The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

With a small smile, she responds, “Maybe before her 16th birthday. It depends on how hard Charlotte works at getting better. Does she do everything her doctors ask, or does she try to hide her symptoms and pretend she isn’t as sick as she is?”

“Okay,” I say. I mean, it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. AnnMarie gets to her feet and gives me a hug. Standing up, I return her embrace, already feeling a hundred times better.

“It’s the right thing for all of us,” she murmurs to me.

“Thanks. I get it.” I’m nearly at the connecting door when she calls out.

“Don’t let Bo know you are marking when Charlotte turns sixteen, or you might not live to see your next birthday.”

Because I am a stupid and reckless shit I give her a salute and a grin. She mock tosses her tablet at me, and I disappear down the hall. My cocky belief that all will work itself out reasserts itself. Six months? Nothing can happen that would affect us in six months. By then Charlotte won’t be so young. Sixteen is perfect. Six months is perfect.

12

Charlotte

There are different colors and sizes, and I’m a little stumped by the choices I have. ”Where does your sister get all these?” I ask Greta. She’s on my old gymnastics team and a fellow North Prep sophomore. We’ve been friends for a while, although not close. It’s been hard to make friends with girls as I’ve gotten older due to the Jackson brothers, because the boys, rather than me, are the main attraction. Greta has expressed interest in Nick which is why I picked her to come over instead of someone else, someone who might like Nate.

“I think when you go to college they’re in your welcome packet.” She runs her fingers through the pile, messing them up, and then she re-sorts them. Greta has a lot of nervous energy. One of her extremities—an arm or foot—has to constantly be in motion. I’m too weak for nerves these days. I only have the energy for doing.

“I can’t wait.” But really I’m not even sure if that’s a truthful statement. College was once a foregone conclusion. Nick and I had talked about it often—arguing about whether I would go to Notre Dame where he hoped to get a football scholarship. Nate, now that I think about it, never participated in those discussions. I’ve lived so much in the moment with the future this nebulous forward mass that was simply full of opportunity, hopes, and dreams. Was being the key word now. My future is still nebulous but the shape of it has changed, and I don’t like looking at it anymore.

“I know. Me either.”

She picks up a gold foil one and one that is lime green. I can’t imagine putting one of these on Nathan and definitely not a lime green one. I pluck the gold foiled one out of her hands. “I’ll take this one.”

“The green one tastes like lemon-lime,” she sings.

I make a face and stick the gold one under my pillow. We chat a little while longer until Dad comes by and says that the car is ready to take Greta home.

As I’m getting ready for bed, it occurs to me that I should have had Greta bring over something sexy to wear. I have nothing that might stir a boy’s interest. My bras are plain and so are my underwear, and what’s not plain is rather juvenile.

Perhaps I could filch something from Mom. I creep out of my bedroom and down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. Their door is closed, but I hear their voices which means there is no way I can get inside. Turning I start to head back to my room when I hear my name and then Nathan’s. Instead of leaving, I draw closer and press my ear to the door.

“Aren’t we just saying ‘Sure, Nate, come and defile our angel all you want. In fact, let me buy you the condoms. Need any help slipping them on?’” It is Dad, sounding surly and gruff, a pretty unusual state for him. He’s always easy-going with Mom and me. I make a sad face for him. I hate that my daddy is sad because of me, but does he really think I’m never ever going to have sex? That sounds pretty dismal. How would I ever have kids? How would they have grandkids?

“If her current medical regime wouldn’t have made birth control contraindicated, I would have put her on the pill.” Mom’s voice is farther away, and I can barely make out her words. My guess is she’s standing in the adjacent bathroom and Dad is sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace in their bedroom. He’s probably drinking Scotch or something amber in color. I’ve learned that anything darker than, say, a Mountain Dew is going to make me sick.