Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  The librarian purses her lips, eyes fixed just beyond us as she searches her memories. “And there’s Claire Mullroy, who took off maybe ten years ago now. A runaway. Her poor mother was another regular, always taking out the kind of paranormal romances Claire used to read, like she wanted to be ready in case the girl ever came back. I don’t think she ever did. Mrs. Mullroy stopped coming in maybe five or six years ago.”

  I pull the notebook from my backpack and write Claire Mullroy—Runaway—10 years. A look through the old yearbooks will pinpoint what graduating class she was part of. I give Ravi’s foot an I-told-you-so kick.

  The librarian is on a roll. “And a few years after that, Martin Eckles dropped out of school to join the French Foreign Legion, of all things. His poor parents were furious because he didn’t even say a proper goodbye, just left a note.”

  I note his name as well.

  “Oh”—the librarian looks pleased at coming up with another memory—“speaking of notes. Madeline Archer joined the circus—the actual circus—just a few years back. As an acrobat. I don’t know if you’d call that a curse or not, but she sent her parents a note on the back of a show flyer and has been traveling the world since.”

  I’m not sure that one counts since it sounds like she’s alive and accounted for, but I add the name to my notes anyway.

  “Those are the ones I can think of off the top of my head, but I’ll keep working on it. Takes a while to get through all these memories when you get to my age.” She laughs easily at herself.

  “That’s three more names than we had, so thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Is it possible to have a look at the old newspaper archives? I know I can search online through more recent issues, but I want to go back twenty or thirty years and see if there were any notable student disappearances or deaths back then. It doesn’t look like they have back issues archived yet.”

  “My, you have done your homework.” The librarian steps around from behind the desk. “Here, let me take you up to the research section. Silas can set you up with the microfilm. It’ll be quite a different process from searching online, let me tell you.”

  She leads us up a curving staircase to the top floor, which houses the nonfiction. “You know,” she says as we climb, “I think I do remember something else. A death though, not a disappearance. Four deaths, actually. There was a single-car crash maybe twenty-five years ago or so now, and no one survived. It was quite the tragedy, all Maplefield students. I don’t remember the ages of everyone involved, but it seems likely that at least one was a senior. Would that count as your curse?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s definitely worth checking out.”

  “It’s so nice to see young people doing real research these days. You said this was for a journalism class? I would’ve loved a class like that in high school, but the best we got were Secretarial Studies and Stenography. I thought about being a court stenographer, but then I was hired here and well, never left! It might seem boring to you kids, but it’s nice being able to serve a town, watch it grow up and change and, in a way, stay the same.”

  “That’s exactly why we came here,” I say. “You’ve really been very helpful.”

  At the top of the stairs, the librarian shows us to the reference desk. “Silas, these two need to look at some microfilm. Can you get them set up?”

  The guy at the desk nods with a grin, gaze lingering on Ravi long enough to make me second-guess if the attraction is as one-way as I thought.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “What do you guys need?”

  I’m about to explain, but Ravi steps forward, props his forearms on the counter, and launches into an explanation of our mission. Who am I to deny Ravi his moment when I know I can’t give him the same?

  Silas is easily ten years our senior, but his floppy brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses make him look younger—or at least less worldly. Plus, he’s wearing a sweater-vest, and really, how threatening can someone be in a sweater-vest?

  “Oh, yeah. I can definitely help you,” Silas says. “This way.”

  He leads us to a room with a boxy microfilm reader and fetches the proper reels of film. “It can be slow going,” he warns. “Even if you know what you’re looking for, you’re still checking each page manually. You’ll get in a rhythm though, and it’ll get easier. And by easier, I mean only marginally quicker.”

  “Any interest in staying to help?” Ravi asks hopefully.

  Silas smiles. “Maybe next time. I can’t abandon my post. But don’t hesitate to come get me if you need something.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” When he leaves, Ravi is practically glowing. “He’s hot, right? You know he’s hot. And I think he’s kinda into me. I know the age difference is odd, but I think it could work.”

  “Ravi, focus. We have work to do. And you know nothing about him except that you like to look at him.”

  “Which is important.”

  “Not as important as our curse.”

  Ravi knows enough not to argue, so he drags a chair over to the desk and watches as page after page of newsprint roll by on the viewer.

  For want of something more concrete, we use the car crash as a starting point. We go back to the 1990s and started paging through, focusing mainly on headlines and obituaries. After a half hour of searching, we find the crash. Two seniors, a junior, and a sophomore had all been killed when their car crashed through a guardrail and sank into the pond. I note the names and date. Four deaths in one year could definitely trigger rumors of a curse.

  We move forward, and two years later come across an obituary for another Maplefield student: seventeen-year-old James Henry Blackwell, whose age could’ve made him a junior or a senior depending on his birthday. The obituary says he “passed away at home” but doesn’t specify of what. I write down the name and date of death to cross-reference with yearbooks and take a photo of the whole thing, just in case.

  We spend the rest of our allotted hour finding little of relevance but far more than we ever wanted to know about local politics, crime, and painfully outdated advertisements. It’s not a waste though. If we can track down two more disappearances between the crash and James, we might have the origin of the Maplefield curse.

  With the curse research well underway, I’m able to turn my attention back to what really matters: solving Emma’s murder.

  Owen is next up, and I decide to approach him as if I have no knowledge of his and Emma’s fraught final days. He’ll be the bereaved boyfriend, nothing more.

  If I can find him.

  Owen and I don’t have a single class together. Ravi has AP Chemistry with him, but not until the end of the day, and I don’t want to wait that long to talk to him.

  I don’t see him at lunch, but it’s possible we don’t have the same lunch block. I notice Bryce sitting with a couple of the other wrestlers and consider asking him if he knows where his teammate is, but decide against it. The last thing I need is to drag Cassidy’s maybe-boyfriend into a murder investigation.

  “What do we think?” I ask Ravi. “Absent? Skipping lunch?”

  “Don’t know,” he says. “Guess we’ll find out last block?”

  I groan. As much as I trust Ravi, I like to be the first to approach potential interviewees. For one thing, having Ravi do the pitch would feel like sending a Do you like me? note to a crush through a friend. More importantly, I would have to sacrifice seeing Owen’s initial reaction to the interview request. Body language can reveal as much, if not more, than words, and I want to be there to see it.

  “Maybe I can crash your chem class?”

  “Or maybe you could meet us at the end of class and not look like a weirdo. I can wait to mention it to him until we’re in the hall.”

  “What if he’s hell-bent on getting out of here when the bell rings? We might not have time.”

  “Chance we’ll have to take.” Ravi shrugs. “I mean, we can try hunting him down now, but he could be anywhere. At least we know he’ll be in chemistry.”


  I glance at the wall clock, automatically accounting for the fact that it’s four minutes slow, and figure we have twelve minutes before Journalism starts. “We could look now, and if we don’t find him, you can corner him in chemistry.”

  Ravi groans. “But the starvation is real.”

  “You’re not gonna die. Besides, it’s not like you’re missing anything special. School pizza is basically pepperoni-flavored reconstituted cardboard. You’re above that.” I spin on my heel before he can protest.

  He follows, as I knew he would. “So says the girl with a grocery store in her locker. You owe me sustenance for this mission.”

  “Fair enough.” Half the reason I keep the stash of snacks in my locker is so he can raid it, but I’m not about to tell him that. “Where should we start? Gym?”

  “Probably. At least that’s somewhat logical. But really, he could be anywhere.”

  “Your optimism is inspiring.” I fix him with a look.

  He raises his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll find him. I have the faith.”

  “You have the lies. Faith, you lack.”

  “But I’m willing to lie about it,” he says. “Least that’s something.”

  The gym is on the same floor as the cafeteria, and we can hear the dull thuds of basketballs bouncing off the floors, punctuated by the peal of whistles, before we even make it to the door. A peek through the window reveals a herd of freshmen doing a poor job of getting balls into nets.

  “Freshman Gym,” I say. “Shit.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Follow me.”

  He pulls open the heavy gym door, and the scent of sweat and worn rubber swamps me.

  “He’s not gonna be in freshman gym,” I protest.

  “No shit. But he might be in the weight room.”

  “Where the hell is the weight room?”

  Ravi eyes me like he can’t believe I’m serious.

  I glare at him. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that look. It’s not my fault my time is better spent writing stories than chasing after balls. It’s not like you’re Captain Athleticism either.”

  “But I am the one who knows where the weight room is.”

  We skirt the edge of the gym, and when one of the teachers gives us a What do you need? gesture—palms up, eyebrows drawn—Ravi points to a door near the boy’s locker room, and the teacher nods. Apparently, Ravi does know what he was talking about, because when he pushes the door open, he reveals a room full of barbells and weight machines.

  Several of the machines are in use, and luck is on our side, because one is occupied by Owen. He has a barbell balanced on his shoulders and is pushing it up from a squat position as we approach. He stops with it braced against the back of his neck and watches us.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Owen shifts the barbell into a set of slots on the rack and steps out from beneath it. He reaches down to retrieve a small towel from the floor, then wipes his face.

  “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

  “Just finishing,” he says. “Were you looking for me?”

  “We were, actually. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we’re going to be doing a feature on Emma for the Monitor print edition at the end of the year. We’re talking to all of her friends and her teachers to get quotes, and we were wondering if you could sit down with us, maybe during Directed Study, for a short interview.”

  Owen grabs a water bottle from beside the barbell rack and takes a long swallow.

  “What do you think?” I ask. “We can do it today if you want, or whenever is convenient.”

  “I don’t know if I have anything that will help your story.” His expression is wary. “You know we broke up, right?”

  I didn’t know that and try to keep any reaction from my face. “I’m so sorry. When was that exactly?”

  “The day before she died.” Owen speaks the words without emotion, like he’s reciting a homework assignment, but his cheeks pale despite the recent exertion of exercise.

  I make a split-second decision to gamble on his desire to talk. “I still want to talk to you,” I say, as gently as possible. “The fact that you broke up doesn’t negate the fact that you shared something special. If you don’t have anything to do during Directed Study, we’ll be up in room 331. It might help to talk about it. We don’t have to publish everything you say. You can control what we share.” That last bit isn’t strictly true, but I thought he might be swayed by the promise of some anonymity.

  He scrubs at his ashen cheeks with the towel and nods. “Yeah, sure. I can do that.”

  When Ravi and I get to 331, I’m surprised to find two sophomore girls waiting there instead of Owen.

  “Are you guys still doing the picture thing?” one of them asks.

  “We are,” Ravi says before I can chase them off. Which is fair. Even though Owen agreed to come, there’s still a solid chance he won’t show.

  “Cool,” the girl says. “I’m Maritza. And this is Claudia.”

  I give them the sign-in sheet while Ravi preps the camera. The girls know exactly what they want to say and quickly fill out their boards.

  I show Maritza to the scuffed piece of tape, then stick my head into the hall, but there’s no sign of Owen. I curse myself for not jumping straight to the interview during lunch. What did it matter if we were late to class when there was a murder to investigate?

  Maritza has her sign flipped up when I turn around, and it reads I Am Owning My Mental Health. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her dark eyes. I have to admit, I’m curious about what she means.

  The other girl—tall and plain where her friend is short and dark—gets in position and holds up a sign reading I Am Willing To Listen. To Anyone. Reach Out. This girl doesn’t smile, but there’s nothing hostile in her expression.

  I weigh my options, wanting to interview these two, but not wanting to appear busy if Owen comes by. In the end, I let them go, knowing I can hunt them down later.

  “Do we have a picture for Owen yet?”

  “Nope,” Ravi says. “We’re only missing eleven seniors, but he’s one of them. This probably won’t be the right time to ask him for it, huh?”

  “Probably not.” I’m interested in what he would write though. I am heartbroken? I am bereft? I am guilty?

  “We taking bets on if he shows?” Ravi asks when we’re down to ten minutes before the final bell. “Because I’m going with a big no.”

  I sigh and sit next to him on the whiteboard table. “I knew I should’ve just cornered him at lunch.”

  “Wasn’t enough time. Nothing you could do.”

  “Which is exactly what we’re doing now—nothing. Does the wrestling team have practice today?”

  “We don’t,” Owen says, stepping hesitantly into the room. “But Coach needed to see me. I didn’t know if I should still come up or not.”

  “I’m glad you did.” I hop down from the table. “Do you have time to talk? Can you stay after?”

  “For a while, yeah.” He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

  “Here, sit down.” I gesture to a chair at the whiteboard station and pull out the other one, turning it so they face each other. Ravi shuts the door and settles himself back on the table.

  I thank Owen for coming, rattle off the phony project opening, and ask, “What can you tell us about Emma?”

  Owen ducks his head and runs a hand over his buzzed red hair. He drops his elbows to his widespread knees and speaks to the floor as much as to me. “We’d been dating a little over nine months. She was out of my league—I knew that—but we had something. God, I know how stupid that sounds; every guy batting above his average must say the same thing, but it was true. At first, anyway. We kept it a secret in the beginning. I didn’t blame her. I was a nobody—the quiet new kid—and she was homecoming queen. We had anatomy together, and Mr. Laramie seats everyone alphabetically, so we shared a table. We dissected frogs and pig hearts together, and at first, I only thought she talked t
o me because she had to, but she was better than people gave her credit for. We started hanging out after school to work on projects and stuff, but then it started to be more about hanging out and less about homework, you know? I would’ve been fine with her keeping it a secret. I understood. But eventually, she brought me into her group. I think joining the wrestling team helped, because I might still be the weird new kid, but at least I became the weird new kid with a talent.”

  He’s quiet for a minute, and I’m about to give him a prompt, something to direct his thoughts, when he continues on his own.

  “She became my world. My reason for getting up. My life has kind of been shit, if I’m being honest, and she was my bright spot. I really thought she cared about me. I was so fucking stupid.”

  “What happened?”

  He still hasn’t moved his eyes from the scarred floor tiles, but the tendons in his hands bulge as he clutches at fistfuls of empty air. “She humiliated me. Used me. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I really was. I let myself believe we had something—that it was okay that I didn’t get to see her every day. I was okay letting her have a life as long as I got to be a tiny part of it. But she made a fool out of me. I don’t even know why she bothered. Maybe just to prove she could, I guess.”

  Owen’s jaw is tight, taut muscle rippling beneath the skin, and his eyes shine with unshed tears. I shoot a glance at Ravi that Owen doesn’t see and press on.

  “Tell me what happened, Owen.” The bell rings to release us from the building, but no one reacts.

  Owen doesn’t look at us when he confesses. “She cheated on me. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.” He shakes his head, cheeks red with shame. “I was.”

  “I’m sorry. That must’ve been awful.” I mean it, because he looks absolutely shattered, but his head snaps up and his hands close into fists like I’ve insulted him.

  “What would you know about it?” His eyes are hard and dangerous. “It’s not like you care what people think of you.”

  Ravi keeps his perch on the table but shifts forward like he’s ready to launch himself on Owen at the first sign of aggression.