“I know,” I say, my heart racing. I agree with Andy, but I’m also scared about tomorrow—what happens if she’s still not back? But Andy keeps talking. Like me, he’s confused—scared and confused. I want him to know more—to be sure about something, but how could he be?
“Unless, you think . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to tell you what to do. Or not do.” Andy trails off. “I mean, I understand if you feel like you have to. Either way, I’m not going to say anything to Senna or anyone, if you tell. I just can’t do it. Not yet.”
Of course, that’s the question. Neither of us wants to rat, if we can help it. But what if Hannah is in some kind of trouble? What if she hasn’t run away, and what she was doing with Alex is a clue to finding her?
“I don’t know what to think,” I say. “She must have had some reason to want to run. Like if something went on with Alex. Something she couldn’t control.” I think about what she said about the men who watched her. They could be anyone. Could some guy, some stranger, have tracked her down?
My throat feels dry and my eyes burn. “I’m just going to hope she shows up tomorrow,” I say. “I promised I’d never tell anyone. I can’t break that promise because of one day. One night. Never is supposed to be never.”
“That’s what I think,” Andy says. “Well, not about never, but about for now. Call me if anything happens.”
“I can’t. I’m blacked out. I’m supposed to turn my phone off when I get home,” I say. “So, good night, I guess.”
“Good night,” he says. “Take care of yourself, Marci. Shit has rained down on you long enough. You don’t need this. You’re, like, the only one of us with nothing to do with Alex.”
I smile to myself. I’m not sure Andy realizes no one else in my life calls me Marci, but I like that he does. “Yeah. I know. Hannah has no right to go missing when I’m supposed to be the fuck-up of the group.”
“It’s kind of true,” Andy says. There’s a long pause, and then he says my name again, I suppose to fill the silence.
“Yeah?” I say.
“I’m sorry I’ve been kind of distant,” he says. “I wanted things to get better, not worse.”
“I know,” I say.
“I want to see you,” he says. “Now that things really are better. I mean, for you. Or sort of better, not counting today.”
“Me too,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow in Writing.” I know this isn’t what he means, but I’m too tired to think what to say.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember, think positive.”
I exhale slowly. “You too.” I feel an ache deep in my chest as I hang up. Think positive, I tell myself. But what does that really mean?
I can’t be sure of anything.
Twelve
WHEN I LET myself in through the kitchen door, there is an eerie absence of cooking sounds, and no chatter of Mom’s news radio.
I find Dad on the couch in the living room. He’s wearing his work clothes—button-down shirt and neatly pressed khakis—what he normally wears under his lab coat. He has on the small, round glasses that make his face look too big. His wavy gray-and-black hair is mussed, as though he’s been raking it with his hands. Mom sits across from Dad, looking tired and pale.
The real surprise, though, is that they are not alone. My heart drops into my stomach when I see Elise Scott perched on the stiff brown leather chair no one in our family ever sits in. Her hair is combed back smooth, her hands folded on her lap. Her fingernails are short and speckled with dark paint. She looks up as I enter the room, but she doesn’t say anything to acknowledge me.
“Sit down, Marcelle,” Dad says.
I sit on the edge of the yellow sofa, next to Mom. Elise takes a sip of water, then licks her lips. Dad looks at the floor, or some spot on his brown loafers. “Elise has something to tell you,” Mom says.
Elise stares at me, starts to speak, stops and runs her fingers through her cropped hair, then begins once more. “After you called, I talked to the police again. They have an all-county alert posted, but they need more information. She used you to lie, Marcelle. You need to tell us everything you know. The police can’t be effective without more information. They need to know if Hannah has run away, or if maybe this is something else. . . .” She trails off; her voice quivers.
“Elise did us the favor of coming here herself,” Dad says ominously. If I get his drift, he means I could be at the police station, talking to a cop instead.
Elise’s eyes are wide and her full mouth is set in a very Hannah-like expression. Hannah is a hard person to say no to and I’m discovering Elise is the same. I squirm.
I think about Alex, Jonas, and Senna. I can almost hear my own heartbeat. If I tell my parents and Elise everything, and I spill about the coke dealing and Hannah doing stuff for Alex’s webcam business, all of my friends will be in real trouble. Not just my friends. Andy’s brother, too. My head spins. I can’t focus on any one line of thinking. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. Andy and I just agreed we’d wait it out. We agreed that it would be best for Hannah—if Hannah comes back—if no one has snitched.
“Marcelle, please start from the beginning. Tell us, and Hannah’s mom, whatever you know right now. Elise has had an awful twenty-four hours, and some of that is on you, sweetheart.” Dad speaks calmly, but I can tell he’s furious at me for lying. He leans toward me, urging me on, and I try to think where to start.
I clear my throat, and Mom hands me a tissue from the box she holds in her lap. I start talking, not knowing where I’ll end up. “She texted me around seven. She asked me to cover for her. To tell you she was with me and to say the same thing to Senna. That’s it.”
“And did you lie to Robert Senna?” Elise asks. “What did he say?”
“No, I didn’t. He didn’t ask. I only lied to you when I said she was going over there. I never talked to her, and she never said that. She just texted and said ‘cover for me.’ That’s all.”
Elise stares at me and then at my parents. “Was she avoiding Robert?” Elise asks. I shrug. It seemed this way to me at the time, but I don’t want to go down that road. I don’t tell them anything about Alex. I don’t tell them about Senna going to Alex’s, or about Alex and the knife, or his roommate with the baseball bat.
“This is confusing, Marcelle,” Dad says. “Why did she tell you to tell her mother and Robert that she was with you? What was she doing, and who was she with?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what I asked her, but then she didn’t answer. Actually, my text was undelivered. I tried texting her and calling her a lot. But she didn’t answer.”
Elise sighs and puts her head in her hands. When she does this, she looks even more like Hannah, crouched and small. Then, as though it takes her superhuman strength, Elise sits up straight and exhales. “Someone found her phone, Marcelle,” she says. “I’m not able to say where, but it was found by a local dog walker. It was in a strange location. A place . . . a place the police don’t think she would go. Not alone. A park ranger had turned it in, and no one thought anything of it until I reported Hannah missing. What you’re saying makes it sound like she’s run away. If she’s running, we need to think of where she’d go. If something else is going on, the police must have that information. What you tell us matters. You are the last person she communicated with before she lost that phone.”
I freeze.
“What about her dad?” I ask. “Did you get ahold of him? Could she be with him?”
Elise shakes her head. “He isn’t answering either. He could be out of the country. I can’t keep track of his schedule. He can’t keep track of his schedule. He could be in the Amazon, for all I know.” My mind races. I can’t process what Elise Scott is saying. I think of the places the dog walkers go in town—there’s the Death Wish, but there’s other places, too. But nothing makes sense. If she ran away, Hannah would need her phone.
“He has no secretary you can call? A company he works w
ith over there?” Dad asks.
Elise shakes her head. “He hasn’t got two nickels to rub together. He runs his whatever he calls it—chocolate-consulting business—out of that crap apartment in Jersey City.”
“So she could be at his place?” I say. My heart lightens at this thought. It’s possible Hannah’s father is away, and she wants absolutely no one to know where she is. This makes perfect sense, and I almost laugh aloud at the thought. Hannah needs to get sober, to chill out, and maybe this is the only way she could think of to get some rest.
I can connect the dots in my head, but I can hardly explain my thoughts to the adults, who continue to stare at me blankly. Then I remember Hannah’s missed audition, and all the hope I felt only a moment ago vanishes. Hannah wouldn’t miss her audition just for a few days’ rest.
“I’ve given the police his address,” Elise says. “And they’re in communication with the New Jersey authorities.”
I nod.
“Marcelle, you are not to share this information with anyone, do you understand?”
I hear the voice, but I feel small and far away, as if I were at the bottom of an empty pool. The police are investigating. What does this mean? I can’t think straight.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be tracked?” I say. “Maybe she got one of those cheap phones and she’ll call?” I’m rambling.
“Okay, Marcelle,” Dad says, taking his glasses off and rubbing them with the corner of his shirt. “Why don’t you go eat the dinner left in the kitchen, do whatever homework you have, and get some sleep.”
“Okay,” I murmur. I lean over and give Elise Scott a light hug. She catches my hand. Her grasp is surprisingly strong.
“She missed the audition,” she says, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t think she’d miss that for the world. I kept expecting her to walk in the door with some crazy explanation for staying out all night. Right up until four o’clock, I was sure she’d come. I even thought about calling the music school to see if she’d shown up on her own.”
I stare at Elise, but what I see in my mind is Hannah’s face. I’m not psychic. I don’t believe any of that. But in my mind I can picture Hannah, very pale and very thin. I can see her white hands locked together, her hair, as always, in a pretty tangle across her face.
I start to cry, and no one jumps to comfort me. I walk out of the room, my face in my hands. I’m shaking. I don’t eat like Dad told me to. I need to get upstairs; I need to think.
I’m afraid of what I know and haven’t said, but I’m also afraid to say anything more. If I rat on Hannah and Senna, and tell about Alex, they’ll all be in trouble—even Hannah could be arrested when she comes back, if she comes back. I need to talk to Andy. Dad said I can’t tell anyone about Hannah’s phone. They said it was a police matter, like there is some legal reason I’m not supposed to talk. But I need to tell someone, and Andy is the one person I know I can trust. Tomorrow. We can talk tomorrow.
Thirteen
WHEN MOM PULLS into the line of traffic in front of school, I glance toward the small hill next to the football field to see if the guys are waiting under the tree. I see Chuck’s lone thin figure. “Marcelle,” Mom says as she puts the car in park, “keep your head on straight, okay? I know this is hard. We’re all really worried about Hannah.” She rubs her bad leg, and purses her lips in obvious pain. In the bright sunlight, I can see all the gray hairs standing out from the dark ones on her head, and all the wrinkles near her eyes and across her forehead. I think, randomly, that fear makes everyone look the same—everyone gets the same grayness, the same shadows under their eyes.
“I know,” I say. My stomach growls noisily. I was late getting up and had neither coffee nor food this morning, and no dinner last night. I know I should get out of the car, but I can’t make myself move.
Mom sighs. “It’s not your fault Hannah has made the choices she’s made, and we’re glad you told the truth yesterday about her texts to you on Sunday night. But having good judgment means making the right choices in the moment, not after. It’s really important you get that—that you really get that now, okay?”
I hum a little, which isn’t voluntary, and then I nod, so she knows I’m listening, and I get what she’s saying—what she’s been saying since yesterday at the Center. Cars have begun to line up behind us, and I glance nervously at the stream of kids walking past our car. That’s when I catch sight of Andy. He’s standing on the sidewalk with his hoodie pulled up. He catches my eye and gives me a small, uncertain smile.
“I’m trying, Mom,” I say. “I have to go now. They’ll mark me late.” I put my hand on the car door and hesitate. I’m not sure what more to say. I know she expects me to tell her I will never lie to her again, or that I know it was wrong to keep Hannah’s secrets. But I’m still keeping Hannah’s secrets, and I don’t know if I can stop. Mom nods sharply. “I know you’re trying, Marcelle. Dad and I just want you to try harder. We want you to think about what you’re doing.”
I get out and stand on the sidewalk in my baggy overalls and Doc Martens with my flannel tied around my waist. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I watch the Acura turn onto Post Road, and a part of me wants Mom to turn back and get me, even if she’s angry. I could say that I’m sick, and everyone would finally leave me in peace. It wouldn’t be a lie. I feel chilled and slightly nauseous.
I turn to where I saw Andy, but he’s moved through the crowd and is now at my side. “Good news,” he says brightly.
I feel my heart jump out of my chest. I want to hug him right there in front of Ms. Harris, the principal, and all the kids streaming through the glass doors. “No, no, Marci,” he says. “I’m sorry, not that good. I just mean Bartow is absent. There’s a sign on her door. We have first period free.”
Normally, I’d be ecstatic to have first period canceled. But Andy knew what I was thinking—that Hannah was there, at school, and that she had come home after all and was no longer missing.
“Shit,” I say. “That really got my hopes up, Andy.”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Andy and I cross the faculty parking lot, packed with Subarus and Hondas, toward the Starbucks a block and a half away. Inside, there is hardly a line. No one who regularly has first period free bothers to come to school this early. There are a few other kids from Bartow’s class, but neither Andy nor I acknowledge them.
In line next to Andy, I feel slightly dizzy. There is too much going on, and too much to say. I realize, suddenly, that I am shaky with hunger, and how lucky I am that Bartow didn’t show up for class. Andy asks me what I want, and I say a latte and a bagel. Then I take a ten out of my pocket, but he pushes my hand away. Our fingers briefly touch, and I feel a tingling sensation run through me.
I follow Andy to a table by the window, and when I’m sure no one is listening I explain how Elise was at my house when I got home from Michiko’s, and how the cops have found Hannah’s phone.
“Her mom is freaking out. It’s possible she’s at her dad’s. But I don’t know what the fuck to think.” I’m half whispering even though the next closest table is filled with some freshman girls sipping hot chocolate, kids who would have no idea who Hannah Scott even is.
Andy looks serious. “I didn’t see Senna this morning,” he says. Then he adds, “You had to tell about her text, Marci. No doubt.” He reaches across the table for my hand. His eyes are dark and solemn. He blinks his thick lashes rapidly. He gets up and brings me a handful of napkins. I’m crying now, not hard, but enough so that when I dab around my eyes, my makeup smudges.
“I think you should lay low,” Andy says. “Try to stay away from Senna. It’s not your fault if the cops call him in, but he might blame you. I mean, if she seemed to be avoiding him, they’re obviously going to ask him questions.”
Technically, it’s possible for me to get through the day without seeing Senna. I can avoid the cafeteria, and the halls are so crowded between classes it’s easy to act like you
don’t see someone.
I spread cream cheese on my bagel for something to do with my hands, but I suddenly don’t feel like eating. I take a sip of coffee. It’s good and hot. Andy leans across the table. “What’s it like there, at the Center?” he asks suddenly.
I shrug. I know Andy still feels guilty about my crash. But it isn’t his fault. I was falling all summer. That night he said what he had to say—that he wasn’t going to be a part of it. I want to tell him how it felt when I fell, but I don’t want him to think there’s something really wrong with me. I don’t want him to think I was trying to hurt myself because of him.
I glance at my watch. It’s already eight thirty and my next class is across the building, a ten-minute walk. I hesitate. “Do you remember that night of my crash?” I ask Andy.
Andy nods and leans back in his chair. “I remember,” he says. “I’m sorry, Marci. I shouldn’t have let you leave like that. I was trying to talk to you for weeks. But you kept running away from me. That one time I walked you home, and we were both fucked up, was when I realized—I don’t want it to be like that. That’s how Jonas is. He’s always giving girls blow and trying to fuck them. He talks about how much pussy he and Alex get because of it. Because of the coke. I can’t listen to them. It’s just not who I am. I want you to know I think you’re a great girl, and that’s all. I never meant it to seem any other way. I always liked you.”
I’m crying more now, and I don’t really care about my makeup. “I’m sorry,” I say, although I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. Then I tell him about what I remember from the Death Wish night. I tell him about my ride through the woods, how fast I was going, and how I kind of let go. “I don’t think I was trying to get hurt,” I say. “But it’s like I stopped trying to stay on my bike. I wasn’t scared when I fell, not like I should have been.”
The First True Thing Page 6