by Robin Benway
“You should tell your mom this,” I whispered. “Oliver, you need to tell her.”
“What kind of kid doesn’t call his mom, though?” he murmured, looking down at the ground so that his hair fell down around his face, hiding him. “Why didn’t I just call her?”
“You were seven,” I whispered, brushing his hair back behind his ear with my free hand. “You were a little kid, Ollie, and you thought she didn’t want you. No one could ever blame you.”
He glanced up at me, and I suspected that he didn’t quite believe me. “I’m serious,” I told him. “No one has ever or will ever blame you. Your mom never has. She never did.”
“Yeah, but now . . .” Oliver’s jaw tensed before he said the rest of his sentence. “The problem is that now I miss my dad just like I used to miss my mom.” He glanced back at me, waiting for judgment.
“I would miss my dad, too,” I admitted.
“Even if he lied to you for ten years about everything?”
“Even then,” I said, because it was true. “I’d hate him and miss him at the same time.”
“That’s . . . pretty much what it is. And it sucks.” Oliver took another deep breath, then looked toward the purpled sky and exhaled. “Fuck. I am so tired of paying the price for something I never did and didn’t even want in the first place!”
I sat and I thought of surfing, of college, of ten years spent in a gilded cage. “I understand,” I said, then curled back up against him. “I really, really think I do.”
He wrapped his arm around my knees so that we were huddled together, and I tucked my hands into his hoodie pocket. We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the waves and seagulls and distant traffic. The world continues to spin even when we want it to stop, I thought. Especially then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After that, we talked.
He told me about his dad, how he had once organized an at-home movie festival just for Oliver so that he could learn about the great directors and count it toward homeschooling. (“The movies were kind of boring,” he admitted, “but the popcorn was good.”) He talked about how they went fishing in Illinois, hiking in Vermont, and once even to Disney World, when Oliver was eight. “It was the greatest day of my life,” Oliver said, still smiling at the memory, and I smiled, too, wondering where the day he finally came home ranked on that list. I almost didn’t want to know.
He also mentioned different things, like the fact that he was lucky that his adult teeth grew in straight because his dad would never have let him go to an orthodontist, and that he never was allowed to have sugar or candy because they never went to a dentist. It didn’t make sense at first, but then it hit me. “Dental records,” I said, and Oliver tapped his nose as if to say, Bingo.
“I mean, I don’t know if anything would have happened,” Oliver clarified. “But I didn’t care. I was just excited that I didn’t have to go to the dentist. And of course, it was one of the first places my mom took me.”
“Did you have any cavities?”
He grinned at me, and yeah, he was lucky his teeth grew in so nice and straight. “Not a one,” he said.
In return, I told him about what it was like growing up here, me and Caro and Drew becoming our little triangle of friends. I told him about the police, the yearly updates on the news, how the interest had been so big for a month or so and then tapered away. “That’s when things really got bad,” I told him one night, when we were driving around in the car. “I think when everyone was focused on the kidnapping, it was more helpful to your mom. But when interest waned . . .” I shrugged. “It’s hard when everyone else moves on, but you can’t.”
“Did she ever have to . . . ?” Oliver trailed off, but I knew what he was asking. No one could ever ask that question directly.
“Identify a body?” I asked, and he nodded. “Not directly. She sent dental records a few times, but they never matched. I think it got to the point where she just wanted to know even if it was bad news, but then the police would call and ask her to send them and she would just . . .” I shook my head. “It was bad.”
I told him about how protective my parents were, not even letting me get my license until I was seventeen. “That was huge,” I admitted. “Like, monumental. I thought they would just keep saying no, but they finally said yes.”
We were sprawled in the grass at a park near Drew’s house for that conversation, listening to crickets and general nighttime noises. It’s always easier to talk in the dark when you can’t see the other person’s face, when you don’t worry about how they’re reacting to what you say. You can just . . . talk.
Oliver found my hand across the damp grass, then gathered it up in both of his and placed it on his stomach. It felt solid and warm. “You should tell them about surfing,” he said. “I think they’d actually be proud of you.”
“No way!” I snatched my hand back and rolled to sit up. “Are you crazy? They’d freak out for a million different reasons. No. Just no.”
“Maybe not, though. Maureen would probably talk to them—”
“You told your mom?”
“No! Emmy!” Oliver sat up, too. We were supposed to be studying at Caro’s house for a group project that didn’t exist. “I didn’t tell anyone, okay? Relax!”
But my heart was pounding. “If they find out, then I can’t surf anymore, and they probably won’t let me move out and go to school, either.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, okay?” He reached for my hand again. “I was just saying that sooner or later, they’re going to find out.”
“Later,” I said. “Absolutely later. Like, when I’m a retiree who lives in Boca Raton. Then they can find out.”
My parents figured out something else in the meantime, though. “Emmy?” my mom called up the stairs one evening. “Can you come down here for a minute?”
Never good.
My mom and dad were both sitting on the couch. I knew this meeting venue all too well: if my mom is trying to act like it’s no big deal, she sits on the couch. If it’s a serious “you are in so much trouble” scenario, then they sit at the dining room table. So far, so good.
“Emmy,” my mom began once I sat down, “we can’t help but notice that you and Oliver are spending quite a lot of time together.”
“Yes?” I said, because I wasn’t sure if it was a question or if I was about to say the wrong answer. “We are?”
“You are,” my dad said.
“Are you two dating?” my mom asked.
“Mom,” I groaned, covering my eyes with my hand. “People don’t really date anymore, they just . . . I don’t know, hang out together.”
“Is that the same as ‘hooking up’?” my dad asked.
“Oh my God!” Now I covered my ears with both hands. “Am I grounded? Can you just ground me? Hearing you two talk about ‘hooking up’ is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Emmy, relax,” my mom said. “You’re not in trouble, you’re not grounded, and your dad is joking.”
My dad winked at me and calmly took a sip of his water.
“Revenge will be sweet,” I muttered to him.
“But you and Oliver are ‘hanging out,’ yes?” my mom asked.
I nodded, picking at one of my ragged cuticles. I had scraped the side of my hand on my board earlier that day and it was starting to ache. “Yes,” I finally said. “We’re hanging out.”
My parents glanced at each other. “We know you’ve been a wonderful friend to Oliver,” my mom started to say, but to my surprise, I cut her off.
“We’re not just friends,” I told her. “It’s more than that.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay. I know we haven’t talked about this before since it hasn’t come up, but your father and I would prefer that you not seriously start dating until you’re eighteen. That being said”—she rushed on before I could protest—“because we know Oliver and his family, and since they live right next door to us, and because we trust you, we think it’s okay if yo
u two want to keep . . . hanging out.” I could tell that it pained her to say that phrase.
“But no closed doors,” my dad quickly added. “No being alone in either of our houses without a parent home—the twins absolutely do not count as responsible chaperones, so don’t even ask—and no sex.”
“Subtle,” my mom murmured as I started choking.
My dad shrugged. “It’s not like she doesn’t know what the word means. You okay, Em?”
I nodded as I tried to get myself under control. I couldn’t wait to text Oliver and see what Maureen’s version of this conversation sounded like. If she used the word intercourse like Drew’s dad had, Oliver was probably going to fling himself out the window.
“I’m fine,” I managed to say. “And got it for all of those rules. Can we stop talking now, though? If I promise to do everything you say, can we end this and promise to never speak of it again?”
“One last thing,” my mom said. “Oliver is going through a lot right now, honey. Just . . . keep that in mind.”
No one knew that better than me, though.
THE TREES
It’s two days before Emmy and Oliver’s third birthday.
They’re planning a party. Well, they’re not planning it, their moms are, but it doesn’t matter because it’s going to be so much fun and they’re having their party together. At first, Emmy didn’t like that idea because she thought it meant they would have to share presents, but then Oliver pointed out that the birthday cake would be bigger if it was for both of them, so that helped. Oliver is smart like that.
And right now, at the park, while their moms are sitting in the shade and talking about party plans, Emmy can’t see Oliver anywhere. He’s not on the swings or the slide, and he’s certainly not sitting next to her in the sand, making a sand castle that always seems to slide out of her bucket and into a heap on the ground. It never looks like a castle the way it does at the beach. Emmy likes the beach a lot better than the park.
She stands up and looks at their moms, who are so busy talking that they don’t see her quizzical expression, wondering where Oliver is. She looks past them toward the street, but she knows Oliver isn’t there. They’re not allowed to cross the street by themselves, not yet. Emmy can’t wait to do a lot of things when she’s older, especially crossing the street without holding a grown-up’s hand. She can’t wait to do things by herself.
She turns and looks toward the trees. That’s always been a scary part of the park, where the ground gets damp and smells like dirt and darkness. She never goes over there, but she sees the sun splash across Oliver’s hair, lighting him just for a second, and she hurries over to him.
“What are you doing?” she calls when she’s close enough.
“I saw a frog!” Oliver cries, pointing toward one of the trees. Emmy has never seen a real live frog before. She wonders if they’re slimy. They look slimy.
“C’mon!” Oliver says, scampering forward. “He can be our pet!”
Emmy looks back over her shoulder. Their moms feel so far away and it’s kind of scary. She almost wishes they would see her and Oliver and call them back, pull them back into the familiar orbit of snacks and parks and sand castles that always crumble. But then Oliver disappears behind a tree and Emmy turns back around. The sun ghosts across her hair, warming her for a minute, and she does what she’s always done before.
She follows Oliver into the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sunday was “Family Day” for Oliver, and my parents needed my help cleaning out the garage, which meant no time to sneak away for surfing that day. And then, true to form, I had to do all the homework I had left until the last minute while my mom walked into my room every fifteen minutes explaining, “If you’d just do a little bit every day, Emmy, then it wouldn’t build up so much. You can’t keep leaving things until the last minute.”
After the fourth time this happened, I finally set down my pen. “Mom. Every time you come in here, you interrupt me and keep me from doing the homework that you want me to do! Is that really a good idea?”
“Well, I’m just saying,” she said. “What are you going to do when you go to college in a couple of years?”
I knew she didn’t mean anything by it, but her comment bit me in exactly the wrong way. “You know, some high school seniors like to go to college right after graduating. They even move away and live in dorms! Can you believe it?”
“We’ve talked about this, Emmy,” my mom said.
“You talked about it,” I muttered. I knew that the idea of me moving out had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my mom.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I smiled at her. “I love you. Best mom ever!”
She just raised an eyebrow at me, but finally left me alone. “Bed at ten thirty!” she yelled as she went downstairs.
I waited for Oliver’s light to come on in his bedroom, but it never did. I texted with Caro for a while, who mostly told me about how terrible Heather was and how she hoped that she would smother to death in a pile of laundry, then I went to bed. Oliver’s room stayed dark.
It was nearly impossible to see him at school the next day, since he was a junior and I was a senior and we didn’t share any classes together. “Hey,” Caro said, bumping into me in the hallway. “So can I move in with you? Because I might murder my sister.”
“Remember? If you’re patient, she’ll just suffocate in a pile of laundry,” I said.
“I don’t have that kind of time,” Caro said, “because I am losing my mind. Seriously. I need my own room.”
“You really want to sleep in my mom’s office?” I said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Think carefully before answering. My mom will have your entire life planned out on an Excel spreadsheet if you do that.”
Caro’s eyes glazed over with happiness. “That sounds like heaven,” she sighed happily. “Tell me more about spreadsheets and organization and cleanliness!”
I was about to answer her when I saw Oliver walking down the hall. It looked like he was heading in a straight line toward me, his eyes never looking away from my face, and I grinned despite my effort to stay cool, to look cool.
“Oh God, you are a mess,” Caro whispered.
“Shut up, I know.”
“Hey,” Oliver said when he was close enough. “Hi, Caro.”
“Hey, dude. How’s surfing?”
“Great.” He nodded. “Good times, good people. Uhh . . .”
Clearly, he wanted to talk. “Caro,” I said, “can you, um, give us a minute?”
“I’ll give you three,” she said magnanimously. “Because that’s when the bell’s going to ring, anyway.” She tapped Oliver on the arm as she walked away. “Later, my friends.”
Oliver watched her go, then put his hand on my upper arm. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I said, still grinning like a fool. A happy, happy fool. “Are you ready for a fun day of learning?”
“No. But I hear you’re coming over for dinner tonight.”
“We are,” I said. “My parents and I plan to take blatant advantage of your hospitality and delicious food and generous cable TV package.”
“Hmm.” Oliver leaned in a little closer. “That’s all you want to take advantage of?”
“Oh my God, you are not playing fair right now,” I said. “Not at all.” I closed my eyes as he kissed my forehead.
“Let’s ditch and go surfing,” he whispered, so close that I could feel his breath on my skin.
“I can’t. I mean, I would if I could, but I can’t. My parents—the school, they have that online thing where they can see if I attended classes or not and my mom checks it every day.” I reached up and twirled a lock of his hair around my finger, still damp from his shower. “Your mom probably checks it, too.”
“Every day?” Oliver repeated, his eyes widening. “Doesn’t it bother you that you’re under lock and key like that?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “I guess
I’m just used to it.”
Oliver nodded thoughtfully, like he was filing that information away for future reference. “So see you tonight?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “We’ll be the ones with the salad. You can’t miss us.”
He smiled and I leaned forward to kiss him again, fast before we got caught. “Rebel,” I whispered. “We’re not supposed to do that on school property.”
“Is this where I make a comment about how you should be bringing dessert instead? Because I can do that!” Oliver continued as I wrinkled my nose and shoved him away. “Not a problem, Emmy, really! If you need a cheesy joke, I am here for you!”
“Don’t forget to chill my water glass!” I yelled back, then blew him a kiss as I turned the corner. I saw him catch it, turning the corner with his fist aloft, holding my heart in his hand as he disappeared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When my parents and I got to Oliver’s house that night, though, his mood was different, like someone had dimmed a switch. “Hey,” he said, opening the door. He was wearing a collared shirt like the one he had worn on the TV interview, but a different color this time.
“Hi, Oliver!” My mom beamed. “Here’s the salad, but it needs to be chilled because otherwise the lettuce will wilt and . . .” She trailed off as Maureen came around the corner. Oliver glanced down and took the bowl from my mom without saying a word, ducking back toward the kitchen as Maureen bustled toward us. Her face was tight, her mouth pursed, and she gave us a smile that wasn’t exactly convincing.
“Hi,” she said. “C’mon, come on in. Sorry, we were just . . . getting ready. You are so sweet to bring the salad! Oliver, can you—?”
“Got it!” he yelled back, and I glanced up at my dad. I could tell from the look on his face that he felt the same way I did: this is going to be a long, long night.