Your mom appears in the doorway, looking disheveled for the first time in her life maybe. Now, her hair is all wonky. Maybe she was running her hands through it? She’s got one chunk of hair at the front that’s sticking out.
“That was the detective,” she says.
Please don’t let it be bad. “Did they find him?” I breathe.
“No, the detective’s going to stop by in a bit, get more details. He said they suspect he’s a—They suspect he went somewhere.”
“They think he’s a runaway?” I say, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you tell them about—” I glance at Raffa.
“I did.”
“But they haven’t even started searching yet?” I say.
“Well, they have been looking for him, but he’s eighteen.” That piece of her hair flops from one side to the other. “It’s twenty-four hours now. But they did put out a bulletin for him. It takes a while to get everything sorted out.”
“The detective isn’t going to do anything?”
“He said he’ll come over tonight and give me an update.”
“Oh.” It sounds lame. “I could talk to him.”
“No, that’s fine.”
Again, I’m relieved.
“Mom, what’s up with your hair?” Leave it to Raffa.
Irritated, your mom flattens it down. Then she sees the paper airplane in my hand. Her eyes widen, like she recognizes it. Did you write her too?
“I found this.” I thrust it at her. I’m thinking if she reads it, she’ll see that you were happy yesterday. You had no reason to run off to Brooklyn. Something’s gone wrong. “He wrote it yesterday during school.”
She takes it from me, reads it, and hands it back, fast. Like I just handed her a porno. “This is your private letter. You don’t need to show it to me.”
I thought she wouldn’t get that Marvin Gaye reference, but she’s not stupid. Yep, that’s embarrassing. Can’t believe I showed that to your religious mom. “I thought it might be evidence,” I say.
She nods, briefly. Presses her lips together. Like she didn’t know that we do more than just cuddle on your sofa watching sports, like she hasn’t figured out where you go when you’re out walking in the middle of the night.
“Guess I better go home,” I say. “Can you tell me if you hear anything?”
“I sure will,” she says.
I give Raffa another hug. “See you.”
“Bye.” She lifts her hand.
I leave your house, gripping your love letter in my hand, and ride my bike the three blocks to my house. Your love letter gets all crinkled pressed against my handlebars. I never wrote a single one back. That’s pretty shitty, I know it.
You’ve written me one every Friday for the eight months since we started going out. You don’t know what a bummer it was yesterday when I thought you hadn’t written me. But you did. You did! Why didn’t you give it to me? If you’d given me your damn letter yesterday, we would’ve gotten back together and you never would’ve gone running.
That damn song, “Let’s Get It On,” starts playing in my head. What if it’s a message from you? Yes, please, I think. I would like that. In case you’re sending that song as a message, yes!
I send you a message back. It’s X-rated. A mind picture. Did you get it? If you did, I bet you’re grinning.
As I get closer to my house, I hear the sound of kids yelling on my street, the angry, vicious sort of yelling. It scares me, and I ride faster to see what’s going on.