by Barrie Summy
We split up so she can join the Spanish club. I fight my way across the crowded gym to the cross-country sign-ups.
Elbows on the table, Jennifer is talking to the girl on the other side. The mean, popular girl is a runner? Really? She couldn’t play volleyball or tennis?
“You finish the summer English assignment yet?” Jennifer asks.
“No, but Danielle said it was hard,” the girl replies.
“That whole situation is going to end up sucking for us.” Jennifer flicks her wrist impatiently.
“Seriously.” The other girl nods slowly and, looking up, catches sight of me. “Oh, hi. You here to sign up for cross-country?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Later,” Jennifer says to her friend, and takes off. She doesn’t even glance my way.
The girl rummages through a stack of papers on the table. “I’m Alyssa, by the way. Just give me a sec. Torie was manning the table this morning. No one can figure out her system.” Still rummaging, Alyssa frowns and mutters, “If she even has a system.”
Alyssa’s really pretty. Her hair’s this unusual tea-brown color with red highlights. It’s thick and hangs to just above her shoulders. Her face is perfectly symmetrical, and her eyes match her hair. She’s wearing a charm bracelet, and a sparkle glints from a dangling cupcake.
“We’ve got a good team,” she says, switching her attention to the papers in a plastic box. “Made it all the way to state last year.”
“Cool.” I could get into being part of a competitive team.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“Detroit.”
“I’ve never been there,” she says.
“You’re not missing much.” My eyes are on the miniature cupcake and its glittering sparkle. My fingers tingle. I’m dying to grab it, but can’t see a way to without looking weird.
“So, you run cross-country before?” Alyssa asks.
I nod. “The girl who was ahead of me…is she on the team?”
“Jennifer? She’s our best.”
Sounds like I have a challenge ahead of me.
Alyssa flaps a sheet of paper in the air. “Finally. Here’s the info sheet. Now I just have to find a pen for you.” She digs in the box. “Pay dirt.” She hands me a pen.
I fill in my name, phone number, and email.
She skims it, then drops the paper into a file folder. “A group of us run in the mornings. We’re not super hard-core or anything, but we go for about three miles.”
“I’m up for it.”
She smiles. Her bottom teeth are a little crooked. “We finish at the Jitter Bean.”
“I know where that is.” We drove past it on our way in last night. It’s only a few blocks from our house.
“Seriously addictive doughnuts. They have fruit and healthy food, too. Plus they sponsor us, so we try to show our faces there.” With the edge of her hand, she smoothes a photocopied map. “Most runners hook up with us when we pass their house.” She draws a misshapen circle, then adds arrows, a star with start above it, and a box with The Jitter Bean beside it. “Here’s our route. Let’s figure out what time we’ll be at your place.”
I check out the map, then point to my house. “This is where I live.”
Her pen hovers over my street.
“Thirty-three Madison Road,” I say. “The house with pink shutters.”
I know I’m not imagining it when I see her hand shake as she marks an X.
I walk home. From the end of the street I can see my mom pulling boxes from our truck. And I can hear Levi, my German shepherd, barking at something. We got in too late last night to unpack and only carried in the bare necessities to get us through until today.
“Levi,” I call from the bottom of the driveway.
She bombs across the yard.
“What’s in your mouth, girl?” She drops part of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the ground. Eww.
“How was school?” my mom asks.
“Fine.” I scoop up the partial sandwich and toss it into the plastic trash bag in the truck. “I signed up for the team.”
She shoots me a smile. “Help me with this box, will ya?”
I take one end, and we carry it up the sidewalk, stepping over the ugly, jagged crack that runs down the middle of the concrete steps leading to the porch.
“I think I’m going to like my new job,” Mom says. “I had a good first day.” She found a job and rented this house before we left Detroit.
I back through the door, bumping it open a little wider with my hip.
“Everyone in the office is friendly. They already invited me to Bunco.”
That would be new and different. My mom making friends instead of attracting the closest loser.
We drop off the box in the kitchen, then head back outside.
My mom stops in the middle of the yard and points. “I’m seeing pansies here and here, maybe marigolds by the driveway, a hanging plant on the porch.” She’s into gardening but sticks to flowers that only last one season. They match our gypsy lifestyle.
She turns in a circle. “Don’t tell me you can’t see all the potential. This is the perfect place for a fresh start.”
The narrow two-story house lists slightly to the left, as if it’s trying to balance on one foot. The dried-out lawn is more weeds and dirt than anything else. The driveway gapes with potholes.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I say. “It’s pretty ghetto.” Seeing potential in everyone and everything is what gets her into trouble with guys.
There is one feature that jumps out and practically knocks you between the eyes. The shutters. The windows have pink shutters. Like someone was painting with cotton candy.
The house isn’t big: two small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs; a living room, kitchen, and half bathroom on the main floor. I open the door to the basement and peek from the top of the stairs. Unfinished, concrete floor, damp, creepy. Probably home to thousands of spiders. Ugh.
We finish hauling our stuff in from the truck. When we were packing, I marked the tops of boxes with a Sharpie, so it isn’t rocket science figuring out where to pile them. I’m kind of a pro at moving.
“Let’s tackle the beds,” Mom says after I deliver the last BEDROOM: RAINE box.
It takes some maneuvering to get the frames and mattresses up the porch steps, through the door, and up the steep staircase. But it feels good to see the beginning of some sort of order. I’m not looking for potential, just to be settled.
“I’m hungry.” Mom slaps her hands on her thighs once we’ve put the beds together. With her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and dressed in faded jeans and a Neil Young T-shirt, she could pass for my older sister. “I’ll take the empty boxes to the basement if you start dinner.”
“Deal.” She knows my fear of spiders. When I moved in with my mother after my grandmother’s death, I got bitten on the cheek by a spider. My face swelled up like a tangerine.
In the kitchen, I lift the flaps of a box labeled KITCHEN: DINNER, and nuke a couple of individual mac and cheeses while Mom opens a can of peaches and sticks in a spoon. It’s our typical orange, first-dinner-in-a-new-place meal. Our fresh start begins with bright, processed food.
While waiting for the mac and cheese to cool, I feed Levi.
My mom scrounges in the box for her wine. She unscrews the lid, then splashes some into a mug. “You okay if I hit the sack early?”
I look at her puffy eyes and wan skin. “Sure.” With just two of us, we have to watch out for each other. Although sometimes it feels like I’m doing more than my fair share of watching out.
“I’m going running with some of the girls at my school tomorrow morning,” I say.
“That’s great. Must be a good team if they’re practicing in the summer.” She waves a hand around the kitchen. “You pick up any memories in the house?”
“Not really.” I stab pasta with my fork.
“Maybe there’s not much for you to work with,” she says. “With
the house being vacant for close to two months.”
I nod, chewing. She’s probably right. Not that I have anyone to ask. My grandmother was the only other person I know who picked up memories, and she died when I was six. “I did get a man with a big gut yelling about kids and chores. It was on the doorknob to the hall closet.”
“You could find that almost anywhere.” My mom half smiles.
We pretty much finish our meal in silence. After yesterday’s nine-hour drive from Michigan to New York, we’re talked out. Yes, I said nine hours. Yes, my mother’s a speed demon.
My mom fishes a sleeping pill from her purse and washes it down with the dregs of her wine. Then she sets her mug in the sink, stuffs her trash under the sink, gives me a hug good night, and clomps to the stairs.
Suddenly there’s silence; she stopped partway up.
I poke my head around the corner and catch her pushing buttons on her phone. “You’re not calling him, right?”
“I guess not.” She shoves her phone in her pocket. The clomping resumes.
I’ll be glad when she’s over this recent loser. My favorite time is the break between boyfriends. With luck, Yielding will bring a long break.
The bathroom door thuds shut, and there’s a whine as she switches on her electric toothbrush. My mom never skips brushing her teeth. It’s one of the few things she sticks to in life. She’s thirty-four years old and has never had a cavity.
I migrate into the living room and zone out with my computer, watching a movie I’ve seen a million times.
Eventually, Levi nudges me, pushing her head into my palm. “You interested in a walk, girl?” I ask.
The words are barely out of my mouth and she’s racing to the door.
“Your choice,” I say at the bottom of the driveway. “Which way?”
She sniffs the air like she’s truly making a decision, then veers left.
I give a small nod to the skinny moon hanging low in the inky sky, as if to say, “Hi, it’s us again. Same dog, same girl, different town.”
A few cars rumble past. We set off a couple of motionsensor lights. The odd night animal scurries away from us. It’s an uneventful walk.
At the top of a tall hill, I plop down and hug my knees. It smells like summer, and the nighttime insects are noisy. Levi sits next to me, her flank pressing into my shoulder.
I gaze at the lights and the roofs that unfold like a paper fan, the possibilities stretching out. A little bubble of optimism bounces around in my chest at what’s ahead. A chance to make friends, a chance to fit in, a chance to settle down long enough to go to Yielding High.
Detroit, more than five hundred miles away, is already blurring, like the icons on a computer that’s shutting down. We lived there for the spring semester of seventh grade and most of this summer. I doubt anyone will even remember me.
I yawn and stand. “Let’s go home.”
The moon hides behind a cloud, making it darker as we tramp back. I’m not worried. It doesn’t matter how many times we move; Levi always finds the way home.
She stops to pee next to a streetlight. Tacked to the pole is a missing-person flyer: Emily Huvar. She disappeared from Yielding a couple of months ago. The black-and-white head shot shows a girl with wavy, chin-length hair and large eyes. She’s listed as thirteen years old. My age. I shiver even though it’s still warm.
The next morning, I’m sitting on the sidewalk tying up my running shoes when I spot a group of heads bobbing toward me from down the street.
My lace breaks. Great. These shoes are trash. Maybe after a couple of paychecks, my mom can afford new ones for me.
I’m still knotting the lace ends together when the group jogs up.
Alyssa makes quick introductions. “Torie, Sydney, Willow, meet Raine.”
Willow, a bobby pin in her mouth, ducks her head in hello.
Both Torie and Sydney have short hair, but Torie has thick, ribbony blue streaks. Their eyes are wide open, as in wide open like they’re at a horror show.
I go to say hi, when Torie blurts out, “How do you even handle living here?”
“What?” I fumble my shoelaces.
“In the dead girl’s house.”
“What?” I say.
“She’s not necessarily dead,” Willow says.
“Right. And I’m placing first in the West Hills Invite,” Torie says, rolling her eyes.
“They’re talking about Emily Huvar,” Sydney explains.
Emily Huvar? That’s the missing girl from the flyer. She lived in my house? Or I live in her house? She’s dead? Goose bumps pop up on my arms.
“You about ready?” Alyssa says to me. “It’s not like we have unlimited time.”
“Yeah, sure.” I quickly finish the knot and stumble to my feet.
“Talking pace, everyone,” Alyssa says.
We take off, with Alyssa and Sydney ahead of me and Torie and Willow behind. I’m sandwiched in the middle, alone, trying to get my breathing and stride right. Trying to ignore the tingling in my fingers that’s telling me there are sparkles around. Trying to shake the creeped-out feeling of sharing space with a missing-possibly-dead girl.
“Be glad Jennifer isn’t working out today,” Sydney says over her shoulder, as we cross a deserted park. “She always sets the pace too fast.”
“She really keeps us moving,” Willow adds, pushing an empty swing.
I bet I could keep up with whatever pace Jennifer sets. Or get a cramp trying.
“What’s it like living in that house?” Torie bypasses the usual questions about where I came from and when I arrived. “How do you sleep at night?”
“I didn’t know Emily Huvar lived there until you just told me,” I say.
“The real estate people should’ve told you,” she continues.
“They might’ve told Raine’s parents,” Sydney says, “and her parents didn’t tell her because they didn’t want to freak her out.”
Torie nods.
So not plausible. My mom’s big into over-sharing, all the way to Too Much Info and a little beyond. She hasn’t heard about the Huvars. But she will, with her job as a property manager. Then she’ll pass what she learns on to me.
“Emily vanished about two months ago, but her body still hasn’t shown up,” Torie says. “Even though the cops did a full investigation.”
“At first there were lots of leads,” Sydney says.
“People were calling in from all over, claiming they spotted her,” Torie says. “In a Laundromat in Orlando. At a gas station in Idaho. Somewhere in Boston.”
“But none of the tips panned out,” Willow says. Wisps of hair flutter at the back of her neck where a couple of bobby pins are losing their grip.
We stop at a corner, standing still to conserve energy, waiting for a few other girls to join us. Alyssa’s next to me but doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even make eye contact. Maybe she’s in her zone. Or maybe she’s just rude.
My fingers are going crazy. They’re so itchy with tingles that I want to scrape them on the pavement. There must be a big sparkle on one of the girls.
We hit the road again.
“Raine lives in Emily Huvar’s old house,” Torie tells the girl running beside me.
“I personally think there’s a chance she’s alive,” the girl says. “To me, no body means there’s hope.”
“She’s dead,” Torie says with ghoulish confidence. “Dead. Dead. Dead.”
“Probably picked up by a pervert.” The girl straightens her shoulders like she’s got some authority on the subject. “My mom said that’s why Yielding suddenly got a curfew for if you’re under eighteen.”
“I’m still not allowed to run alone,” Willow says. “That’s how nervous my parents are. They’re worried the guy who got Emily will be back for more girls.”
“I hope the police start investigating big-time again,” Sydney says. “We shouldn’t write her off. It’s too soon to give up.”
Torie shakes her head. “I bet there
’s nothing for the police to find here. A guy probably dragged Emily into his car, drove her somewhere, killed her, and dumped the body.”
“There are stories of missing people who show up years later,” Willow says. “Maybe Emily will return to Yielding in twenty years.”
“The other day, there was a woman outside the grocery store with a petition to get the police to ramp the investigation back up,” Sydney says. “She had pages of signatures.”
Alyssa misses a step.
Willow grabs for her arm.
As Alyssa falls past me, her ponytail swings wildly, and I see the sparkle that’s been driving my fingers nuts. It’s winking at me from the underside of her hair clip.
Before thinking it through, before checking that nobody’s watching, I seize the sparkle, trapping it in my fist.
Alyssa shakes Willow off her. “I’m fine, Willow. I just tripped,” she says, her face one big look of irritation.
“You don’t look fine,” Willow says.
It’s true. Alyssa’s so pale, her skin matches the whites of her eyes. She bends over, massaging her ankle. “Keep going, guys.” She waves impatiently with her free hand. “I’ll catch up.”
I glance around. Everyone’s staring at Alyssa. Nobody’s moving, not sure they should ditch her despite what she says. I close my eyes.
Alyssa and a slightly pudgy girl with short brown hair and a turned-up nose are standing in front of a display of eye shadow. Christmas music’s playing in the background.
Alyssa unlatches one of the boxes. “Whew. Incredible amount of shades.”
The brown-haired girl touches the palette with her baby finger. “They’re so shimmery.” She sucks in a breath. “And see how this entire row’s flecked with gold.”
Alyssa flips over the box and gasps at the price. “That’s crazy expensive, Danielle.”
“It’s their limited edition,” Danielle explains. “With their own unique pigments.” She sounds like a commercial.
“What’s this?” Frowning, Alyssa’s nail hovers over a clear, colorless shadow.
“Smudge-proof base.”
“I could definitely use that.” Alyssa nods slowly, then looks at Danielle. “You can afford this?”