The Night She Disappeared (13 page)

“I kept thinking he could jump over the counter the way you just did.”

I tell myself that Gabie is only hanging on to me because she’s scared. I pat her on the back, but it’s awkward, not smooth and soothing the way I imagined it. “I’m going to tell Pete we have to have three people on all the time until they find who did it. Or that we have to stop making deliveries if there’s only two on. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone again.” The clock on the wall shows that it’s almost nine thirty. I make an executive decision. “Let’s finish putting everything away and go. Even if it’s not ten when we’re done.”

She takes a deep, sniffly breath. I try to ignore how her breasts rise against my chest. Then she lets go and takes a step back. She lifts her apron and wipes her eyes. “That sounds good.”

We finish putting away the canisters. Gabie sweeps the floor while I roll all the leftover skins together and then leave them in the cooler for Sunny. When Sunny opens tomorrow, she’ll roll the fresh dough first and then spread the reroll on top. Then she’ll send the whole thing through the sheeter until you can’t tell old from new.

If only it was that easy in real life to make old things new again.

We lock the back door and go out the front, which feels weird.

“I like your skateboard,” she says, as I let it drop to the ground.

“It’s not a skateboard, it’s a longboard.” I put my foot on it. “Skateboards are for tricks. Longboards are for travel.”

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

“That’s okay.” Gabie’s given me too many things lately.

She hesitates and then says in a rush “Actually, would you mind coming home with me and checking out the house?” She looks at the ground. “My mom sent me a text saying they had to go into surgery tonight. If you could make sure there’s no bogeyman hiding in the corners, I might be able to go to sleep.”

Chances are my place is empty too.

Which is why I say yes.

The Seventh Day

Gabie

IT’S FIFTEEN MINUTES
before closing when we leave. Drew slides his longboard into the back seat, and we drive off, not talking as we listen to Flea Market Parade sing about bad dreams. I’m still shaking, but not nearly as much as I would be if I were by myself. I can’t stand the idea of being alone. Alone with my thoughts.

“The police must have had a reason to talk to that guy,” I finally say. “Assuming he’s not completely nuts about them talking to him at all. You said you hadn’t seen him before, but was his voice familiar?”

Drew stares out at the darkness. “He’s not the guy who called, if that’s what you mean. I still can’t remember what that guy sounded like, but it wasn’t like this guy.”

“So how did you know he uses meth?” I wonder if
uses
is the right word. Maybe it’s
takes
or
smokes
or something else.

“Because of his teeth.” He hesitates. “My mom has some, um, friends that use it. They get skinny like that. Eat sweet stuff all day and never brush their teeth. They’re always anxious. And they never stop talking. Then after a while, they get paranoid. They don’t trust anyone, not even their friends.”

“So are they ever violent?” I try to imagine the guy hitting Kayla with a rock.

“Sometimes. Sometimes they’re just confused.” Drew sucks in his breath like he’s going to say something more, but then he’s quiet for a long time. Finally, in a rush he says, “Do you want to know the truth, Gabie?” There’s an edge of anger to his voice. “Do you really want to know the truth?”

Suddenly I’m not all that sure that I do. “Tell me,” I say.

But Drew’s silent, like he’s rethinking it. Then he says softly, “My life isn’t like yours, okay?”

Is Drew saying he uses meth? I know he sells pot, but I feel sick thinking there’s more to it than that. My parents are always complaining about the drug users they see in the hospital. They get in horrible, stupid accidents or walk away from accidents they caused that leave other people in wheelchairs. And they steal everything.

“What do you mean?” My hands tighten on the wheel.

“I don’t live in the perfect house, and I don’t have the perfect parents with the perfect matching Beemers. My life isn’t anything like that.”

I flush. He’s making fun of me. Then I realize Drew’s not focused on me. He’s focused on himself.

“I know some people think I’m white trash,” he continues. “You know what? It’s true. My clothes are old. I live in a crappy apartment. I’m lucky if I get Cs. I’m not in the AP classes, that’s for sure. And my parents are certainly not doctors.” He lifts his chin. “I already told you that I don’t know who my dad is. My mom, well, my mom has her own problems. It’s not just my mom’s
friends
who are tweakers.” His voice is so soft it’s hard to hear it. “Up until six months ago, my mom was working at Thriftway. You know, as a checker. Green apron, white name tag, and her feet always hurt. It wasn’t a great job, but she never graduated high school, so it was pretty good. But then she met this guy, this customer. Named Gary. And Gary started making a point of coming through her register. And she was all flattered.” He blows air out through his lips. “So then he asked her out. But when she came home that night, I could tell something was wrong. She was talking a mile a minute. And she never went to bed.” His eyes flash over to mine.

“So it was meth?” I can’t imagine my parents using. Their bodies are temples. Everything that goes inside them is weighed and measured and full of nutrients.

“I started finding rolled-up dollar bills around. And little mirrors with residue on them. A few months ago I found a tiny Baggie full of powder in the kitchen drawer.”

“What did you do?” Pulling up in front of my house, I shut off the car, then turned to face Drew.

“I flushed it.” He bites his lip.

“And then what happened?”

“She went ballistic. I wasn’t thinking of where she got the money to buy it. Although where else was she going to get it? The first time her till didn’t balance, her boss believed her when she said she had rung something up wrong. The second time, he put her on probation. The third time, he fired her. My mom used to be smart, not just street-smart, but book-smart. She had to drop out of high school when she had me, but she still liked to do crossword puzzles and stuff like that. She read a lot. But now the things she says and does don’t make any sense. She liked it at first because she lost weight. Now she’s so scrawny. Her arms and legs are like twigs.” His voice sinks to a whisper. “I feel like I’m watching her die.”

“What can you do?”

“I called a hotline last week. They said there wasn’t much I could do until she was willing to change.” His voice roughens. “She’s living on Michelob Light and these cream curl honey buns. And since they banned her from Thriftway, she makes
me
go in to buy them. Everyone knows me. I practically grew up there. Do you know how hard that is? They either make a point of saying something to me or a point of looking away. Or they watch me. Like I’m a thief, too.”

A lightbulb goes on. If his mom’s not working, how do they live? “So that’s why you want to work so many hours.”

He doesn’t answer, just gets out of the car. We walk up to the front door together.

I unlock the door, and the alarm starts to beep. I hurry inside and punch in the code. When I turn back, Drew is still standing in the doorway. The light above the door makes his eyes pools of shadows.

“Can you stay until I make sure no one else is here?”

He doesn’t answer, just takes a step inside the door and closes it.

After I text my parents to let them know I’m okay, Drew follows me as I walk through the rooms. In each room I leave the lights on until every single one is blazing. I’ll turn them off before I go to school, and my parents will never know.

“My parents have some Kahlua,” I say. “It was a Christmas gift. They never drink it.” For once, I don’t want to think too hard about what I’m saying or doing.

Drew nods, but I can’t read his expression. “Kahlua and cream. I’ve had that before. It’s good. Especially if you don’t like the taste of alcohol.”

“Do you think we could mix it with skim milk? Because that’s all that’s in the fridge. Unless you want to try Kahlua and cottage cheese?” I feel giddy. Maybe I’m finally stepping over the line.

“I don’t think I want any, either way.”

His words knock me off balance, but I try not to show it. “Do you mind if I have some?”

He shrugs. “Be my guest.”

I find the bottle in the bottom cabinet. Even hidden away, it’s gotten dusty. The shape of it, with raised smooth edges circling the top and bottom, feels good to my fingers. I break the seal, pour some into a glass, and then add milk. I take a sip. It’s like milk mixed with coffee—with a heaviness underneath.

I walk into the living room, and he follows me. We sit down on the couch. There’s two feet between us. I want to narrow the distance.

“Um, I’m sorry if I acted funny about you knowing that word.
Cerulean.
” I kind of mumble it, afraid I’ll accidentally cut him the way I did two days ago. “I didn’t even know how to pronounce it for sure until you said it.”

Drew’s pale eyes meet mine. “Final Fantasy Seven.”

“What?”

He lifts one shoulder and gives me a lopsided smile. “It’s a Play Station game. Like a shooting game. And one character is this blue-haired guy named Azul the Cerulean.”

“Azul—is that like azure? So it’s Blue the Blue?”

He shrugs. “I looked up
cerulean
online. That’s why I know what it means. Except, did you know it could be used for all different kinds of blue—sky blue, dark blue, greenish blue? Nobody really agrees on what color it is.”

“Sometimes it seems like nobody agrees on anything. Like everyone else seems to think that Kayla is dead.” I take another sip.

Drew leans forward. Now there’s less than a foot between our faces. Our voices are hushed, even though there’s no one to hear us. “Okay, you’re the one who keeps saying you know Kayla is alive. Do you still know that?”

I close my eyes and think of her. There’s that same little pulse that’s been there since she went missing. The same pulse that flares up if I tell myself she’s dead. But something’s different.

“Yes.” I open my eyes. “But not as strong as before. It’s like it’s…muted. Maybe it’s just so hard to think of her dead. I mean, Kayla’s always so full of life. I’m like a ghost compared to her. Everyone knows her, everyone likes her—the teachers, the kids at school, the customers. If that guy had taken me, do you think there would be piles of flowers outside my locker? Do you think people would have to go see the counselor?” Tears film my eyes. I try hard to blink them away, but one escapes and runs down my cheek.

Drew leans forward and touches it. I barely feel his fingertip. Or maybe it’s just that my cheeks feel numb. The most I’ve had to drink before was a sip of my mom’s wine at dinner.

I let out a shaky breath. “When I work with Kayla, it’s like I’m not even there. No one sees me.”

“I see you,” Drew says. And then there’s no more space between us.

The Seventh Day

Drew

YOU’VE HEARD
of a contact high? I could get a contact drunk kissing Gabie. The Kahlua makes her mouth sweet and loose. After a while, I don’t know where she begins and I end. We’re alone in her house, no parents, no anybody, and the world is asleep around us. She scoots back until she’s lying full length on the couch and I’m on top of her, and for a long time, we don’t say anything.

At least not with words.

Finally, I lever myself up on one elbow. “What if your parents come home?”

She shakes her head. “They won’t.” Her mouth and eyes widen. “Won’t. That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Won’t, won’t, won’t.” It sounds like a honk, like a lonely bird’s cry as it flies away.

It’s pretty clear Gabie is drunk off her butt. She gives me a crooked grin, closes her eyes, and starts kissing me again. Her hands slide up under my shirt and urge it off. And then she takes off her own shirt so she’s only wearing her bra, which is white with little red polka dots and a tiny red satin bow in the center. Her skin is smooth and feels so good.

It’s pretty clear I can do whatever I want and Gabie won’t do anything but say yes.

But something stops me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve never done it before. I don’t know if it’s because I’m 99.9 percent sure that Gabie’s never done it before. I don’t know if it’s because she keeps picking up her glass of Kahlua to sip from it, and the more she sips, the more her eyes roll back in her head. All I know is that no matter how much I want Gabie, I want to be able to talk to her tomorrow.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go up to your room.”

“That’s a good idea! That’s a very good idea.” She winks at me, or tries to, but just ends up blinking both eyes.

I have to keep my arm around Gabie as we go up the stairs, or she would fall back and crack her head. Which reminds me of Kayla. Kayla and the bloody rock and the icy river rushing along.

LUCKILY GABIE
lives up in the hills, so the way home is all downhill on my longboard. It’s so early there’s nobody out, and the light is as soft as Gabie’s lips when I kissed her good-bye. She barely stirred. I managed to get her shirt back on her. It was like wrestling with a giant rag doll. Before I left, I put away the Kahlua and rinsed out the glass. The last thing I did was hit the button to set the alarm.

At the sound of my key in the apartment door, Mom jerks her body around.

“It’s only me,” I say, and she goes back to work.

She’s kneeling, surrounded by a bunch of her plastic tubs, all of them open. The floor is covered with kids’ drawings and jewelry and comic books and collectible figurines. There are heaps of stuffed animals, power tools, and clothes that would have been six sizes too big for her even before she started using. She’s organizing it all, but her idea of what goes in what tub and what doesn’t is only clear to her. And there seems to be even more stuff than there used to be.