The Rules for Disappearing (2 page)

She holds the hair, still bound together, in her hand and offers it to me.

I can’t look at it. “Just throw it away.”

The woman takes the scissors and cuts smaller pieces here and

S—

there. I watch as a short pixie-like style begins to appear. She puts N—

the scissors down and reaches back into the bag. Pulling out an 4

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over-the-counter package of hair dye, she studies the directions on the back. In my other life, I would never have stooped so low.

I glance at the box and read the color as “Espresso on the

Double.” The woman works the color through my hair, and I relax my clenched hands from the edge of the porcelain bowl.

Rinsed, I get the first glance at my new look. The woman takes out a pair of colored contacts and hands them to me.

She demonstrates, using her own contacts, how to put them in

and how to care for them when I take them out. After several tries, I finally get the lens in the right spot. I examine my reflection for a few moments more. The changes transform my face. My eyes are larger. The angles are stronger. My face looks too thin. The woman is right—no one from my former life would ever recognize me. I am truly gone.

—S

—N

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RULES FOR DISAPPEARING

BY WITNESS PROTECTION PRISONER #18A7R04M:

Live on the fringe of society. You don’t want to be in a nice neighborhood because those people are all in your business and want to know everything about you. And you don’t want to be in a bad one, wel . . . because it’s bad.

If you go to all this trouble to hide from bad guys, it’d suck to get shot just because you live in a crappy area.

Mydad never calls anyone by their real name. Men he worked

with, people from our neighborhood, and every guy who ever took me out on a date had some stupid nickname. The worst ones were
Bud
,
Sport
, or
Champ
. It’s awful when your date picks you up and your dad thumps his back a few times and calls him some really dumb name. I always thought it was rude, like he can’t be bothered to remember anyone’s real name. My sister and I have nicknames, too. My sister’s is pretty cute—Teeny Tiny. She was, like, four pounds when she was born. It doesn’t matter that she’s taller than most girls her age now; she’ll always be Teeny Tiny to Dad.

Mine, on the other hand, is not very original. It’s Sissy. Yes, Sissy. Dad started calling me that when Teeny was born since I was obviously a big sister. I always hated that nickname, was mortified when Dad would call me that in front of my friends, but now it’s different. With each placement came new names, but the nicknames S—

stayed the same. We all use them between the four of us in private N—

now. The suits would freak out, but so what? That stupid nickname 6

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has become really important: it’s the only thing anchoring me to my past.

I turn and watch Teeny. She showed no more interest in her

haircut and color than I had. In fact, her eyes never once moved to the mirror. At least Teeny’s new style isn’t as severe as mine. The woman left Teeny with a short bob that falls a few inches below her ears. We favor each other in many ways with the blond hair and the naturally bronzed skin, but I’m the only one who has blue eyes.

Teeny’s are a soft brown, and thankfully she won’t have to suffer the contacts.

“Do you think they did this to Mom’s hair, too?” Teeny’s voice is hollow.

We haven’t seen our parents since we were brought to this “safe house.” The suits usually meet with them for a while after we leave a placement—I guess trying to figure out what keeps going wrong—

but this is the longest we’ve gone without seeing them.

“Probably. I’m sure we’ll all match with the dark hair just like we did with the blond.” My dad has the same natural blond hair as Teeny and me, but Mom matched hers to ours through a box. I suppose she didn’t want to be the only one in the family who wasn’t blond. This dark color would actually be more like her normal

shade, but that’s a guess since I’ve only seen her natural color in old pictures.

I flop back on the bed and run my hands over my eyes. I’m

exhausted. Every time I fall asleep, I’m plagued with nightmares and wake up to Teeny’s screams mixed in with mine. Not sure who starts first, but it’s seriously freaking me out.

—S

The woman comes back and hands me a sheet of paper. I hate

—N

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what’s next. We’ll be drilled for days on our new backgrounds and names.

“Okay, Meg, Mary, your exact full names are Megan Rose Jones

and Mary Claire Jones. Your ages will remain the same, with you, Meg, at seventeen and Mary at eleven. But your birthdays are different. Meg, yours is November fourth, and, Mary, yours is April third.”

Teeny traces the floral pattern on the bedspread. She’s not hearing a single word.

“Your parents are Emily and Bill Jones. You’ve moved here from Arkansas. Your dad, Bill, will be working at an auto parts manu-facturing plant.” The woman pauses a moment before continuing.

“Your mom, Emily, will not be employed in this placement.”

It’s not good if they aren’t making her work. I wonder if they know how bad the drinking is or if there’s another reason. The same

“reason” that caused the bad dye job and contacts.

The woman details the remaining facts of my new life. I’m sur-

prised that even though I don’t like and would have never chosen

“Rose” as my middle name, I really don’t care. And this is the first time Dad’s job won’t be behind some desk. He’s probably pissed he’s going to be working in a factory but he’ll fake enthusiasm for our benefit. I hate to think what Mom will do all day at home alone.

As I read all the pertinent details, I find I’m missing a big one.

“You said we moved here from Arkansas, but you never said where here is.”

“Natchitoches, Louisiana.”

S—

Louisiana. All you ever hear about Louisiana is hurricanes and N—

oil spills. Perfect.

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“Well, today is Friday, January eighth. You’ll have the rest of the weekend to get this information memorized, and then we’ll

move you into new housing on Sunday. Both of you will start school on Monday morning.”

We lived in houses for our first two moves but since we were

burning through new identities so fast, apartments made more

sense. Wonder what type of “new housing” we’ll get this time. I pour over the details of my new past.

Great. Another boring life summed up in three neatly typed

paragraphs.

The suit shuffles her folders around. I put my paper down and

ask, “What’s different this time?”

She stops but doesn’t look up at me. “Nothing. Why would you

ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I can’t hide the sharp tone. “I mean, we’ve been in a rush to leave a placement before but dragging us out of bed in the middle of the night seems a bit extreme. Then the hair, the contacts. Surely we didn’t do makeovers because we were bored here.”

Teeny buries her head next to me. The suit gives her a glance

but then fixes on me.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Great, standard bullshit. She gathers her briefcase and heads to the door, pausing before she leaves the room. “Just be careful,” she says without looking back at me.

Our parents make an appearance later in the afternoon.
Rough
is

—S

the only way to describe them. They’re dyed and styled but not in

—N

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a good way. They’ve turned into the “before” picture. I honestly would not have recognized them on the street.

Teeny and I slouch on the bed in the room that has been home

for almost thirty-six hours. Mom comes in and sits down beside us while Dad leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

“How are my girls holding up?” Mom slurs. I’ve never seen her

like this with the suits around. “Both of you look really cute with your new looks.” It’s a bad lie, but what else can she really say?

“How much longer before we get out of this rat hole?” I ask.

“It shouldn’t be much longer. We’re not far from where we’ll

be living.” Mom strokes through Teeny’s short bob. She’s a touchy-feely drunk. No telling how she talked someone into getting her some booze here.

Mom looks down at Teeny. “You picked Mary? What show is

that from?”

Teeny shakes her head. “It’s not fun being famous people

anymore.”

Mom gives us both a weak smile and swivels toward Dad,

almost falling off the bed. He pushes off the wall and grabs her by the shoulders, holding her up but still slightly away from him, like he can’t stand to be near her.

“Girls, I know these moves are getting harder, but it really is for the best. None of these changes are permanent,” Dad says.

I roll my eyes in the exaggerated way I know he hates.

“Whatever.”

I’m so sick of this. Witness Protection sucks, and I’m done playS—

ing along. Dad’s the only thing stopping Mom’s drunk ass from

N—

falling off the bed. Teeny’s off in never-never land and I look like 10

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some terminally ill kid with a bad wig. This family has fallen apart.

“I’ve had it with your attitude. It won’t make things any

different.”

I stopped tiptoeing around him three moves ago. “Well, then I

guess it won’t make things any different if you tell me—what did you do? Because whatever it is—we’re all paying for your mistake.”

Dad looks like he’s about to explode. Maybe I’ve finally pissed him off enough for him to spill it. What he did. Why we’re here. But the words seem stuck in his throat. He finally blows out, “It’s late and we’re leaving early in the morning. Go to bed.”

“Go to bed? Is that really all you can say to me?”

Mom’s head lolls around, and Teeny scrunches into a smaller

ball if that’s even possible.

Dad’s face gets blotchy as his white-knuckled grip digs into

Mom’s shoulders. He mutters something I can’t make out and then hauls ass from the room, dragging Mom with him. I fall back on the bed in utter disgust.

I learned on the third move to always have a bag ready. It’s full of underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, pj’s, and a change of clothes. The stuff the suits give us is hideous. My makeup bag stays in there, too, because luxury items are never provided for us. I’ve tried to explain that makeup is a necessity, not a luxury item, but no success there. It sucks earning money to buy the same stuff over and over. The bag was almost history on the last move. Luckily, it’d been beside me, next to the bed, so I’d grabbed it on my way out.

The time in between placements drags on. No one makes

—S

sure you have something to do, so by the fifth move I’d added a

—N

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few paperbacks and my iPod. I started throwing in similar stuff for Teeny to help keep her busy. The bag has gotten ridiculously big and heavy, but I loathe parting with anything in it. Right now Teeny’s working on one of those Sudoku books she loves so much.

We’re in the van again; the kind that has no windows. The front seats are blocked by darkly tinted glass. It’s like riding around in a box. The suits will let us out to use the bathroom and get our bearings only after we are a good distance from where we started.

It must be a new suit driving us because he obviously doesn’t know the rules. The local radio station is on, and it only takes two com-mercials to figure out the safe house is in Shreveport. Although that means nothing to me, I’m feeling pretty smug to have that info.

Once I hear the town’s name from the local station, I put in my earbuds and crank the music on my iPod. Perfect time to write in my journal.

I started it the same time as the go-bag. It’s full of personal things but also some short stories, poems, and just random stuff that floats through my head. The suits would be pissed if they knew I wrote about what we’ve been through, so I have to hide it. I don’t use our names or the cities we lived in, but I write about what this ordeal has been like. It’s the only place I can be honest.

We travel this way for almost an hour before we come to a stop.

I figure we’re getting out for a bathroom break so I’m really surprised when we unload in the middle of a driveway, sandwiched

between two rows of cottages tucked back off the main street.

They’re made of old brick, and French doors with tall wood shut-S—

ters span the front. It’s charming until you get close—the chipped N—

paint and rusted handles remind me that we’re not in the best part 12

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of town. This must be it, our new, albeit temporary, home. At least it’s not one of those gross apartment complexes.

I grab my bag, put Teeny’s book back inside, and we follow the suit to one of the middle houses. The same woman who cut my hair opens the door to #12.

“Hello, Jones family, welcome home.” Her bright cheery smile

is overdone and I can’t help but groan out loud. “Since this is a college town, no apartments were available on such short notice. These are old Creole cottages and I thought it’d be more of a homey feel anyway.”