Disappeared

by Lynn Mason

  “I don't know, Fran,” she began, gesturing toward the pile of books in front of her. “You see, I've got all this—”

  “Reading. I know,” Francie finished for her, her tone low and weary. “Jeez, Syd. Why not give yourself a break?” She plopped down on the edge of her bed and kicked off her red leather slides. “I don't mean to nag you. It's just that . . . well, all you ever do is read.”

  Her tone jarred something loose in Sydney's mind. Suddenly she heard her own voice, only smaller and more whiny. That's all you do all the time! Read, read, read!

  Was she that bad?

  Sydney sighed. Maybe she could go for a little while? Thanks to work, she hadn't been available to hang out with Francie much these past couple of weeks. She'd missed her. And if she kept begging off these nights of fun, it might end up jeopardizing their friendship.

  “You know . . . you're right,” Sydney said, reaching out her leg and jostling Francie's bare foot with her sneaker. “What do you say we put on some to-die-for dresses and head out?”

  Francie's smile returned. “You mean it?”

  “Yeah.”

  She could do with a breather. After all, she wasn't exactly getting much done. Besides, it could end up being an excellent way to get her mind off everything. And everyone.

  * * *

  “Isn't this great?” Francie cast her smile about the large, jam-packed frat-house living room.

  “Yeah.” Sydney glanced down at herself. She certainly looked as if she belonged. Her raspberry-colored halter dress and strappy sandals were definite standard-issue party wear. And she'd done up her hair in a funky retro ponytail. Beside her, Francie looked amazing in her white scoop tee, burgundy skirt, and the cutest, tiniest side-slung black purse that could barely hold her driver's license.

  The problem was, Sydney had just never been a party gal. To some people (most, she'd venture to guess), a party was the ultimate in fun. To her, it was fun times eight hundred and sixty-three. Too much noise, too many strangers. It was stimulation to the point of agitation.

  So she was a freak. She'd heard it all through boarding school. The teachers had called her a loner. The counselor had called her shy and reserved. Kids had called her a bookworm. But she could suck it up for one night, couldn't she? For the sake of Francie and their friendship?

  “Oh. My. God! There he is!” Francie suddenly wrenched Sydney's arm and squeezed it tight.

  “Who?”

  “That guy.”

  Sydney followed Francie's eyes. All she could see were guys. “Who?” she asked again.

  “You know. That guy. The one I've been talking about. From my logic class?”

  “Ah yes. Logical Guy.” For weeks Francie had been swooning over some hottie that she swore could be a lost Wayans brother. “Where is he?”

  “Standing by the fireplace in the Forty-Niners sweatshirt. I think his name is Tyler, but I'm not sure.”

  Sydney looked. Sure enough, a tall, smooth-skinned hunk was leaning against the mantle, laughing along with a couple of his buddies. He had an amazing smile, just like Francie. So gleaming white, she couldn't make out individual teeth—like a cartoon-character grin.

  “Isn't he gorgeous?” Francie asked, bouncing on the toes of her sling-back pumps.

  “Yes,” Sydney replied truthfully. He looked like the perfect bookend for Francie. The two of them could get together and make happy, superhero babies—beautiful, bright-eyed tots who could blast through rock with their laser-beam smiles. “You should go talk to him.”

  “Right. Yeah.” Francie nodded, her expression a mixture of giddy anticipation and sheer terror. “I'm going to go to the bathroom.”

  “Uh . . . that doesn't sound like a logical way to meet Logical Guy,” Sydney pointed out.

  “I just want to primp a bit.” She grabbed Sydney's handbag and opened it. “Can I borrow your brush? I couldn't fit mine in my purse. Oh, and could I use your lipstick? My color got all wiped off when we ate those cheese sticks at the refreshment table. Which reminds me . . . Do you have any breath mints or gum?” Sydney's arm jostled violently as Francie burrowed through the main pouch.

  “Here. Just take the whole purse.” Sydney slid the strap down her arm and pressed the bag into Francie's hands.

  Francie looked appalled. “I can't walk around with two purses. I'd look weird.”

  “Put yours inside it. That way you'll have whatever you need.”

  “Hey, yeah.” Francie stowed her itty-bitty bag into Sydney's larger one. “Thanks.”

  Sydney smiled. “No problem. Now go! Go get Logical Guy!”

  “Thanks, Syd,” Francie gave her a look of sincere gratitude before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

  Sydney slunk over to lean against a large oak armoire and yanked her fingers until the knuckles popped. With no one to talk to and no purse to fiddle with, she felt awkward and irrelevant. For the first time, she could understand why people took up smoking.

  It occurred to her that she should mingle. But unlike Francie, she'd never been good at approaching strangers. Especially at a party.

  It was truly mystifying. For some reason, there seemed to be an inverse correlation between the number of people gathered and the intelligence level of a conversation. Get two people together and they could open up like long-lost soul mates. A handful of people might manage frank, interesting discussions of politics, religion, or the basic state of mankind. But a houseful of college kids seemed capable only of high-fiving each other every two minutes and shouting, “Dude!”

  From her hunched position next to the cabinet, she had a clear view of the nearby dining room. The bulk of the guests seemed to be congregated there, gathered around something like bees swarming a hive. Looking closer, she realized they were surrounding a large beer keg.

  Just then, a guy caught her eye. A tall blond whose jeans looked so crisp and clean, she wondered if he'd ironed them along with his white designer button-down. As she watched, the guy broke from the pack and started walking over to her.

  “Hi,” he said. His features were drawn together in an almost shy expression, but his body language was bold. He moved right into her personal space and rested his hand on the wall beside her head. “Can I get you a beer?”

  “No. I'm just waiting for my friend.” She hadn't meant to sound so unfriendly, but her words came out shrill and jumpy, and she instinctively shrank back from his presence.

  The guy shrugged and strode away.

  Five minutes later another guy approached. “Hey. Wan'a beer?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He flashed her a “whatever” look and moved on to another girl.

  Barely three minutes after that came bachelor number three in a makeshift toga: “Hey, you! How about a beer?”

  You have got to be kidding me, she thought. Was this the standard pickup line? Or did she just look really thirsty?

  She smiled weakly and shook her head. “I'm fine. Thanks anyway.”

  The guy took a step forward, stumbling on the blue-striped bedsheet he had draped over his T-shirt and jeans. “Aw, come on! What's wrong?” he asked, his Miller High Life breath hitting her full in the face with every word. “You don't like beer?”

  She sighed wearily. A mini fantasy of her telling him the whole, unvarnished truth rolled through her mind. No, I like beer. I prefer fine red wines, but I'll drink an imported lager now and then. Unfortunately I have an important briefing in the morning with top CIA officials concerning a highly classified and extremely dangerous mission, so I really need to keep my wits about me.

  Tempting, but unwise.

  She decided to try a new strategy. “Oh, I like beer,” she said, blinking innocently. “In fact, my boyfriend already went to get me one. You might know him. Vic? He's about your height but bigger on account of all the steroids and bodybuilding. He should be back any second.”

  Toga guy took a quick step backward, nearly tripping on the gathered corner of the sheet. “Oh. Okay,” h
e said, his wide eyes roving about the room. “I was . . . just checking.” Then he turned and stumbled off in the opposite direction.

  Sydney sighed and swallowed hard. She really was thirsty.

  She squeezed through the packed dining room into the kitchen. Party-goers were in every corner, a few even sitting on the countertops. One guy stood in front of the refrigerator, tossing sandwich fixings over his shoulder to his buddy by the butcher's block. Sydney peered past him, searching the fridge for a soda. The only liquid she could see was a half-empty bottle of Tabasco sauce.

  Sydney was just about to fill a glass with tap water when she spotted a large galvanized washtub, an empty can of pineapple-orange juice, and two empty bottles of ginger ale on a nearby counter. A few tiny remnants of ice cubes floated in the tub's frothy yellow contents.

  She took a green plastic tumbler out of a cupboard and filled it with the large metal ladle. Then she took a sip. The punch was really good. Sweet and fruity and fizzy. She tipped back the cup and drained it in seconds, then refilled her glass.

  “Hi.” A guy seemed to materialize next to her. He was smiling and bobbing his head to the Red Hot Chili Peppers song on the stereo. “Hey, can I get you a—”

  “No!” she replied a little more emphatically than she'd planned. “I mean . . . it's okay,” she said, holding up her cup, “I've already got some punch.”

  His mouth stretched into a knowing grin. “I gotcha,” he said, nodding even faster. The movement was making her dizzy. “Goin' for the hard stuff tonight, huh?”

  “What?” Sydney sniffed her cup suspiciously.

  The guy laughed. “No, man. It's tequila. My buddy Greg poured in two bottles. You can't smell it when it's mixed with all that juice and stuff.”

  Sydney's eyes widened. Oh, no. Oh, no no no! Had she actually stayed away from the keg all night just to end up slurping down hard liquor? Suddenly she felt flushed.

  Sure enough, the effects were starting to kick in full force. Her body seemed softer, floppier. And every action required a little more effort, as if she were moving underwater. Even her mind had lost its sharp edge. Her brain kept swerving around like a rusty bumper car, letting thoughts randomly ram into her instead of following a distinct path. Stupid, stupid. How could she have let this happen? Didn't she supposedly work in intelligence?

  Work . . . Oh, god. A new, unsettling realization blindsided her: She had that critical SD-6 briefing in the morning. She could lose her job because of some guy named Greg!

  “So . . .” The guy leaned toward her, placing his hand against the wall. “You want to go for a walk or something?”

  Or something? Did this doofus really think he was going to get lucky? Sydney pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. This was a new low. She was drunk, miserable, surrounded by annoying people, and risking life and career by blowing off her studies. Why did she ever agree to come to this awful party?

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” she muttered.

  In one quick, jerky movement the guy pulled his arm away and stepped back, a wary look creasing his features. Sydney tried hard not to laugh. She hadn't meant the statement literally. But as long as it was working . . .

  She let her face go completely slack and pressed her hand over her mouth. “Will you excuse me?” she mumbled through her fingers.

  “Uh . . . yeah. Yeah, sure,” the guy replied, flattening himself against the paneling to allow maximum space for her escape route.

  Sydney stumbled past him and tossed her nearly empty tumbler of punch into the sink. Then she fumbled with the brass handle of the patio door until it finally opened, pulling her through to the tiled terrace beyond.

  She leaned against the stucco exterior wall and inhaled the crisp night air. At last she was outside. Outside the house and outside the scene.

  It was where she belonged.

  * * *

  Breathe in. . . . Breathe out. . . . Breathe in. . . . Breathe . . . out? Or was she at the in part again?

  Forget it, Sydney thought, slouching against a cast-iron bench. Breathing was just too hard. Luckily a nippy ocean wind was keeping people indoors, and she had the entire patio to herself. No one around to see her gasping like a beached guppy.

  She still had to find a way to sober up, though. Maybe she could somehow work the alcohol out of her system. Of course, she couldn't exactly do a few laps around the block in her high heels. But maybe Lover Boy was right about her needing a walk.

  She stood a little too quickly, causing her vision to tilt and swirl. Reaching back, she grasped hold of the bench and steadied herself.

  God, she hated this. She'd only been drunk twice before. Once, a few months earlier when she hadn't known her margarita limit and got sick. And the other, the very first time, when she was fifteen. She'd invited a friend to sleep over and the girl had talked Sydney into breaking into her dad's liquor cabinet. They'd tried a lot of stuff they didn't like and then ended up chugging a bottle of warm chardonnay. They'd giggled for about half an hour and then passed out into their pillows. She'd caught hell from her nanny the next day, and she'd never hung out much with the school pal after that. Amazingly enough, she'd kept her fondness for fine wines, only now she tried to restrict herself to two glasses.

  Gradually, Sydney's sight realigned itself and she was able to gaze around the lush backyard. These Sigma Freud guys had quite a spread. She'd seen city parks smaller than this. They had a swimming pool, blacktop, volleyball pit, tetherball pole, and a long grassy stretch that extended to the next block. She could barely make out a small grove of oak trees and an aluminum garden shed in the distance.

  Maybe she could stroll inside the fence line a couple of times until her head cleared. That way she wouldn't have to leave Francie or beg her to go home in the middle of her fun.

  She started walking, tracing the circumference of the yard. The downward slope of the grounds quickened her step and made her lean forward slightly onto her toes. After a while, the earth beneath the grass became moist and sticky, as if it had been recently watered, and she had to yank upward at the knee in order to dislodge the heels of her shoes. Anyone watching from a distance would have thought she'd broken into a clumsy military march.

  The noises of the party had almost completely dwindled. There was only the throbbing bass beat of the stereo and an occasional high-pitched shriek of laughter. The rest had died down to a distant hum that blended into the sighs of the wind and the swishing sounds of nearby highway traffic.

  Sydney focused on the sluggish rhythm of her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Already her head felt a little clearer, and she hadn't even completed one lap yet. She made a deal with herself. She would finish this go-round, do one more, and then go into the house and tell Francie she had to leave. After that, she would return to her egghead existence and put her partying days behind her.

  She made her way past the cluster of oak trees in the northeast corner of the yard. The barks were covered with different-colored splatters of Day-Glo paint, probably from past paintball battles, and someone's blue boxer shorts were hanging from a low branch.

  “If these trees could talk,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  A new noise suddenly cut through the air. Sydney stopped. A faint moan was coming through the trees.

  “I was just kidding,” she said to the nearest trunk.

  It sounded again. Sydney cocked her head and listened. It wasn't the trees at all. A high-pitched yelping noise, like a hurt puppy, was coming from behind the garden shed in the opposite back corner of the yard. She stalked forward to investigate, still wobbling slightly on the damp grass.

  After a few feet she stumbled upon a brick walkway leading directly to the shed. Sydney followed it around to the side of the structure. The noise was louder now, and she recognized it as a female voice—a sobbing female voice.

  “No! No!” the girl whimpered.

  Her sobs were joined by a second voice. This one low and raspy. “Come on,” it said, followed
by an incomprehensible mumble.

  Sydney was too tipsy and too focused on the sounds to notice that her feet were continuing to propel her forward. Before she realized it, she was rounding the back corner of the shed.

  Two shapes loomed in front of her in the dim light. A flaxen-haired girl was crouched in a half-sitting position against the rear wall. Sydney could tell she was drunk—much drunker than she herself was. Her clothes were rumpled, makeup was smudged across her face, and it looked as if she could barely hold herself upright. A lineman-sized guy loomed over her. As Sydney watched, he muttered something to the girl and tried to cup her face in one of his hands, but she kept moaning and shaking her head back and forth. The movement caused her to slide downward almost to the ground. The guy seized her roughly and slammed her back against the wall, pressing himself against her to keep her from falling.

  The girl cried out and began sobbing louder.

  “Shut up,” the guy growled.

  “Leave her alone!” Sydney shouted, stepping forward unsteadily.

  The guy let go of the girl and whirled around. Sydney felt as surprised as he looked. Okay, so now they knew she was there. What exactly was she going to do?

  He straightened up to full height and looked Sydney up and down. A ragged smirk stole across his face. The girl crumpled onto her knees, hugging herself and sobbing.

  “What did you say?” he asked, moving toward Sydney, his hulking form shielding what little light she had to go by.

  “I said leave her alone,” Sydney repeated.

  The guy started laughing hoarsely. “Or you'll what?”

  Sydney paused. She hadn't really figured that out yet. She'd been sort of playing it by ear with that bumper-car brain of hers. Actually, she could do a lot of things. A hard elbow to his sternum came to mind. But then she'd never really tried her street-fighting skills while drunk. She might not actually have the upper hand on him.