What She Left Behind

by Tracy Bilen

  It turns out I don’t have to make a decision. As soon as Alex looks at me, all my resolve melts.

  “Hey, Sara,” he says.

  “Hi.” Breathe!

  He examines his shoes.

  Before I can think, I run to him. If I’m going, I can’t just leave things the way they are. I reach up and put my hands on top of his two adorable ears and tug his face down to mine. God, I love you, Alex Maloy. Too bad I can’t stay. Then I kiss him. I mean I really kiss him.

  “Wow.” He wears a happy, goofy grin.

  “So when are you going to start going to class?”

  His smile fades.

  Way to spoil the moment, Sara.

  “The truth?”

  “Yeah, the truth would be good.”

  “I don’t know. Ever since Jimmy got sent to Afghanistan—”

  “Wait—your brother’s in Afghanistan?” Jimmy graduated from Scottsfield two years ago.

  Alex kicks a corner of one of the lockers. “School, classes, grades—it all kind of seems unimportant—when your brother might be—” He shakes his head.

  “You know your brother would want you to be successful, even if he—” And your brother, Sara, would want you to stop pretending his best friend is really him. He’d want you to stop blaming yourself for what he did.

  “Shit, it’s Altman.” Alex grabs my arm and pulls me around the corner. “Go to class. I’ll run interference.”

  “No, it’s okay. I got called down to his office. You go to class and I’ll run interference.”

  Alex frowns. “I hadn’t really planned on going back to class.” He leans down and places another soft kiss on my lips. “But for you, I’ll go.” He smiles again and waves as he jogs backward down the hall.

  I smile and wave back. “Good-bye, Alex,” I whisper. As much as I’m praying to get my mom back, I wish I could stay so I could see his face every day. I touch my fingers to my lips, remembering kissing and being kissed. As Alex disappears around one corner, Altman rounds the other.

  “There you are, Sara. Hurry up; I’ve been waiting for you.” He spins back around and heads toward his office.

  I’ve been waiting for you? Not, Your mom’s been waiting for you?

  I freeze and all my happiness escapes out the tips of my toes. Then I shake my head. Pull yourself together, Sara. She’s there. She has to be there.

  I jog the rest of the way to Altman’s office. I’m out of breath when I arrive—I’m not sure if it’s from the jogging, from kissing Alex, or from the fear Mom won’t be there. I scan the office: Altman sits at his desk with a pile of magazines, sipping coffee from a mug that says SHOW YOU CARE. He gestures toward a wooden chair. No Mom. She must be getting a copy of my records from the guidance office for our move.

  I don’t have time to sit, but I do anyhow, perched on the end of the seat like we’re supposed to do in band. “Yes?” I ask, wondering what story my mom made up to explain why I’m leaving.

  “How are your classes going, Sara?”

  “My classes? Fine.” What is this shit? Who cares about my classes?

  “How about math?”

  Is he going to tell me that I should try an easier math class at my next school? “Okay, I guess.”

  “It has come to my attention that you’ve missed three math classes in the past week. Chemistry, too.”

  She isn’t here. I slump down into the chair.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You guess so?” He lifts his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I missed them. I had a dentist appointment.”

  “All three days?”

  “Orthodontist, actually. I’m getting braces.”

  “Really? Your teeth don’t look crooked to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “As of right now, those absences are listed as unexcused.”

  “Really? My mom didn’t call? She said she was going to.”

  “No. No, she didn’t.” Altman grits his teeth. “And there is also the matter of your not signing out before you left.”

  “Signing out? Did I forget to do that? It’s been ages since I’ve had an appointment. Sorry about that.” I look around the office. Football calendar. Potted tree—what guy has a potted tree in his office? I wonder if it’s fake.

  “This is a very serious matter, young lady.”

  “I’ll have my mom call you right away.” If I can find her. Of course, if I do, I’m never coming back here so it won’t really matter. My jaw shakes a little as I speak. I go back to examining the room to keep myself from crying. There’s a picture of a sailboat above the potted plant. Lots of light blue and pastel colors. I stare at it and imagine I’m on the boat, drifting.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to have one of your parents come in.”

  As long as it’s not my dad. “Sure. I’ll have my mom stop in tomorrow.” During the last week I’ve told so many lies, I don’t even bother trying to keep track of them anymore.

  “I’ll call and set it up with her.”

  Whatever you do, don’t call my dad. I start to twirl my ponytail.

  “Would you like me to give you her cell phone number?” I try to calm myself by pretending that maybe when Mom sees the school calling, she’ll know something is seriously wrong and she’ll answer. Then she’ll come pick me up and take me away with her.

  “That’s okay. It’s here on your emergency contact form.” He taps a manila folder on his desk. It looks pretty thin. That’s good, I guess. I’ve never had any progress reports sent home, detentions for tardies, or referrals for “inappropriate behavior.”

  “Sara, is anything wrong?”

  Twist, twist. I’m twirling my hair with such force that I yank out a few strands.

  I think about my mom not answering her phone. My dad and his driving. Alex and piano benches, Nick Russell’s basement, and lying about the Chicken Broil. Zach and me breaking into my dad’s store, trekking through the muck in the woods, and the hot breath of a truck.

  “Wrong?” I try to look perky and carefree. “No, nothing’s wrong.” I stand up, like this is a business meeting with a client and I need to get back to the office. “Well, then, I guess I’ll be getting back to class. If we’re done here, that is.”

  Altman stays seated. His hands are poised in a triangular shape in front of his lips, as if he is trying to think of something good and counselor-like to say.

  “Yes, we’re done here,” he says, picking up a pad of yellow passes and scrawling my name and something that I assume is supposed to pass for his signature. He holds the pen over the blank for “time,” looks directly at me for several seconds, and then fills it in. Then he rips the pass off the pack, hands it to me, and leans back in his seat.

  I wonder if Altman is going to call Zach in next, since we’ve both missed those periods. I don’t know what Zach will tell his mom about the classes he’s missed, but I’m sure that he won’t mention me unless he has to. Funny that Altman didn’t say anything about Zach. Surely he realized that we were gone at most of the same times. Or maybe not. Altman never struck me as the observant type. Besides, I’ve missed more classes than Zach. And Alex? Alex has missed so many classes that there’s no way Altman would be connecting those dots.

  The bell rings just as I’m leaving, so I head to history. As I walk through the door everything goes dark.

  “Get your hands off my eyes, Alex,” I say. If we weren’t in the middle of history class I’d tell you a better place to put them.

  “How’d you know it was me? I guess I’ll have to give you your surprise with your eyes open.”

  “Surprise?”

  Alex unzips his backpack and tosses a package of Ritz Bits at me.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling. Where have you been my whole life, Alex Maloy? “Now it’s my turn to ask—how did you know?”

  “Oh, I have my sources. Okay, one source. Name of Zach.”

  I pop open the bag. “Want some?”

  “Does Robertson hate my guts? Of c
ourse I want some.”

  Instead of taking the Ritz Bits out of my hand, Alex simply holds my hand, with the Ritz Bits snuggled between us.

  “Maloy!” Robertson shouts.

  Alex drops my hand. The Ritz Bits fall to the ground.

  “Go see Mr. Altman.”

  “For hand-holding?”

  “Not for hand-holding.” Robertson rolls his eyes and sighs. “For whatever other trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Oh, that. Well, as long as I’m already in trouble—” Alex leans over and kisses me. And again. And—

  The class goes wild.

  “Out!”

  I take my seat, completely but happily embarrassed, and Robertson tries to start his lecture. You can barely hear him over all the giggling and catcalling still going on. I don’t even bother trying. I’m too busy thinking of Alex, of kissing him, and him being worried about his brother. Kicking the locker. The locker. I finally remember where I’ve seen the name “Carter”—Carter Mini Storage. We’d passed it a few times when Dad was teaching Matt how to drive a stick shift on some backroads by the hardware store. Dad had said, “What the hell do people need storage units for? If you don’t need the shit, throw it out!”

  Did Dad rent a storage unit? He even throws out things he doesn’t think other people need (such as my stuffed dog). The only unused stuff he keeps around is in Matt’s room, and lately it seems that’s because he thinks Matt still uses it.

  I take my purse out of my backpack and start digging around for that scrap of paper. First I check the little inner zipper compartment used to hide things you don’t want people to see when you open your purse. As far as I can tell, without pulling everything out of the pocket, it isn’t there. Next I flip through a mess of old receipts and hall passes stuffed in the main part of my purse. Where is that piece of paper? I do not want to have to break into the hardware store again. I mean, I guess it’s not really breaking in when you have the key, but all the same, the idea scares the hell out of me. Finally I pull out my wallet and check by the dollar bills.

  “Sara, this is not personal-organization time,” says Mr. Robertson. “Pay attention please.”

  It never ceases to amaze me how teachers manage to say “please” when what they really mean is “or I’ll break your neck.”

  “Okay,” I say, pulling out the stack of random things I had filed in my wallet where you’re supposed to keep credit cards, if you have any.

  I find the sticky note about halfway through the stack. Carter. Three, six, two, nine, four, seven. I put the other cards back in my wallet and shove it back in my purse. I pick up my pencil and write random numbers on my worksheet while I silently count to ten. Keeping the pencil as a prop in my right hand and my eyes on the textbook, I slide my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and send a text message to Zach:

  NEED YOUR CAR NOW. BACK DOOR BY CHOIR RM. URGENT.

  “Sara, you know that cell phones aren’t allowed in class. Hand it over.”

  Somehow Robertson is standing next to my desk, but I don’t think he saw my message to Zach before I sent it. He holds out his hand.

  “It’s my mom. She wants me to call her. I told her I’m in class and I’ll call her at lunch. I’ll put it away.”

  “Sorry, you know the rules. Hand it over.”

  I shove the phone in my pocket. There’s no way I’m going to hand over the one way my mom can contact me.

  “I can’t.” I say simply.

  “Sara, I’ll have to write you a referral if you don’t turn it in. You can get the phone back at the end of the day.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I’ll save you the bother. I’ll just go to Mr. Altman’s office myself.” Had I actually said that? Robertson looks startled.

  I stand up, grab my backpack, and move quickly to the door. On my way, I crush the Ritz Bits that Alex and I dropped. I hope that Zach got my message.

  “Sara, get back here!”

  I speed up and start to run down the hall. Please let Zach be there. Please, God. I don’t often talk to God—I guess you can say I’m holding a grudge about Matt—but I really hope he’s listening.

  I fly past the science rooms, the library, and the gym. When I get to the back door, Zach is there. He hands me his keys.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Gotta go. I think Robertson might send Altman after me.” I push open the door and keep running. When I get to the parking lot, I pause to look for Zach’s car.

  Zach grabs my hand. “It’s this way,” he says. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” I say. “You’ve already missed enough school because of me.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says.

  I don’t have time for arguing. With each second that passes, I imagine Altman hurrying to the back door, getting closer and closer to catching me.

  “You drive, then,” I say, tossing him the keys.

  Zach jumps in the car and starts the engine. He backs up while still pulling on his seat belt.

  “Turn right out of the parking lot and don’t speed,” I say. “The last thing we need is to get stopped.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Carter Mini Storage. The numbers in my dad’s office must be the combination for a unit there. My dad probably just has some old junk from the hardware store there, but …”

  “Probably. But there’s no harm in checking. Where is this place?”

  “Outside of Brookton, somewhere off of Ridge Highway.” I look up the address on my phone. “I remember going past it when Dad took Matt out to practice driving and I got stuck going along.”

  “I’m sure your dad was a very patient instructor,” Zach says sarcastically.

  “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. Since my dad’s truck is a stick shift and Matt wasn’t used to it, he had jerked us forward every time he hit the gas. Dad made Matt stop and start a lot because we were on dirt roads with barely any traffic. Instead of getting better, Matt seemed to get worse every time. And so did Dad’s yelling.

  Zach and I pull up to a stop sign. I look down at the directions on my phone. “Turn right. It’s over there,” I say, pointing. Nestled between two cornfields, Carter Mini Storage consists of a farmhouse with a bunch of metal buildings behind it. Zach pulls in and turns off the engine. I wipe the sweat from my hands on my jeans. “So what do you think? We just go to the front door?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  When we knock, I can hear a TV blaring on the other side.

  “It’s open!”

  The door sticks so I have to push kind of hard on it. A middle-aged woman sits barefoot on a couch. Judge Judy is on TV.

  The woman’s eyes remain focused on the TV. I clear my throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. My dad sent me over here to get something out of our storage unit, but I forgot what unit number he told me it is.” My cheeks flush and I have to wipe the sweat off my hands once again. I expect her to say that she’s going to have to call my dad to confirm, or that she’s sorry, but she can’t give out that sort of information. Instead she just sighs.

  “Name?” The gravelly tone to her voice makes sense considering the cigarette in her hand.

  “Ray Peters.”

  Without turning her head, she reaches behind her and grabs a Rolodex from the end table. She flips through it with one hand, then inhales deeply from her cigarette and blows out the smoke. She crushes the stub into a glass ashtray. “Number eleven,” she says.

  I nearly hyperventilate. “Okay, great, thanks a lot for your help.”

  The woman has already turned back to the TV.

  Outside, Zach and I walk down the path between the storage units, and I feel like I’m trapped inside a movie. I see things but don’t feel like I’m really there. Grass with weeds, dandelions. A toad hopping in front of us, going just fast enough that we don’t step on him, but never veering off to the side and out of our way. Zach takes my hand. It feels cool and confident; mine is warm and clammy. We reach unit eleven and I give him the s
ticky note with the combination.

  “You do it, please.”

  He twirls the lock, and it snaps open with a sharp, metallic click. Then he rolls the door up. Silver.

  I hear a whimper and realize that it’s coming from me. I grab on to Zach’s shirt and bury my face in his side.

  “This can’t be right. It just can’t be.” My mother’s car. I feel like I’m suffocating. Still holding on to Zach, I turn my face and look at the car again. Something about the look of it bothers me.

  The car sparkles as if it’s just been cleaned at the carwash. Which doesn’t make sense because my mom is afraid of the car wash, just like me. She’s afraid of putting the wheel in the wrong spot, of having the car in the wrong gear, of getting trapped inside and no one noticing. Matt always did it for her. It was one of his chores—to either wash the car at home with the hose or take it to the car wash in Brookton. He usually took it to the car wash, partly because he was lazy and partly because he wanted to get out of the house, I suppose. After he died, I took over the car washing. And this isn’t how I’d left it. Usually I wash the car on weekends, but I’d never gotten around to it last weekend. The car had been so dirty I had been afraid my dad would yell at me about it.

  I put my face to the window and peer into the front seat. It looks the same as always, only cleaner. I reach for the handle.

  “We probably shouldn’t touch anything,” says Zach. He takes the end of his shirt and opens the driver’s-side door. On the floor of the passenger seat is my mother’s phone.

  Zach opens the trunk as I look in the backseat. “There’s a suitcase here,” he says. I walk to the back of the car. It’s the same suitcase that my mom had packed for our escape.

  This time I don’t try to dream up any explanations, any hopeful stories to explain all of this away. My mom is dead. My dad killed her.

  All I want to do is go home. To my mom. Who isn’t there and never will be.

  Zach pulls out his cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  I shake my head. My mind is full of voices. Mom’s. Dad’s. Matt’s, even. “Did you—did you see any—did you see any blood here?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean …”

  “When Dad talks to Jack—” His wolf eyes glint in my mind.