The Summer Experiment (6 page)

“I also want to reassure everyone, especially our visiting tourists, that Allagash is the safest town in Maine,” said the mayor. “This is the perfect place for your vacation.”

“What did I just say?” asked Uncle Horace.

“Those abductions back in 1976 didn't hurt our tourism here one bit,” said my dad. “Heck, we should put up a big sign marking the site. It might help.”

And then everybody started talking at once.

I slipped out of the living room and into the kitchen. I opened the door to the mud room and found my yellow slicker. I pulled it on and put my hood up. In the backyard, I plopped down on one of the cast-iron chairs at the cast-iron table near the fireplace. The fireplace now held wet, black ashes and remnants of burnt wood from Grandpa's birthday party, the evening my family first saw the lights. It was only three nights ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime.

Rain was still falling, but I didn't care. Something just wasn't right. My heart felt like it was made of cast iron. It's that feeling I get when I think the adults are hiding something from me. Or worse yet, telling me lies, such as when I found out there was no Tooth Fairy. I believed in her so much that I let Johnny pull my first loose tooth with a string tied to his bedroom doorknob. But at least I earned a dollar for my trouble. And Johnny seemed to really enjoy slamming that door. I lost four more teeth and earned another four dollars before Tommy Connors told me that the Tooth Fairy didn't exist. I asked my mother if it was true, and she admitted it. There was no Tooth Fairy. I remember what I said to her that day. “Then why did you tell me there was?”

If the Tooth Fairy could go down in flames
that
fast, the Easter Bunny didn't stand a chance.

So who was telling the truth now? The mayor or the UFO expert who wrote the book? The four Vermont men or the United States Air Force? Sheriff Mallory or Principal Purdy? Uncle Horace or Mrs. Cramer? I looked up into the gray and rainy sky and wondered if there were such things as stars. Would they shine again tonight, once the rain stopped and it grew dark enough to see them? Or had I just imagined them? Was everything I had ever believed in my life just one big lie?

Sometimes, kids have good reasons to mistrust the alien world of adults.

The Runaway

It was the longest weekend in recorded history. For one thing, the whole town had lit up with gossip about Sheriff Mallory's resignation, and what he did or didn't see that night on Highway 42. Most people figured the mayor was behind it, and the Chamber of Commerce was behind the mayor. Sheriff Mallory wasn't saying anything, but his wife, Emma, was. She told Aunt Betty, as Aunt Betty was cutting her hair, what Mr. Mallory said when he came home after resigning. “I love this town too much to hurt its economy. We're hanging by a thread as it is.” A group calling itself “Bring Back Sheriff Mallory” had already formed and was making big plans. But first, they would have to hold a chicken stew and baked bean supper to raise the money they'd need for posters and bumper stickers.

I tried to stay out of the way as I waited for Monday and Marilee. On Saturday, I helped Mom sweep the basement. I even tidied up my bedroom, cleaned out my aquarium, and then fed my fish. Ever notice how fish have eyes like aliens? Lidless and glowing. Needless to say, I was imagining those eyes everywhere. And speaking of fish eyes, when I biked over to the grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread for Mom, I ran into the 4 Hs of the Apocalypse: Henry Horton Harris Helmsby.

“Hey, Henry,” I said. He was standing in front of the aluminum foil as if maybe he had invented it. I figured he needed it to wrap up a poturn and see if it would bake, rather than blow up. After that night on Frog Hill when Marilee and I saw the fake alien, I had boycotted aluminum foil. So I was anxious to get out of that aisle.

“Good afternoon to you, Miss McKinnon,” Henry said. He talks like that. He really does. If he were older and taller and had bigger teeth, Henry could be Barnabas on
Dark
Shadows
. “A very rainy afternoon it is too,” he added.

“I'm just getting a loaf of bread for my mom,” I said, and tried to step past him. But he shuffled his skinny body backward like a crab and blocked my way. I waited for him to push his big, round eyeglasses up on his skinny nose. They were always sliding down to his nostrils.

“And how might your science project be advancing, pray tell?” he asked. “I have heard news that you and the girl from Boston—what's her name, Marilyn?—have joined forces. A wise idea, indeed, for you will be able to rely upon the maxim that two brains are better than one. But, of course, it all depends on
who
owns that one brain.” God, it's like someone created him in a laboratory and then cranked his key and set him loose.

“Her name is Millicent,” I lied. “And she's been living in Allagash for almost a year now. Surely you noticed her? She lives next door to you.”
Dork.

“Ah, yes, the young female next door who is always spying on me,” said Henry. “I believe I have noticed her. She should wash her bedroom window. I predict she'll have a better view of my greenhouse that way.”
Moron.

“Well, you have a good shopping experience, Henry,” I said. “I gotta go.” A crab-like leg spiraled out and again blocked my path. It had a foot attached to it. The foot was wearing a raggedy pink sock and a thick brown shoe with black laces. The pants were green polyester and possibly came from his grandmother's dresser drawer. The sock, I would assume, belonged to somebody's Barbie doll. No one had ever accused Henry of being a slave to fashion.

“I wouldn't mind hearing about your project, Miss McKinnon,” Henry said, but it sounded more like hissing. “That is, if you'd be willing to share details with a fellow scientist.” I smiled my perfect fake smile, the one I created the first day I met Henry Helmsby.

“Actually, Millicent and I are keeping our project a secret,” I said. “But I understand yours is a marriage of the Maine potato and the red turnip. I'm sure they will be very happy together. I give you my blessing.” I imagined just then a potato and a turnip on the top of a wedding cake, instead of the usual little plastic bride and groom.

Henry's tiny eyes got beadier when I said this. His skinny neck turned his head so that the eyes could look right at me.

“The turnip is very historic,” said Henry, all important, like he was Gregor Mendel or something. Henry once wrote a book report on Mendel's life, and his report was fifty pages longer than the actual book. “Early colonists brought it to the New World in 1609. It's a member of the
Brassica
family.”

“No kidding?” I said, my eyes all glassy with boredom. “Well, I'm a member of the
McKinnon
family and I better get home before my supper gets cold, or Mom will kill me.”

As I hurried down the aisle, I imagined my reflection caught in the lenses of Henry's large spectacles.

***

Sunday afternoon and night dribbled by slowly and painfully like the
drip-drop, drip-drop
of a leaky faucet, taking forever and driving me insane. At least the rain finally stopped. But without Marilee, my plan was still on ice. Finally, around five o'clock in the afternoon, I sent Marilee an instant message. I figured she would have her laptop at the motel. As much as it killed me, I hadn't contacted her since Friday night. I hoped she could concentrate on visiting her dad and possibly even liking his girlfriend.

AllagashRobbie:
How's it going?

I'd forgotten about the message and was playing Spider Solitaire when the rooster crowed and a reply zinged back to me.

MeMarilee:
I hate her!

AllagashRobbie:
Give it time. Hang in there. See you soon. Tomorrow night: Peterson's mountain!

When she didn't reply, I figured they'd probably gone out for supper, or “dinner” as they would be calling it, confusing the local waitresses.

I can't tell you why, but I hate Sundays. Everyone just seems to wander around like chickens without heads, waiting for school or work on Monday morning. So I got into bed early, flicked on my TV, and found
America's Got Talent.
I watched a really cool kid dance. He was cute too. He looked a lot like Billy Ferguson, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Since that fiasco on Frog Hill, I had tried not to think of Billy in the way I often did. Sometimes, I would imagine him roaring into my yard on his four-wheeler, and instead of asking for Johnny, he'd say, “Is Roberta busy? Can she come riding with me?” And I'd put on my Fly helmet, which is pink and gray and white and has the word “FLY” written on it. I'd jump on the machine behind Billy and wrap my arms around his waist. Then off we'd go across the meadow, making all the frogs jump into Frog Pond.

As it stood now, the only thing I had my arms wrapped around was the extra pillow on my bed. When the show finished at ten o'clock, I saw that the rain had stopped. Through the curtains in my window I could see the planet Jupiter and almost make out a few of its moons. With binoculars, I can find three of the moons. It gave me goose bumps sometimes to think of how big and wide our own galaxy is. Mrs. Dionne, our science teacher, says that most astronomers don't question if there
is
life elsewhere in the universe, only
where
it is. That's pretty awesome.

***

“Roberta Angela?”

My mom was knocking on my bedroom door and sunshine was spilling in through the windows. I squinted at my watch. It was almost eleven o'clock. I'm usually up long before this, but with school out, I guess my body was catching up on sleep.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Can you come downstairs, please?”

Mom doesn't use my middle name very often. She usually does it when she's sad or has something unpleasant to tell me. Maybe she's just heard a song on the radio by some guy named Bruce Springsteen, and it reminds her that her youth is slipping away. Or maybe the person she is cheering for on some reality show just got kicked off the island. Or she's just watched that same old, sad movie where Ingrid Bergman gets on the airplane and leaves Humphrey Bogart behind, wearing that dumb hat he wears. I can almost recite that stupid movie by heart.

“Roberta Angela?”

“I'll be right down,” I said. I dressed in jeans and a yellow shirt. I knew what to do if it was
Casablanca
again. I'd sit next to her on the sofa and pat her on the back. “Listen, kid,” I'd say. “If that plane leaves the ground and you're not on it, you'll always regret it. Remember, we'll always have Paris.” That makes her laugh out loud. But it also means she will then have to hug me and say how much she loves me and how happy she is to be a mother.
Wow, Mom, write it down and e-mail it to Hallmark
.
Let
them
put
it
on
a
greeting
card
. I don't say that to her, of course. I'm patient with my parents. They're human too.

But this time, Mom's face didn't look like any of those things I mentioned.

“What's wrong?” I asked. She came and put her arms around me.

“Honey,” she said, “Marilee is missing.”

When the room quit spinning around, I asked Mom some questions. Marilee had disappeared, or so I learned, sometime before 8 a.m. that morning. I remembered her instant message of the night before.
I
hate
her
. When Mr. Evans knocked on her motel-room door to wake her, she wasn't there. The bed had been slept in, however, so he assumed she stayed in the room last night.

“His hope is that she went shopping and will turn up at any moment. He called to see if you had talked to her lately.”

I shook my head and said nothing, not yet, about the message or her feelings about the wedding. I knew she hadn't gone shopping. Marilee and I aren't the kind of girls who can spend hours at the mall trying on clothes we won't buy. And where would she shop at 8 a.m.?

***

By noon, when there was still no sign of Marilee, her parents contacted the Fort Kent Police Department and began driving the streets, hoping to find her walking around town. Since it was also possible she had found a ride back to Allagash, it was decided that Mom, Johnny, and I would search here. Dad had already gone to work. So we spent the next few hours searching everyplace we hoped she might be. The library. The school gym. Our two favorite rocks by the river. Her mom's toolshed, her mom's cellar, her mom's attic. I even rode the four-wheeler over to Mr. Finley's barn and asked if I could climb up into the hayloft and search through the hay piled there. A couple times before, Marilee and I had gone up there just to lie on our backs and smell the sweet smell.

Marilee Julia Evans was nowhere to be found.

By the time Mom, Johnny, and I got back home, I was exhausted and heartbroken. Was my best friend okay? Sure, we have no serial killers this far north, but there's a first time for everything. And then, what if she headed south? What had she told me that night on Peterson's Mountain?
Do
you
think
if
I
ran
away, maybe downstate somewhere, that they would get back together?
I hated the thought of it. No one wants to tattle on their friend. But I knew that if Marilee didn't turn up soon, I'd have to tell my mom what I suspected.

Before we could go inside the house, Catherine's car pulled into the drive, followed by a second car. I felt my heart rise up with hope. Marilee's dad was driving the second car and a brunette was in the passenger seat. But I soon saw that Marilee was in neither car. Catherine got out first and there was panic on her face. My mom hurried over to give her a hug.

“She's still missing,” Catherine said. “I hoped she might have come back to Allagash. I thought if we drove back here, we might see her walking along the roadside. But there was no sign of her.”

In the country, twenty miles of road is nothing when you're driving. Folks in Allagash are in Fort Kent almost every day, shopping or working their jobs. But if you're a kid who has run away, it's a good stretch. It's all two-lane road too, and easy to spot a pedestrian. So if Marilee
was
trying to walk back to Allagash—she wouldn't dare hitch a ride—she was obviously good at sneaking around and hiding out. The Air Force uses the word “stealth” for this kind of action.

“We'll find her, Cath,” my mom said. “She'll turn up any minute.”

Catherine looked straight at me.

“Roberta, do you have any idea where Marilee is?” she asked. Behind her shoulder, Mr. Evans appeared. With him was a very pretty woman dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket
. She
.

“Or where we might still look?” asked Mr. Evans. He seemed on the verge of panic too. But you could tell he was holding it together for everyone's sake.

“Sorry,” I said. “I wish I did.” It was the truth, really. I had no idea where she was. Only
why
she might have run away. And everyone must have figured that out by now.

That's when Deputy Hopkins turned into our driveway, the tires screeching on his police car. It was a wonder he didn't have the blue light swirling and the siren blaring. Everyone in town knows that our deputy gets all excited if a skunk so much as raises its tail as it crosses the road. The door opened fast and out lurched Deputy Hopkins. Harold. Except, I forgot. It was now
Sheriff
Harold Hopkins, given that Stanley Mallory had resigned. But thank God it was only temporary. If Mr. Mallory never came back, surely the town would vote in someone more qualified than Harold. Mr. Finley's dog, Mutt, would be a better candidate.

“I've had no luck, Mr. Evans,” Harold said. He must have gotten up before dawn and polished his new sheriff's badge. With the sun hitting it, it shone like a silver beacon. “My men and I have scoured this town, every picnic area, every parking lot, every rental cabin, you name it. If she left Fort Kent, she didn't come to Allagash.”