“So?”
“So I think we should call the police.”
“Oh, c'mon. Take it easy. She's just ticked at her mother. Thanks for calling.”
He hangs up.
There's a new host cooking on the TV. She's telling me about her favorite breakfasts for cold autumn mornings. I barely hear the words. But in the kitchen, the cuckoo seems loud. It taps at its door. Twice.
Morning, morning.
Everyone is talking about the morning—my dad, Rusty, the cuckoo—like some automatic change will happen. The woman on TV starts putting together an egg casserole.
It's 2 a.m.
Which means morning is already here.
And Drew is not.
I call the police.
***
Twenty minutes later, Officer KC Lande is standing on the front stoop. She is tiny and freckled and the widest part of her is the gun belt circling her waist. She listens as I explain why I called—listens to the whole story with a face that looks hard as stone.
“Where are her parents?” she asks.
I lead Officer Lande into the den, where Isaac Newton is still camping on Jayne's head.
“Ma'am?” she says to Jayne. “Hello, ma'am?”
Officer Lande looks over at me. Under her freckled skin, the cheekbones seem as prominent as rock formations.
“How much did she drink?” she asks.
“Couple bottles of wine. But that's every Friday night.”
She reaches down, shaking Jayne's shoulder. Isaac Newton hisses but Officer Lande doesn't even pay attention to him. She shakes harder.
“Ma'am! It's the police!”
Jayne's face contorts. But it still takes several more prompts from Officer Lande until Jayne sits up, throwing Isaac Newton off-balance. Her eyes open, sort of, trying to focus on the person in the blue uniform standing right in front of her.
“Ma'am, we received a phone call about your daughter,” says Officer Lande.
“What she do now?”
All one word: Wa-shee-dew-now.
“Have you been drinking?” Officer Lande asks.
“Jussalittle.”
Sir Isaac Newton has left an electrostatic charge on Jayne's hair. The rising strands make her look even more messed up. She looks at me, frowning.
I explain that it's past 2 a.m. and Drew's still not home.
“Teenagers.” Jayne rolls her head toward Officer Lande. “You got kids?”
“No, ma'am. When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
“Breck-fust.”
I wonder if that's true. Jayne usually leaves for work at 5:30 every morning—so she can be the first person into the office—and Drew usually gets herself up, riding her bike to school. I try to signal Officer Lande, but she's watching Jayne.
“Ma'am, do you have any idea where your daughter might be?”
Jayne waves her hand, indicating my general area. “Ask her.”
“Me?”
“Ma'am, she's the one who called us.”
“Wants to make trouble.”
“No I don't!”
Officer Lande gives me a long look. Then back to Jayne. “Ma'am, why would she want to make trouble?”
“Why?” Jayne starts to laugh. It only lasts a second. Then she looks confused. “What time's it?”
“Quarter after two,” Officer Lande says. Then adds: “In the morning.”
“Time for bed!”
Jayne shoves herself off the couch. Isaac Newton seems to know what's coming because he leaps all the way off the couch. Jayne stands, wavering like she's going to fall backwards, before Officer Lande grabs her elbow. Jayne yanks it away and manages to shuffle around the coffee table. Then shuffles over to where I'm standing. Her wine-drenched breath makes me blink.
“You can't stop me,” she says.
"What?"
Her glassy eyes find Officer Lande again. “Experiment. They do this. Gonna hide. Call the cops. Try to stop the move.”
“What move?” I ask.
“North.”
"North?"
Officer Lande moves closer. “Ma'am, are you saying your daughter ran away because you're moving?”
“Zactly. Refuses to go.”
I can feel Officer Lande watching me, expecting me to say something, but every word is bunched into my throat.
“You're moving—?” I manage, finally.
“Monday.”
“But—” I can't find other words, even with my mouth hanging open.
“N'York.” Jayne smoothes her hair. “Promotion. Can't wait.”
The boxes. Suddenly I remember those cardboard boxes in the empty bedroom. The bare appearance of Jayne's bedroom. She's packing up, heading out. Drew's refusing to go.
But why didn't she tell me Jayne planned to move? How could she keep that big a deal from me?
“Ma'am.” Officer Lande is following Jayne from the room. “I'd like to get some clarification, if you don't mind.”
But Jayne makes a direct path to the front door, opening it with a flourish. “Not interested. G'night.”
Before we are barely outside, she slams the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Officer Lande touches the radio clipped to her shoulder. She tells them where she is, that she's leaving the house. I stare out at the yard, blanketed with leaves, hoping Drew will step out of the dark.
"So that's it?" I say.
"Raleigh—it's Raleigh, correct?"
"Raleigh Harmon."
"Do you know it's against the law to file a false report with the police?"
"It's a class one misdemeanor."
She stares at me. "How do you know that?"'
"I just do." Because I've spent so many hours sitting in my dad's courtroom—escaping the hell that is home—that I could practically work as a paralegal. But I'm not telling her that. Last thing I need is a cop calling my dad when I've snuck out of the house. "And since I know it's a class one misdemeanor, I also know it can carry a heavy fine. Filing a false report to the police is probably, what, two thousand dollars? So if I know all that, why in the world would I file a false report?"
She opens her mouth but I continue.
"The answer is: I wouldn't. Drew Levinson is missing."
"You might also know that she's not officially missing until twenty-four hours have passed."
"She's a minor."
"And with minors," she says slowly, "the parents have to file the report. Unless we see signs of foul play, suspicious activity . . ."
"You just saw her mother—she's drunk."
Officer Lande hikes her shoulders. "She gets behind the wheel of car, okay, I can do something. Otherwise, no. Where's her dad?"
"Forget it."
I scan the dark trees again. If Jayne's really planning to move to New York, Drew might've taken off. But why wouldn't she tell me? It's not sixth grade, when she had no friends. I'm closer to her than my own sister. And how come Rusty didn't mention the move?
"And why is her stuff still at school?" I say out loud.
"You got me," Officer Lande says. "If it helps, we get these calls almost every night. Kids take off, do stupid things. Most of the time it works out. Eventually."
"Drew doesn't do stupid things. Her mother does."
I shiver as another gust of wind kicks up the leaves. The night feels cold, damp. Rain is coming. Then what?
Officer Lande nods her head toward the police cruiser, parked in the driveway.
"Need a lift?"
***
The seat is hard plastic. The back curves inward at the base. When I sit down I realize what it's for, when a person’s hands are cuffed behind their back.
"You do this often?" she asks.
I look up. A steel mesh cage separates the front and back seats. "Do what?"
"Sneak out at night?"
"Never."
"You mean, just this once?"
I can only see her eyes in the rearview mirror so it's hard to judge her expressio
n. Is she being serious? Mocking? Her eyes were gray inside Drew's house. But the pale light from the dashboard makes them look watery blue, like opals.
"I'm not lying about Drew, if that's what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything. But if you're lying to me, you're a good liar."
"I'm a lousy liar. You can ask my—"
I stop.
I was going to say, ‘You can ask my mom.’ But Officer Lande looks like she might think that's a really good idea. I can only imagine what would happen if a police officer pulls up to our house, at this hour, to ask my mom why I'm not in my room.
The whole idea scares the night-fear right out of me.
"So your parents don't know you're out here," she says, as if reading my thoughts.
I stare out the back window. The stark city still looks black-and-white. And everything inside of me feels gray. "No, they don't know."
When we reach Monument Avenue, I hear the familiar rumble of the cobblestones. Only now it sounds ominous, like a menacing drumroll. I sit forward as Officer Lande swings around the Robert E. Lee rotary, then show her how to cut behind our house into the alley.
“I take it you don't want your parents to know," she says. "Why's that, if your friend's in trouble?"
"My mom—she—" But I can't finish the sentence. What's the point? Nobody understands. Nobody except Drew. Finally, I say, "My mom worries a lot."
"What about your dad?"
"He worries when she worries. So my job is to make sure he doesn't worry."
"Sounds like a big job for a kid."
The cruiser's headlights rake the brick wall guarding our back patio. She stops at the carriage house then leans forward, taking in the buildings.
"I always wondered who lived in these grand old houses." She turns her head to look at me. "Now I know."
"Only we're not like any of the neighbors."
She laughs.
"Seriously.”
"Even better." She smiles and reaches into a cup holder attached to her dashboard, taking out a small white card. She writes something on the back, bends it lengthwise, and pushes it through the cage. "Call me if you hear anything about your friend. Good or bad."
"What if I don't hear anything?"
"Then get her parents to call."
"You mean there's nothing I can do?"
"Not unless there's evidence of foul play." Her smile disappears. "And we don't want that. Let's just hope she goes home soon."
I thank her for the ride, the card, and, though I don't say it out loud, for not getting all righteous about telling my parents.
She just nods.
I open the gate and sneak across the patio. The cruiser pulls away. I glance up. My parents' bedroom window is dark. My sister Helen's room is above that, also dark, and then above it is the slate roof. The night sky is no longer clear. The wind has pushed in thick clouds, their bellies lit by the city lights. They have dark charcoal smears, the color of rain.
The French doors to the kitchen are still unlocked, like I left them. But now a heavy layer of condensation has formed on the glass panels, a problem Drew once explained to me. Our old wooden mullions aren't good at heat differential, transferring the cold outside between the warm inside. I'm careful touching the glass. Smear all that beaded up water, and my mother might freak out tomorrow morning.
My next hurdle is the staircase. Thirty-seven steps to the third floor—I've counted it, daily—and since the house is a hundred years old, every step wants to say something. But one good thing about my mother's paranoia: it's taught me how to creep around my own house. I stick to the outer edges of each step and reach the third floor with only one squeak. Next up is my bedroom door. It has iron hinges that squeal like pigs in damp weather. I spend forever opening the door an inch at a time, then another forever closing it.
But finally I'm in my room, leaning against the wood door, closing my eyes, wanting to cry from relief. Or maybe just loneliness. I want to call Drew and tell her about tonight, and she's the sad reason tonight even happened.
I can feel a really sickening sob waiting at the back of my throat. I press it back, keeping my eyes shut tight.
Suddenly there's a rustle of paper nearby.
I open my eyes. My desk. The paper. Wind flows through my open window. Touches my hair. Sends a chill down my spine.
When I left, my window was closed.
Drew!
I rush over, leaning over the sill, reaching out, nearly touch the magnolia tree that runs up the side of the house. But the limbs, I know, would never hold her, even as light as she is. I reach down, touching the ivy climbing over the brick. The vines grip the brick, secure, the leaves shining milky in the floodlights from across the street, glowing around Robert E. Lee. I brush my hand down the ivy again and again. But nothing's torn.
Then again, Drew only weighs ninety pounds.
I turn around, checking out the room. My backpack still sits by my chair. The zipper isn't completely closed but when I reach inside, rooting around, nothing's gone. Even the soil samples from the tunnel are still there.
I check the armoire and see my school uniform once again balled up on the floor right where I threw it after my mother traced my foot. I check under the bed. I even tiptoe down the hall to the bathroom.
She's not here.
When I climb into bed, I start to wonder if maybe I did open that window and forgot. I'm so tired, it's possible. Still wearing the sweats I ran in, I lay still as stone until my eyes won't stay open. I feel myself slipping into sleep, that delicious exhausted sleep that even insomnia can't catch. I take a deep breath, letting it take away the sting in my toes, my raw toes. Then I pull in one last breath. Sleep is here, waiting for me. Dawn coming, safe to fall asleep.
The bolt of panic makes me sit straight up. My heart slams into my ribs.
It's not just the open window.
Before I snuck out, I stuffed my pillows under my comforter. Just in case my dad—or mom—happened to check on me.
I reach back, touching the pillows.
And somebody took them out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I wake up to the smell of cinnamon. Warm, sweet, delicious, the scent drifts under my door. My mouth waters.
Except I know better.
I want to yank the covers over my head and beg sleep to come back, but all of last night flashes in my mind.
Drew.
Maybe she's home now.
I jump out of bed, wincing at the pain in my toes and shivering. I left the window open, just in case she climbed up the side of my house, and the air is icy-cold in my room. And wet. The rain has left a small puddle on the floor. I mop it up, change out of my sweats into pajamas, and pull clean socks over my wounded feet. When I walk down the back stairs to the kitchen, the ones made for the servants who no longer live here, I’m sure to hit every squeaking step. I don't want anybody in the kitchen surprised.
My mother, however, doesn't turn around. She's at the stove, which I expected, given the deceptive cinnamon scent. But she's also wearing a bright pink apron—with ruffles on it. Generally, I hate pink. But right now I really hate this pink because it screams Suzy Homemaker Took Her Meds!
Now I know we're in trouble.
I glance at my dad. He's sitting at the table reading the morning newspaper.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, lowering the paper.
"Fine."
My mom continues to keep her back to me. She's gazing into the oven's glass door. When these domestic moods hit her, she will watch casseroles bake and water boil. Even the meds can't change Paranoid Cooking 101.
I check the answering machine by fridge. It still shows a big red zero.
"Anyone call this morning?" I ask, hoping to sound casual.
My dad answers from behind the newspaper. "No."
My mother turns. "Was someone supposed to call?"
The paper lowers. We've both heard her tone, but when I glance at my dad, I can see he's expecting m
e to say something. The next split-second stretches to eternity as I scramble for the right reply. But this is what comes to me: "DeMott Fielding."
"DeMott Fielding?" she says. "From church?"
I glance at my dad. Relief washes over his face.
"Yes, DeMott." I feel my own relief. First, this is not a lie—DeMott did call yesterday, so theoretically he could call today. Second, my mother adores that guy. And third, she's looking at me like maybe I really am her daughter.
"That young man is the most handsome thing in Richmond," she says.
"You're making me jealous," my dad says.
"Now, David, you know I wouldn't trade you for all the pie in Georgia." She walks over to him—actually leaves her vigil over the casserole—to kiss him.
Maybe the meds are working.
Normal for my parents is an all-out flirt-fest. Hugs, kisses, teasing. It's embarrassing.
I turn around so I don't have to watch and open the fridge, rummaging for my Coca Cola. It's way at the bottom in back, behind all the disgusting healthy food. I keep my head down long enough for them to finish their gooey flirting.
But when I stand up, my dad says, "Raleigh?"
"What?"
He clears his throat.
“Pardon,” I say.
"Your mother asked you a question."
"Sorry, what?" I turn to my mom.
"Raleigh," he sighs. “Pardon.”
"Pardon. Ma'am?"
"Why would DeMott Fielding be calling you?"
"I don't know." I stand there, the cold can of Coke freezing my palm. My mind has gone blank.
And my dad knows it. He jumps in.
"Nadine, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were the one with a crush on that boy."
"I don't have a crush on him," I say.
They aren't listening. They're back to flirting.
"Now, David, you know the facts. You're the love of my life. But Raleigh ought to marry that boy."
Okay, great. Maybe now she really does think I'm her "real" daughter. This whole conversation is way too much to process after four hours of sleep. Snapping open the Coke, I draw out the phffftt of carbonation, letting it express my feelings on this subject. My dad gives me a look over the top of the newspaper, the one that says I'm once again breaking the South's 11th commandment: Thou Shalt Not Be Rude.
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