The Night She Disappeared (11 page)

Drew

I GO THROUGH
my classes like a zombie. In English, Mrs. Lorton goes on and on about symbolism. I do what I do best. I keep my head down and don’t attract attention.

Why did Gabie kiss me? Why did she push me away?

Was it only because I was there, someone to hold her when she was shaking? And did she push me away when she remembered it was really only me, Drew Lyle, the straight-C stoner?

I’ve kissed girls before, of course. Behind our house there’s a huge park. Part of it has been left wild, cut off from the rest by a narrow stream. It has a hundred or so old tall fir trees, but no tennis courts, no paths, no playground. Just soft needles. Nobody walks dogs or pushes baby strollers through it. It’s its own little forest. Some kids hang out there after school and get stoned. Maybe do a few more things after dark.

The only time I saw an adult there was when this yellow Lab came tearing through the woods, eyes rolling, mouth clenched around a neon tennis ball. Then twenty seconds later, some older guy in running clothes burst in after her. He was yelling, “Bella, come back here!” His eyes went wide when he realized he wasn’t alone. He yelled out, “Bella, come!” and then pushed his way back out without saying a single word to us.

But yeah, I’ve kissed a girl or two there. When it’s dark, and you just need to hold on to someone because she’s warm and her mouth is soft. But that’s not why I kissed Gabie.

Or technically, kissed Gabie back.

That’s what I don’t understand. What happened wasn’t my idea, but when she pushed me away, she acted like it was.

And there’s something else, something that hurts so much I don’t even want to think about it. What Gabie said, the look on her face, when I talked about the color of the sky.

After an eternity, the bell rings and school is out. At my locker, I grab my longboard and then push down the endless corridor. Finally I’m outside, away from the noise of people marching along like ants, one behind the next. I drop my board and skate down the sidewalk, carving to the left and right to avoid clumps of people. At the intersection, I just go on through against the light. I’ve timed it right so I can slip between the cars. But some old lady in a big maroon-colored Lincoln gets nervous. Instead of keeping to the same speed, she hits the brakes. I have to brace myself on her trunk to make it around the back of her car. Her window is open, and she yells, “Punk kids!”

But I’m already across by the time she starts yelling, and all I can think about is seeing Gabie at Pete’s. Will she even show? Will she still let me use her car? What if she’s there but changes her mind about me driving the Mini? Because no matter what’s going on between us, I don’t think it would be a good idea for her—or any girl—to make deliveries now. I know Pete said no girls, but he can’t work days and nights, and Gabie is stubborn enough to do things her own way.

I think of the guy’s voice on the phone. “Is the girl in the Mini Cooper making deliveries tonight?” For a split second, some memory flashes through my brain, some time when I’ve heard that voice before. But it’s gone before I can pin it down. I’m the only one who talked to the guy who did it, but I’m no use to Kayla, wherever she is now.

I’m walking toward the back door when Gabie’s car pulls into a parking space. I watch her get out. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a big, rubbery chunk of mozzarella.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks at me, then looks away. “Listen, about what happened yesterday—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I’m not ready for her excuses. Her pity.

She touches my wrist. It’s seventy degrees outside, but I shiver. She takes her hand away and rubs a spot in the center of her forehead. Because Gabie’s eyes are closed, I can look at her. Her nose has a little bump in it at the bridge.

“Look,” she starts again, “when I was crying and you were holding me, it felt right. But kissing you just made me confused.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” I don’t want to hear about what’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with the idea of me plus her.

She opens her eyes. “Okay. Last night I went online and looked at all these stories about people who went missing and where their bodies finally turned up. And I tried to think about Kayla being in the river. You know, dead.”

I don’t want to talk about this either. But I imagine Kayla drifting downstream. Her face a pale smudge under the water. Her dark hair tangled as seaweed.

Gabie reaches for my wrist again, but this time she grabs it so hard I wince. “But she’s not dead, Drew. I know she’s not.”

“You’re the smart one,” I tell her. I don’t have to say “not me,” but I know she hears it. “You heard what Pete said about the rock with blood on it. You saw where it happened. What are the chances she’s alive?” I watch Gabie’s eyebrows pull down, her eyes narrow. “You were in the river. You felt how fast it was. How cold. Even if that guy didn’t put her in the river, even if he took her someplace else, it was probably only to bury her.” I hesitate and then say, “I liked Kayla too—we all did.” Gabie’s eyes bore into me. Today they’re definitely green, and as cold as cat’s eye marbles. “Do,” I correct myself. “Do. But you’re driving yourself crazy.”

Of course I think about Kayla too. I want to dream about her. Just to see her again. A dream where it’s ordinary, where nothing bad ever happened. Maybe we’ll be working together, and she’ll smile. That’s all. And in that dream world, I didn’t take the order, or I did take it and then threw it away because I realized it wasn’t a real address. Or someone else was working that night, and they delivered those three pizzas. Not Gabie, just some guy, and nothing bad happened to him, either. Every night I go to bed hoping I’ll see Kayla again when I close my eyes.

And every morning, I wake up disappointed.

Gabie looks frightened. “What if he comes back?”

And I think that’s the heart of it. Gabie has to think Kayla’s alive. Because she knows it could have been her blood on that rock down by the river.

We both start when a voice behind us says, “Why don’t you two lovebirds break it up and get in to work?”

It’s Miguel. I can tell he’s still pissed that the schedule got changed back to the way it was before. He has an old Datsun 280Z he spends all his money on.

We follow Miguel in without saying anything, although Gabie rolls her eyes at me. Pete’s working, and so is Danny. Danny has enough credits to graduate, so he gets out of school at twelve fifteen. It’s only four o’clock, but the dinner rush is already starting. Every few seconds, Sonya yells, “Order in!” and pins it to the sliver wheel.

The first part of the shift, Pete makes the deliveries. He looks awful.

Meanwhile, I work with Gabie. Sometimes she’s at the register. Sometimes she makes pizzas. It’s the way it’s been all year.

Except a year ago I wouldn’t have thought about the color of her eyes, or the way it felt to kiss her.

The Seventh Day

Gabie

AT PETE’S,
I can be someone different than the Gabie I am at school. I can be curt or silly or flirt.

Tonight, I’m more like a machine. I just want to forget about everything. Forget about Kayla. Not think about Drew, even though he’s standing so close that if I stood hipshot I’d touch him. I’m glad it’s busy. Sonya is barely keeping up with the counter, while nearly a dozen orders wait on the metal wheel. Without asking Pete what I should do next, I yank off the first ticket, open the cooler, and pull out a battered flat metal pan holding a large pizza skin. After checking Sonya’s scrawl, I prep it with sauce and cheese. Then I grab a handful of pepperoni and give the pan a little tug to start it slowly spinning. As it does, I lay down the pepperoni in circles that don’t quite touch. Only Pete is really good at this trick, but tonight it works for me too. Pete looks over and nods with respect.

Once I’ve added mushroom and olives, I pivot and slide the pizza from the metal pan onto a wooden peel. When I pull down the oven door, the blast of heat rolls over me. I heft the long handle of the peel, and for once the weight feels like nothing. There’s a trick to getting the pizza into the oven unscathed, a quick jerk forward and back. Do it wrong, and you end up with the toppings burning in the oven and the dough still firmly attached to the peel. It’s even trickier when the oven is crowded, like now. You have to start a pizza out in the back of the oven, where it’s hottest, angling it over the nearly finished pizzas in the front. But tonight my first pizza slides in without hesitation. As does the next and the next.

Usually I would let Miguel or Drew deal with the pizzas once they were in the oven, but tonight I take just as many turns as they do checking on things, popping bubbles, shuffling pizzas from back to front as they get closer to being done. Tonight I don’t mind the weight of the peel or the scorching heat of the oven, and I don’t burn myself once on the open edge of the door. Miguel and Drew and even Pete have old burn marks lined up on their wrists like bracelets.

As the minutes tick by, work becomes a dance, and I lose myself, turning, reaching, bending, using both hands to scatter toppings when I normally only use one. Everyone else seems to feel the rhythm, too, even Miguel, and we step around each other in the small space as smoothly as if we were choreographed. Sonya rings up a bill and slams the cash register drawer closed with her hip, talking to one customer on the phone while she counts out another’s change.

But finally, it slows down. Eventually Danny and Sonya and Miguel leave. And then Pete, who’s so tired he’s staggering. The last customers have eaten and left. It’s just Drew and me. The rhythm is gone, and instead of hearing soundless music, I remember my parents’ voices, how they questioned me after I brought Drew home yesterday. After he ran out. After I told a lie about him thinking of buying a Mini and letting him test-drive mine.

“What’s Drew planning on doing after he graduates?” my mom asked as she filled a plate with spinach salad. I can tell she is worried, because she slides the plate over to me without asking how much I want, like I’m seven and not seventeen.

I take a bite before answering. “I’m not sure.” It isn’t a lie. I don’t know. I’ve never asked.

“Well, be careful. Remember, you’re moving almost a thousand miles away in the fall.”

I make a face, hoping the sudden heat in my cheeks doesn’t betray me. “It’s not like that. Drew’s a friend. A work friend. That’s all. Everyone at work is talking more because of Kayla being missing.”

My dad sighs. “You haven’t heard anything about them finding her”—he hesitates, probably avoiding the word
body
—“have you?”

“I just know what I see on TV.” Every night they run the same senior photo of Kayla in front of a tree, the same photo of her car parked in a police lot. Sometimes they show the divers in the river, or a German shepherd straining on a leash, or her parents crying and begging for information. But even when it’s different, it’s never really anything new.

“It must be hard, not knowing.” Dad pats my hand, a bit awkwardly. “I spoke to Sergeant Thayer about your safety.”

“You did
what
?”

“Of course I did, Gabie. I needed to be sure you were safe at work. He told me they think it was someone Kayla knew.”

Mom takes a bite of her salmon, then delicately pulls a white bone as thin as a thread from between her lips. “Was Drew a special friend of Kayla’s?”

“What are you saying? That Drew is dangerous? He’s the one who called the police!”

Anger rises in me, and it feels good. It feels strong. I finally have a place to put all my emotions.

And then, just as quickly, my anger collapses. Mom looks genuinely shocked. “Of course not! I was just thinking that a tragedy like this can draw people together who wouldn’t normally,” Mom says. “Drew seems very nice, but it won’t be long until you’re gone. You don’t want to hurt him.”

Now I look at Drew out of the corner of my eye. It’s not that I’m worried about me hurting him.

It’s that I’m worried about him hurting me.

The Seventh Day

“John Robertson”

“HI!” GABIE SMILES
up at me from under the brim of her baseball cap. “Let me guess. One plain slice and one Roma special?” Her pen is poised over the order pad.

Last time I was in Pete’s, I waited until Gabie turned her back. Then I took her pen off the counter and slid it into my shirt pocket, next to my X-Acto knife. Later, I sat in my car in the darkened parking lot and slid the pen along my lips. Between them. Thinking of Gabie. And of Gabie’s fingers and lips.

“You know what I like,” I say. Gabie doesn’t know the half of it.

Her eyes have dark circles, as if she hasn’t been sleeping well. With any other girl—Kayla, for instance—it would make her look less pretty. But with Gabie, the shadows make her blue-green eyes look more mysterious. I could lose myself in them.

“Well, I know you’re a vegetarian,” she says. “And that you’ll probably want a root beer.”

“Right again.” Everyone knows I don’t eat meat. It’s one reason “John Robertson” ordered three large Meat Monsters. The authorities are probably looking for guys who like lots of meat. They aren’t looking for one quiet vegetarian guy with glasses who builds architectural models for a living.

“And to eat here, right?” she says, enjoying our game. Thinking that she’s winning it. Not knowing there’s a real game we’re about to play.

Behind her, the cooler door opens. One of the kids who works at Pete’s emerges, carrying a stainless-steel container full of pale grated cheese. When she hears him kick the door closed, Gabie turns and smiles.

But the sight of that smile—bigger and somehow more real than the smile she gave me—is annoying.
I’m
the customer. She should be giving me her full attention. But instead she is nearly flirting with this boy, right in front of me.

It makes me want to hurt her. Just a little.