by Jeff Shelby
“Was she back?” Emily asked as soon as we walked in the door from rehearsal.
Her sisters ignored her, kicking off their shoes and stripping out of their jackets before scurrying past her, headed for the stairs. We’d had to leave for rehearsal right as a Barbie wedding was commencing and they were eager to resume the nuptials.
“Who? Snow White?” I asked, struggling to get my own shoes off. I’d worn boots and the laces were double-knotted, making it impossible to just slip them off. “No. And she's apparently no longer in the play.”
Emily leaned against her doorframe, her mouth hanging open. “She's out of the play?”
I nodded. “That's what we were told. Which I guess I understand if they can't find her.”
“Well, no one knows where she is,” Emily said.
“And how do you know?” I asked before turning my attention to the sink full of dinner dishes I’d left behind.
She followed me into the kitchen and grabbed a blueberry muffin from a Ziploc bag on the counter. “I just...heard about it.”
“From who?”
“No one.”
I blasted hot water into the sink and poured in dish soap. “So, what?” I glanced at her. “You were just talking to the sky and the sky responded?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. Duh. I just mean that people are, like, talking about it.”
“She doesn't even go to your school,” I pointed out.
She shifted her attention to the paper wrapper on the muffin. “Well, yeah, but I know people who go to Moose River High. I talk to them and stuff.”
Will bounded into the kitchen and tried to grab the muffin out of her hand. She swatted him away and gave him a death glare. He just laughed.
“Who do you talk to at Moose River?” I asked. “Since when?”
“I just know kids there, Mom.” She sighed, like she couldn’t believe she had to explain something so simple. “Like from Instagram and Twitter and stuff.”
Will ripped a bag of chips down from the top of the fridge.
“Didn’t we all just eat dinner like two hours ago?” I asked, looking at both of them.
Will shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m hungry.” He stuffed a potato chip in his mouth. “And she talks to Andy…”
Emily's face immediately shaded crimson. “Shut up, Will.”
He popped another chip in his mouth and chuckled, happy to have gotten a reaction from her. “She talks to Andy a lot.”
“Who's Andy?” I asked.
“Probably her boyfriend,” he said, grinning.
Emily made a lunge for him. “Shut up!”
I wedged my arm between them, nearly clotheslining her, and stopping her forward progress. “Ignore him.”
“Andy knows people in the play,” Will told me. “That's probably how she knows stuff.”
“I'm going to kill you,” she whispered. “And how do you know?”
Will shrugged and munched on another chip. At the rate he was shoveling them in, he’d devour the entire bag within minutes. “I follow you on Twitter and Instagram.”
“No you don’t. I have you blocked.”
“Blocked?” I raised my eyebrows. “What?”
“He’s annoying,” she said. “I don’t want him seeing my stuff. Which is why I blocked him.” She stared at him, her mind working. Then her eyes widened. “Oh my god. Did you hack my accounts?”
Will smiled.
“Oh my god! Mom! You can’t let him keep doing that computer stuff!”
I turned my attention to Will. “Did you hack into her accounts?”
“No,” he said.
But I wasn’t convinced. I frowned at him and waited.
“I might have tried out a couple of passwords…”
“I knew it!” Emily wailed.
“Will,” I began.
“Look, we’re always telling her to make strong passwords. I was just… testing some out. To see. Call it a free security check…”
“You and I will talk about this later,” I said to him. I shifted my attention back to Emily. “What have you heard?” What I really wanted to do was ask for more details about her so-called boyfriend, but the story about the missing girl had me curious. “Anything specific about Amanda?”
She gave her brother one more stare full of daggers before shifting her eyes to me. “Just that no one knows where she is.”
“Like, not even her family?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know her. I just know of her.”
“Because she's Andy's ex-girlfriend,” Will chimed in.
Emily's face went red again and she charged into my arm, determined to rip the arms off of her brother and beat him to death with them. I caught her and wrapped her up and walked her back into her room, abandoning the dirty dishes and shutting the door behind us.
“Don't let him get your goat,” I warned her. “He likes to push buttons. You know that. And he knows your buttons. All he wants is for you to react. If you ignore him, he'll shut up.”
“He's a troll,” Emily said, sitting down on her bed, frowning. “I'm gonna kill him.”
“No, you're not. Because I might,” I said. I sat down on the edge of her bed and pasted on what I hoped was a neutral, nonchalant, I don’t-really-care smile. “Sooo, does Andy go to Moose River?”
Now her face was more pink than red. “Mom.”
“I’m just asking a simple question.”
She snorted. “Ha. A simple question that will lead to a million other questions…”
“Just tell me. Or I'll badger you to no end. You know I'll do it.”
“Whatever.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “No, he goes to Prism with me.”
Prism. Her charter high school that I’d spent too much time at recently, getting entangled in the theft of their school computers.
I decided to cut to the chase. “And is he your boyfriend?”
“No,” she said quickly. “We're just...I don't know. Friends.”
“Do you like him?”
“Mom.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop.”
Emily hardly ever talked to me about her friends or boys. She played everything close to the vest and was reluctant to divulge anything, despite my constant prying. Actually, the only time she ever really told me anything was when someone else, usually a friend, made a casual comment that I happened to pick up on. This was as much information as I'd gotten in recent weeks and, even though I would never admit it, I was secretly pleased that her brother had done some button pushing and Internet trolling. I just wished he’d been a little less abrasive. And hadn’t hacked into her accounts. Because there would definitely need to be some consequences for that.
I shifted the topic slightly to take the pressure off. “He and Amanda were dating?”
She hesitated. “Yeah. For like six months.”
“But not anymore?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“You don't sound upset about that.”
She shrugged, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Not really any of my business.”
“Sort of seems like you’re making it your business.”
She sighed again. “Mom. Seriously. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Clearly. And you don’t know anything about her being gone? And to be clear, I’m not asking to be nosy. I’m asking because it affects your sisters and the play.”
Emily shook her head. “I really don’t. I swear. I just know everyone’s talking about it, but I have no clue where she is.”
“Does Andy?” I asked.
Her face colored again. “I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Mom, jeez,” she said, completely exasperated. “I don’t know where she is. Andy hasn’t said anything to me about her, and I’m pretty sure if he knew where she was, he’d tell someone.” She paused. “He’s...he’s a good guy. He wouldn’t lie to anyone.”
“He’s a teen-aged boy,” I told her. �
��They all lie to someone.”
FOUR
I was on costume duty the next night.
The day had flown by in a flurry of guitar lessons and a trip to the library and a documentary on the Serengeti and an hour of bottle rocket building. Just another typical day of homeschooling. I loved how we did things, cobbling activities and events and lessons together to create our own version of “school,” but it also meant that my days were busy and fragmented. Most of the time, I’d glance at the clock and see it was approaching evening, and I would never be quite sure how we’d gotten there so quickly.
When I saw six o’clock flash on the clock on the stove, I panicked. I threw pasta in a pot, made Will watch over the sauce (he was restricted from all computer activities for a week as punishment for hacking his sister’s accounts), and then hustled the younger girls into the shower. With wet heads, they slurped down a quick plate of spaghetti and we headed out the door just as Jake was pulling into the driveway.
Because – yay, me – I was on costume duty.
Grace and Sophie had both been cast as dwarfs. Grace was Dopey and Sophie was Sneezy, and neither of them were terribly happy with their roles. Not because they didn’t like little people, but because neither part involved a lot of lines. Jake and I had reminded them that they needed to earn their way up the ladder, and that this was their first time with this theater company. And that it could have been way worse.
They could’ve been cast as, like, trees.
But we were getting closer to the performance nights and it was time to pick up the costumes, a process slightly more complicated than entering nuclear codes in the underground bunker near the Badlands. After I dropped the girls off, I ran to the grocery store to grab the nine things I’d forgotten to get the day before and then headed back to rehearsal to begin the checkout process for the costumes. There were multiple forms to fill out, required signatures, identification checks, and blood sample collection. Okay, so I didn’t really have to give blood, but by the time I’d filled out the mountain of necessary forms to take home the dwarf costumes for the following week, I felt like I’d left blood on the papers.
Nancy, one of the theater moms, handed me two tags. “Take this down the one hallway, the main one. That’ll take you to the main room, the one we use as a dressing room. There’s a smaller room in the back of the main room. That’s where the costumes are.”
I tried to create a mental picture of her directions. And failed. “Lots of ‘mains’,” I said, smiling.
She frowned at me. “Be sure you match the number on the costume to the number on your tag. You’ll be held responsible if you take the wrong one.”
By her tone, I wondered if I would meet a firing squad if I somehow ended up with Grumpy’s costume instead of Sneezy’s. Didn’t all the dwarfs dress the same? I was tempted to ask her, but the sour look on her face kept me from engaging in any further conversation.
“Okay, thanks,” I said instead. “I’m sure I’ll find them.”
Her lips pressed together. She clearly didn’t have the same confidence in me that I did.
After ten minutes of wandering the labyrinth of hallways, a helpful teen took pity on me and pointed to a door at the far end of a hallway. I stepped inside an empty classroom that had been turned into a makeshift dressing room. A few backpacks and book bags littered the floor, along with a scattering of trash and hangers, which made me think it was a big locker room of sorts, too. I made my way toward the back of the room. I pushed open the door and was greeted with a pile of costumes on the floor that looked more like a collection of cast-offs ready to be given to Goodwill. I sighed, set my purse down and got down on the floor to start sorting through the wreckage in order to find the girls’ costumes. I didn’t want to experience the wrath of Nancy if I accidentally took the wrong ones.
I’d just located Dopey’s hat when I heard the door to the main room open. I assumed it was another late-arriving parent there to join me in the search for costumes.
But I was wrong.
“I can’t believe we have to pick all this crap up.” It was the voice of a girl and, judging by the sound, probably someone close to Emily’s age. “We didn’t make this mess. I swear, my mom is so lame.”
“Couldn’t she have had the little kids do it?” Another teen girl. “I mean, she is the director.”
My mom. The director.
Which meant the first girl was Madison Bandersand, Eleanor Bandersand’s super-entitled, spoiled, pain in the rear end daughter.
I didn’t use those descriptions lightly, especially to describe a kid. I barely knew Madison. But I knew enough. In the short amount of time I’d spent around her at the rehearsals, she’d fit all three of those descriptions to a tee. And other parents who knew her far better than I did described her in even worse terms. This was apparently the first time she hadn’t gotten the lead role in one of her mother’s plays and it hadn’t set well with her. She was sullen, mouthy and generally rude, sneering at any of the younger kids who dared to ask her a question, and openly mocking any adult who offered her direction of any kind. Sophie had accidentally stepped on her foot during a dance number during the first week of rehearsals and Madison had come unglued, yelling at her until she was on the verge of tears. Grace, not caring for how her sister was getting yelled at, ‘accidentally’ stepped on Madison’s other foot. Hard. Jake had refrained from cheering from his position in the back of the theater and we’d both encouraged them to keep their distance ever since. The girls had been more than happy to oblige.
“Who knows?” Madison was saying. “All I know is this play is going to be about a hundred times better now that I’m going to be Snow White.”
“For sure,” the other girl said. “But you aren’t Snow White yet.”
I crawled closer to the door so I could hear better.
“Whatevs,” Madison said. I couldn’t see the eye roll but I knew it was there. “I’m gonna be Snow White. There’s no one else in this stupid play that can handle the role. I mean, I should’ve been Snow White in the first place.”
“I don’t know.” The other girl’s voice was a little hesitant. “Amanda was pretty good...”
“Amanda was lame,” Madison spat. “She just sucked up to my mom.”
“Well, she does sort of have Snow White’s hair and—”
“Oh my God, whatever. I’m, like, ten times the actress she is, alright? This should teach my mom to never try to put me in a small role.” She cackled. Really, truly cackled. “It’s like payback or something.”
I was pleased to learn that I had in no way misjudged Madison.
“Plus, I’m the only one in this cast that’s going to college for drama, okay?” Madison continued. “I mean, I’m going to drama school at the U.”
“You got in?” I could hear the other girl was impressed at this news. “I didn’t realize you’d heard yet.”
There was a pause and I heard the rustling as papers were wadded up and the clink of metal hangars being collected.
“Of course I got in,” Madison said smugly. “I’m just trying not to rub it anyone’s face, you know? Because I’m classy like that.”
I held back the vomit.
“Sure,” her friend said. “Well, cool. I’m glad you got in. And I guess it’s sorta good that Amanda disappeared. For you, I mean.”
“Like I said,” Madison said. “Amanda was a lame Snow White.”
I pushed myself off the floor and gathered the dwarf costumes for Grace and Sophie. If I had to sit back there and listen any longer, the remaining costumes were going to be covered in my own barf. I picked up my purse, then cleared my throat. Loudly. I then cleared it again, giving them a few seconds to make sure they knew someone was back there before stepping out into the main room.
They were both staring at me.
“Oh, hello, girls,” I said, smiling at them. “I was just picking up costumes.”
“We didn’t know you were back there,” Madison said, her porcelain s
kin turning pink.
“No?” I asked innocently. “The door was open, wasn’t it?”
She looked at her friend, who I recognized as a girl named Holly. If I remembered correctly, she was playing the part of a deer in the forest.
“So you’re going to be Snow White?” I asked Madison, still smiling. “Did they already hold the auditions for Amanda’s replacement?” I paused, then gestured at the door to the back room. “The door was open. I couldn’t help but overhear.”
Her pink cheeks turned a startling red. “Well, I, um...you know, it’s kind of rude to eavesdrop on people, alright?”
“Technically, it’s not eavesdropping if I’m in the room next door and the door is open,” I pointed out sweetly.
She tugged at her long, perfect blond braid and blinked her large brown eyes. “Eavesdropping is when you listen to other people’s conversations, which is what you just did.” She looked down her nose at me. “And eavesdropping is rude.”
“It’s also a little rude to argue with people you don’t know.” I adjusted the costumes in my arms. “But back to Snow White. Your mother already held auditions? I didn’t realize that—”
Madison cut me off and turned to look at her friend. “We should get back, Holly.”
Holly surveyed the still messy floor. She chewed on her bottom lip. “But your mom said she wanted this room cleaned up—”
“I don’t care!” Madison said. She shot a quick glance at me and then turned back to her friend. “We need to go!”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, not bothering to hide my pleasure at seeing her so flustered.
“I don’t have to,” Madison said, glaring at me. “You should just mind your own business.”
“I probably should,” I admitted. “But I think I’d rather let the other moms here know that we have a new Snow White. Just as soon as I leave this room.”
Madison froze, still glaring at me. I could tell she wasn’t sure what to do. And I also could tell that she wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions – which wasn’t a great thing for someone who professed to be an actress. Maybe she would’ve been better off playing a deer. Or a tree.
“Seriously,” she finally said. “You should just mind your own business, lady. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”