Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  Like his sister, he was scary smart—the kind of smart that meant you could skip grades and become a doctor at fourteen, if only the evil parents would allow it. Instead, they said the twins needed to interact with children their own age, so they progressed through school as prescribed, always sitting together and playing together at recess because the other children were simply too boring for them.

  And really, his sister was all he needed. The boy could’ve lived like that forever, happy in a world where they were together.

  But by fifth grade, the teachers decided it was unhealthy for them to be so attached to one another and banished them to separate classrooms. The boy cried and begged his parents to change the teachers’ minds, but the parents, like all good villains, refused and thus condemned the boy to his undoing.

  I know the future of journalism is digital, but I firmly believe there is magic in good stationery. I assemble a rainbow of rollerball pens and consider which of my many notebooks to assign to curse work. The oversized red one with silky smooth paper and dots instead of lines will do.

  The first few questions flow quickly:

  When did it start/who was first?

  Has there really been one per year? Who are they?

  If the curse is real, why hasn’t it been reported yet?

  I tap the teal pen on the paper and add:

  Are there connections between them? Common characteristics of vics? (Check gender, GPA, income? Or…)

  Any common factors in their disappearances? (Time of year? Precipitating factors? Etc.)

  I leave room at the bottom in case I want to add more and turn to a new page to start the list of what I already know.

  I know without having to research that last year’s disappearance was Elsie Borke, who had emailed a spectacular rant to everyone on her contact list about how the town was inbred, the school a joke, and that she was better than it all. She was in love, so the email claimed, with someone she had met online, someone older and worldlier, and she wanted to be with him without the judgment of small-town minds. Her parents were devastated, but because Elsie had already turned eighteen, there wasn’t much that could be done.

  The year before was Liam, but I’m not positive he counts because it wasn’t a disappearance. I add his name and basic info anyway, with a note to check if there was anyone else that year who didn’t graduate.

  The year before that it was Brianna Washington and her unborn baby. Rumor had it that she left to have the baby somewhere private, like it was the 1800s or something. No one had been all that upset to see her go. Brianna could be abrasive and downright bitchy, and it only got worse once word was out about the pregnancy.

  Counting Liam, that’s three. Three seems enough to justify consideration that the curse might be a real thing.

  Researching something as nebulous as an urban legend will be difficult, but even if nothing comes of it, I figure I can spin it into a school culture piece about the power of collective beliefs or something like that. Even a meta piece reporting on the reporting could be interesting, especially if Ravi films the process and I do video journals. I scribble a note to ask him his thoughts on doing something like that for backup in case the research goes nowhere.

  The next page is for brainstorming people who might be helpful. Ms. Larson and the guidance counselors could provide graduation data, but something tells me they’re not going to be the most cooperative sources. If there really is a school curse, it won’t reflect well on the administration to admit it.

  Class advisors, then. Every graduating class gets two teachers assigned to them to assist with planning things like prom, senior trips, and award nights, and teachers are the biggest bunch of gossips I’ve ever seen. They talk about students, their coworkers, and their personal lives probably more than they even realize. If I can figure out who they are, I know I can get the class advisors to spill some dirt.

  Tracking down old students shouldn’t be too difficult either, thanks to social media and the tendency for families to stay in town for generation upon generation. Elsie’s rant about being inbred might’ve had a grain of truth, given how long some people have been here.

  I’m about to start a new page when my phone chirps with an incoming video call from Kylie. I almost ignore it, but Kylie is the closest thing I have to a Baker Street Irregular and is one of my best sources for student news. Everyone knows that it pays to keep sources happy.

  I don’t even have a chance to say hello before she ambushes me.

  “You’ll never guess what’s happening.” Her eyes are wide and excited. She’s outside, and her face glows an eerie blue from the light of her phone screen.

  “You’re being chased by hyenas?” Judging by the way the image bounces and jostles, it isn’t completely implausible.

  “What? No. We don’t have hyenas in New England.” Her voice ticks up at the end like the statement wants to become a question.

  The urge to convince her that we actually do have a rare miniature species native to western Massachusetts is real. Somehow, I resist. “What’s up, then?”

  “The police”—she whispers and pauses for what I assume is dramatic effect—“are at Emma Morgan’s house.”

  I drop my green pen. “What? Really? Why?”

  “No idea,” Kylie says, and I wonder why she even bothered calling if she doesn’t have actual information. “But I bet it’s something newsworthy, right?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Wait, how do you even know this?”

  “Victoria was having a party, but it ended up being lame. Jacob was supposed to show, but he didn’t. I have homework to do anyway—I can’t believe how many problems we have in Calc—so I left and saw the cop car parked right in front of her house when I drove by. I noticed it because I was scared about getting pulled over. I only had one beer, but still. You know how the cops can be. So, I got home, left my car, and walked back over. Just being nosy, you know? All the lights were on in the house, and I could see her mom and her brother in the living room with a cop—the big bald one. I don’t know where Emma or her dad were.” Kylie stops to breathe at the end of this monologue, and I have to admit, I’m intrigued.

  “Did it seem like maybe the cop was visiting? Like maybe they were friendly?”

  “I don’t think so. They have that big window in the living room, so I had a good view. Emma’s mom kept shaking her head and covering her face like something bad was happening, and her brother wouldn’t sit still.”

  I prop my phone against the desk lamp so I can still see Kylie and pull up Facebook and Twitter on my laptop. “Huh. And you know nothing else? Did you see anything else out of the ordinary?”

  I check the police department’s Twitter and Facebook accounts next. Both are updated regularly and make good sources of information—particularly once the comments get rolling—but there’s no mention of the Morgans on either feed.

  “Other than the police car in the driveway, no.” Kylie steps into a pool of light that illuminates the phone screen, and her face disappears from the frame as keys jingle in a lock.

  I scroll through my own Facebook feed, searching for any mention of Emma, but it’s all cute animal videos and memes. Typical. Everyone has a Facebook, but no one really uses it.

  “Okay, home now,” Kylie says. “You want me to call you if I hear anything else?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Kylie.”

  “You know I keep you in news.” She waves goodbye before ending the call.

  I try Instagram and Snapchat but only find pictures from Victoria’s admittedly lame-looking party, two artsy shots of Ravi’s cat that I like, and absolutely nothing remotely newsworthy. The BayStateNews app gives me plenty of news, as always, but nothing I can conceivably connect to the Morgans.

  I check the time, then FaceTime Ravi. He answers looking distracted, clad in his ratty red Manchester United tee. I will never understand boys and their unholy affinity for falling-apart T-shirts. I’ve offered to replace this particular one multiple times since he
practically lives in it, but he refuses. Says it wouldn’t be the same. Which I say is the point.

  “’Ello,” he says, then drops the phone in his lap so I’m forced to stare straight up his nose. I’ve grown accustomed to such a view. “Hold on. I gotta—yeah, I see you hiding. Oh, come on, you right awful bastard!”

  There are muffled pops of gunfire in the background, and Ravi curses.

  “I didn’t call to listen to you play video games,” I say. “Pause it. Or let him kill you or whatever. I need to talk to you.”

  “I will not…go gently…you fucker.” The controller flashes across the phone, and he whoops in victory. The image on the screen tumbles around until he’s properly framed. “Okay, sorry, things were happening. What’s up?”

  “Things are happening.” I recount the conversation with Kylie.

  “Mystery and intrigue,” he says. “I like it. What’s your theory? Robbery? Drug smuggling? Illicit gambling ring run out of the garden shed?”

  “I don’t know yet. There’s nothing on any of the news or social media apps. Nothing in the Monitor’s inbox either.”

  “So, we investigating? Covert night op? I can be your Watson.”

  I laugh. “It’s almost midnight, and this is real life, not a video game. I’m pretty sure if we go stalk the Morgan house in the middle of the night, we’ll be the ones ending up on the news. I just wanted to keep you in the loop and see if you’d heard anything.”

  “Not a peep.”

  “All right. I’ll let you get back to your war, then.”

  “Breakfast date?”

  “Hell yes.” It’d be a cold day in hell when we skipped Sunday brunch at Bennington’s—news or no news.

  “Cool. I’ll scoop you around 9:30. I’m thinking tomorrow is going to be an omelet day.”

  “Every Sunday is an omelet day for you,” I remind him, because ninety-eight percent of the time, it was. Not that I can fault him. Bennington’s does amazing omelets.

  I take a final scroll through my feeds, but there’s still nothing about the Morgans. I set the alarm for 8:30 and crawl into bed, wondering about the logistics of getting a police scanner. That would really come in handy.

  The blare of an alarm pulls me from sleep, but it isn’t my usual Doctor Who theme song. The tone is harsh, persistent, and impossible to ignore. I fumble for my phone and mute the screeching alarm. Centered on the screen, over a cascade of notifications from the Monitor app, is an Amber Alert.

  Emma Morgan, straight A, all-American soccer player, is officially missing.

  Hell must be chilly, because there’s no way we’re making it to Bennington’s.

  I call Ravi four times back-to-back while I get dressed, hoping the prolonged ringing will cut through his dreams, but it doesn’t. I’m not surprised, given how many rounds of his screeching chicken alarm it takes to wake him up.

  So I do the only reasonable thing left: show up on his doorstep and knock loud enough to wake the neighbors.

  Mrs. Burman opens the door, looking like she’s been up for hours, and pulls me into a warm hug. “Oh, honey, have you heard? Isn’t it terrible?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I say when she releases me. “Ravi up yet?”

  “Not yet.” She bustles me straight into the kitchen. “Can I get you some tea? Juice? I have a casserole in the oven, and the muffins just came out. I thought I’d pop round with some food and see how the Morgans are holding up. I can’t even imagine if it were my Priya missing.”

  Priya, as if hearing her name, pads into the kitchen in a pink polka dot bathrobe, black hair bundled in a messy bun atop her head. She waves a sleepy hello. “Oooh, muffins,” she says, brightening. She pours a glass of juice and butters a muffin, and I see no reason not to follow her lead.

  “Honey, go get your brother up,” Mrs. B says. “I want to talk to you both.”

  Priya freezes with a muffin top halfway to her lips. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  I know the fourteen year old well enough to bet there’s a whole host of things she did that her mother has no idea about, and she’s probably trying to figure out which is about to bite her in the ass.

  “I know. It’s something else. Just go.”

  Priya, muffin still in hand, shuffles over to the bottom of the stairs and yells, “Ravi! Ravi! The house is on fire! We gotta go! Come on!”

  A thud sounds from above, and I burst into laughter, spraying muffin crumbs across the table. Priya returns to the kitchen looking smug.

  Mrs. B shakes her head, not quite hiding a smile. “You’re a horrible child.”

  “But efficient and still the favorite,” Priya says, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter.

  Ravi staggers down the stairs, looking bewildered and more than a little underdressed in just a pair of crooked glasses and plaid boxers. He takes in the sight before him—all muffins and females and a distinct lack of fire—and mutters, “I hate all of you.”

  “Lies,” I say. “And can we talk about how much I wish we had a whiteboard here? This should be your picture. I Am Gullible.”

  “I hate you the most,” he says and heads for the fridge.

  Priya sticks a bare foot out to shove him back. “Ew, Ravi, no. Thou shalt not pass. Go put pants on.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “You need pants.”

  “You need to rethink how you start people’s days.”

  “You do need pants,” I say. “Shirt and shoes also required. Things are happening.”

  “Hate you all,” Ravi grumbles again, but he disappears to get dressed.

  “Ah, teenage boys,” Mrs. B says. “Just wait until you’re both parents, then you’ll understand. We all deserve sainthood for not killing you.”

  Priya and I exchange horrified looks.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll stick to pets.” I have zero intention of having kids. Ever.

  “Oh, you’ll change your mind.” Mrs. B opens the oven to check the casserole. Whatever it is, it smells saucy and amazing, even at eight in the morning.

  Priya’s phone chirps, and she jumps off the counter, hazel eyes wide. “Holy shit,” she says, ignoring her mother’s tutting. “Did you see this?” She turns the phone around to reveal a missing person flyer with Emma’s photo and contact information for the police.

  Ravi reemerges, clad in jeans and a T-shirt over a long-sleeve thermal. “What’s that?”

  “What I came to drag your carcass out of bed for,” I say. I run down what I know, which isn’t much, but still more than they do. “They’ll be organizing searches for her this afternoon. I think we should go.” I know it’s crass, and I would never say it out loud, but this has the potential to be the most newsworthy thing the town has ever seen. There’s no way I’m not getting the story from the front lines.

  Ravi rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m in.”

  “Me too,” Priya adds.

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. B says. She pulls a bubbling casserole smothered in melted cheese from the oven. “You can come deliver this with me if you want to help. You’re too young to be getting involved in search parties.”

  Priya looks like she’s about to protest but Mrs. B keeps talking.

  “I was friends with Chad Morgan when we were in high school, you know. He was my winter formal date. I can hardly imagine what that poor family is going through right now.” She sounds on the verge of tears. “They’re going to need all the support they can get.”

  The fact that it’s Emma Morgan who’s missing and not someone I actually like is probably why I’m finding it so easy to approach this like the story it is, but I also want to believe I’ve gotten better at being objective in general. For a journalist, objectivity is everything. It’s impossible to report the story or take the photo effectively without it. Emotion can’t play into it. The country, the world even, looks to the news for facts, not feelings—at least not feelings from the source. The feelings should be the audience’s. The content, the stories th
emselves, should be evocative, not the reporter. Journalists are the conduit; the content is what matters.

  On the drive into the center of town, I set up a Google Alert for “Emma Morgan” so that any story mentioning the case will land in my email. I’d rather have too much information than risk missing something.

  The town is already swarming with news trucks. Crews are stationed at the town common, which is serving as command central for the search organizers, along with the Morgans’ house and outside the police station. The church parking lot is overflowing with cars, which spill onto the lawn and sidewalk. Something tells me they’re not all worshippers.

  Ravi parks in front of the delivery bay behind The Donut Hole. According to the police Facebook account, there will be a brief press conference at ten and search teams will assemble immediately following. Just enough time to acquire sustenance.

  We go in through the back door, and Mr. B immediately puts us to work. Weekends are always a whirlwind, and Saturday and Sunday are the only days Mr. B pays for extra kitchen help. The college students who came in at three in the morning to start frying donuts are still working, splattered in chocolate and flour. The counter girl sticks her head in to say they need more maple bacon ASAP.

  Mr. B hands me a huge metal bowl full of freshly fried donut holes, kisses my forehead, and says, “Sugar them and get them out front.”

  Ravi is put on dipping duty even as he explains we can’t stay.

  “You’re staying for now. Help us through the rush,” Mr. B says. “Then you go.”

  We don aprons and do as we’re told. While the older workers cut and fry the donuts, we fill and ice them. The work is repetitive and automatic and offers us a good place to talk, which is all we wanted anyway.