Overnight

by Adele Griffin

  And after the phone calls, she would find something to eat.

  She joined Katrina, who stood on the stoop, fumbling with her keys. They both stamped their feet to keep warm as Katrina drove key after key into the lock and jiggled the doorknob. The last key let them in.

  Katrina clicked the lights and plowed ahead of Gray into a room that was small and cluttered with the kind of lightweight furniture most people used on their lawns or patios. It was even messy like a patio, littered with soda cans and magazines and ashtrays and clear plastic glasses and stacks of fast-food napkins.

  “I need to make a phone call,” Gray said. “Everyone is allowed a phone call. Isn’t that some kind of rule of the law?”

  “The phone is turned off, I guess the bill wasn’t paid,” said Katrina. “Do you want to watch television?” She pointed to a television positioned on a table against the far wall. It was square and old-fashioned, with bunny-eared antennae tips padded in aluminum foil.

  “No,” Gray answered. She looked around for a telephone. Maybe Katrina was lying? When she did not see a telephone anywhere, a new, raw nervousness hummed in her throat and ears. Her eyes pricked with the tears that never were too far away. “I made a mistake,” she admitted out loud, “and I want to go home. You said you would take me home.”

  “Oh. But I don’t know where you live.”

  “Well, I do,” said Gray. “And you know where Caitlin lives. We just came from there. Actually, I want to go back to Caitlin’s birthday party. I’m missing all the fun. I’m missing…things.”

  Katrina seemed to think about it. Under the stark overhead light, Gray noticed that her eyes looked feverish, a thin border of dark blue nearly drowned by animal-black pupils. “Let’s wait until Drew comes home,” Katrina said. “I’m low on gas, and I’m not feeling good enough to drive anyone anywhere.”

  “You have to bring me home or back to the Donnelleys’ house. Now,” Gray insisted. “Please, I mean. I have twenty-eight dollars in my savings account. I’ll write you a note giving it all to you. You can buy a lot of gas with that money. As long as you take me away.”

  “Well, listen to you, thinking you can order me around!” Katrina’s laugh was harsh. “I already took you away! Now I’m spent. I should lie down.” She pulled at the handkerchief. The ropy brown hair had been attached to it, and now it all came off in a heap, revealing Katrina’s real hair, which was extremely short and prickly pale as a spring peach.

  So it was true, after all! Katrina was sick. She had been in the hospital. Gray softened. “Are you having chemotherapy?” she asked politely.

  Absently, Katrina dabbed a finger at her scalp. “A little nap,” she said. “A night nap.”

  Gray continued, “My mother is sick. She got a wig last year, when she was having chemotherapy, but she’s better now. Her real hair has grown back in. My brother wore the wig for Halloween. He sprayed it with glitter and was a rock star.”

  “I’m better, too,” said Katrina. “That’s what Drew said. That’s why he took me away before I could have my party. But he said we’d have another party.” She smiled. When she smiled, she appeared childlike, younger even than Robby. “Don’t worry. Drew will come back soon.”

  “You don’t understand, they’ll be wondering…” But Katrina was finished with Gray. She turned and slipped down the short hall and disappeared behind a door.

  Then Gray searched the front room inch by inch until she discovered a telephone under the couch. There was no dial tone. She plugged the phone into another outlet, double-checking, before she gave up and slid the phone back under the couch where she’d found it.

  There was not a lot to the rest of the house. Gray walked through it carefully, looking for clues. Through the cracked-open bedroom door, she saw Katrina sprawled facedown and motionless on a bare twin frame. Aside from the bed, there was a blowup chair, the type used in a swimming pool, with a palm tree design and a drink holder sunk into its arm. The chair was half deflated, sagging sideways as if it, too, were asleep. The door next to the bedroom revealed a bathroom. In the back of the house was a skinny wedge of kitchen.

  Retracing her steps, Gray opened the door to the hall closet to find it filled with winter coats and boots and, in the corner, a tiny dead brown mouse that had been long caught and crushed in a spring trap. Gray gasped—she had never seen a dead mouse before, and she would not brave inspecting this one. Little lump his neck is squished oh so mean those mean traps little paw poor poor mousey. She slammed the door. Shivering, she ran back to the couch, where she sat, pulling at the blanket draped over its back, and then wrapping it around her shoulders.

  She was cold. She had left the Donnelley house without her coat.

  They would probably be calling her name, searching for her inside and outside. It had been a while since she left. Caitlin would be angry. Mrs. Donnelley might be upset, too. She did not like for things to go wrong and to interfere with her perfect plans.

  Gray hated to think of Mrs. Donnelley being upset, and knowing that she was the reason for it. Dumb, oh, this was so dumb, to have convinced herself that Katrina was from Helping Hands! When in the back of her mind, she had known all along…And it was her mother’s fault! If her mother hadn’t gotten sick, there wouldn’t be such a thing as Helping Hands. If her mother wasn’t sick, she would not make mistakes about which sleeping bag.

  Now here I am stuck here in this little lonely bad house without my sleeping bag and probably I missed the cake too.

  She tried to find something cheerful in her mind to tug on to, a festive thought, like one of Caitlin’s pink balloons, but a blur of new fears batted at her. She wanted to scream. A scream began thickly in her stomach and expanded, filling her lungs, her toes and fingertips. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth. Jumped up from the couch and walked outside in case she had to release it.

  The night was huge and black, but no worse than the dark thoughts that swept in and out of her as she tried to imagine everything that might be lurking. Gray hopped off the stoop and took a few faltering steps. As far as she could see—which was not far, because of the trees—was nothing. Without sight of the road, the house seemed sunk too deep in the woods, like the gingerbread house in “Hansel and Gretel” or the lone cottage of the Seven Dwarfs.

  An adventure might be even better than Caitlin’s party. After all, it was an escape from the Donnelleys’ loud, warm house and boring Enchanted Castle. It was an escape from food that looked better than it tasted. Best, Gray escaped faking happiness when Caitlin opened Gray’s present, a Make It Yourself! beadwork kit that Gray herself desired so badly, she had considered keeping it and giving Caitlin an unopened package of bath salts. One of those “get well soon” gifts people were always foisting on her mother.

  Caitlin already had everything, anyway. She’d bead one necklace and shove the kit on the top shelf space of her closet on top of her Material Girl fabric-patching kit and Jamboree Gems glass-polishing kit.

  “I am not in any danger.” Gray spoke out loud. “I can always run off into the woods and then follow the road to Fielding. Even if it took me until morning, by then maybe the police will be looking for me. So. I know where I am. I know where I am.”

  The sound of her voice and the truth of her words eased her mind. She went back into the house. The next plan would be to keep calm, to watch television, and to wait for Katrina’s friend Drew, whoever he was.

  Whoever he is he will know what to do.

  Another quick check in the bedroom showed that Katrina must have moved a bit, because now her pretty coat was crumpled in a heap on the floor.

  “Katrina?” called Gray softly.

  Katrina’s breathing was deeper, heavier than regular napping. It reminded Gray of the way her mother slept, and seemed stronger proof that Katrina and her mother were linked. Yes, Katrina was sick, and the medication was affecting her abilities.

  “Katrina?” she called again.

  No answer. Gray retreated into the living room
and turned on the television.

  The remote control was touchy, none of the channels came in well, and there was no cable. Her hunger was beginning to make her feel light-headed. She wished she had taken some more grapes. She pressed her head against the dark window glass.

  What would Heidi do? What would Gretel do? What would Pippi do? They understood the outdoors and how to navigate it using their own wits.

  Think. Think.

  Although her heartbeat ticked too quickly, Gray was surprised by her calm. She could feel the flame of fear inside her, yes, but it was not a wildfire, she was not burning up, she had not been engulfed. Not yet, anyway.

  Zoë

  ZOë WOULD FIND GRAY. She would find her and her picture would be in the newspaper. She would be the hero. She would be the winner.

  Zoë’s picture had been in the local paper twice before.

  Once for the Fielding Academy Science Fair, where she had won second prize for a pinball machine she had constructed using thin pipes that played a tune depending on how you hit the ball. Only it didn’t work exactly because no tune played, just haphazard ping—ping—ping notes. So stupid! Why hadn’t she done an important project about arthritis, like Natalie Brady, who won first prize?

  The second picture was for the Maple Creek Water Club Intermediate Swimming Championships. Zoë had won first place for breaststroke, that was good, but the photograph taken was of Zoë in her bathing suit. Horrible! Her face and her name, paired with the word breast, pinned up in the school’s front lobby on the “Regional News and Events” bulletin board.

  When the others saw that picture, they’d made fun of her. “Yoo-hoo! Look at you, Zoë!” Serena had teased. “What’s next? The Sports Illustrated calendar?”

  “Zoë should swim breastless stroke,” added Caitlin.

  Martha had looked and said, simply, “Dork.”

  Zoë had never thought about how she actually looked as a swimmer until that picture. Her parents had always told Zoë that she was “attractive,” with her dark, curly Atacropolis hair and her square chin, and she had blindly believed it. Stupid! She had ripped down the newspaper clipping to stare at it in the privacy of her own room, a blood-rush of shame in her cheeks, wondering if her bangs fell crooked or if there was something funny about her chin. And of course hating her non-breasts, squashed flatter under her swimming suit.

  If Zoë found Gray tonight, she would get another chance, and a better photo in the paper. This time, it would be perfect. “Local Girl Saves School Pal.” Her bangs styled just right and her chin tucked, with her arm hooked confidently around Gray’s shoulder. No stupid breastless bathing suit. No second place.

  Just last week, Zoë’s brother, Shelton, had been quoted in The Wall Street Journal because he knew every single thing there was to know about business technology. “Your son, Shelton, is a genius,” people often said to her parents.

  “Zoë’s no lightweight,” her father would answer.

  “Zoë’s quite bright herself,” her mother would refrain.

  They never said she was a genius, though.

  If she found Gray, then Zoë figured she would be better than a genius. She would be a psychic. Because in the interview next to the picture of them, Zoë would be quoted explaining how a shivery feeling came over her, how an electric black-and-white picture of exactly where Gray was had zapped into her head and she knew.

  “I’ll find you, Gray,” whispered Zoë to the night.

  She tore down the street. They were supposed to stay in groups, but the others were no help because they didn’t care enough about winning.

  The night was cold, too cold to be out for the fun of it.

  Why would Gray have left the nice, safe house?

  Zoë inhaled deep into the bottom of her lungs and called Gray’s name. The sound went on and on like a bell.

  I am superhuman, Zoë thought. My powers are greater than the others. I will get a supernatural picture of Gray in my head. It will direct me to the pothole where Gray tripped and broke her leg. It will direct me right to the side of the road where Gray got hit—but not too bad—by a car.

  Please let me be the one to find you, Gray.

  She hoped Gray was okay, wherever she was. Maybe she had run away on purpose. Maybe she was sick of Caitlin and the Lucky Seven and having to hide in the bathroom when she was sad. Maybe she was tired of pretending that she was the same sweet, easygoing, no-problems-here Gray from back in fifth grade, before her mother got sick. Maybe, if Zoë found her first, Gray would confess all these things and Zoë would not tell the others like last time.

  Because this time, she would protect Gray against Martha’s mean jokes and Caitlin’s bored face. Yes, yes, she could do that.

  Zoë widened her eyes until they hurt. She thought she might be able to see in the dark. Tonight her hearing seemed animal-sharp. She had watched plenty of TV shows about mystics and psychics and fortune-tellers. The senses were everything.

  “I found Gray because people in my family have the Sight,” she would tell everyone at lunch on Monday. “I guess I do, too. It’s no big deal. I was born to it.”

  She would become a local legend. Wouldn’t her parents be proud! And wouldn’t Shelton, Mr. Business Technology, be jealous! Though of course not to her face. To her face Shelton would have to praise her.

  Zoë ran on and on, her mind open and waiting to receive the Sight.

  “I’ll find you, Gray,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Martha

  THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK IN the front hall chimed seven times.

  Martha had settled on the bottom step of the staircase. She sat very still and listened to the endless shouting for Gray across and up and down the street.

  She wondered if Gray was safe or in danger.

  In danger, she bet, with a tug of envy. Wherever Gray was and whatever she was doing, Martha bet that it was more exciting than anything happening in this house.

  Occasionally someone came inside, up or down the stairs, past Martha. Once, as Mrs. Donnelley swept by, the cold of the outdoors on her body, she said, “That’s right, you stay there, Martha. In case Gray comes through the front door. You call for me right away. I’m just outside. Tell Mr. Donnelley, too, when he comes down. I’m just outside.”

  Mrs. Donnelley did not want to think that Martha simply had decided not to look for Gray. Which she had. Frankly, she did not feel like looking for anything, and her stomach ached from chocolate. Besides, it only would have been fun to search for Gray with Leticia, and Leticia was acting strange tonight. Martha wished she would snap out of it. Since when did Leticia care so much about stupid school stuff?

  As the sound of chiming fell away, the Donnelleys’ dog, Bumpo, began to bark outside.

  “Bumpo! Quiet, Bumpo!”

  “Does he see anything?”

  “I think he’s barking at a squirrel.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Bumpo kept barking. Wolf wolf wolf! Rough rough rough!

  Too late, Bumpo, thought Martha. You think you’re such a good watchdog! Why weren’t you watching Mouse?

  Martha listened to the distant rush of water through the pipes as Mr. Donnelley showered. A long shower, considering that Gray was missing and Mr. Donnelley said he would be the one to take charge. Maybe he was taking his time on purpose, Martha thought, to scare Mrs. Donnelley. To show her that he was the one making the decisions, however slow or fast he needed. To show her that she had messed up bad.

  She watched the clock tick past eleven more minutes before Mr. Donnelley thudded downstairs. Damp, red-faced, and changed into an ugly tan-striped tracksuit. He plodded past Martha and into the dining room, his cell phone in hand, talking to himself.

  “The mail, the mail. What the…? Did we not get mail today?” He was peering into an empty basket on the console. He was standing so close to Martha that she could have stepped on his slippered foot.

  “There.” From her perch on the first step, Martha leaned forward and pointed
across the hall to the coffee table in the darkened living room.

  That’s where the mail got dropped in her house.

  Mr. Donnelley frowned as he noticed Martha. He lumbered into the living room. Martha watched him snatch up the stack of mail, cross the hall back into the dining room, and drop the whole bundle in the console’s mail basket. Then he took all the mail out again to read, proving his point to nobody.

  Picky, picky, thought Martha. That’s the Donnelleys. Him and her. Maybe that’s what made them marry each other. Or maybe one turned picky to copycat the other.

  Mr. Donnelley ripped open envelopes and hardly read their contents. Soon, he had discarded the whole mess in the mail basket.

  “Yes, I’m here!” he barked into the phone. “I’ve been holding for over three minutes. Hope this doesn’t indicate how you guys handle emergencies!” There was grit in his voice. Mr. Donnelley was used to getting things done. Martha bet he was a mean dad or boss when he got angry. “I’d like to report a child who might be missing. Description? Um, stay right there. Let me put my wife on the line.”

  When the two police arrived in their squad car, the Donnelley house became a public place of banging doors, of heavy footsteps, of deep adult voices asking questions, of walkie-talkie static and blue lights swirling.

  The police, Officer Mustache and Officer Bird Eyes, ordered the girls to come inside—“Too dangerous!”—and they asked them all the same things.

  Who had seen Gray last?

  Approximately when was Gray seen last?

  What was the last thing Gray said?

  Where did Gray say she was going?

  Zoë talked the most, but Ty had the most answers. He said Gray had left the family room to get some juice the same minute the car Fiori Dulce passed Renata in the Daytona 500.

  “It’s a rerun, but we can still pinpoint that time,” said Officer Bird Eyes, making a note in her book.

  Martha’s own secret squeezed her stomach. Should she tell the police about that lady by the mailbox? No, no, not now. The right moment would come. Besides, it was fun to have a secret. It was fun to hold her secret like a chocolate heart melting in her mouth.