Not I was afraid to call, so that’s why I didn’t.
Just: Holy shit.
“Pretty much,” I say, since it’s the only response I can think of. At that moment, the band decides to stop playing. Funny how silence can be the loudest sound of all.
“I’m . . . wow.” He shifts in the car but makes no move to get out and hug me. His dark hair has grown long and hangs practically to his jaw now. He’s tan—he must be working outside, maybe mowing lawns again, like he did last summer. His eyes are still the same in-between color, not quite blue or green but something closer to gray, like the fifteen minutes just before the sun rises. And looking at him still makes me want to puke and cry and kiss him all at once. “I really didn’t expect to see you.”
“I live around the corner, in case you forgot,” I say. My voice sounds harder, angrier, than I’d meant it to, and I’m grateful when the band strikes up again.
“I thought you were gone,” he says. He keeps both hands on the steering wheel, squeezing tightly, like he does when he’s trying not to fidget. Parker always used to joke he was like a shark—if he ever stopped moving, he would die.
“Not gone,” I say. “Just not seeing anyone.”
“Yeah.” He’s watching me so intensely I have to turn away, squinting into the sun. This way, he can’t see the scars, still angry and raw-red, flattened across my cheek and temple. “I figured—I figured you didn’t want to see me. After what happened . . .”
“You figured right,” I say quickly, because otherwise I might say what I really feel, which is: not true.
He flinches and looks away, returning his attention to the road. Another car passes, and has to pull out into the oncoming traffic to avoid Parker’s car. He doesn’t seem to notice, even when the passenger, an old man, rolls down his window and yells something rude. The sun is warm and sweat moves down my neck. I remember, then, lying between Parker and Nick last summer in Upper Reaches Park on the day after school ended, while Parker read out loud all the weirdest news he could find from around the country—interspecies relationships; bizarre deaths; unexplained agricultural patterns that could only, Parker insisted, be caused by aliens—inhaling the smell of charcoal and new grass and thinking, I could stay here forever. What the hell changed?
Nick. My parents. The accident.
Everything.
I suddenly feel like crying. Instead I wrap my arms around my waist and squeeze.
“Listen.” He rakes a hand through his hair, which immediately swings back into place. “You need a ride somewhere or something?”
“No.” I don’t want to tell him that I have nowhere to go. I’m not heading anywhere except away. I can’t even go back for my car keys or I risk seeing Nick, who no doubt is finding reasons to complain about the fact that I wasn’t there to cheerlead her arrival.
He makes a face like he’s accidentally swallowed his gum. “It’s good to see you,” he says. But he doesn’t look at me. “Really good. I’ve been thinking about you . . . all the time, basically.”
“I’m doing just fine,” I say.
Good thing lying comes naturally to me.
www.theShorelineBlotter.com/july20_breakingnews
East Norwalk PD are reporting the possible abduction of nine-year-old Madeline Snow from a car outside Big Scoop Ice Cream & Candy off Route 101 in East Norwalk on the evening of Sunday, July 19, sometime between 10:00 p.m. and 10:45 p.m. Her family has released the accompanying picture of Madeline and asked that anyone with any knowledge of her whereabouts get in contact immediately with Chief Lieutenant Frank Hernandez at 1-200-555-2160, ext. 3.
Please join me in praying that Madeline makes it home safe—and soon—to her family.
This article is surprisingly undetailed. Was she with her parents when she was “abducted”? Statistically, it’s usually the parents’ fault when a child disappears.
posted by: alikelystory at 9:45 a.m.
Thanks for your comment, @alikelystory. The police haven’t released any further details, but I’ll be sure to update as soon as they do.
posted by: admin at 10:04 a.m.
@alikelystory “It’s usually the parents’ fault when a child disappears.” Where do you get this so-called “statistic”?
posted by: booradleyforprez at 11:42 a.m.
Poor Madeline. The whole congregation at St. Jude is praying for you.
posted by: mamabear27 at 1:37 p.m.
Hey all, for up-to-the-minute info, go to www.FindMadeline.tumblr.com. It looks like they just got the site up and running.
posted by: weinberger33 at 2:25 p.m.
see additional 161 comments.
JULY 20
Nick
My new job starts on Monday, bright and early.
Mom’s still sleeping when I leave the house at seven. Dara, too. In the two days since I’ve been home, Dara’s done a near-perfect job of avoiding me. I have no idea what she does up in her room all day—sleeps, most likely, and of course Mom never bugs her about it; Dara’s off-limits since the accident, as if she’s a glass figurine that might break if we handle it—and every morning I see broken rosebuds in the garden, evidence that she’s been shimmying up and down the trellis again.
I know her only by the trace evidence: iPod left blaring through the speakers in her room, footsteps overhead, the things she leaves behind. Toothpaste crusted on our shared bathroom sink, because she always uses too much and never bothers to put the cap on. A bag of chips, half-eaten, discarded on the kitchen table. Thick wedge heels lying on the stairs; the faint smell of pot that filters down from the attic at night. This way I form an impression of her, of her life, of what she’s doing, the way we used to rush downstairs on Christmas morning and know Santa Claus had come because the cookies we’d left had been eaten and the milk consumed. Or the way an anthropologist does, constructing whole civilizations out of the scraps of pottery they left behind.