When my family walked over to say goodbye to them one Sunday afternoon before they got in their car to drive away, Mrs. Fletcher reached over and hugged me goodbye. Her hug was surprisingly tight and strong.
“We promised ourselves we’d stay until you came back,” she whispered into my ear.
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say back, but I remembered when I was little, how Mrs. Fletcher would hand me little peppermint candies over the fence that separated our yards.
“Thanks,” I said, and she let me go, and I looked at my feet, a little embarrassed.
Their house has been vacant for over a month, but this morning when I walk outside to get the paper for my parents, I notice a big white moving van backing into the driveway. A man in khaki shorts and a yellow Polo and a woman in a green sundress are standing on the lawn watching the movers open the back of the van and begin to haul out boxes. The woman is holding a baby on one hip. She lifts her free hand up over her eyes to block out the sun.
“A family’s moved in next door,” I tell my mom. She’s loading the dishwasher from breakfast.
“What did they look like?”
“Parents and at least one kid. A baby.”
“I’ll make them some banana bread to take over there tonight when we get back from Dr. Greenberg’s.”
“I’ll help you make it,” I say, and my mom smiles at me. A totally happy smile with no tears.
After my appointment we make the bread and wait for it to cool, and then my mom wraps it in tinfoil and ties a red ribbon around it, making sure to curl the ends with scissors. The two of us are about to leave our house when my mother’s cell phone buzzes. She glances down.
“It’s grandma,” she tells me, sliding the banana bread into my hands. “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you there in a second.” I blink, trying to believe what I’ve just heard. My mom is sending me into the world. Alone. It’s pretty incredible.
I walk across the yard and when I get to the front door, I ring the doorbell.
The woman in the green sundress opens the door. She’s still holding the baby. I think it’s a girl. It’s got dark curls and is wearing a diaper and a pink T-shirt that says “Little Stinker.”
“Hi,” the lady says, pushing some stray hairs back from her face. There are stacks of boxes in the entryway behind her.
“Hey,” I say, searching for the right polite words. “Uh, I live next door? With my parents? We know you’re new to the neighborhood, and we made you banana bread?” I hold it out awkwardly.
“Oh!” the lady says, and she smiles and takes the bread. “My name’s Abigail,” she tells me. Then she yells over her shoulder and up the stairs. “Miguel, come down and say hello to our new neighbors!”
A little boy, maybe seven or eight, gallops down toward us. His dark brown hair is messy, and there are faint traces of green and blue Magic Marker all over his arms.
“This is my son, Miguel. My husband’s not here right now. He made a run to the grocery store to get us the bare necessities to be able to feed these kiddos and keep them alive.” She laughs at her own joke. I smile back, and then I realize I haven’t told her my name.
“I’m Ethan,” I say. “My parents and I live next door, like I said, and my mom is coming over any sec.” I glance toward our house, then shove my hands in my pockets. I’m not sure what else to say or do.
“Mama, I can’t find my Transformers,” Miguel says, tugging at his mother’s dress. He looks at me warily.
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t know where your Transformers are in this mess,” she says. She shifts “Little Stinker” from one hip to the next.
“I’m seven,” Miguel tells me suddenly.
I nod and give him a little smile. “I’m sixteen,” I tell him. Then I add, “I used to play with Transformers. They’re pretty cool.” Miguel smiles, and I can see one of his top front teeth is missing.
I sense Abigail looking at me, and I wonder if she’s putting it together. A few of the local stations tried to run pieces about me when we hit the one-year anniversary of me being found, but I decided I didn’t want to do any more interviews, so there wasn’t anything in the paper or on television. But maybe this woman recognizes me anyway. Maybe she knows she’s just moved her family next door to a famous kidnapping victim.
Just then, fortunately, my mother calls out hello as she crosses the yard between us, and she and Abigail start talking in their high-pitched lady voices and I’m left sort of standing there. I grin at Miguel again and he grins back, but mostly he wiggles around, bored. Abigail tells my mom the baby’s name is Isabella, and they just moved here from the Valley because her husband has been named assistant superintendent for the school district.
“Well, please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help as you get settled in,” my mother says.
Just then, Miguel tugs on his mother’s dress again.
“Mama, I need my Transformers real bad,” he pleads.
Abigail rolls her eyes at us and then looks at my mother and says, “Please tell me it gets easier?”
My mother glances at me and in a voice that I think only I can tell is a little bit sad, she tells Abigail with a soft smile, “Yes, it does.”
We say goodbye and then head back home. My mom goes inside, and I practice my drums until my dad gets back from work. That night, after dinner, we’re all hanging out watching television when my phone buzzes.
On my way—those lyrics you sent me this morning were your best yet
I smile so big my face hurts. I text back.
Shut up—stop making fun of me
Dude I am speaking the truth and you know it so shut up yourself
Whatever get over here
Well if you stop texting back I can get on my bike okay?
K
I thought I told you stop texting me back!!!
I laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” my dad asks from the family room couch where he and my mom are trying to decide what to watch next.
“Caroline,” I say, looking up from my phone.
“I like Caroline,” says my dad. “She’s full of beans.” And my mom smiles because even though she’s never come out and said it, I know she likes Caroline, too.
I head outside to the garage just as she is pulling up on her ten-speed. She slides her guitar case off and dumps the bike on the lawn like always. She sets the case down and undoes her messy ponytail, runs her fingers through her hair, then ties it back up again. Her face is slick with sweat.
“Damn, it’s hot,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “You still want to play?”
“Seriously?” she asks me. “Artists have to suffer for their art, you know.”
I roll my eyes at her, and she rolls hers back at me.
“So I wasn’t lying about your lyrics,” she says, opening her case. “They really are my favorite so far.”
“Yeah?” I ask, trying to be casual about it.
“Yeah,” she says, and she looks me in the eyes. “I’m already thinking up a song to go with them.”
“Okay,” I say. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
I sit down at my drums, and Caroline plugs in her Fender. She takes a minute to tune it and then nods at me, and I pick up my drumsticks to count off. And as I do, I catch her eye, and she grins because she knows. She knows we’ve got a million songs ahead of us, all of them waiting to be found, and we can’t wait to play every single one of them together.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Cases like Ethan’s and Dylan’s are, thankfully, incredibly rare. But just as the tiny percentage of children taken in stereotypical kidnappings need our help, so do endangered runaways and children in family abduction cases. For more information, please visit the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children at www.missingkids.com. If you think you’ve seen a missing child, contact the center 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, at 1-800-THE-LOST (1-800-843-5678).
If you or someone you know needs i
nformation about sexual assault, please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline operated by RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) at 1-800-656-HOPE. You can also go to rainn.org for more information or to use the Online Hotline. Services are free, confidential, and available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
Please visit autismspeaks.org for more information on autism.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As a former journalist, I tend to enjoy the research component of writing a novel almost as much as the writing itself, a tendency I was particularly grateful for when crafting this book. Ethan and Caroline’s story would not exist without the enormous help and guidance of numerous mental health professionals who gave of their time and knowledge to help me create what I hope is a realistic and compassionate portrayal of two teenagers who are healing from trauma.
Frank Ochberg, MD, a pioneer in the area of trauma science and an expert on post-traumatic stress disorder, was incredibly generous with his time and wisdom. The counting technique used in this novel by Dr. Greenberg is based on the actual Counting Method developed by Dr. Ochberg to treat PTSD. Dr. Ochberg’s assistance made this book a reality, and I am forever thankful.
Rebecca Bailey, PhD, of Transitioning Families also provided incredible insight into what the therapy process would look like for a young man like Ethan, and she answered my questions with warmth and with language a layperson like me could readily grasp. Her book Safe Kids, Smart Parents: What Parents Need to Know to Keep Their Children Safe is a valuable resource for any mom or dad. Dr. Bailey is to thank for the character of Groovy the dog.
Other mental health professionals who must also be thanked for their time and feedback include Laura Davie, LICSW; Ellen Safier, LCSW; Suzanne Senn, MS, LPC; and Nathalie Wolk, PhD.
I would like to thank Zachary Gilley and Elaine Cagle for being so brave and willing to share their personal stories with me. You both trusted a nervous, strange voice over the phone who wanted to ask questions about difficult life experiences, and you both shared so honestly and openly. I’m forever grateful to you both and in awe of your resilience.
The lovely and amazing writer Christa Desir was willing to take time out of her incredibly busy schedule to read an early draft of this book, and she helped me trust that I was telling Ethan’s story with authenticity and compassion. Christa, you are so giving of your spirit, and your work with survivors of sexual assault is one of the many reasons I admire you so much. One day we will meet in person, and I’ll blush out of nervousness and happiness.
In developing the character of Dylan, I must thank the writer Cammie McGovern for her sensitivity and feedback, and for being willing to read a very rough first draft. Cammie, I’m so glad that through this process I not only gained terrific guidance in creating the character of Dylan, but also gained a friend.
I must also thank Jelisa Scott, MA, BCBA, for her willingness to read and critique the manuscript in regard to the character of Dylan.
Thank you to Lieutenant John McGalin, Homicide Division, Houston Police Department, for answering questions about police procedures surroundings cases like Ethan’s.
Huge thanks to supporters and friends who are always there for me as I wrestle with title questions, plot questions, book business questions, and the like, including Liz Peterson, Kate Sowa, Julie Murphy, Jessica Taylor, Summer Heacock, Leigh Bardugo, Emmy Laybourne, Ava Dellaira, Tamarie Cooper, the YAHOUs, and all the great people at Blue Willow Bookshop, especially Cathy Berner and Valerie Koehler.
Thank you to Sarah LaPolla and the folks at Bradford Literary. Thank you to the staff, faculty, and students of The Awty International School and Bellaire High School.
Many thanks to my agent Kerry Sparks and everyone at Levine Greenberg Rostan. I’m so very lucky to have you on my side.
Katherine Jacobs, editor of my dreams and kindred spirit, I don’t know how you manage to do it, but you take these words I send you and you turn them into a book I’m proud of, and you do it in a way that makes me trust myself and believe I can be a better writer with each book I tackle. Thank you so much, Kate.
A million thanks to everyone at Roaring Brook Press and Macmillan, especially Mary Van Akin, the hardest-working publicist in the business.
And as always, many thanks to my family for being so supportive. Enormous thanks to my dear and talented husband Kevin, who answered all of my music questions and made me sound like I actually knew something about playing drums and guitar. Texas-sized love to you and Elliott forever.
Elaine
I, Elaine O’Dea, am going to tell you two definite, absolute, indisputable truths.
1. Alice Franklin slept with two guys in the very same night in a bed IN MY HOUSE this past summer, just before the start of junior year. She slept with one and then, like five minutes later, she slept with the other one. Seriously. And everybody knows about it.
2. Two weeks ago—just after Homecoming—one of those guys, Brandon Fitzsimmons (who was crazy super popular and gorgeous and who yours truly messed around with more than once) died in a car accident. And it was all Alice’s fault.
The other guy Alice slept with was this college guy, Tommy Cray, who used to go to Healy High. I’ll get to Healy in a minute, and Brandon dying, too, but first, I should probably tell you about Alice.
It’s weird, because Alice Franklin doesn’t sound like a slutty name. It sounds like the name of a girl who takes really super good Chem notes or volunteers at the Healy Senior Center on Friday nights passing out punch and cookies or whatever it is they do at the Healy Senior Center on a Friday night. Speaking of old people, Alice sounds like a total grandma name. Like tissues-tucked-in-the-sleeves I-can’t-find-my-purse what-time-is-Jeopardy!-on-again grandma. But that’s totally not Alice Franklin. Hell no.
Because Alice Franklin is a slut.
She’s not overtly slutty looking or whatever, but her look could go either way. She’s a little taller than average but not freakishly tall, and I totally admit she has a really good figure. She never has to worry about her weight. Maybe her mom makes her count Weight Watchers points with her like mine does, but then again I don’t think so, because Alice’s mom doesn’t seem to care that the entire town thinks her daughter is a total ho. I don’t know if Alice’s dad would care because Alice hasn’t had a dad for as long as I’ve known her. Which is forever.
Alice has short hair that’s cut sort of pixie-style, and she’s one of those girls with naturally full lips. She always, always has raspberry-colored lipstick and lip liner on. Her face is standard pretty. She has multiple piercings in both ears, but she’s not weird or punk or whatever; I guess she just likes a lot of earrings. In fact, she kind of dresses up for school. Or at least she did before all of this went down. She liked to wear pencil skirts and tight tops which showed off her boobs, and she’d always have on these open-toed sandals that showed off her raspberry toenails. Like even in February.
After it all happened, it’s like she didn’t care what she looked like. At first she came to school dressed all normal, but lately she’s been showing up in jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood up lots of the time. She still wears the lipstick, though, which I find weird.
She hasn’t ever been super crazy popular like me (I know that comes out conceited, but it’s just the truth), but she’s never been like that freak show Kurt Morelli who has an IQ of 540 and never talks to anyone except the teachers. If you’re thinking of popularity as an apartment building, somebody like me is sitting on the roof of the penthouse, the band geeks are sleeping on the floor in the basement, and that freak show Kurt Morelli isn’t living in the building at all. And I guess Alice Franklin has spent most of her life on some middle floor somewhere, but on the top of the middle.
So she was cool enough to come to my party.
You need to understand that this thing with Alice sleeping with two guys and Brandon dying in a car accident are the two biggest things to go down in Healy in a really super crazy long time. I don’t mean just big with the kids who
go to Healy High. I mean big with like everyone. You know how there’s this whole world that exists only to teenagers, and adults never know what’s going on there? I think even the adults are aware of this phenomenon. Even they realize that they don’t know what a certain word means or why a certain show is popular or like how they always get so excited to show you a YouTube video with a cat sneezing that you already saw twenty hundred years ago or whatever.
But Alice sleeping with two guys and then Brandon dying have become part of the whole world of Healy. Moms have talked about it with other moms at meetings of the Healy Boosters, they’ve asked their daughters about it, and they’ve looked at Alice’s mom in the grocery store with a look that’s always, “I feel so sorry for you, you terrible, terrible mother.” (I know this because my mother has done all these things, including staring at Alice’s mother in the dairy aisle while looking for some fat-free pudding she’d heard about at a Weight Watchers meeting. The pudding was only two points, so of course my mother was nuts for it.)
And this thing about Brandon dying is even crazier because he was Brandon Fitzsimmons, King of Healy, Texas. Quarterback and totally handsome and funny and everybody knew him. The dads have been talking about it at meetings of the Healy Boosters and in line at the Auto Zone, and they shake their heads and say what a damn shame it is that Brandon Fitzsimmons had to die in a car accident just a few weeks into football season. (I know this because my father has done all of these things, including wondering out loud why that Alice Franklin Slut, as he put it, had to go and mess up Healy’s best chance at the 3A State Championship since he played for the Tigers back in, like, 1925.)
Football is enormous in Healy, but Healy itself is not. It’s basically the kind of place that is just far enough away from the city that it can’t really be considered a suburb, but it’s not big enough to be considered much more than just a small town. There are two grocery stores, three drugstores, and, like, five billion churches located in strip malls. The movie theater shows one movie at a time, so you never get a new one, and the big thing to do on the weekends if you’re under twenty is go get fast food and beers and park in the Healy High parking lot and talk shit about people or hope that someone’s parents go out of town so you can have a party. Most people either love it here and never plan on leaving, or they hate it here and can’t wait to go.
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