What She Left Behind

  “It’s Sara,” I say a bit louder. “Your granddaughter.”

  Rachel snickers. I move away from the sinks and stare at the graffiti on the stalls. The carving that used to have RACHEL + JASON with a heart around it now has Jason’s name crossed out in lipstick. I peek at her again. She isn’t looking too broken up about it.

  “It’s Sara!” he shouts, presumably at my grandmother.

  I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Just a second, tell her I’m getting the muffins out of the oven.”

  “She’s getting the muffins out of the oven!” shouts Grandpa, at a volume ten times louder than a normal person.

  “So how are you, Grandpa?”

  “What?”

  “I said, how are you doing?”

  “We’re doing just fine. Here you go. Here’s your grandmother.”

  “Sara, dear. Shouldn’t you be at school? Is something wrong?”

  This is the part where I should tell her that my mom is missing and my dad is insane, but instead I say, “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m home sick today.”

  The toilet flushes. It sounds loud and industrial. Nothing like the toilet we have at home.

  “You don’t sound sick,” my grandma says.

  “I’ve been throwing up all morning. So I thought I’d call and see how you guys were doing. There’s nothing on TV right now.”

  Grandma pauses, as if trying to reconcile the loud toilet flush with me being at home. “We’re just fine. We’ve got Grandpa’s heart doctor appointment this afternoon, then tomorrow morning it’s our day to deliver Meals On Wheels.” My grandma is way into volunteerism. “What kind of service projects do you have going on at your school this year?”

  Our family is the opposite of my grandparents. We never volunteer for anything. Although once my mom and I are on our own, who knows, maybe we’ll start. I make something up. It’s easier than hearing my grandma talk about how important it is to help others. “I think there’s this Habitat for Humanity thing next month.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  I make one last attempt. “So, nothing else is new with you?” This is the point where she’s supposed to mention that my mom called to say that she’s on her way to see them.

  “No, that’s about it,” she says.

  “Okay, great then. I’ll let you get back to Wheel of Fortune.”

  “The Price Is Right, dear. Wheel of Fortune is on in the evening.”

  “Right. Of course. Talk to you later, then.” I disconnect.

  Rachel washes her hands and leaves.

  The call to my aunt goes similarly except that my uncle (who works from home) doesn’t need a hearing aid and my aunt definitely doesn’t believe I’ve just called to see what’s up with her. But I don’t feel like I can share the truth. If I tell them that my mom is missing and has either run away from my dad because he’s beating her up or that I think my dad killed my mom, they’ll insist that I call the police. In fact, they’ll probably call the police for me, i.e., Jack Reynolds. I’ll be as good as dead. The best thing I can do is to sit tight and wait for Mom to come back for me. There must be a good reason why she didn’t pick me up yesterday. I just can’t think of it right now.

  I go back to class and put my head down.

  “Sara, you were gone more than ten minutes.” I prop my head up. Robertson is towering above my desk.

  “Sorry, stomachache,” I say.

  Robertson narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  I nod and pretend to pay attention. The last thing I need is Robertson calling home and asking to speak to my parents.

  This is what my version of paying attention looks like:

  Stare intently at Robertson. Squint at the board.

  Write furiously: Must leave. Have to go. Must leave. Have to go. She’s coming back. Be patient. Stay calm. Must leave. Have to go.

  Pretend not to notice Alex’s desk moving closer to mine. Turn the page in my notebook so Alex can’t see what I’m writing. Copy down what’s actually written on the board. Hide the note Alex slides to me under my notebook. Try to recover from accelerated heartbeat caused by Alex’s hand brushing mine as he passes me the note.

  Stare at Robertson. Stare at the board.

  Think about kissing Alex. Look at Alex. Notice dimples. Wonder how someone can look so hot in a T-shirt with a sports logo on it. Imagine the scratch of stubble against my cheek. Try to slow my breathing.

  Notice Alex’s desk is only six inches from mine. Let Alex lock pinkies with me so as not to cause a scene. Okay and because I want to.

  Ignore snickers.

  Drop Alex’s hand when Robertson turns around.

  Read note from Alex: Have lunch with me?

  Send back answer: Can’t.

  Return to original page of notes. Cover page with arm so Alex can’t see and continue writing: Must leave. Have to go.

  When the bell rings, I’m the first one out the door and Alex is right behind me.

  “Hey, wait up!”

  My heart skips a beat. Let’s face it: Alex is hot, easy to talk to, and definitely interested.

  Focus. This is no time for romance. I pretend not to hear him. I concentrate on my footsteps. I have this little singsong marching tune playing in my head. Mom. Mom. Where is Mom?

  He catches up to me anyway.

  “What’s the big hurry? Besides escaping Robertson’s lecture on the horrors of World War I?”

  “Meeting someone,” I say, taking the front steps two at a time.

  “The Dairy Dream again?”

  Today I have a hooded sweatshirt with me. I zip it up and start power-walking.

  Alex glides effortlessly along next to me. “You want to work on the history project together?” he asks.

  Do I tell him no now so he doesn’t get stuck doing the paper all by himself once I disappear? I decide not to. It will give him a good excuse to ask for an extension later. I look over at him. God, I love the way his hair always looks just a tiny bit mussed up. “You were actually planning on writing a paper?” I say.

  “With the right topic, history can be interesting.” When he smiles at me his whole face lights up. “Well, and with the right girl.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You’ve got it down pretty well. Flirt a little, flash your brilliant smile, and get the girl to write the paper for you. Only, haven’t you noticed? I’m not the most dedicated student lately.”

  “So now you know I’m after you and not your writing skills.”

  My heart beats faster. “And why would that be?”

  “You’re pretty even when your eyes are all puffy from crying.”

  I lift my eyebrows.

  “That, and you’re fun to talk to.” Then, just like he did in history class, he reaches over and wraps his pinky around mine.

  When we get to the Dairy Dream, I scan the cars in the lot, then lead Alex over to the picnic table we used yesterday. Our pinkies come undone as we sit. To give my hands something to do, I open my backpack and take out the book Alex loaned me.

  “So what’s it about?” I ask.

  He smashes his lips together and turns a pretend key. “Nope. No can do.”

  I roll my eyes and turn the book over to read the back cover. “Hey,” Alex says, covering the text with one hand. “No cheating.”

  “Reading the back cover isn’t cheating.”

  “Sure it is. I never read the synopsis. I like to be surprised. Really surprised.”

  “So how do you pick a book?”

  “I read the first page. If I like it—” He pauses and gives me this goofy grin. “I keep reading.” I have the feeling he isn’t talking about books anymore.

  “Want some ice cream?” Alex asks.

  “Not today. Thanks.” I’m feeling hopeful. I’m sure my mom will arrive any minute, she’ll explain everything, and we’ll be on our way to our new life. I wonder where we’re going. Colorado, maybe? Or Florida? I’m
excited. Then I look over at Alex. Damn. Why can’t this be as easy as it was two nights ago? Then there’s Zach. How can I just leave him? And Lauren—now I’ll never have a chance to make things right with her.

  At least I won’t miss the house. It’ll be good to be away from all the memories that live inside. I don’t think I’ll miss my dad, either. Because the Dad that I want to remember died when we moved from Philly.

  “So, do you have any ideas for the history project?”

  Project? “Huh?”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by the Dirty War in Argentina.”

  I have no idea what Alex is talking about.

  “You know, Argentina during the late seventies, early eighties. When the government kidnapped its own citizens and they were never heard from again? We learned about it in Spanish class. They were called los Deseparecidos—the Disappeared.”

  The Disappeared. How ironic. My mother disappeared. Soon I’ll disappear. Only not like the Disappeared, I hope. I feel a little sick inside. Alex looks at me with his head tilted to one side. He’s waiting for my answer. “Sorry. Maybe we can try a different topic?”

  “Yeah, no problem. You wanna give me your phone number?”

  I must look surprised because Alex adds, “So we can work on the project.” But the way he almost laughs when he says the word “project” lets me know that’s not why he’s asking.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Right. For the project.” I tell him my number.

  “Want mine?” he asks with a wicked grin.

  “Sure.” I pull out my phone and start typing.

  Zach appears in the distance with a paper bag in his hand and the sun on his shoulders. I try to wave at him as if today is just another day at the Dairy Dream.

  “I can’t believe it—all this time you’ve been crying over Zach?” Alex sounds disappointed.

  “No, not exactly.” But you’ll be safer if you believe that than if you know the truth.

  “Hey, buddy,” Zach greets me. He’s adopted Matt’s pet name for me. “Got you some tacos.” He plops the bag down and slides onto the picnic table across from me, then nods politely at Alex. “Two soft, one hard, beef with cheese and tomatoes. None of that wilted bleach lettuce and no onions. And a root beer.” Zach knows about the root beer whoosh thing.

  “You’re adorable,” I say to Zach. I lean across the table, hug him, and give him a kiss on the cheek. I take him in, blond hair going every which way, the soft curve of his chin, the sparkling blue eyes, the smile that lets you know he cares. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother.

  I think Alex must have seen the look that passed between us, that look that says, “Everything is okay now that you’re here.” I can’t help it, because it’s true.

  “Hey, good game last week,” Zach says. “Good luck this Friday.”

  “Thanks, man. You gonna be there?” says Alex.

  “No, can’t make it this week. It’s my mom’s birthday and we’re going to some sort of play. She’s kind of like Sara, here. Not really a sports fan.”

  “Yeah, Sara mentioned that she isn’t exactly looking forward to having to play in the band at the game.”

  Zach snorts. “That’s a bit of an understatement. Did she mention what she does to pass the time between songs?”

  Alex shakes his head. “No, do tell.”

  “Zach—” I lean across the table and try to cover his mouth with my hand but he squirms away. “She reads Soap Opera Digest in the stands.”

  “Really now? No Stephen King?” Alex raises his eyebrows.

  “A book would be too thick to fit under my uniform.”

  “You know, I’m actually kind of surprised that she takes magazines to games. She’s so particular about keeping them in pristine condition. Once I spilled a tiny bit of pop on one of them and she didn’t talk to me for a month,” says Zach.

  “It was only a week,” I say. “And it was the Winds of Change tenth anniversary issue.”

  “Need I say more?” says Zach. “Except to mention that she has every magazine from the past twenty years in her room. It’s a miracle she even has room to sleep.”

  “It’s the past five years. And they have a very discreet presence in my room. Plus, they’re neatly organized.” That part is true. Because if they weren’t, Dad would have tossed them all in an instant. Too bad I can’t take them with me. At least Mom and I will still be able to watch The Winds of Change together.

  “Well, this has all been very enlightening,” Alex says, laughing, “but I guess I’ll be heading back to class. Algebra test, you know, Sara.”

  I give him a little shove to get him to stop laughing. It doesn’t work. “No, I didn’t. You study?”

  “Nah.” He attempts to stop laughing. “Well, I’ll see you Saturday night. Around eight? Pick you up?”

  “Sure,” I say, feeling my heart break because I know I won’t be there when he shows up.

  “Actually, I suppose I’ll see you in history tomorrow first. And Friday.”

  “I suppose you will.” Not.

  Alex saunters off to school, hands in the pockets of his jeans, backpack slung over one arm. I want to call him back, tell him to stay a while longer. Say good-bye for real. God, I never even got to kiss him yet.

  “What was that about?” Zach asks in a teasing voice. He takes his last bite of taco.

  I shrug. “Some party he invited me to.”

  “You two dating? Since when?”

  “Since never,” I say. “I was pretty messed up yesterday. I think he asked me out of pity.”

  “That wasn’t pity.” He tips his cup back, tapping it to loosen the ice.

  “It doesn’t matter anyhow. I’m not going to any party with Alex, because I’m not going to be here. My mom and I are getting out of here. We’re leaving Dad.”

  Zach let the ice fall back in the cup. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Zach knows what’s been going on at home. Well, some of it at least. I leave out the worst parts when we talk.

  I nod.

  “When?”

  “Any minute. My mom’s picking me up from here. Or at least I hope she is. She was supposed to get me yesterday, but something must have come up.”

  “What do you mean? What came up?” Zach asks sharply.

  “I don’t know. She didn’t come home last night.”

  Zach looks as scared as I feel. “So what makes you think that she’s coming today?”

  “She has to, Zach.” My eyes fill with tears.

  Zach moves to my side of the picnic table, puts his arms around me, and holds me tight. “It’s going to be all right.” The smell of his aftershave comforts me and makes me feel like it’s both Zach’s and Matt’s arms around me. It’s like watching Zach play soccer. If I squint my eyes, the blond blur can pass for Matt, for a few seconds at least. In those seconds my heart is full.

  But once I shouted, “Way to go, Matt!” after Zach made a goal. He looked up at me in the stands and I saw the sadness on his face. Then someone tried to pass him the ball. It bounced off his knee and the other team snatched it away.

  We sit at the picnic table, not feeling the need for small talk. After a few minutes I leave to go to the bank to clear out my savings account, while Zach keeps an eye out for my mom.

  When I get back from the bank, I decide to show Zach my hideout behind the dentist office. We certainly can’t stay at the Dairy Dream. Mrs. Hamilton, who is scooping ice cream again today, doesn’t limit herself to snooping in her own daughter’s life. Besides, she’s glaring at me. I think Jessica must have mentioned the whole nosebleed incident.

  Zach takes out his iPod and hands me one of his earbuds. Taylor Swift is playing. Zach isn’t crazy about country music, but he keeps it on his iPod for me.

  “So what are you writing about this month?” I ask him. Zach writes for the school paper, the Scottsfield Sentinel.

  “Just an article on the new English teacher and a movie review. The one about the FBI agent.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, too bad I’ll miss seeing the movie with you. At least, I hope I’ll miss seeing it with you. Send me a copy of the article?” Of course there is no way I’m going to be able to give him our new address, but I feel better pretending.

  “Sure thing.”

  My cell phone dings. I have a text message from Alex. WHAT DO U THINK OF MISERY?

  I text back, NO CHANCE TO READ IN HOUR SINCE LAST SAW U.

  I’m also not sure I have the stomach to read horror anymore.

  “Who’s that?” Zach points at my phone.

  “No one, really.” It feels like a lie, because already I find myself thinking of Alex way more than I’ve thought about any guy in a long while. But, it’s not like I’m going to be anyone special to Alex after tomorrow, except “that girl who skipped town with his copy of Misery.” If he calls me tomorrow, Keith Urban will be singing from the bottom of some river, maybe the Au Sable, because that’s where I’ll have to throw my phone so my dad can’t trace it.

  When I look up, Zach is taking a picture of me with his phone. Zach is always taking pictures.

  “Mark my words. Someday you’re going to have a picture in Time magazine alongside some prizewinning article that you’ve written.”

  “Yeah, right. Make that Country Time,” he says.

  Zach hates that magazine. It’s a local one about life in the country.

  “Well at least they print gorgeous pictures,” I say.

  “I have a picture of Alex, too,” he says all innocent-like, “that I took while you two were busy staring at each other. Want me to send it to you?”

  I shrug my shoulders like it doesn’t matter. “Sure, go ahead.”

  I bring up the picture on my phone and try not to stare. As usual, Zach snapped it at just the right moment. It captured both the smile on Alex’s face and the laughter in his eyes. Maybe I won’t be throwing my phone into the Au Sable River after all.

  “Thanks,” I say, putting my phone away.

  My mom still hasn’t arrived by the time school lets out, so Zach and I walk back to catch the bus.