AFTERNOON
People want closure. It’s been two and a half weeks since Fiona Loomis disappeared, and people want her home safe and sound, but if they have the choice between never knowing what happened to her and knowing that she’s dead, then I hate to say it, but they’re going to pick dead. No one will ’fess up, obviously, but it’s the truth. A story with a clear ending, happy or sad, is an acceptable story.
They still don’t know anything about Charlie. No ending to his story either, and no ending to Kyle’s, who’s still hooked up to the machines and full-on comatose. The superintendent canceled school yesterday and today, so we essentially have the week off. With one missing kid, he told us to go about our routines. Two kids changes things. This isn’t a fluke. Something’s happening. Someone’s doing something.
I stood outside of Alistair’s door last night. I was going to try to reason with him, but what can I say anymore? Please speak to us? It’s okay, we won’t judge? We love you no matter what? A lot of people say no matter what, but how many people actually experience no matter what? No matter what will fill up your head with a real mess.
So, yeah, I stood there, saying nothing, and I listened. I could hear some faint beeps. I could hear him whispering, like he was talking to himself. Eventually, Mom saw me and glared at me like only she can glare. I tiptoed over to her and she whispered, “He’s not ready yet. One more day.”
Mandy isn’t as patient as Mom. I tell people she’s my best friend, but she really tests me sometimes. Like when she calls me up and says things like she said this morning.
“You gotta get your brother to talk. The longer he’s silent, the guiltier it means he is. He’s probably working on his alibi, making sure it’s super airtight.”
“How the hell do you know that?” I snapped.
“TV. Books. Every place,” she said. “It’s a well-known fact that most missing person cases are solved in, like, forty-eight hours, and what’s it been now since Charlie disappeared? How many hours are there in two and a half days?”
“He’s already met with the police twice.”
“Does he have a lawyer?”
See what I mean about Mandy? Pushy. Nosy. Whatever you want to call it. Alistair does have a lawyer, of course. Or at least my parents have one. Dad works at the hospital in Sutton, and they have a few lawyers on staff. One of them is a family friend named Ms. Kern, and she gives Mom and Dad advice on documents and things like that. So she’s been going to the police station with Alistair. I’m not sure what she does, because Alistair isn’t under arrest and has been totally silent, but she’s there just in case.
“He’s got people looking out for him,” was what I decided to say to Mandy, because that’s all she needs to know.
“Heavy Metal Fifi made sense,” Mandy replied. Heavy Metal Fifi—or HMF—was our nickname for Fiona, because we saw her a few times listening to heavy metal music while she was riding her bike.
“Made sense?” I asked.
“She’s a lonely girl and they’re easy prey for sickos,” Mandy said. “But who’s going after Charlie Dwyer?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a sigh.
“Honestly, I don’t think it’s your brother, but I got this theory. What if it’s Fiona’s uncle? He’s a war vet, like Rambo, which means he torched villages in Asia and stuff. Maybe he, like, did something with Fiona because she found out about that. Then Kyle and Charlie found out about it, and so he tried to cover up some more. And now Alistair knows all this and he’s scared. Weren’t you saying Alistair blamed the uncle for Fiona disappearing in the first place?”
“Alistair was confused,” I said, which was an understatement. Mom and Dad haven’t told me everything, but I know that after Fiona disappeared, Alistair was making all sorts of strange accusations. Like I said, he hasn’t been himself.
“One thing is for sure,” Mandy said. “Creepy uncle drives by and honks at you, offers you Fruit Roll-Ups or something? Run, run, run.”
“Goodbye, jerkface,” I said.
“Sayonara, onion butt,” she said in her super high I’m going to annoy the crap out of you voice.
I hung up.
EVENING
This thing was supposed to be about me. You get a diary and you’re supposed to write about yourself in it. You’re supposed to confess your deepest and darkest secrets. That was the thought, anyway. Dad bought this for me as an “early birthday present” two years ago. Which was a bunch of bull. The reason it came early, or came at all, is because things got a little Are-You-There-God-It’s-Me-Keri-ish around here one embarrassing morning when Mom looked in the bathroom trash and found some of my stained pants and … undergarments. She probably talked to Dad about it, and he had the brilliant idea of getting me something to express myself with. He’s a social worker, you know, and is all about sharing feelings. Well, I didn’t start writing in this stupid thing until yesterday, nearly two days after Kyle was shot, Charlie disappeared, and the police came upon Alistair sitting in our yard, staring up at the stars. And wouldn’t you know it, this is my diary, but all I’m writing about is my brother.
I’m not ready quite yet, but I need to write the wombat story down soon. Not sure why, but the wombat might help.