This is Not a Love Letter

by Kim Purcell

  I pour the lemonade. It’s freshly squeezed. You’d smack your lips and say, “Wow, your mom makes great lemonade.” And these cups! It’s silly, but drinking lemonade out of lemonade cups is way better. When I get rich, I’m buying me one of these lemonade jugs with matching cups.

  You’re always telling me to be grateful for stuff, and I’m grateful for this lemonade in my mouth and the hot sun on my face. Right now, it seems pretty impossible anything horrible has happened. Maybe the detective is right.

  Then Josh says, “So the first twenty-four hours are the most important for finding a missing kid. That’s what it says on the National Missing Children website.”

  “And after that?” I say.

  “After that, it says the chances go way down.”

  Which is excellent. Since it is now thirty-eight hours. Not that I’m counting.

  2:45 PM Sunday, Josh’s backyard

  The doorbell rings. It’s your mom—with Raffa.

  Raffa’s eyes are swollen and red. It looks like she and your mom got in a big fight so she could come. Which is strange for Raffa.

  Your mom explains, “She wanted to come and help, but I didn’t know if we could get the house ready in time.” Raffa presses her lips together, fiercely, like she’s biting back words, and your mom continues, “Christopher is flying in tonight, you know. He lands in Seattle at six and then he’s getting a rental car.”

  For a second, I’m confused by Christopher—she calls you that if she’s mad—but then I remember it’s your dad’s name. Holy crap. He’s on an airplane to come here to find you. You haven’t seen him in person for over a year, since his last visit. Meanwhile, you might be on your way to Brooklyn, chewing pistachios, spitting the shells into a soda bottle.

  Your mom leaves and I wrap my arm around Raffa’s bony shoulders. Is it my imagination, or has she lost weight? “Thanks for making your mom bring you, sweetie. We could really use some help with the posters.”

  We walk through the house to the backyard. She sits down on the chair next to me, resting her delicate violinist hands on the table. “Put me to work,” she says in her British accent.

  I grin at her and answer in my own lame British accent, intentionally messing up. “Oy will, don’t you worry, lassie.”

  “It’s not oy,” she corrects me, squinting.

  There’s our Raffa. I laugh.

  My phone rings from the table. Unknown number. I snatch it up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jessie. How are you?” It’s the detective. Every single time, I think it might be you. Most people text.

  “Jessie, I have a question for you.”

  My chest tightens. “What?”

  “Has Chris ever tagged anything?” he asks.

  Tagged? “You mean with paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’d never tag anything,” I say. “He’s not into doing anything that is remotely against the law. He doesn’t even like being near people who are breaking the law. The one time we went to a party where there were drugs, we had to leave.” I glance at Raffa, think about how careful we always got to be around her, no swearing, nothing “bad.” She’s so protected. You don’t want her to be a Jehovah’s Witness, but you say it’s her choice; it wasn’t an easy choice for you to make. You love your mom and the church has a lot of great people who helped all of you when times were tough. But you believe all religions have some truth and you couldn’t practice any religion that said other people were wrong. I admire that about you.

  “He doesn’t drink?” the detective asks skeptically.

  “Never,” I say. “He follows most of the Jehovah’s Witness rules still.”

  “There was some vandalism on Friday night at the Honda dealership owned by Dave Johnson’s father. Someone spray-painted a bunch of cars. They left a couple beer cans.”

  I stare at Josh’s face. There are no words. I look at Raffa. Her eyes are wide open, like a cat that’s just been scared by a loud noise.

  “You think he did it because the person used spray paint? Like tagging is the kind of thing he’d do?” I’m raging now. “That’s so racist.”

  “Jessie, I’m only asking because someone said they might have seen him there, and he disappeared on Friday night and he had a motive of revenge. It makes sense.”

  “He would never do that!” I say. “Never.”

  “It would explain a lot of things. Why he’s disappeared. He wouldn’t want to bring his truck. Too easy to trace.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  He sighs. “Okay, Jessie. Relax. I’m just asking the question.”

  “Well, you have your answer. It’s unrelated. Or maybe Johnson did it so that it would look like Chris did it.”

  “Okay, thanks,” the detective says, and he hangs up.

  Josh is staring at me. “What?”

  “You won’t fucking believe it.” I wince, looking at Raffa. “Sorry.”

  She lets out an umph. “Don’t worry about it.” She looks a little pissy, like maybe she’s tired of everyone treating her like a little kid.

  So I tell them what the detective said.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Raffa says. The English accent is gone.

  “I know.”

  She bites on the edge of her pinkie finger. Josh can’t stop shaking his head. He types away and finally turns the laptop toward us. “Should we use this picture for the posters?” It’s your yearbook photo with your cap and gown. Remember how they only had a few of the gowns for the photos, and you were worried they didn’t have one big enough? You and Tim were laughing about it.

  You look so serious in this picture. The little bit of mustache on your top lip. You asked me if you should shave; you said you liked your stash. I said it was sexy and you kept it. Your mom went off about it later, and I felt kind of bad.

  “I like this picture,” I say. “Print it.” Then, I get an idea. “Maybe Raffa, you could check on the printer?” I give Josh a look. “Can you show her where it is?”

  He jumps up. “Sure. Come on.” She follows him, and a few seconds later he comes back. “Okay, what?”

  I speak in a low voice. “Rosemary doesn’t want us to tell Raffa about this, but you should write on the website about how he was jumped down there,” I tell Josh in a low voice. “You should publish Johnson’s name.”

  “Johnson might not have anything to do with this. That’s defamation.”

  “Defamation?” I hiss. “He’s defaming Chris’s name! He’s saying Chris could have vandalized his dad’s shop. If Chris doesn’t show up in Brooklyn pretty damn soon, or somewhere pretty damn soon, I’m telling you, Johnson attacked him. I swear to god. Remember how he looked at us?”

  Josh frowns. “Yeah, you’re right, Jessie. He’s an asshole, but I don’t want to, like, ruin his life. Not if we don’t know anything.”

  You’d say the same thing.

  “I’ll just say he was attacked without saying who,” he adds.

  “Okay.”

  Raffa comes back, holding a stack of your missing-person posters to her chest, like she’s hugging you. She sits down. “I brought the phone numbers of some of his friends in Brooklyn.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  When she’s talking to your ex-girlfriend, Latricia, I tell Raffa I want to hear. I press my head against hers to listen in. Latricia says you called her this week. On Wednesday. When we went on the break, you called your ex. Great.

  Her voice is soft, musical even. “How’s he been doing lately?”

  “Okay,” Raffa says.

  “He sounded pretty upbeat. I was just worried, you know, about before?”

  Raffa looks at me fast and then pulls back. “I think he’s fine,” she tells Latricia. “But, like, maybe he went to Brooklyn? Can you call us if he shows up?”

  Raffa hangs up and I ask her, “What did she mean, like before?”

  “I don’t know.” She makes a face.

  After the website’s done, we contact all the newspapers, TV,
and radio outlets that we can find.

  Then, I don’t tell Josh, but I write an email to the organizer of that protest in Portland, Steve. Even though we live near Seattle, he knows you at least and he’s got connections.

  I tell him everything we’re telling the media, but then I add: I think Chris could have been the victim of a hate crime. The police aren’t doing anything. There’s a guy named Dave Johnson—he’s from a rich family and he beat Chris up pretty bad a few weeks ago. We need help. Thanks, Jessie.

  Is that dramatic of me? I push SEND.

  4:20 PM Sunday, a bitchfest, on Josh’s driveway, in front of your sister

  Josh and I are standing in his driveway, saying bye to Raffa, when Tamara and Becky screech up in a black Mercedes.

  Tamara’s got her bitch face on. Guess they’re not just picking up posters like everyone else.

  Your mom and Raffa are getting in your mom’s car. Raffa’s holding a stack of posters. Oh god. Please let them hurry. I don’t want them to hear.

  Tamara jumps out of the Mercedes like a panther ready to strike, nails out, ready to scratch bloody lines across my face. She’s all done up today, lots of makeup, hair curled, expensive jeans, a tight T-shirt. I, meanwhile, am wearing a helmet, getting ready to ride down to the river to put up posters. At least she’s not wearing your hoodie.

  She marches up to me. “Jessie!”

  “What?” I glance over at your mom and Raffa. They’re in the car now, but Raffa’s window is open and she’s craning her head back to look.

  Tamara points at me and shakes her finger in my face. I want to bite it right off. “You were at the mall on Friday with that blond lifeguard from the pool.”

  “So?” I say.

  Your mom drives her car away, kind of jerks it forward. She must have heard something was going down.

  “So, Chris saw you.” Tamara’s chewing something in her mouth—gum maybe, or possibly her latest victim’s finger. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything,” I say. “Chris just overreacted.”

  “Overreacted to what?” Josh says, confused.

  “Nothing,” I tell him.

  Becky is stooped over like Big Bird. She always looks awkward and uncomfortable when Tamara’s being a bitch.

  “People saw you and that lifeguard pawing all over each other,” Tamara spits out.

  “We were just dancing,” I tell them.

  “It didn’t look like that to Chris.” Tamara raises her eyebrows. “He was crying.”

  “What?” I think about that look on your face at the mall. Did you cry? Oh my god, that makes me sick in my stomach. I never saw you cry before. Would you cry in public? “He’d never.”

  “You broke up with him and then he sees you at the mall making out with some hot, older guy. How do you think that’s going to make him feel?”

  My face heats up with rage. “First off, I didn’t break up with Chris. Second, I wasn’t making out with Michael. That’s disgusting. He’s like an older brother to me; Chris knows that. And he’s gay.” I shake my head, fiercely. “We were dancing to a song that they were playing in Foot Locker. Michael was trying on shoes and we started dancing. There’s no way Chris would’ve cried about that. It didn’t even look like anything.”

  Okay, maybe Michael went a little overboard. He was disco-ing it up, being extra cheesy. He’s a real good dancer, what can I say? He was spinning me around and around, and it felt so fun, so free, I let myself go. I felt like myself again, for the first time in a while. Then, I looked up and you were standing in the entrance of the store, your goddamn mouth open, catching flies, an odd look on your face. Your arms were just hanging by your side. Then you ran away. I couldn’t have caught you even if I tried.

  “He’s been totally depressed ever since you went on this break.” Tamara puts finger quotes around break. “I’m telling you, if he shows up in the river—”

  Josh stops her. “I don’t think this is helping anyone.”

  I am speechless. Why does she think you’re in the river? Did she talk to Johnson? Does she know something I don’t know?

  But then, maybe it’s how Becky swivels her head, like this has even shocked her, and I realize Tamara’s not saying that.

  She’s saying you jumped in—and killed yourself?

  “What are you talking about?” I say. “The bridge isn’t high enough to do anything and he can swim.”

  “He could have jumped in by the rapids,” Tamara says.

  It feels like the hole that I call a mouth is a pinprick in my face. No air can get in. Or out. Pain climbs through my chest. “He’d never do something to himself like that,” I say, finally. Sure, you get bummed out sometimes, but you’re not a depressed guy. You’re Mr. Gratitude, Mr. Think-Three-Happy-Thoughts. “He’s going to college soon. He has this whole exciting life ahead of him.” I look from Tamara to Becky to Josh. “Right?”

  A hesitation. Or did I imagine it?

  “No, he wouldn’t do that,” Josh says.

  Becky shakes her head. “Not right before graduation.” She smiles briefly down at Tamara, like she’s sorry. “Not over a breakup.”

  Tamara’s eyes flash. “You didn’t see what he looked like when he stopped by Tim’s barbecue. You were in the backyard, making out with Ian.”

  “I told you: I just don’t think he’d jump in there,” Becky says.

  Instantly, my mind pictures you doing a big jump into the water by the Pitt. And then, your body bumping along down the river and then disappearing into the class-four rapids. My heart breaks into a million pieces.

  “There’s no way,” I manage.

  “He has tons of friends,” Becky says. “He gets straight As. He has a full-ride scholarship to one of the best baseball colleges in the country.”

  Josh adds, “He might be a starting pitcher. That’s what the scout said.”

  “I mean, why would he?” Becky says.

  “Over her? No fucking idea.” Tamara tosses me a disgusted look. “I swear, if he killed himself over you, a fat-assed piece of white trash—”

  “Whoa,” Josh says, waving his arms. “Not cool.”

  Yes, she really said that.

  Tears are hammering at the backs of my eyes, but I don’t want Tamara to see. “Fuck off, Tamara.” Then, I jump on good old Ella and ride away.

  Josh runs after me. He’s sprinting. “Jessie,” he yells, “you okay?”

  I wave my hand. Don’t look back. “I’m fine,” I shout. “I’ll call you after I put these up.”

  I ride harder and harder, holding back a sob. His footsteps stop. I’m guessing he turned around.

  So, now you know how low Tamara can go, what she’ll stoop to—even in the midst of all this, she’s trying to hurt me. You always say to me: “You can’t let her get to you.” But she does. She really does. You tell me to ignore her, that she’s just jealous, but she has everything. Why would she be jealous of me? If she wanted you, she could have just had you.

  The truth is she’s a horrible person with a shell of a heart. Some people are plain old mean. You said someone turned her mean. It makes me mad how you stick up for her. We all have reasons to turn mean. Everyone has crap that happens to them. Some people, like Tamara, choose to hurt others back, and some people, like you, choose to make others feel better. Tamara should be the one who’s missing right now, not you.

  7:30 PM Sunday, the river

  I stick about fifty posters along the highway and leading up to the trail. I make sure not to get the tape on your face, even though there isn’t really enough room at the top of the poster.

  The river chatters on my right. Sounds so friendly. Harmless.

  You’d never jump in the river. You won’t come close to the water. You won’t even put your damn feet in.

  I gaze through the moss-covered trees, toward the dark and gurgling river, like a pot of water before it boils. All the action is happening below the surface, weeds tugging and swaying, holding an
d releasing, and always, always the undertow.

  When I was a kid, I thought the undertow was everywhere in a river, like some monster waiting to grab your ankles and pull you down. But it’s not. The pull is strongest on the outside of a turn in a river. Water is drawn to the inside of the turn, which is deeper due to erosion. It sucks water and debris…and bodies…from the outside to the inside. Up ahead, where the river turns to the right, that’s where the undertow would be. If you were in the river, your body would be pulled toward the inside of the turn, toward our side of the bank.

  I make my way to our spot and sit on the bright green grass. The Indian paintbrushes are blooming, bright red and yellow flowers stretching over the bank and down to the water, like wildfire.

  I think about the time I told you the Indian paintbrushes were poisonous, and then I took a bite of the flower. You jumped up and screamed, and I laughed my head off. You told me to spit it out; I mean, you were really freaking out and I couldn’t stop laughing to tell you it was okay. Do you think I’m so crazy, I’d eat a poisonous flower? When I told you it’s just the stem you have to worry about, you dropped backward on the grass, spread-eagled, saying “Man” again and again.

  Sorry I always freak you out. I can’t stop myself. It’s too funny.

  Like when I jumped off that cliff a month ago at Bear Lake, I knew the water would freeze my ass off, but I did it anyway because I wanted to see that terrified look on your face. I can’t help it. The urge is too great. Nobody ever worried about me before. It makes me so happy.

  You make me happy.

  My gaze hops across the water, leap-frogging from a ripple to a log to a clump of old branches and leaves. It’s one of those happy summer days. The river is glimmering. It looks inviting, even.

  You aren’t in there, no way, no how.

  It’s the kind of day we might come here and spread our blanket, lay down, get naked. I rest my head back on the grass, close my eyes, and sigh.

  There’s something I got to tell you. I tried to tell you before, but I couldn’t.

  It’s about our first time. I should have told you before.