Shattered

by Amanda Valentino

  “The key?” I asked, hung up on the word. I reluctantly pulled on the beret, hoping that she’d play nice as well.

  Louise let out a long and audible sigh, clearly sensing my frustration. “Listen, I can only help you see the truth when you are ready to do so. Let’s not force things before their time.”

  “Meaning I’m not ready now?”

  “Look,” she said, avoiding the question, and so I assumed the answer to be yes, “do you honestly think that if Robin had any answers about Amanda’s whereabouts, she’d go blurting them to you?”

  “What do you know?” I asked her.

  She smiled softly at me. “I know that some rhinestone earrings would make that hat look even more smashing.” She began to dig through a heap of jewelry.

  “I have to go,” I sighed, standing up from my stool.

  “Nia, wait, don’t leave. I’m not finished talking to you yet.”

  “But you’re not saying anything.”

  “Listen here.” She reached out to touch my forearm. “If Amanda is hiding out somewhere, don’t you think she must have a darn good reason? Maybe it isn’t safe for her to come out right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “I just miss her,” I said, hating myself for sounding vulnerable. “And I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “We all want that. And don’t think twice about it: You may miss Amanda something awful, but she’s with you . . . every day.”

  “I know.” I rolled my eyes. “She watches us, she sends us clues, she plays with our minds regularly.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Her face turned serious. “I mean, she’s with you. She’s become a part of who you are. You have to admit you’re not the same girl who came through that door just a couple months ago. And I’m not just talking style, babe.” She gave a nod to my snakeskin boots.

  “I suppose,” I said, somehow feeling reassured.

  “Now do me a favor and try on those earrings.”

  I smiled, convinced that admitting to knowing Robin was about the extent to which Louise was willing to go on the topic—for now at least. And so I held the earrings up and looked in the mirror, surprised by how elegant they looked with the beret and awed by Louise’s insight, however oblique.

  CHAPTER 12

  My mother took one long look at me when I came through the door and peeled off my coat, her big brown eyes narrowing in disapproval. “What, may I ask, happened to you, young lady?” she inquired.

  At first I thought it was the new beret and earrings (she sometimes has to adjust to my more unusual choices), but no, I had stashed those in my bag. Then I assumed I must still look harried because of the whole travel agency incident. But then she pointed to the giant chocolate milk stain on the front of my skirt.

  “It was a rough day.” I shrugged.

  “What happened?” she repeated. Wearing stiletto heels and an apron-covered silk sheath, my mother was Betty Draper with a BlackBerry, couture wardrobe, and enough volunteer responsibilities to make most Fortune 500 businessmen weep with exhaustion. Or at least that’s what my father says.

  “A girl took issue with something I said at lunch.”

  “Why this time?” she asked, folding her arms, revealing her freshly manicured fingernails.

  I shrugged again, and furrowed my brow. “Basically, she’d berated some classmates, and I confronted her about it.”

  “Do you really expect to make friends that way?”

  “Would I want to be friends with a person who derides other people?”

  My mother couldn’t argue. Instead I spotted the tiniest of smiles inch across her lips, like maybe she was proud of me. “Go change and wash up, and then if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand sealing up the remainder of the auction invitations before dinner . . .”

  Grand.

  In my room, I peeked inside my closet to make sure no one had touched Amanda’s box. Not that I’d expected it; it was just that one never knew how thorough—aka obsessive-compulsive—my mother could get on any given cleaning day. Apparently this auction was keeping her very preoccupied.

  I changed into a formfitting black tunic and a pair of matching capri leggings, and then I plunked down at my vanity table. A smattering of makeup products stared up at me. I’d purchased them on a whim after one of my trips to Louise’s shop.

  Picturing Audrey Hepburn—since my outfit was a clear homage to her wardrobe in Sabrina—I spent a few minutes lining my eyes with a smoky charcoal color and adding mascara to my lashes. I contrasted the bold look of my eyes with a pale peach lipstick. And, for the finishing touch (since I was having some fun), I hiked my hair up into a high ponytail à la Audrey, and combed my bangs down so that they fell straight across my forehead.

  “Nia?” my mother called from downstairs, eager for my envelope-licking skills.

  Before heading downstairs, I peeked into Cisco’s room, wondering why she wasn’t beckoning for his help, too. Not that I should’ve been surprised: Cisco was famous for getting out of chores like this. And it appeared that he’d achieved said feat once again; there he was, lounging on his bed, reading a copy of Soccer Nation. He held a finger up to his lips. “Ssh,” he whispered. “Thanks, Ni-Ni.”

  I gritted my teeth and refused to answer. He knew I hated that baby nickname.

  Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Mama was elbow-deep in invites, while the tantalizing smell of her standard weeknight rice and beans filled the room. “I just want to finish up this last bunch,” she said, her fingers working nimbly, stuffing auction invitations into their respective envelopes. “Would you mind helping me seal?”

  “Sure. Where’s Cisco, by the way?” I asked, stirring the pot and feigning ignorance.

  “Homework. He has so much work to do, and he needs to keep up. Soccer has been taking up a lot of his time.”

  “Right,” I snorted, grabbing an envelope. I stuck my tongue out to lick the cockroach-egg-laden glue (or so I’ve heard) when it suddenly occurred to me: “I think this will go a whole lot faster with a glue stick.”

  “Good idea. It really does pay to have a genius in the family,” Mama said. “There’s one in my office: top drawer on the left. And while you’re at it, would you also mind grabbing the yellow sticky on my desk? It has a couple addresses of new parishioners that I want to include as well.”

  I nodded as I headed toward my parents’ office. The dining room table was already set, and today’s newspaper was already positioned on the living room coffee table, awaiting my father. I opened the door to the office and flicked on the overhead light.

  Decorated in soft jewel tones with upholstered fabrics, the office is my parents’ private space, which they insist on keeping a kid-free zone most of the time. I never really ventured in there but I was always impressed by how tranquil the room felt.

  My mother’s desk was as tidy as the rest of the house, making the glue sticks easy to find. Except I couldn’t see the yellow sticky anywhere. Only a couple of manila folders sat on the surface of her desk, along with a tall ceramic vase and a family photo taken the summer before when we went to Niagara Falls. I grabbed the top folder, labeled Church Auction, figuring the sticky note must be inside. I started to sort through the folder’s contents. It was full of brochures for possible venue sites, notes about caterers, and lists of donated items.

  And then I came to another list.

  A long list of names.

  At first I assumed that it must be the list of volunteers or invitees, but then I saw the familiar names—my name, my parents’ names, Callie’s, her mother’s, Hal’s, his family’s, and some people at school—and it suddenly dawned on me what this really was.

  The same list that Hal had found on Thornhill’s desktop.

  My mind raced, but I tried to keep cool to avoid overlooking anything.

  How were my parents involved?

  I flipped the sheet over and saw the coding: the long rows of numbers and the columns of symbols�
��just like what I’d spotted in the folder at the travel agency. At the top, as a heading, it said C-33.

  “Nia? Pollita?” Mama called. “Did you find that sticky?”

  Her voice made me jump. I accidentally dropped the folder and its contents shot out everywhere. I scurried to retrieve them, accidentally bumping into the vase. It tumbled from the desk, but I managed to catch it in midair. As I snatched it, I spotted a folded envelope taped to the bottom.

  “Just a second, Mama,” I shouted back to her.

  With trembling fingers, I pried the envelope off of the vase. Luckily, it hadn’t been sealed. I opened it up, surprised to find a photo of a man, probably in his mid-twenties, posing for the photo with his fist propped under his chin. I looked closer, noticing how familiar he seemed.

  Then it hit me: It was Thornhill, only younger.

  Wrapped around his finger was what appeared to be a hospital bracelet fashioned into a ring—just like the one from Amanda’s box.

  “Forget the sticky, Nia,” my mother called; her voice was getting closer. “We need to finish up before dinner.”

  My fingers shaking, I fumbled to stuff the photo back inside the envelope, and reaffix it to the bottom of the vase. But I needed more tape. I reached inside my mother’s drawer, hearing her footsteps from only a room away. I tore myself a long piece, taped the envelope back in place, and then set the vase down on the corner of her desk.

  My heart pounded as I hurried out of the office, coming face-to-face with my mother two steps beyond the door. “I couldn’t find the sticky,” I told her, trying my best to be completely composed, even though my pulse was absolutely racing.

  “Did you find the glue stick?” she asked, looking at my empty hands. Her lips thinned in irritation.

  “I did,” I say, realizing I’d left it on her desk. “But then I put it down again, I guess I was so busy looking for the sticky . . .”

  “What’s gotten into you? For goodness’ sake, never mind. Go wash your hands for dinner,” she ordered. “Everything’s just about ready.”

  I nodded, eager to get away, even for just a few moments. Instead of heading to the bathroom to wash my hands, though, I hurried to my room to give Hal a call.

  Luckily, he picked up right away: “What a coincidence,” he said. “I was just going to call you.”

  “Why?” I asked instinctively. “Did something happen?”

  “No.” He laughed.

  “Then you figured something out? Did something come in on the website?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what?” I asked, frustrated that he was not being clear.

  “Well”—he cleared his throat—“I was just kind of wondering if maybe you weren’t busy tonight.”

  “Why?” I said again, growing more agitated by the moment.

  “I fixed my guitar strings and I need your honest opinion about the song I’ve been working on for the show. Any chance you can come over?”

  “Are you serious?” How could he possibly think about music at a time like this?

  “Look, if you’re too busy . . .”

  I bit my tongue, holding back from reminding him that we had way more pertinent details to discuss than a song for the high school talent show. Instead I told him to call Callie and have her come over as well, figuring we’d still have an opportunity to talk. “We definitely need to get together tonight. I’ll be there in an hour and a half,” I said, hoping my parents would agree to it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dinner at the Rivera household was normally around eight, but ever since my mother became the chairperson of the auction committee, our once set-in-stone dinnertime had been crossed out and penciled in.

  My nerves finally quieted down, and I joined my family in the dining room. Of course my father was home now, and he gave me a hug as I came around to my side of the table. Traditional as my dad is, he does try to show me that he cares. He sat at the head of the table, while my mother served her famous food: chicken tamales, red beans over rice, and her legendary pork-stuffed arepa bread.

  I sat down opposite Cisco, who, despite being engaged in a heated discussion about soccer players with my father, couldn’t stop eyeballing me, and I thought I might’ve actually seen him give me a thumbs-up.

  “Nia, you look nice,” my mother said, just noticing. She nodded for me to take the teepee-folded napkin off my plate and place it on my lap. “New outfit?” she asked, as if there had never been a conflict over the glue stick.

  “Old-new. I got it at Louise’s.”

  “Pretty.” She smiled. “Your makeup looks pretty, too. That shade of eye shadow really brings out the gold in your eyes.”

  “Going out tonight?” Cisco asked.

  “Is that okay, Mama?” I asked, as she passed me the bowl of rice. “I’m already a week ahead of my classmates on homework assignments, and I spent my free period today studying for my French quiz. Plus, maybe Cisco could drive me . . .” I gave him what I hoped was a cajoling smile.

  “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

  “Hal asked if I could help him prepare for the talent show.”

  “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with this Hal boy, haven’t you?” my dad weighed in.

  “It’s not like that,” I said, able to read his suspicious mind. “Callie will be there also.”

  “You guys went out after school today, didn’t you?” Cisco asked. “I thought I saw the three of you heading off campus.”

  “Not me,” I lied, giving him the evil eye. Did he not know anything about the sibling rule; i.e., I-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine? “I had a Model UN meeting. I have another one tomorrow. We had to end things today right in the middle of a debate about child labor laws in India.”

  “Oh, right, sure, right,” Cisco said. “My bad.”

  “Definitely bad,” I muttered.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re making friends, and your father is, too,” Mama said, giving him a firm look. “Hal seems like a nice boy. And Callie is a lovely girl. We enjoyed having her here for dinner. So sad about her mother. Just plan on being home by nine thirty. Cisco can pick you up.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, feeling the sweat on my palms, grateful that they didn’t object to me going out on a school night. But I knew that my mom at least liked the idea of my being social, taking more than five minutes with my face and hair, and not hiding beneath layers of dark sweatshirts.

  Surprisingly, Cisco didn’t argue about being my chauf-feur for the evening. He was far too busy being lectured by my parents, both of whom wanted him to give Father Bellows a hand cleaning up the rectory yard.

  About a half hour later, Cisco pulled up in front of Hal’s house and put the car in park. “I’m assuming you’re here to talk about Amanda,” he said, turning toward me.

  “Because someone like me could only have been invited here for my problem-solving skills?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He sighed.

  “For your information, what I said at dinner was true: I’m here to listen to Hal’s talent show routine. He wants my feedback, and I promised I’d give it.”

  “Oh, really?” He paused to study my face, most likely searching for a flinch or flutter—something to indicate that I wasn’t giving him the full scoop. “And since when are you so interested in the talent show? Or anything else non-curricular, for that matter? I mean, can you honestly tell me that this visit to Hal’s doesn’t have some sort of mystery-solving agenda?”

  I looked away, knowing that he had me pegged. For as long as I could remember, my life had been wrapped up in work—in studying hard, in doing what was right, in learning as much as I could. There wasn’t really room for anything else.

  “Look, I know you’ve been working hard on the Amanda Project,” he continued. “But I don’t want you to keep secrets from me. Tell me where you’re going. I’ll drive you. Just keep me in the loop. If not, Mama’s gonna hear all about it.”

  “Playing hardball, are we?
” I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s called looking out for my sister’s best interests.”

  “I know,” I said, admittedly grateful for his concern, but still smarting that he knew me way too well.

  CHAPTER 14

  Hal sat in the center of his room, his guitar music all set up in front of him. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a stool, piled up with books.

  “Is Callie coming?” I asked, surprised that she wasn’t already here.

  Hal nodded and started tuning his guitar—plucking at the strings, listening to the notes, and then tightening the pegs accordingly.

  “When?” I asked, still bewildered that he could possibly think about the talent show in light of all that was unfolding.

  “Soon,” he answered. “She should actually be here any minute.”

  I moved his books and sat down, noticing his collection of Pez dispensers. At least two hundred of them—from Wonder Woman Pez to Pez–Perez Hilton—lined the top two shelves of a bookcase.

  “Do you like Pez?” he asked, following my gaze.

  I looked back at him, wondering if he was being serious. But his wide eyes and hopeful smile told me that he was. And so I shrugged to be polite.

  “So, what’s the deal?” he asked, sensing my agitation. “I mean, you obviously have something on your mind. Is it something about Amanda?” I could see the disappointment on his face—he thought I didn’t want to hear him play.

  “It can wait until Callie comes,” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt, and surprised to learn that, like Cisco, Hal had me pegged, too. “What’s the name of the song you’ll be performing?”

  “‘Believe in Me,’” he said, focused on his strings again. “One of the band members wrote it.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it,” I said, trying my best to sound enthusiastic.

  Hal spent a few more seconds plucking at the strings before finally beginning the song. His voice sounded sweet and earnest enough, but it was the music itself—the combination of lyrics, chords, and rhythm—that sent chills all over my skin.