by Owens, Molly
I riffled through my back pack for my cell phone. First, I texted Conner with seven separate messages describing my reconciliation with Levi. Three of the messages were dedicated to an in-depth description of the jeans. Conner’s one and only fatal flaw being that he was completely fashion illiterate. I was sure his mom still did the majority of his shopping; thankfully for him she had a pretty good sense of style. Second, I called my sister. I was eager to hear what Julie would have to say about Levi.
“Hey Chels,” Julie said when she answered my call, “I really hope you’re calling to say you burned down the house. Maybe mom will finally stop bugging me about that party I had when they left me home alone.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I smiled thinking of my mom’s reference to that party just yesterday, “I was actually calling to say thanks.”
“For what…”
“Knowing exactly what jeans I’ve been fantasizing about for the last six months!”
“So, he gave them to you!” she said sounding excited, “It was so cute how he called to find out which ones you wanted. I was impressed because he knew they’d be True Religion, and he even knew your size.”
“He’s a very observant guy,” I said, thrilled to be discussing my favorite topic.
“He seemed very cool and cute. I can tell a lot about a person by their voice.”
“Wait till you see him in person,” I giggled, “Cute doesn’t even begin to describe his hotness.”
“How’s everything going with him? Why the gift?” she asked, an edge of concern creeping into her tone.
“Great,” I paused to consider how to put my next question, “Jules, can I ask you something kind of personal?”
“Fire away little sister.”
“How do you decide if you should go all the way with someone?” I asked feeling extraordinarily embarrassed. Damn Hannah for leaving me with no one but my sister to talk to about this kind of stuff.
“Wait. How old are you?”
“Older than you were,” I pointed out, feeling awkward.
“True, but you have never followed my example before,” she paused and then asked cautiously, “Is Levi pressuring you?”
“No! Not at all,” I lied and probably too defensively.
Julie took a deep breath, “It’s a big deal Chelsea. If anyone tells you otherwise they are lying. Especially your first. You can’t get that back.”
“I know,” I sighed.
“I have three qualifications for deciding if I’m ready,” she said, all business like, “First, we have to be in a long-term committed relationship. One night stands are like sharing your toothbrush with a total stranger but a thousand times more intimate. Second, we have to both be totally in love. Not lust, but love. There is a world of difference there. And third, trust. We have to trust each other completely with everything; feelings, emotions, the cat, everything.”
“You’ve thought this through,” I said hoping to lighten the conversation.
“Well it’s a really big deal. Even when all those things are in place, there is still the possibility that you will regret it,” she said somberly.
“Maybe I should just sign up for a convent then,” I replied sarcastically.
“Don’t do that. It can be really great. Just take it seriously, okay?”
“Promise,” I said, “You know you have more mom in you than I thought,” I joked.
Julie laughed, “I hope that helps.”
“Yeah, it does. Thanks,” I took a deep breath, “Welp, I’d better go. Dad’s going to kill me when he gets my cell phone bill.”
“Hey thanks for asking me about that Chelsea. It means a lot to me that you’d want my advice,” she said sounding a tad emotional.
“Love you, Jules.”
“You too, Chels.”
The next day was Friday. I was feeling pretty good about the state of my life. I was sporting my new jeans, which fit perfectly. I must have looked at my butt twenty-five times just to be sure it looked as good as I remembered-- it did! I had to work that afternoon, but only for a couple hours which meant making money, keeping myself from terminal boredom, but not having to wake up too early. Conner and I had our art class that night, with another nude model, which, although a little disgusting and slightly embarrassing, was actually my favorite kind of sketching so far. I was beginning to see why people say the body is such a remarkable creation.
I was in bed reading a trashy magazine, listening to Eminem way too loud, and eating Ben and Jerry’s straight from the container. I needed to do something that would make me feel like my parents were away, seeing as there wouldn’t be any boys spending the night in my near future. My phone rang and I quickly paused the music to answer it.
“Hi Chelsea, this is Kat from Yogurt Heaven,” her voice was no more pleasant on the phone than it was in person, “Could you go by Marcy’s house and pick up a bag of the vanilla flavoring? We’re all out and the gluttons are starting to get pissy.”
“Sure,” I said, “No problem.”
Kat described where I would find the hidden key and the bag of artificially sweetened, imitation vanilla goop. I finished getting ready and drove over to Toby’s house. It looked quiet so I assumed all of the Fanning’s were away. I found the hide-a-key under a Buddha statue and unlocked the front door. I walked straight to the large closet that Kat had described. There was a tall stack of flavoring sacks, and my luck being what it was, the vanilla was on the bottom. I took my time moving each twenty-five pound sack out of the closet, until I uncovered the one I was looking for, and then restacked them all back in the closet. I hoisted the vanilla sack into my arms and awkwardly carried it to the door. I dropped the bag, giving my arms a chance to regain sensation.
I glanced down the hallway toward Toby’s room. I’m not sure what inspired me to suddenly become an amateur sleuth, but I decided I needed to see Toby’s room. Tiptoeing down the long hallway I slowly opened his door. It creaked like something from a horror film. I could feel my heart begin to race. It was actually invigorating in this instance. I walked cautiously into his room; looking over my shoulder to be sure no one was watching.
It felt strange standing in his room. Everything was in its place except for Toby, who was God knows where. I remembered the last time I had been there. Toby had been chattering to me about something as I’d stared at that picture of Levi. I picked the picture up and examined it; Levi looked just as amazing as ever. I set it down again, careful to put it in the exact position I had found it. I tried to remember what Toby had said about Levi that night. He was really into music, I remember that, practically all Toby talked about was music...
Suddenly, my brain snapped to attention. I walked decisively to Toby’s CD rack. I ran my finger down the cases. He had kept them in alphabetical order. The rack was perfect. There weren’t any gaps where CDs were missing. I then moved to his desk and started opening the drawers, a little frantically. Quickly, I found what I was looking for. Toby’s most prized possession, his iPod. I set it back in the drawer and nearly ran from the room.
I grabbed the vanilla sack with renewed strength and dashed out to my car. I drove about a mile before pulling over to the side of the road to think. Something terrible had happened to Toby. There was no way he would have gone to his dad’s, or anywhere else for that matter, without his music. That kid was more obsessed with music than practically anyone. Where was he? The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me three things: first, Toby was in big trouble, second, it was most likely my fault, and third, I had to find him.
Heaving the awkwardly sized sack from my car, up the escalator and to the food court was a living nightmare. It was pretty clear why Kat had designated me for the job rather than herself. The only thing that made it halfway bearable was my complete distraction due to thoughts of Toby’s disappearance. When I walked into the office to clock-in, my heart froze; Marcy was at her computer, staring at it with a vacant expression. In reality, I had no idea what she was thinking about,
but at that moment I was entirely convinced it was about her missing son.
“Hi Marcy,” I said forcing my voice to sound upbeat.
She looked up from her computer, but seemed to take a second to register who I was, “Hi Chelsea.”
“Any word from Toby?” I blurted out. Good Chelsea, real smooth, “I haven’t heard from him lately.”
She looked back at her computer and shook her head not saying anything.
“Oh. Okay then,” I said backing out of the door.
My three hour shift, felt like an eternity due to the fact I had forgotten my book, again. It also didn’t help that I was utterly consumed by guilt about Toby’s disappearance. From what I could surmise, I was one of the last people to see Toby, aside from a group of masked men that I’d lured him to. At several points throughout my shift I contemplated confessing what I knew to Marcy. That would obviously have been the sensible, ethical thing to do. But as Conner had pointed out, doing the right thing is seldom easy, and I was a coward of the highest magnitude. I knew that it was not just my own preservation instinct that was keeping me from confessing, it was the fact I would have to implicate Levi, and I was too obsessed, too totally dependent on him to do that. The only thing that kept me from thoroughly losing it was the knowledge that I would be seeing Conner soon, and I was sure he would know how to fix this mess.
Conner strolled up to the counter about five minutes before my shift ended and I could feel my shoulders and jaw muscles relaxing.
“Thank God you’re here!” I said dramatically and I raced around to clean up before grabbing my bag and ducking under the counter. I seized his hand and dragged him to a bench at the quiet end of the mall next to Sears. “I think I may be responsible for my friend Toby’s death,” I blurted out, realizing immediately that I sounded like a lunatic.
Leave it to Conner to look at me with those serious and concerned eyes, and say patiently, “You’re going to have to start from the top, Chelsea.”
“Right. Remember how I told you about that time I was the bait? Levi had arranged for those men in black masks to abduct Toby from the benches in Vistas?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well the thing is,” I paused taking a deep breath, “Toby is missing. Nobody knows where his is. Not his mom or his sister. The other day I found this note in the office from him. It was really weird. It just didn’t sound right. He said stuff about needing his space. The thing is Toby is the biggest blabbermouth alive. If he was going to leave, it would have been a really long note. But it was only a couple sentences. I could forget that, but today, I was in his room and all his music is still there. All of his CDs and even his iPod.”
Conner stared at me not getting the gravity of my last statement.
“Toby lives for music. It is all he thinks about or talks about. Why would he run away without bringing that stuff with him?” I could hear my voice becoming frantic. I took another deep breath before continuing in a whisper, “What if the masked men were real? What if it wasn’t just a nasty prank?” I swallowed hard, “What if they killed him?” I finally said. This theory was one that I hadn’t allowed to enter my consciousness until just that moment, and the reality of it sent my head spinning.
Conner hugged me for a moment. He then held my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes, “We’ll figure this out. I promise” he said firmly.
18
You know how in movies the main characters are always taking the law into their own hands? Well, I’m usually the person in the theater practically shouting, “Go to the police, for crying out loud!” While it does make sense for films to ignore logic for entertainment value, what doesn’t make sense is why I was so dead-set against reporting what I knew about Toby’s disappearance to the cops, or at the very least, his mother.
The excuse I gave to Conner when he attempted to convince me to do the commonsensical thing, was that I wasn’t absolutely certain anything was wrong, “Maybe I’m overreaching,” I argued, popping a French fry into my mouth. We had moved from the bench by Sears, to a table at Jack’s, a greasy hamburger joint near the junior college.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be the first person who has overreacted in front of the SJPD,” Conner pointed out.
“Yeah, but what if it was just a prank? Think of all the people, including me, who would get busted? Not to mention, how humiliating it would be for Toby if I went public with this,” I explained patiently. In truth, the main reason I didn’t want to go to the police had everything to do with my distorted fantasy that somehow I would be able to maintain a relationship with Levi through this whole mess. It’s pretty obvious that the police knocking at Levi’s door would kill my chances with him. “If there was some way I could confirm that Toby is with his dad, like his note said, then I could forget about the whole thing.”
“Do you know anything about his dad? Where he lives, his name, anything?” Conner asked.
“Nope, nothing,” I sipped my Dr. Pepper, racking my brain for a lead. We’d already gone over all of this a hundred times. I glanced up to see Mr. Miller walking by us with a paper sack under his arm and a Coke in his hand. I considered hiding, but Conner began waving earnestly.
“Hey Mr. Miller!” he called.
“Hi Conner, Chelsea. I hope you guys will be in class tonight,” he smiled graciously.
“Yeah, we wouldn’t miss it for anything. Just getting a bite to eat first,” replied Conner. I wondered if Conner was a kiss ass at his school too. Who am I kidding? Of course he was.
“Me too,” Mr. Miller held up his bag as proof, “See you soon,” he said leaving. I watched him dash across the street toward the school, spilling most of his soda in the process. I went back to thinking about my dilemma. How could I find Toby’s father? I could ask Bryce, Shawn or Sophie, but…
“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed, “Mr. Miller!”
“What?” Conner looked dubious.
“I’ll tell him I need to get my art portfolio from his classroom at Montecito. It’s perfect! He’ll definitely let me in. And while the door is unlocked, you can sneak into the main office and grab Toby’s file,” I smiled smugly, as if I’d just solved the debt crisis or something.
Mr. Miller was excessively supportive of my pursuit of all things art. I was sure he would think it was a brilliant idea to use my former work for inspiration in his current class. It just so happened, that a door through the Mr. Miller’s supply closet lead directly to the front office. I knew this because our Principal, Mr. Rooney, was always storming through it to admonish our class for acting like rowdy delinquents, (of course, this only lead to the ongoing joke about Mr. Rooney coming out of the closet). I was certain the plan would work, or at least I figured it was my best option; further evidence that my brain was seriously malfunctioning.
I explained my scheme in detail to Conner, going so far as to sketch a rudimentary map of the school on my napkin. He nodded, looking somber at the prospect of using Mr. Miller as a pawn in my illicit plot.
“And you’re sure that there will be information about Toby’s dad in his file?”
“Almost positive,” I smiled weakly, “It’s our only option.”
“I’ll do it under one condition,” he raised his eyebrows at me.
“Name it.”
“If this doesn’t work, if we can’t get a hold of Toby’s dad, you will go to the police,” he looked at me with grave eyes.
I nodded, “Fine.”
We arrived at art class just as the nude model was slipping out of her Asian inspired robe. I followed Conner to the corner of the room where two unoccupied easels awaited us. Mr. Miller instructed the class to do quick sketches. The model would move into a new posture every thirty seconds.
“This is an excellent way to train your eye to look for large shapes. Try not to get caught up in details, just draw your impressions,” Mr. Miller described, moving his hand in the air to demonstrate.
I missed the first several poses as I was busy getting my pap
er on the easel and my charcoal pencils ready. My mind was preoccupied as I rehearsed the conversation I would need to have with Mr. Miller at the end of class. I worried that he would suggest I go to the school on Monday when a custodian could let me in; that would make it impossible for Conner to sneak in and get the file. I had to convince Mr. Miller that I needed the portfolio tonight, a difficult sell since I’d been without the dang thing for nearly two months.
Conner looked over at my agitated expression, and gestured with his head toward the paper. I inhaled deeply to center myself, and looked up at the model, really seeing her for the first time. She was obese, and I’m not saying that to be catty or mean, I think obese would be the clinical term. Her body was covered in roll after roll of pale white flesh. Her pendulous breasts hung down like two heavy sacks on either side of her enormous stomach. Her vagina disappeared beneath a flap of flesh below her belly button and between her two punching bag shaped thighs. What took me by surprise was not her mass, but how lightly she moved under it all. She was graceful, like a dancer, almost as if she was moving under water.
I began to sketch furiously, trying to keep in mind what Mr. Miller had said about big shapes; big being the operative word. I could hardly get through drawing a quarter of her figure before she changed effortlessly into another pose. After fifteen minutes or so of these rapid poses, Mr. Miller instructed the model to sit for a longer pose.
“Now class, I want you to keep the idea of large shapes in mind. Keep your pencils moving on the paper. Avoid becoming attached to any particular part of your drawing. This is an exercise in form, not detail.” The words sounded like white noise in my ears.
Art class had become a time to escape my cluttered mind, to become completely immersed in the task at hand. Unfortunately, that night my mind was drowning in thoughts. Each time Mr. Miller passed my work space, I was filled with anxious jitters as all the gaping holes in my little ill-advised file heist flooded into my head. I took a step back to consider my drawing and found that it looked like I was barely ready for kindergarten; it was practically a stick figure. I scowled when I glanced at Conner’s sketch and found his to be as inspired as ever. Conner had managed to find the beauty in her rolls of flesh. He’d drawn a close up of the area just above her hip, where her waist curved in ever so slightly, giving her the appearance of the pagan goddess instead of my blob of misshapen marshmallow. Damn him and his Zen like concentration.