by Gwenda Bond
I’m not that worried. Dad almost always makes it home, but the times he doesn’t are because some rookie hauled him to the drunk tank instead of bringing him here like Chief Rawling usually does.
But still, a small measure of worry gnaws at me.
In my room, I dress quickly. I pair a faded red T-shirt with a pair of jeans I patched up using the ancient sewing machine I inherited from Mom. I pause for a longing look at my iPad, a hand-me-down from Polly when she managed to pry out of me that I was upset our cheap DVD player died. She even gave me her Netflix password, like a real friend. Still, I keep my small collection of DVD box sets, grabbed on deep sale, on the shelf in my room, for the inevitable day when the password stops working.
Holing up for a few hours to visit a faraway galaxy, or cheer on hot boys fighting gross creatures and super villains, or even just watch bad Syfy channel movies, would be an ideal way to spend the morning. I’ve been pretending not to think about last night, but that ship — and my embarrassing outburst — isn’t far from my thoughts. My ears burn at thoughts of Jack shaming me in front of everybody. I want to forget about my humiliating drama at the theater, and a marathon streaming session would help.
Instead I’ll be making a jail run to find Dad.
This is your life, Miranda Blackwood.
“Outside or in?” I ask Sidekick, still lingering on the front porch by the door. His tail is wagging so hard that it hits the doorframe as he walks through, and I fill his bowl of kibble and lock up behind me.
As I head toward Pineapple, I discover the morning is full of unwanted developments.
Along the driver’s side of Pineapple, thick black letters shout the word FREAK.
I close my eyes, and colors bloom inside the lids. I wish for something to kick. Like Bone and his friends. Something clever, like maybe Croatoan, would’ve been too much to ask of them. I open my eyes and walk over and test the words with a finger.
Shoe polish instead of spray paint. A small favor.
I consider cleaning it off before retrieving Dad, but I don’t want to leave him sweating in a cell any longer than necessary. I’ll have to park so he doesn’t see it. Otherwise he’ll ramble and rage.
My first hint that something is wrong — something bigger than Dad being MIA and Bone being a jerk — comes when I turn onto the main highway toward town. The traffic level screams hurricane evacuation. The flow is way too heavy for this early in the day, even for peak tourist season. Big evacs don’t happen without a day or two’s warning, and there aren’t enough rental cars in the mix. Tourists take off whenever weather threatens, but plenty of locals, including Dad and me, choose to ride out hurricanes the old-fashioned way, with sandbags, boarded-up windows, and peanut butter sandwiches.
By the time I reach the edge of town and Manteo’s box of a police station — bizarrely painted bright blue — I’m convinced something is really, really wrong. The jail’s parking lot is across the street and way bigger than it needs to be, but for the first time I can remember, the lot is full.
At least a couple dozen people are milling around outside the jail. Slowing, I watch the woman who owns the town movie theater hug a bearded older man. They’re both crying. A local TV van has parked half on the curb, and a cameraman is capturing the pair’s worried embrace.
I manage to find a parking spot a street over and hurry back toward the jail. The people spilled onto the sidewalks around the station give off waves of fear and worry as strong as a force field. I’m about to make my way inside the jail when Chief Rawling emerges from the glass doors of the station.
A sleek-haired blond reporter launches out of the van toward him, snapping her fingers for the cameraman to follow. Her giant blue eyes are like an anime deer’s. I’ve seen her in person before, when she came to the theater to announce the winners of some random, not-so-fabulous prizes. But I can’t remember her name. Blondie will do for a mental nickname.
Wait. Scratch that. Blondie and Pat Benatar were tied as Mom’s favorite musicians. I won’t insult them like that.
I settle on Blue Doe. That’s better.
As Blue Doe approaches Chief Rawling, she leans into her left hand to cradle her earpiece and signals for the chief to stop walking using the microphone in her right. The chief looks like he’s having a very bad day. He is put together as usual. His black hair is clipped short, face clean-shaven, navy uniform pressed, but deep lines of concern cut into his forehead and around his mouth.
Chief Rawling is always nice to me, one of the few people in town who doesn’t treat our family like outcasts. He has a problem child of his own — or at least Grant was a problem, before his parents shipped him off to juvenile delinquent school.
I flush just thinking of Grant. My memory of him that day at school stays sharp as a film I can replay at any time. So does the memory of how he looked at me later, like he understood how I felt. It wasn’t fair that he could look at me like that after what he’d done.
Someone behind me chokes down a sob, and I put away thoughts of the chief’s trouble-making son and shift a few steps closer so I can hear better. The crowd quiets when Blue Doe holds up a finger, signaling that the interview is about to begin.
“Live in three, two…” Blue Doe says. As the countdown ends, she puts on an important voice. “Chief Rawling, what can you tell us about the events of this morning? Is this a mass kidnapping? Is it a terrorist action? A hoax?”
I look around, confused. What in the world is Blue Doe talking about?
Chief Rawling rubs his forehead, then lowers his hand, visibly remembering he’s on camera. “We’re not sure at this point, beyond reports of a large number of missing people.”
A large number of missing people.
“How many citizens of Roanoke Island are believed missing at this point?”
“We’ve had about a hundred missing persons call-ins this morning, but that number is extremely preliminary. Most of those people will probably turn up,” Chief Rawling says.
Most of those people will probably turn up.
“Should people leave the island?” Blue Doe presses.
“It’s too early to recommend that people leave. What we need now is for people to let us know if a loved one is missing, and to report any unusual activity. I’m sorry, but I also need to ask everyone to please wait at the courthouse. I’ll be moving briefings there. We need to keep this building free for police work. I’ll give further updates as I have them. Thank you.”
The crowd erupts into conversation as Chief Rawling goes back into the building. I can’t move. Is Dad missing?
My concern must read on my face, because suddenly there’s a microphone being thrust into it. “You,” the reporter says, “are you looking for someone? Is someone you love among the lost? What can you tell us?”
Her tone holds a hefty dose of false sympathy. I’m reeling, and I make a mistake. I speak. “Leave me the frak alone.”
There’s a gasp as I stalk off. I need to get inside the station, see if Dad is safe in a cell. I hear unsurprised murmurs from the crowd, and phrases linger in the air: Behaving like a Blackwood… like father, like daughter…
I don’t need to hear their whole commentary to fill in the details.
Inside the station, there’s a flurry of activity. More than I’ve ever seen before. Phones are ringing, and everyone is on duty. I go to the desk and find a younger officer manning it. I remember him being on the football team a few years back.
“Hi,” I say, and he looks up at me. “Is my dad here? Hank Blackwood.”
“Are you here to file a missing persons report?” he asks.
He must be new. “No, I… I thought you might have him in lock-up. Drunk tank?”
The officer shakes his head. “No one back there today. Let me take your information. We’ll let you know if there are any leads on the disappearances.”
“Or if Dad turns up?” I ask.
“Uh, yes, if your dad turns up.”
The way he says it makes it sounds unlikely, and it begins to sink in. Dad might be missing.
*
At a loss for what else to do besides freak out, I drive Pineapple past Fort Raleigh and the theater to Morrison Grove to check in on the cast and crew. With all these people missing, I might be forgiven for the night before now, no questions asked.
Mostly, I just need to see familiar faces.
This tree-hidden village of multiplex apartments houses the hundred and twenty or so out-of-town cast and crew every summer. It always bustles with action. People who are drawn to the theater live life loudly, and for many players at The Lost Colony, this summer of noisy glamour makes up for an off-season of quieter cast calls and failed auditions in New York and Los Angeles.
But when I arrive, uneasiness flutters. The parking lot has only a smattering of cars in it. I park and take the too-quiet forest path, then walk among the Grove’s cozy chocolate-brown houses. The entire place is sunk in the deep silence of abandonment, appearing as deserted as it will be come winter. The gentle roar of the sound in the background is the only thing close to normal.
I find Polly’s apartment and pull open the scratchy screen door. It squeals under the pressure of my hand. I rap on the door. No one answers.
I turn the knob, and it twists easily. The door releases with a click. Unlocked.
Feeling like a silly girl — both for going inside and for being nervous about doing so — I step into the common room. There are kitschy knitting projects and trashy magazines scattered around like normal. A tiny drink umbrella lies discarded on the floor.
“Polly?” I call. No one answers.
I walk around the living room and stop at the dry-erase board on the wall where the girls leave each other snarky messages or notes about errands. But there is nothing there to explain the desertion.
The screen door squeals behind me, and I whirl. Leah from costumes stands just inside it, her face blotchy and eyes shiny. She isn’t one of Polly’s roommates, but she hangs out with them.
“Where is everyone?” I ask. “Where’s Polly?”
Leah comes the rest of the way inside, stopping to pick up the drink umbrella. Her curly black hair is wet, like she just stepped out of the shower. “I… I can’t find her. She was here. Last night. We were all here. I slept on the couch. Now they’re… they’re missing.”
“Polly’s missing?”
“Not just her — Kirsten and Gretchen too. Jack just took half my housemates to stay with relatives in Shenandoah for a couple of days until this is sorted out. I was going to stay, but… I’m going too. I can’t take the quiet.”
I don’t understand. What she’s saying doesn’t compute. “How will they get back for the show?”
“The wife of the theater’s CEO is missing. He’s canceled the show until further notice,” Leah says. “The first time ever Jack said, and even he seemed worried. You sure you’re okay? Do you want to leave with me?”
I could swear Leah’s teeth are chattering. Of course, the idea of the director being worried about anything besides his precious reputation is almost as disconcerting as the rest of the morning’s events.
“No,” I say. I can’t leave, but she doesn’t know that. “No. I’m going to stay in town. Everyone will be back. It’s probably all just some weird coincidence.”
But what if it isn’t?
Leah starts to giggle, though it doesn’t sound like a laugh. “I hope so,” she says. She flings her arms around me in a hug before I can dodge. She squeezes me tight. “Hope you’re here when I get back.”
Leah leaves, but I stay behind in Polly’s apartment for a few minutes. I want to look up and see Polly walk through the door. We’ll laugh about all this. How it’s all some trick. Dad will be safe at home when I get there.
I’ve seen The Lost Colony performed hundreds of times but never before understood the magnitude of such a loss. I feel trapped in the final moments, when young Virginia Dare tells the audience that the settlers were never heard from again.
How do more than a hundred people disappear without a trace? For it to happen hundreds of years ago is almost unbelievable, but to happen now? And for my dad to be one of them?
With a last look, I turn and leave the apartment. It turns out I can’t take the quiet either.
Chapter 4
GRANT
I pull my favorite vintage-style Clash T-shirt over my head so I can at least have a piece of me hidden beneath my uniform — only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. A man’s voice calls, “Grant Rawling?”
That is not the voice of one of my charming Neanderthal fellow students. Too old, and I have a sinking feeling that I recognize it.
Principal Fascist. Crap.
“One sec,” I call back. I should already be dressed, but I overslept. I let the T-shirt fall, and race to get my standard-issue white button-down over it, leaving the shirt unbuttoned and the tie loose around the neck. I yank on the jacket that goes with it and scrub a hand through my hair.
“Mr. Rawling?”
I tug on my Chucks, then open the door.
Yep, it’s him. The principal has a half-moon hairline and a thin mustache. He’s tried to figure out my story since the day my parents dropped me off at this semi-reform school. I never considered this guy capable of busting me, but if he’s here, I have to assume he’s found the bumper sticker and somehow traced it back to me.
Panic ices through me. What if my parents try to make me come home? I can’t go back to being tormented by shadows and voices. I won’t.
Don’t admit guilt, I remind myself. If he can’t prove you did it, it doesn’t matter.
“Yes?” I raise my eyebrows, not volunteering anything. I need to see how bad it is.
The principal gives the T-shirt beneath my uniform a disapproving glance but motions me down the bland beige hall. “Your father’s on the phone for you,” he says.
What?
I guess I’m not busted after all, but this still can’t be good. Dad never calls me. We’re just not that close. I had to act out because that was something he could see. He’d never listen to me or Mom about my unusual abilities, despite the fact that he grew up as the son of the legendary Witch of Roanoke Island. And I just talked to Mom. They both know students here aren’t allowed to use their personal phones during the day, which I guess explains the summons.
Why he’s calling now is a mystery that makes my pulse pick up tempo.
“Are you ready?” the principal asks.
I nod.
The kids in the hall are openly curious as I shut the door and follow the principal without a word. I don’t hang out with anyone here, and as far as they know, I’m one of the good kids. Not someone who warrants a personal escort from the principal.
I keep quiet on the way down the stairs. When we reach the bottom, Principal Fascist says, “Over here.” He leads the way into the dorm’s front office, a part of the building I rarely see. The big room has a couple of desks and filing cabinets, along with a counter and a short row of chairs in a waiting area.
The principal points to a small table next to a copier. A light flashes on the phone. “Line two,” he says.
I pick up the receiver, finger poised over the button. “Can I have some privacy?”
“Of course.” He deflates and scuttles across the room.
I click the line and do my best to hide my nerves. “You rang, Father?”
Dad hates being called Father.
“Grant, finally, thank God,” Dad says. “It’s just… there’s something…” He sounds out of breath.
“What’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”
A long pause ensues. Dad breathes heavily into the phone, and I feel no urge whatsoever to make a joke about it. Then
he says, “Do you know where they are?”
“Who?”
Dad lets out a sigh, maybe of relief. “Listen, son, I think I need you to come home. Something’s happened… You might be able to…”
I can sense him searching for the right words.
“It’s not Mom, is it?” I feel frozen by the thought. “Tell me Mom’s okay.”
“No, no, your mom is fine. But… something bad’s happening.” The line fuzzes with soft static as Dad pauses. “That’s understating it. Maybe I… I know you don’t want to come home. But I think the island needs you here. I need you here.”
That’s when I know. Dad asking me to come home is a dead giveaway. If he thinks the island needs me, if he’s willing to say that he does, then whatever is happening is serious.
In that moment, I long for music, so keenly it hurts. I want to put my earbuds in and crank something loud enough to drown out what Dad just said, to drown out the world. I want to pretend this conversation isn’t happening.
“I can’t go back, Dad. I can’t do anything there. Trust me.”
I reach out, and press down the line to hang up the phone. But I keep the receiver at my ear while I figure out my next move. I won’t go back. I can’t. It’s so quiet here. My sanctuary.
Decision made, I replace the phone and get up. I catch the principal watching me.
He must think he’s finally getting his chance to figure out my past. It’s ironic that he’s so nosy. He seems to wish he could give us all standard-issue personalities when we enroll, make us into bread slices with the crusts cut off.
The principal walks across the room and lays a hand on my arm. “Your father has asked me to put you on a plane home. I’m to stay with you while you pack and escort you to the airport in Lexington. You are not to leave my sight. Those were his instructions.”
Inwardly, I scoff. Of course they were. But outwardly, I just shrug, already beginning to work on possible outs. Maybe I can convince an airline staffer to put me on a flight to somewhere else.
“He told you what’s happened, I take it?” the principal asks.