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Springtime. I’ve always loved the ...
What’s that noise?
I glance at the clock. Half past four, except it’s bright out. Bright as day.
I’m so confused.
My head hurts. Why does my head hurt? What time did I go to bed? I’m so tired ...
I need to ... Wait, what day is it? Half past four. Can’t be nighttime. Not with the sky so bright. Not with ...
What’s that noise?
“Mia, I need you to get up. Now.”
I don’t understand. I think it must be ... Someone’s in my room. It’s not Mom. What’s going on?
“Mia, get up.” It’s my dad. But who’s with him? Why are there strangers in my house?
“Are you dressed?” Dad asks. I think so. Am I? I have no idea what I’m doing here, why my head aches this badly.
Where’s Mom?
“There are officers here,” Dad says. Officers? Like cops? What do they want? “They have some questions for you,” Dad tells me.
Questions? I’ve got questions. Is this about ...
No. It can’t be. I’m just confused. I might not even be awake at all. This whole thing must be one bad dream.
The police are here for me? Did Dad let them in? That can’t mean that ...
No, Dad would never allow that to happen. It must be something else.
I want my mom.
Dad steps in and pulls the covers off me. “Wake up,” he says. “You’re going with these guys.”
Going? Where are we going? Where are they taking me? What’s going on?
Dad squeezes my arm. Leans in. Acts as if he’s going to kiss the top of my head, except he doesn’t. His fingernails dig into my biceps. “Remember what I’ve taught you,” he whispers, so quietly my brain might have made it up.
I glance at him questioningly, but he’s too busy apologizing to the two officers. “She’s pretty out of it.”
Remember what I’ve taught you. So this is about ...
“Miss Blanca, we have some questions we’d like to ask you,” a man says. I don’t think I’ve seen him before, but he acts as if he belongs here. There’s no apologizing for waking me up in the middle of the night. Except it can’t be night.
I’m still so confused.
Where’s Mom? Is she the one who called the police here? Is she the one who told them ...
I think I’m about to puke. There’s something familiar about this fear. Something about this terror that triggers a latent memory, something that’s been lost for a very, very long time.
I understand, or at least I think I do. I think I know what’s going on. Why the police are here. What they want to ask me.
I look to Dad. Remember what I’ve taught you. He’s got his arm around me. He’s leading me out of my room. Down the hall and toward the stairs. His fingernails dig into my flesh. Is he as frightened as I am?
Remember what I’ve taught you.
What are the police going to ask me? I have to tell them the truth, don’t I? Maybe not.
“It’ll be okay,” Dad says, and I seize onto his words. If Dad isn’t worried, then I don’t have any reason to be either. Dad knows how to handle things like this.
He always has.
That’s why he’s so good at what he does.
I’m outside now. The sun is bright, the pain in the back of my skull blasting me awake.
I’m passed from one set of hands to another. Led away to a waiting police car, like a criminal under arrest.
Dad remains on the porch, but his words are still with me.
His warning.
Remember what I’ve taught you.
A woman is sitting next to me. “Mia,” she says. “Mia, do you know where you are?”
The question seems inane. “In a police car.”
“Do you know what day today is?” Her voice is somber.
The day? Of course I remember ... It’s Friday. Senior skip day. No, that can’t be right...
“Do you know what today is?” she repeats.
I stare at my father, standing motionless on our porch. I think about what I’m not supposed to tell the police, what I’m not supposed to tell anybody, then I shake my head.
The woman says something into a radio and buckles me in. “Come on. Let’s go.”