Greetings from Witness Protection!: Chapters 17–21

“Just drive, Mom,” Jackson mutters, his head lolling back.

The rhinestone catches the light from the window. It’s technically not a diamond, but it still sparkles like one: Little motes of light, each one a spectrum, dance around on my arms, on my pillow, on me.

“About that...” Harriet says ominously. “Jonathan and I have been talking, and we’ve come to a decision.”

“Fine,” I add, mollifying myself with some lasagna.

While ADA Petersen has criticized the defense for hanging its strategy here on a technicality, Judge Lin sided with the defense in its motion to dismiss all charges.

He’s a young man with a thick, shaggy mane of black hair. It’s in weird opposition to the flamboyance of his suit, which features a purple silk scarf and matching pocket handkerchief.

Whereas Harriet’s eyes are tempestuous, Arturo’s are all about distance.

“How could they let him go? I mean, you told them he was a killer, right?”
“Of course I told them,” she laments.

I just walk into the gym teacher’s office, ask about basketball, and they’re handing me a uniform. Two days after that, and I’m in my first scrimmage.

Bursting out of the stall and onto the breezeway, I careen toward the nearest bulletin board, ducking past Archer and his crew.

Her name is signed exactly as it appears on the ballots I pilfered.

As I race back toward the cafeteria, I can’t help but wonder if this is the way Janice envisioned me getting along at school. Something tells me it’s not, but I also couldn’t have guessed that so much would go into protecting my normal little niche.

I decide to give it one more look, and there, wedged into the dead center of the mess, I spot salvation. It’s a pristine, unopened chocolate milk carton.

I’ll need to wash it later to get the chocolate milk out of my pockets, but a quick glance at the eighth grader shows me my ploy was successful.

Cheering and relative chaos ensues. While most people are clamoring for a look at Holly’s joyous, gracious celebrating, I’m zeroed in on Deidre.

Her mouth is pursed into a little bee-stung button, and she’s glaring at her clique.

Her face is obscured by the ring of fake fur surrounding her hood, but I can tell it’s her—nobody else’s fingers move across the keyboard that fast.

“Yeah!” I rail. “That’s the problem. Are you his friend?..."

“No, people don’t say that in Ohio! Nobody says that!”
“We do,” Brit responds sheepishly. “It’s a southern colloquialism.”

While Jackson is dumb enough to create a Facebook page, dumb enough to risk everything, he’s apparently too savvy to use password as his password.

Part of me just wants to tell her, to explain that right now, Jackson’s little internet tirade is basically a blinking beacon to gangsters.

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 want to go console her, but when I try to move, the beanbag creates a cacophony of crackling, so I freeze.

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.

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.

Then he looks up at Jonathan, who’s perched on a ladder that leans precariously against our porch roof.

“No more than one hundred feet of lights. No major religious ico...icon...”
“Iconography.”
“Uh-huh,” Jackson mumbles.
“We’re allowed to have a wreath, right?”

I can feel a good and proper tantrum coming on; my hands are gripping my bowl, and they’re shaking so badly that the spoon leaning against the edge is chiming its very own rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

It may have come to your attention that I have endeavored in significant fashion these few months past to keep our family’s secret well hidden. I have received the appropriate grades. I have gone to unforeseen lengths to ensure my positions in two extracurriculars.

I feel at this time that taking my younger brother to Holly’s party would constitute a significant threat to the delicate network I have painstakingly built.

She beckons me over with an explosion of waves. That, or she’s hyperventilating, which is possible—she’s got a brown paper bag on her desk.

Holly goes from euphoric to pouty faster than I can blink.

It gives us a few moments’ reprieve, at least, before Nancie notices.

Around the circle we go, fawning over and giggling about each gift.

“I can make a new pair if you don’t like the colors, Charlotte,” Brit mutters, crestfallen.

Were I not in an absolute panic, I’d be reveling in her success; if anyone deserved a great night out, it’s Brit.

Harriet is sitting on my perfectly made bed—a bed I left bedraggled.

“Please,” I beg, my voice wavering. “Please don’t call Janice.”

She will be furious, and disappointed, and condescending.

She looks down into my eyes, gray mirrored in gray, and she smiles wanly.