by Kim Purcell
He pauses with the food in his mouth, and then shakes his head slowly as he swallows.
I stare at him. So, what? He still thinks you jumped? “The fact that they didn’t find a body is good news.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and then: “I keep thinking about how I shouldn’t have gone to the meet.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Josh. It’s stupid.” I can’t believe he’s saying this. “He knows you’d do anything for him.”
He nods, real fast, staring down at his carton of food.
“Seriously, Josh, he told me you’re the best friend he’s ever had.”
He looks up at me, finally, and manages a wiggly smile. “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
“He’s alive, Josh,” I say. “I just know it.”
He blinks hard a couple times, like he’s struggling to keep it together. Then he dives his fork into his box and starts shoveling food into his mouth. He’s eating as fast as he drives. It’s kind of mesmerizing.
He chews. Gulps. Glances at me. “Eat.”
I shove my box on the dash. “I can’t.”
“Jessie, we just have to try not to think of it.”
My gut tightens. He doesn’t know how impossible that is for me, how every waking moment of the day reminds me of you, how I talk to you in my head, like, all the time.
“I can’t do anything but think of him.”
He nods, and I guess it’s the same for him.
His cell rings from the dash and he grabs it. “Yeah?”
Tim’s yammering away on the other end. Josh looks worried, as he stares straight out the darkened windshield. “Okay.” More talking. “You have to tell the detective,” he says.
He hangs up. Stares down at the box of broccoli chicken. The suspense is killing me. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?
“What?” I bark.
“He says he checked the Find My iPhone app and Chris’s phone is in the Heights right now.”
“It’s on?”
“Apparently,” he says. “It’s by Johnson’s house.”
“Holy crap. We have to go there.”
He’s already shaking his head. “Detective McFerson said we need to stay away. Tim’s calling the detective. He’ll probably send a cop car out.”
“You really think they’re going to do anything? I mean, why aren’t the police tracking the phone? They should have it by now. All they’re doing is looking in the damn river.”
He’s hesitating.
“Josh! Come on.” I grab his arm. His arm hairs are extra long and curly blond. Never noticed that before. “Please?”
If you were here, you’d be smiling, even laughing at me. “That’s my girl,” I hear you say. That’s right, baby, I told you I’m not giving up.
Maybe Josh hears your voice in his head too. “Okay, fine.”
He starts up the car and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I have to get my purse,” I tell him.
I run back in the house and grab the large black purse on the hook next to the door, yes, with the gun. I hear your voice in my head telling me to stop. Sorry. I know you don’t approve. That’s too bad.
10:21 PM Wednesday, Johnson’s house
I am creeping up Johnson’s driveway. It’s so quiet here. No kids crying. No loud music. No tires screeching. No doors banging. Nobody’s on their porches smoking. And there aren’t any cats either. Isn’t that funny? No cats anywhere.
This neighborhood feels dead.
I glance back. Josh is sitting in the car, stewing. He’s such a rule follower—he’s like you in that way. But it’s fine with me. He doesn’t know what I have planned. It’s better this way.
There are no fences in the Heights, not metal, not wood, nothing; it’s like they think nothing bad can happen here.
Johnson’s huge white house has those pillar things in front. I even spotted a tennis court by the side yard. It’s like a goddamn palace. I need to get closer. Take a good look inside.
The whole house is lit up—every room—like they don’t have to worry about an electric bill. I can’t see in, though, not yet. The front windows are shielded behind the long, closed velvet curtains. Killer curtains. Some things are creepy, straight up, and velvet curtains are one of those things.
My flip-flops are too noisy, clapping on the wet cement. I slip them off, look back at Josh. He’s watching. Looks scared. The house lights shine from behind me, stretching my shadow toward his car, like it wants me to get back in.
I creep down the driveway. It’s cold and wet, but smooth. Not a single pebble. I bet they sweep it. Which is classic. Only messed-up people sweep their driveways.
I’m even with the house now. The driveway runs along the side. Johnson’s bright yellow car is parked in the back. Through the side window, I can see a girl with long, blond hair, holding a bowl of popcorn: Johnson’s sister, looks like.
My purse swings from my shoulder. The gun is growling inside. It’s hungry. I know you wouldn’t want me to use it, not even if Johnson killed you. But if he has your phone, if he’s done something to you, I swear, I won’t be able to stop myself.
At Johnson’s yellow car, I peer inside. I’m thinking he’d leave the phone in the car. I try the door. It opens. That’s how safe this neighborhood is. People leave their car doors open. I slide down into the black leather seat. The car still smells new. It’s cleaner than Josh’s car, but not as clean as your truck. There’s a soda can next to the driver’s seat, a baseball jersey shoved in the back. And a black hat with a yellow Go on the front. I pick it up. That’s funny. It’s the same hat that Michael has. Must have bought it at the same store. It matches his car.
I check the glove compartment. He’s so organized, which surprises me. Registration and insurance in this pouch, ready to give to cops. Nothing else. There’s no phone.
I glance back at the house. It looks like someone’s moving around in the far room. I slide out of the car. Leave the door cracked open. Because they’ll be able to hear a car door slamming shut.
Are his parents home? Don’t see any other cars.
My feet press into the moist grass. The room has a bunch of books. I can see that from my angle. Maybe a study?
I creep across the lawn. My feet are getting cold.
Dave Johnson is sitting at the desk. In front of a computer screen. I reach into my bag. Pull out my phone. If your phone is on, it’ll ring.
I call your number.
It’s not on speakerphone, but the first ring is loud in the quiet of the yard. My heart thrums. Johnson doesn’t move. He’s just staring at the screen.
Come on, I urge.
The second ring.
He jerks. Does he hear it ringing on my end? No, he’s reaching in a desk. He’s pulling out a phone. It’s a black iPhone. It’s the one I gave you. He’s looking down at it. He turns it off. I look down at my screen. It goes to voicemail.
Motherfucker.
I dive my hand into my purse, pull out the gun, click off the safety. It’s shaking in my hand. It’s up to me now. Nobody else is going to do anything. But I’m scared.
Put the gun down, baby.
It’s you. Are you here? Are you watching? I have to do it. You don’t understand. He took you from me.
And then something hits me. I’m falling into the grass. The gun flies through the air and lands a few feet away.
Josh is pressing his body into mine. Days-old funk floats off of him. “What the fuck, Jessie?” he hisses in my ear.
“He has the phone. He has the phone. Josh, he has the phone.” I can’t stop repeating it. I’m all jittery with adrenaline. I can’t believe I was right all along, that Johnson did something to you and nobody believed me but I was right, I was right. “He hurt Chris, maybe he killed him, and he’s going to get away with it, Josh. Guys like that always get away with it.”
“Shhh.” He covers my mouth. He’s pushing me into the wet grass. I had no idea he was so strong. “Jessie. We n
eed to leave. Now. The police are on their way.”
He’s talking to me like I’m a crazy person, but I was right all along.
I nod, planning to dive for the gun. But he’s faster than me.
He grabs it. I look up at the den. Johnson’s still staring at his computer. He has no idea how close I came. And now, there’s a picture on the screen. Holy shit. It’s a picture of you in a blue T-shirt and black shorts. That’s what you were wearing on the day you disappeared!
I roar with anger and run to the den, smash my hands on the window.
Johnson leaps from the chair. He turns and stares at me. His bright blue eyes are on fire.
“You fucker!” I scream.
Josh grabs my arm. And we run.
10 AM Thursday, waiting
The cops are at Dave Johnson’s house. I’m sitting next to Steph in my house on the brown sofa with the television blaring, waiting.
We told the detective everything. Except about the gun. Josh made me promise to put it back in my mom’s closet. I said I would, but I didn’t do it.
Dave Johnson is not getting away with this.
I stare, fuzzy-brained, at the images flashing in front of me. Steph is sitting beside me. She brought over some yogurt. And now, she’s shoveling a spoonful at my closed mouth, saying, “Eat.” She bangs the metal on my lips. “Open.”
I allow the yogurt into my mouth. Has he tied you up somewhere? Or did he kill you? Oh god, please be alive.
The detective said it’s impossible to search the entire river. Sometimes bodies show up later. That’s what he said.
Tomorrow is floating day. If the divers missed you somehow, you’ll be on top of the water on Friday.
4 PM Thursday, a manila envelope
I’m still sitting in front of the TV. Steph went to work. My phone is next to me. My computer is on my lap.
A few people have driven by Johnson’s house and texted that the cops are still outside. Josh and I have been warned—if we’re seen anywhere near his house, we’ll be charged with obstruction of justice.
Slow, heavy footsteps come down the stairs. Mom’s breathing is labored, panting. “This came for you.” She hands me a manila envelope. Pats my arm. Then turns to go back upstairs. Doesn’t ask me how I’m doing. Doesn’t ask what’s been happening with the investigation.
“That’s all?” I say, incredulous.
She turns around. “What?”
“You could ask me how I am.” Anger whistles through me. “It’s a normal mom thing to do, you know. To check in on your kid when her boyfriend’s gone missing. When her boyfriend might be dead. When his killer is being interrogated.”
She runs her hand through her greasy hair. “I’m sorry. I never know what to say to you.”
“You could try.”
“It’s just, I’ve been real tired lately. I don’t know. My muscles have been aching me and—”
I jump up. My teeth are clenched. “I. Don’t. Care.” My anger flings itself at her. “For once,” I yell, “this isn’t about you. I’m the one who’s going through a rough time. It’s my boyfriend who’s gone missing.”
She hobbles backward. “I—I know that.”
“You’ve done nothing, not one little thing to help me find Chris. You don’t even make me meals. I’m not eating, Mom. Do you even care?”
She gulps. “I do care.”
“It’s so shitty,” I cry. “I help you all the time. I do everything.” I wave my arm in front of me. She flinches. Like she thinks I’m going to hit her. Doesn’t she know I would never? “You can’t even clean your own stuff,” I sob, even though it’s not about the mess anymore. “If I put it upstairs, you put it down here. I have to live in this rat’s nest and the thing is, I can’t leave, because I got to pay for groceries and help with the mortgage.”
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Her mouth is quivering, and for real, she does look sorry, but I’m too mad.
“Sorry’s not good enough,” I say. “Just clean your shit up.”
Without saying another thing, she turns and shuffles out of the room. I feel like crap. Man, she can’t help herself. Why do I have to attack the people who love me?
I look down at the priority mail envelope.
My heart drums. Could it be something from you? A final note?
Please, no.
I stroke the smooth envelope, then rip it open with the tab. I reach inside and pull out another envelope. I look closer. It’s from the State Department. It’s my friggin passport. Oh my gosh. I nearly had a heart attack. You’d think they’d mark in big letters, PASSPORT, and make you sign for it, but they don’t. So, now I’m ready for this trip that we’re supposed to go on starting next week. Passport. Check. Boyfriend. No check.
I wouldn’t have applied for a passport if it weren’t for you.
The truth is I’m not a wild girl. I’m afraid of so many things. I’m afraid of college. I’m afraid of not making it in a big city. I’m afraid of trying to do something amazing and failing. But I’m even more afraid of not trying and being stuck in this crummy-ass town. I’m afraid I’ll marry some loser and have babies. I’m afraid of being unimportant, not just to you, but to everyone else, to the whole goddamn world, just living and dying, and making no kind of difference.
The day after I promised you in front of the campfire, I went to the post office with my two passport photos and my ID and I sent the application off. And then I started to look at colleges. I never would have done that either if you hadn’t made it seem possible. I wouldn’t have thought about how I love nature and I want to conserve it and maybe I should go to school for that. Because of you, I started thinking I could make a difference.
Josh texts: I talked to McFerson
Next text: He says Johnson didn’t do anything
No. Oh my god. Panic sweeps through me. I write: What the fuck?
Josh: Johnson says he just found the phone
More typing and then, finally: Detective says they need more evidence to charge him, it won’t stand up in court
Me: That’s bullshit
Josh: Guess he got a big lawyer
Rage heats my eyeballs. I want to throw things. I want to scream. I want to grab a knife and stab and stab and stab. It’s scares me, how crazy I feel inside.
Is Johnson really going to get away with this?
I reach for the first thing I can grab. That damn rabbit bottle, now on the coffee table. And I fling it hard against the wall. It’s plastic, so it bounces and falls down into a new random pile of junk. It’s not satisfying. I reach down and grab a big pile of laundry and cords and fling it against the wall. Grab more things. Throw them across the room. More shit. The piles transform into lumps. The pathways disappear.
Finally, I’m so exhausted, I collapse on the sofa. This can’t be happening.
6 PM Friday, teen night
It’s weird to be here, next to my long metal locker, with my bathing suit hanging and my chlorine shampoo and extra-dry hair conditioner standing up on the top shelf, like normal. But I don’t know what else to do. Being home is not better. Watching TV is not better. I might as well make money while I’m waiting to find out what’s happened. Waiting for you to appear.
Today is floating day. And so far, nothing. You didn’t float.
When I walk upstairs to the deck, Michael’s got the music blasting, like normal. It’s totally weird, déjà vu. Michael’s leaning on the glass by the office, looking at his phone, like usual. He says, “Hey, beautiful!” like usual. He gives me one of his warm hugs and smells of cologne, like usual. I pull back, kind of uncomfortable.
He clears his throat. “You okay to guard?”
I nod. “I slept last night.” For three hours. My head is foggy. But it’s teen night. Nothing ever happens.
“That’s great,” he says, too enthusiastically. “Um, just a heads-up, I got some stuff to do tonight in the office. Do you want to take first shift?” Usually Michael and I spend the wh
ole shift talking; we don’t even take breaks.
“Sure, I can do it,” I say.
Then he hurries off. He’s acting weird. Maybe he just feels bad because we were dancing and then you saw us and that night, you disappeared. Maybe he feels like it’s his fault.
Anyway, I wouldn’t be much fun to talk to. All I can think about is Johnson.
I scan the pool. It’s dead, as always on teen night. That’s why there’s only two of us working. The teens are scattered around the deck, but not in the pool.
Some thirteen-year-old girls strut around the deck in pods, and a group of fifteen-year-old boys head over to the hot tub. The boys have one girl with them in a red-and-white polka-dotted bikini. She slides in close to one of the guys. We always got to watch for sex in the hot tub. No joke, the way they do it, the girl “sits” on the guy’s lap, like we’re too stupid to figure it out. Michael and I normally laugh about it.
Billboard’s Hot 100 is playing. You know how much I love dancing to this kind of music. But today, I got nothing. There’s no thump-thump pumping around inside me, making me want to gyrate. That part of me is dead. The last time I danced with Michael, the thump-thump was there. Then you disappeared.
I release a long slow breath out of my mouth, lips pursed, like I’m blowing bubbles in the pool, and I stare at the flat surface of the water.
Your arm reaches up. Why does my mind keep doing that? That’s not how people drown, even if they’re caught in weeds. And if you were sucked under, you’d just be gone. Nobody would see you. Get it right, brain.
Will I ever be able to guard again without my mind messing with me? I don’t know. I guess you better come home. You better be alive.
After twenty minutes, Michael bumps me. “Go relax,” he says.
Code for: I don’t want to talk.
Man, one week ago, we were dancing on the deck and talking nonstop, interrupting each other, laughing our brains out. Today, everything is different.
Maybe he doesn’t want to make me lose my shit on deck. I don’t move.
“Any news about Chris?” he hazards.