Controlled

by Patrick Jones

  “Dad, I told you, I barely saw her once we got there.” We’d actually had a great time at dinner before the dance, and we knew it was because of Misty: Misty’s jokes, Misty’s energy. For the first time, she felt like part of our group. Then, like she flipped a switch, she turned into party girl in the limo. It turned out she’d stashed both the scandalous dress and a bottle of vodka in the hoodie.

  “Misty, put it away!” Nathan had shouted when she opened the bottle.

  “Okay, I will!” She drank the vodka straight from the bottle. It burned my throat watching it.

  Once we got to the dance, she hid the bottle behind some bushes and came inside with us. “Anybody seen Alix?” she had asked nobody in particular.

  “Misty, do you want to—” Nathan had started, but then Misty bolted. She never turned around, and that was the last we saw of her.

  “We need your help, Rachel,” Mom says now.

  Some help I’ve been so far. Everything I’ve tried to do to help Misty has blown up in my face.

  “We don’t know where to look,” Dad adds. “If you have any guesses about who she could be with…”

  “Let me get dressed, okay?”

  As soon as they leave, I boot up the computer and go to Misty’s page. There’s no clue as to where she is. I can only guess: Hibbing. I find the names of her best friends she’s always talking about. Kylee, Samantha, Christy, Danielle. None have posted on her wall in a long, long time. I send each of them a message, asking if they know where Misty is, and I wait.

  Dana and Sarah both pop online. I ask if they’ve heard anything about Misty.

  SARAH TO ME: “She didn’t take off with Nathan. Todd says he knows that much.”

  DANA TO ME: “I thought maybe she left with Colt, but I definitely saw him back with Shawna in the parking lot when we were leaving.”

  SARAH TO ME: “Misty was so out of control last night. I thought she was going to get us all arrested.”

  DANA TO ME: “Honestly, I’m glad she didn’t stick around. It was hard to focus on anything else while she was there. And we still had fun after she left.”

  That’s true. Kevin was his usual awkward but adorable self all night. I glance at my homecoming dress and think about the kiss he gave me when he dropped me off at the door at 11:55. It started out timid and uncomfortable, but we’d gotten the hang of it well before 11:58, when we actually said good night. For those few minutes, I’d been able to forget that as soon as I walked inside, my parents were going to freak out about Misty not being with me.

  A new bubble pops up on my screen. Finally, one of Misty’s Hibbing friends is responding to me.

  KYLEE TO ME: “Who is this? I don’t know you.”

  ME TO KYLEE: “I’m Misty McCullough’s cousin. She lives with my family in Woodbury.”

  KYLEE TO ME: “So?”

  ME TO KYLEE: “She’s missing and I thought you might know where she is.”

  KYLEE TO ME: “Why?”

  ME TO KYLEE: “She said you were one of her best friends in Hibbing.”

  KYLEE TO ME: “She told you that? That girl is whack.”

  ME TO KYLEE: “She talked about you all the time.”

  KYLEE TO ME: “Misty was just someone at school. I got no clue where she is.”

  ME TO KYLEE: “Do you think that Danielle or Christy would know?”

  KYLEE TO ME: “Those are my friends, not hers. Misty was a locust.”

  ME TO KYLEE: “Huh?”

  KYLEE TO ME: “She came in, took what she could from us, and moved to the next group.”

  ME TO KYLEE: “Well, do you know anyone who might know where she is?”

  KYLEE TO ME: “Maybe she’s visiting her dad in prison. He’s at Oak Park Heights. Is that close?”

  ME TO KYLEE: “I don’t think she wants to see her father. She said she hated him.”

  KYLEE TO ME: “I never believed much Misty said. She told us her dad tried to kill her, but we looked it up. Turns out he’s just in for drugs charges.”

  Before I type another word, it occurs to me that maybe Misty wasn’t actually lying. Her father didn’t try to murder her. He just helped kill her chances of living a stable, safe life.

  12

  “What answers did you get for number three?” Dana asks. But the only three that matters to me is that it is day three without Misty. Dad called the police after the twenty-four-hour mark. “Rachel, are you listening?” I look up, almost surprised to find myself in this coffee shop, bent over AP Chem homework. I’ve been reliving homecoming night in my head, searching for clues. “Sorry, just wondering about Misty.”

  “Well, can you try to focus?” asks Dana. “This test is a big part of our grade.” Only a few days ago it was all Misty all the time. But the dance changed that. Sarah and Dana are finally ready to tune out the Misty train wreck. I wish I could too. I wish I knew how anymore.

  “Todd’s taking me out next weekend,” Sarah says. “We might go bowling.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere if I fail this test, so can we please—” Dana starts but my phone rings.

  “It’s Misty,” I tell the table. They go back to their books.

  “Rach, can you get me?” Coughs. Clicking sound. Inhaling, then exhaling. Loud.

  “Where are you?” I ask. More coughs, then a long pause.

  “Um, I’m at the American Inn in South St. Paul by 494. You know it?”

  “No.” I know my little corner of Woodbury, that’s enough for me. “But my dad could—”

  “No, never mind. I’ll figure out another way.”

  What other way? I think. You have no real friends. Only ex-friends. “One second.” I look up at the others. “Sarah, could you drive me to get Misty?”

  “Let me call Todd, maybe—”

  “No, I don’t want him involved.” Not just in this, I think, but your life. Todd isn’t part of we. “Please, Sarah, can’t you just take us in your mom’s car?” It got us to the coffee shop. It can get us to Misty.

  Sarah sighs. “Fine.”

  “We’ll come get you,” I tell Misty, who coughs something that sounds like a thank-you and hangs up. We sweep our books into our backpacks, chuck our unfinished drinks in the trash.

  Sarah drives us with directions on her phone. She speaks up as we get into South St. Paul. This is the hood compared to Woodbury.

  “Rachel, I’m doing this for you, but I’m done with all Misty’s drama,” says Sarah. “It was funny at first, but now …”

  Dana finishes. “Now it’s just a waste of time.”

  I stare at my friends in disbelief. A week ago, I would’ve been relieved to hear them say this. But now? When Misty’s in trouble? They’re suddenly ready to drop her? To act like she doesn’t even exist? Before I can find words to respond, we’re there.

  “What is Misty doing here?” Dana asks as we pull up in front of the run-down motel.

  I text Misty. What room?

  127.

  I direct Sarah until we find the room. I get out and walk toward it. Misty stands in the open doorway, cigarette in hand. I look inside. Beer cans, pizza boxes. Filthy.

  “Thanks for coming, Rach,” Misty says. She hugs me tight like she’d never done before. We start toward the car, when I hear something from inside the room. A loud manly cough. I turn. In the room is an older guy with long hair, tattoos. No clothes. He winks at me. I turn away as fast as I can.

  On the way to the car, I whisper, “Who was he?”

  Misty yawns and then covers her eyes with her hand. “Honestly, Rach, I don’t remember.”

  13

  The reaction at home is predictable. After a wave of relief, the roll call of punishments.

  “Misty, you can’t do this to us, to yourself. Do you understand?” Dad asks. She nods. She’s not saying anything to him, just like she stone-walled me in the car. She keeps quiet as Mom hands out the penalties: groundings, taking her phone, etc. Misty waits it out, then stomps upstairs without a word.

  A few m
inutes later, I’m in my room, texting Kevin. As usual he’s being sweet yet goofy, a little awkward but funny. He’s a pinpoint of calm and sanity in the middle of Hurricane Misty.

  Speak of the devil: Misty knocks on my door. I open it, invite her in. She sits on the floor. I stand. “I guess I messed up,” she says.

  “Disappearing like that? Yeah.”

  “I mean coming back here. I should’ve just told him to keep driving.” I don’t ask about the “him.”

  “You don’t have to make this so hard for yourself. Just follow the rules.”

  Misty snorts, looks up at me, pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Easy for you to say, Rach.”

  “Look, okay, maybe I don’t have as much fun as you, but I don’t cause grief for everyone else.”

  “Do you think that’s what I do? Cause people grief? You don’t know anything about me.”

  I wish I had nails left to bite. I wish I hadn’t opened the door to my room or this conversation.

  “I’m not like you or your perfect friends.” My perfect friends? Yeah. Sure. “I’m damaged goods. I know it.”

  “Don’t talk that way about yourself.”

  Another snort. “That’s how you talk about me, isn’t it? Isn’t it what everybody thinks?”

  “That’s not what everybody thinks,” I lie.

  “What do you think?”

  I stay silent.

  “I got nowhere to go. I can wait all day. But I bet you have stuff to do, Rach.” As she moves away, she snatches my phone from my desk, and then stands in front of my door.

  “Give me back my phone.”

  “Give me an answer.” She leans against the door, a human barricade. “Just tell me the truth.”

  “Misty, look, we’re different. Can we leave it at that?”

  Misty walks past me, hands me my phone, and stands in front of my window facing the street. She opens the window and pushes out the screen. “What are you doing?” I say to her back.

  She pulls out a cigarette from her purse. “I’m going out to hang with my Rondo friends.”

  “But aren’t you grounded?” I ask as she starts crawling out the window.

  “What are they going to do? You worry too much about all this stuff that doesn’t matter.”

  Once she’s outside, I ask even though I know better. “So what does matter, Misty?”

  She doesn’t say sex or booze or freedom but something much scarier. “Nothing.”

  14

  “Are you going to school this morning?” I say to Misty’s closed door.

  There’s no response. Same result when Mom and Dad tried earlier.

  “I don’t know how much more I can take,” Mom confides in me. She’s next to me, close. She’s aged ten years in two months of Misty, who breaks every last straw she’s handed.

  “We just had another meeting with the Rondo staff barely two days ago,” Mom adds in a whisper. “They’ve given Misty the benefit of the doubt at every turn. But she can’t keep calling in sick. I promised them this was going to stop.”

  “Misty, people are worried about you,” I say, mouth pressed against the door.

  “Name one!” A shout comes through the door, almost knocking me backward. “Do you care about me, Rachel? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  Pause. A noise, not tears, but something else? Razor on skin? “Tell her to go away.” Mom hears, steps aside, and stomps off, probably to find Dad and discuss plan B or whatever.

  “Misty, you’ll be late.” I push lightly on the door. It swings open and a toxic smell hits me. Every item in the room—Denise’s dresser, desk, mirror, wall, all of it—covered. The room is marked with “x’s” painted in various nail polish and lipstick hues.

  “What did you do?” is all I can say.

  “I made it mine.” Misty grabs her nearly empty book bag from the lipstick-tagged carpet. She doesn’t grab her coat, but makes a bee-line for the garage.

  As she leaves, Mom enters Denise’s room. A room she helped decorate, organize, maintain. She says nothing as she surveys the damage, calculates the cost, and burns with rage.

  “Mom, I’m sorry.” Always, always, I’m the one who apologizes.

  Mom turns and heads for her bedroom. The door slams.

  “Rach, come on, let’s go!” Misty yells from the living room.

  I walk over to my parents’ bedroom, press my ear to the door, and listen closely. There it is—a sound I’d never thought I’d hear. Mom’s crying.

  I put my hand over my mouth. Part of me wants to cry with her, for her. Part of me is oddly thrilled. Finally, a chink in the armor.

  In the car, Dad’s not talking. I could light a match and blow him up, easy. I’m glad he always drops me off first before taking Misty to Rondo. I wouldn’t want to be around for the long ride into St. Paul.

  I don’t break the silence until I’m getting out of the car in front of Woodbury High. “Misty, why?” My voice comes out as a croak.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you do that to Denise’s room?”

  She shrugs. “Why not?”

  15

  When I get home on the late bus after orchestra practice, I see an old, ugly blue car sitting in the driveway next to Dad’s Lexus. “What’s going on?” I ask as I walk in the door. Mom, Dad, and a stranger sit in the kitchen.

  “We’re waiting,” Mom, Dad, and stranger woman say at the same time. I don’t need to ask for whom.

  “Sit down, please, Rachel. You should be part of this conversation,” stranger woman says, so polite. “I’m Tasha Johnson, a social worker from Washington County. Has Misty talked with you about how she is doing at school?”

  “Misty likes her friends and most teachers.” To hear Misty tell it, she’s Rondo’s number one attraction.

  “And what are her friends like?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Mom won’t let her have them over here.” Mom stiffens at my tone. This is as close to an act of defiance as she’s heard. Dad looks at his watch, Mom stares at me, and I watch Tasha scribble into a blue notebook.

  “Her grades are not good,” Mom says. “She’s fast on her way out even out of that school. The teachers have done everything they can. They’ve given her every possible chance. Nothing’s worked.”

  “At Woodbury, how did she do?” asks Tasha.

  They want me to give her up: tell them about Shawna, Colt, Nathan, the other burned bridges. “I didn’t see her much. We had different classes.”

  “So Misty wasn’t one of your homies?” Tasha tries to sound sixteen, twenty years ago.

  “My friends and I, we’re into different things.” That’s true in more ways than one, I’m realizing.

  “How about here at home?” Tasha asks. “How would you describe things for Misty here?”

  I rest my hands on my knees. “It’s hard for her.”

  “Hard for her?” Mom bursts out. Dad puts his hand on her shoulder. Tasha keeps scribbling.

  “We’re not what she’s used to. We’re kind of boring, and she’s used to more excitement.”

  “Excitement! She creates chaos. She—”

  For once, I talk over Mom. “Look, she’s doing her best,” I say. I readjust my glasses on my Pinocchio nose. “What’s this about?” I ask Tasha, who does eye checks with my parents before she speaks.

  “We’re trying to decide if Misty might do better in another environment more suited for her.”

  “Another environment? You mean foster care?”

  “Misty might need more structure than your family can provide,” says Tasha.

  “Misty just needs—” I stop when I realize I don’t know the end of the sentence.

  “She needs to learn to live in a stable family unit,” Dad says. “She doesn’t know how.”

  Mom sighs, looks at me like I’m wasting her time. “She’s not learning that here, it’s clear. Like now, she’s late. She’s supposed to come home after school
. I set a rule, she breaks it.”

  “Maybe the bus was late,” I snap. I’ve obeyed every rule and for what? Straight As, viola first chair, and four ulcers brewing.

  Tasha starts talking foster care. Dad says nothing, not making the case for or against. At almost 5:00, just as Tasha’s ready to leave, Misty barges in the door. She’s not alone. Alix Hawkins is with her.

  “What’s going on?” Misty demands.

  “You’re not allowed to have friends over,” Mom says, sharp. “And as usual, you’re late.”

  “No, actually, I had my period on time this month, did you?” Misty says, sharper.

  “You see, you see what I mean?” Mom whines like a two-year-old.

  Misty looks at Tasha. “Let me guess. Social worker. You yanking me out of here?”

  Tasha starts to speak, but Misty’s already brushing past her. “I’ve been through this before. No big deal.” I think, It is a big deal, Misty. Save yourself. Say or do something before it’s too late.

  Misty, with Alix behind, walks past us, down the hall. The steps stop and there’s laughter.

  “Where’s my door?” Misty asks, more amused than angry. I follow the sound of her voice. And I see for myself: an empty doorway.

  “She’s shown that we can’t trust her with privacy,” I hear Mom saying to Tasha. “We’re trying to show her that she needs to earn back that privilege …”

  This definitely isn’t Denise’s room anymore. My sister wouldn’t recognize it if she were here. Would she recognize anything, or anyone, in this house?

  16

  The slam of the front door means Misty and my parents are home, and boring viola practice is over.

  “Do you have a maze you want me to run now?” Misty shouts as she stomps through the house.

  My parents don’t answer. I hear the back door open, another Misty-style slam. Mom’s heels click on the floor. Fridge open. Ice in the glass. Then silence for an hour.

  Until Misty barges back into the house and then into my room. “They think I’m crazy!” She slams my door since she doesn’t have one. “They took me to a shrink.” Misty flops on my bed. It creaks with her weight and force.