumps down. She would have never tolerated being babied like this in our old life.

“We’re in Louisiana. The city is named Natchitoches.”

Reciting the major facts again, I try not to think about how

much of her slips away with every move. I quiz her on our new identities, and she answers most of them right.

“I think I should stay home today,” she says.

“No, you’ll be fine. I’ll see you right after school. Mom will be here when we get home. It’s all good.” I answer. She says this every time she’s about to leave wherever it is we’re living. She’s terrified we’re going to be relocated without her. In the second placement, the suits packed everything while she was gone and she came home to an empty house. She freaked and it took her forever to believe we wouldn’t leave without her.

Dad’s dressed and waiting for us in the kitchen but Mom’s a

no-show.

By the fourth placement, Mom had changed. She lost all desire

to keep the apartment clean or pay attention to Teeny. Back home, S—

my parents were very social. We always had people over for some N—

sort of function or another—any excuse to have a party. Mom loved 16

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to entertain. And she would drink—beer and margaritas around

the pool, wine with dinner, gin and tonic late night—but only when we had people over.

I close my eyes and picture Mom in the kitchen of our old

house. She’d dance around, mimicking some move she’d seen somewhere, and sing along to the music using her cooking utensils as microphones. Even though it was embarrassing, my friends loved hanging out with her and thought she was the coolest mom. She

was the life of the party.

Her favorite, though, was throwing these ridiculous formal dinners that lasted forever. The only ones I looked forward to included Dad’s boss, Mr. Price, and only then if his son, Brandon, came. I can’t remember a time in high school when I didn’t have a crush on him. I would beg Mom to let me be in charge of the seating and I always made sure to put him right next to me. Those were the only nights Mom’s dinner parties were too short.

I push thoughts of Brandon away. Thinking about him always

makes me feel raw inside.

But two placements ago, Mom moved the drinking to a whole

new level. She wasn’t drinking to be social—she was drinking to get drunk. Dad won’t talk about it. He just cleans up her mess or hides her from us. The suits must know her drinking is getting out of control since they didn’t find her a job this time.

“I can take you and Teeny to school today. My job doesn’t start until tomorrow. After that, you’ll have to take the school bus.”

“I don’t get why I can’t have a license. You and Mom get them

in your new names.”

—S

Not the first time we’ve had this discussion. Dad lets out a

—N

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frustrated snort. “I don’t know why either. They have a certain way they do things and one of them is no minors get licenses.”

Teeny scans the room. “Where’s Mama?”

Dad rinses out his coffee cup, ignoring her.

Then the coffee pot.

Coward.

I move to Teeny. “Sleeping in. She doesn’t feel good,” I answer, and lead her outside and wait for Dad to show us which car is ours.

A funny feeling says it’s the old green station wagon with wood paneling down the side.

And sure enough, Dad heads directly to the driver’s side. The

suits must really hate us—this is the most hideous ride I’ve ever seen.

With one car and Dad working twelve-hour shifts, it looks like Mom will be stranded here all day.

But then again, she probably won’t get out of bed, so it really might not matter.

S—

N—

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RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

Don’t make eye contact or strike up conversations with random people. This may make you seem interesting and therefore attract the attention of others.

And you don’t want that . . . right?

There’snothing really exciting or different about the area,

just the same as our last three placements, until you go a couple of blocks toward the historic district.

The town is cute. Really cute. Everything’s old but in a really cool way. Front Street runs right next to a river, and the road is paved with old cobblestones. Driving over them sends vibrations through the wagon. Little restaurants and bars mixed with souvenir shops line the sidewalk. Most buildings are made of old brick and wood, like our little cottage, and have second-story balconies trimmed in scrolled black iron. It must be like walking into someone’s home rather than their store.

We cross a narrow little bridge and the shops turn into houses, the rambling kind with big yards, porch swings, and shrubs so

thick and full they look like small trees.

We pull up to a school and I see all the little kids.

“Okay, Teeny, we’re here.” He peeks at her in the rearview

—S

—N

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mirror. The worse Teeny gets, the less Dad deals with her. It’s like he’s not equipped to handle this change in her.

She’s crouched down in the backseat, her backpack clutched to

her chest. I paste the biggest, brightest smile on my face. “Teeny, you’ll do great. I’ll see you after school. No worries.”

She smiles, but it’s forced. She gets out of the car, and Dad and I watch her walk slowly toward the building. Her head hangs low and her shoulders hunch over.

The air is heavy with all of the things we both want to say to each other, but neither of us speaks. I fiddle with the heater vent and Dad scrapes away something nasty from the windshield.

Once Teeny’s out of sight, Dad pulls away from the curb.

At my request, he stops a block away to let me out. He mutters something about being here after school, but I’m out before he finishes. Going in with The Plan does little to ease the nerves in my stomach. I take my iPod out and put in the earbuds.

It’s easy to blend in with the crowd as everyone heads to the

front door of the old school. Stealing glances at the kids shows there’s money in this area as well—lots of designer clothes and bags, everyone very put together. And I thought I’d blend in with these hideous clothes.

The halls are crowded and filled with the sounds of lockers

banging open and shut. By now I thought I’d heard every accent out there but the voices are so different—definitely southern, but something else, too.

I spot the office and inch the door open. The woman behind

S—

the counter is frantic, shuffling papers around and barking into the N—

phone. Her expression is exhausted even though it’s not even 8 a.m.

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I take one earbud out. “This is my first day. I need my schedule.”

The woman starts flipping through papers again. “Name.”

“Meg Jones.”

She rustles through another pile. “Have a seat. It’s not in this stack.”

The only vacant seat sandwiches me between two very different

looking guys with the same problem. They both got the crap beat out of them.

The one on my left has a swollen eye and a cut lip. There’s

blood covering his varsity jacket and he’s wiggling what may be a loose tooth. The one to my right has the beginnings of a bruise that covers his entire cheek. It’s mostly red and swollen, rimmed with purple. Even with half his face discolored, he’s cute, in a bad boy sort of way. The sleeve of his camouflage coat is hanging by a thread and his boots are caked in mud.

The jock looks straight at me. “New girl?”

I blink a few times. “Uh, yeah. First day.”

“Cool—don’t get many transfers here. You’ll like it here. One

piece of advice—stay away from that son of a bitch sitting on your other side and you’ll be just fine.”

Camo boy leans forward and says to the jock, “Hey, how about

you take your advice and shove it up your ass, you stupid prick.”

The jock lunges toward camo boy and I cover my head with my

hands, preparing for impact, when a sharp command stops them in midair.

“That’s enough! In my office immediately.” Both freeze with

fists cocked back and swivel around to the man in the doorway. I

—S

peek through my fingers. The voice belongs to a very tall, heavyset

—N

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man dressed in a suit that seems way too nice for someone who