Abigail Zell of 12 Spruce Street called at 8:33 a.m. to report her daughter’s disappearance. The girl, Victoria Zell, 16, a student at St. Ann’s Catholic School in Bangor, was not in her bed when her mother went to wake her for school. Officer advised Mrs. Zell that missing persons report can be filed after a 24-hour waiting period.
—Duchess Police Department phone log
Do you remember that night, Andrew? Right before I started junior year? We were crouched in our hiding place, between the rosebushes at the white picket fence separating our yards, you on your side, me on mine. Just like bookends. The grass stopped growing where I used to plant my backside, but it was thick on your side, probably the result of your mom’s green thumb. It was already chilly, the crickets chirruping their summer good-bye. When I was young, I used to count fireflies while we talked. That night, there were no fireflies.
“Vic,” you whispered through the fence.
I giggled, lovesick. I adore your voice. It’s so low and musical, even when you’re not singing. If a voice made a whole person, I would be utterly, desperately in love with you. Most of the time, it’s painful to watch you struggle to get the words out. Not because it bothers me, but because I know how much it bothers you. You’ve never liked yourself much, but I think you hate your wayward tongue most of all. How can something that behaves so angelically while singing music betray you so terribly the rest of the time?
You rarely stutter with me. When we were alone and darkness cloaked us, your voice was perfect. Life was perfect then. Stupidly, I didn’t realize it.
“Y-you have fun at school tomorrow, OK?”
“Fun?”
You paused. “OK. Don’t run screaming from school tomorrow. Better?”
“Much.” I pushed a piece of foil-wrapped Juicy Fruit between the slats. A second later, I could hear you chewing the gum. “I wish you would be there.”
I felt you push against the fence. You liked to fold the silver paper into squares and wedge them between the slats. “Save your wishes,” you muttered.
It’s true that wishing was useless. As if your mother would suddenly decide not to homeschool you so you could enroll at St. Ann’s. As if you’d be able to enter a classroom without crumpling into a panicky mess.
“You out there still?” Your stepfather’s voice boomed from the darkness.
I peered between the slats at the lit tip of his cigarette, cutting through the darkness near your back porch. Since he worked so much of the time, all I ever saw of your stepdad was that tiny orange fireball. You jumped to attention and the fence rattled. “Y-y-y-yes, sir,” you said.
I poked my head up and your stepdad muttered something about me. Nothing nice, I’m sure. Your stepdad has never been the sweetest of men, which makes him the opposite of your mom. You told me the story about a thousand times, about how they married when you were seven, mostly because your dad died unexpectedly and left you two in major debt… A “marriage of convenience” you’d said, but it never seemed very convenient for you. Your mother is prim and proper and likes the finer things in life, and your stepfather, well, doesn’t. Somehow though, they fit together. There’s only one piece in that puzzle that never seemed to fit. You.
I told you good night, then turned to go inside. My parents had the kitchen blinds parted in a vee, squinting into the dark yard in their attempt to spy on us. “Good night, Vic,” you called to me. Most people call me Victoria. People are always formal with me. They think I am oh-so-serious and uptight because I don’t know them well enough to say, “Hey, let’s not be formal. Vic’s fine.” And, well, I can’t help it. “Relax” is a mantra I repeat over and over in my head. And do I ever? Nope.
Victoria is a serious name, an old name. Everything about me screams old, from the way I dress to my often-hunched posture. Even my hands look old, veined and thin and fragile.
I guess we’re just two peas in a pod, Andrew: You and your premature balding, and me and my old-lady habits. You and your agoraphobia, and me and my crippling anxiety. We belong together. And yet something in me wanted more. I am sorry to say that I wanted what I knew couldn’t be. What shouldn’t be.
And because of that, I blindly let him lead me.