He hasn’t responded. Forty-eight hours and Alex Belrose has not responded.
I stare at my phone as I walk. It’s not like this is new. It’s not like he just supplies me with attention whenever I want it. I’m obviously not that important to him anyway.
I want to e-mail him again. But e-mailing someone who is potentially missing is probably not a great idea. I don’t want them tracing anything back to me. I don’t want them finding a hair on his couch and connecting the DNA or something.
I stick my phone in my purse and keep to my route: the Belrose house. And not my normal route. It’s a long walk, but I don’t care. I’m not parking a car anywhere close. I wore an old jacket from the back of my closet and tugged on mittens, two wool scarves, and a thick knit hat, and I even grabbed two hand warmers from my dad’s hunting gear to keep in my pockets if it gets really cold. I haven’t had to use them—I’ve been walking so much that I’m not particularly chilled beyond my cheeks, which are stinging a bit.
Normally, I’d be at cheer tonight, but with the hubbub, all after-school activities were canceled. Everyone’s on edge. Everyone’s a little scared. Any laughter in the school sounds strange and alien. And they’ve brought in Mr. Anderburg, a young, twitchy man, as the substitute French teacher . . . and he doesn’t understand two words of the language, I’m pretty sure. He sort of stands at the front of the class in baggy clothes, stuttery and out of place, and the whole room feels pale and odd and scared without Belrose at the helm.
Everyone whispers. All the time.
I walk faster. I’m almost there. I think of the steps I am taking and my fitness wristband, but I don’t want anything tracking me here. My location tracker on my smartphone has been off basically since I got it. I hate people knowing where I am at all times. It’s creepy.
I like my steps untraceable.
I stop deliberately short of the Belrose house, and it looks just like it always has, like Alex is just waiting for me to slip in through the back gate and into the den, where he’ll be waiting with French poetry and a kiss. Only he isn’t. Only I’ve checked my e-mail ten thousand times and he’s nowhere, and no one knows anything, especially not me, and it hurts somewhere strange and deep in me where I didn’t know it was possible to hurt.
I study the house from as close as I dare, but I can’t see anything of note. Just the same old house, looking the same old way, and nothing to show that anyone is missing or that anything has happened at all.
I feel strange and let down. Somehow I felt like maybe if I were in the neighborhood, he’d want to come back. He’d sense I was here and pop up, and be happy to see me.
If he could.
But there’s nothing. Just the sound of the fir trees moving and distant wind chimes.
I swallow hard, resisting the urge to push through the gate and try the back door. I turn away instead, and walk through the trees, trudging back in the direction of my house.
When I get home, though, I force myself to concentrate. I sit at the desk in my room and finish my homework. I double-check all my answers even though I know I’m right. I double-check them even though I’m certain my teachers don’t care right now either.
Everyone’s mind is elsewhere.
Nothing like this has ever happened before.
Neta texts me.
COME OVER. I’M BOREDDDDDDDDDDDD.
I’m not. But I need something else to think about besides Alex. Something else to do besides check my e-mail and pace the floor of my room, wearing a path in my rug.
“You came!” she squeals at me when I walk through the door, and hugs me. She looks good. A lot better since the funeral, actually, although I suppose that’s not hard, since the funeral was pretty much the lowest I’d ever seen her. For a few days after the service she stopped wearing makeup because she kept crying it off so quickly, but she has it back on today and she’s actually sort of smiling.
“You okay?” I ask cautiously.
“Just glad you’re here,” she says, but if I look hard I can see a little bit of sadness underneath her excitement. “Come downstairs. I have TLC on and I made brownies.”
Neta is basically Martha Stewart (minus the jail time) in the kitchen, and I cannot resist her brownies. She also knows I’m not the type of girl to eat one bite of brownie and feel bad about it for a million years. I’ll eat, like, twelve and feel pretty great about it, honestly. And then I might get a stomachache and decide it was a bad idea later, but I prefer to live in the moment. And in this moment, I need brownies in my life.
I am a girl who knows what she wants, after all.
“Do you have ice cream?”
“Rocky road.”
“You’re the light of my life, Neta Adriana Castillo.”
She flips her hair. “I know.”
We run downstairs like we’re middle schoolers again. TLC is playing reruns of Say Yes to the Dress, which we both know is staged, but we don’t care. The entire pan of brownies (minus two squares) are sitting, precut, on the floor in front of the television. Neta disappears for a moment and brings back two pints of store-brand ice cream—one fudge chocolate, one mint chocolate chip.
“Sorry, no rocky road,” she says apologetically, dropping a spoon in my lap, and we grab a bunch of old blankets and pillows and sit on top of them.
“Thanks for coming over,” she says. “I needed some distractions.”
“So did I,” I say. “This whole thing at school with Mr. Belrose is nuts, right?”
She nods. “I heard, like, he got kidnapped.” She pulls a blanket around her shoulders.
“What? From who?” I sit up a little straighter.
“Lilah Gilbert, actually. She said that he was taken by someone who was pissed about a grade. Isn’t that insane?”
I sink back down into the pile of blankets. Nothing Lilah Gilbert says is likely to be anywhere close to the truth. In fourth grade, she pulled two hundred dollars out of a Cracker Jack box, claiming it was a prize, but she actually stole it from Mr. Jeppard’s wallet, which he figured out during a spelling test when his wife came by to pick up the cash she was supposed to buy a used crib with. Of course, Elijah Piper pointed right at Lilah and mentioned her lucky Cracker Jack winnings, and Mr. Jeppard was so mad, he didn’t stop at sending Lilah to the office. The cops actually arrested her for theft. She got suspended for two weeks, and when she returned, she was transferred next door to Mrs. Dones’s class, which we were all pretty jealous about because Mrs. Dones let everyone call her Angelica and play music during reading hour.
“What do you think happened?” Neta asks. She’s mashing brownie into her mint chocolate chip ice cream.
For a second, I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her about our nights together, and how Alex kisses, all of the meals he has cooked for me, and the French poetry, and the promises to leave Jacqueline, and how we were really going to be together. I want to tell her how he betrayed me and how somehow even though I sort of hate him a little, I think I actually love him.
But that’s all ridiculous, of course.
So the moment passes. I grab a spoonful of her mint-and-brownie mess. “His wife is a little nutty, isn’t she?” I ask. “Maybe they should start there.”
Neta grabs the remote and starts paging through the guide, bored with the white-wedding-dressed women on the screen. “Maybe. Hey, did I tell you I’m talking to someone new?”
I blink at her. “No, you didn’t!” I don’t point out that I’ve been a pretty poor friend because I’ve very nearly been doing my teacher.
“His name is Chase, and he’s friends with Jamal too, I guess. After the whole Sandeep fiasco, I suppose Kolbie thought I deserved a shot—so Chase just happened to be in town just after visiting his aunt and uncle or something. So we went to a movie with Kolbie and Jamal, and then, I don’t know, I think we’re a thing or something.”
“You think you’re a thing?” I ask, trying to emulate her level of excitement while my heart is dropping. “Have you talked about it?”
“Kind of. I mean, he’s going back this weekend, and we’re supposed to hang out. He’s taking me to a nice dinner, and we’ve texted every night. See? We’re texting right now.” She thrusts her iPhone at me, showing three (3) new texts from Chase Abrams.
“You really like him.” A little of the strange jealousy that rose when I realized that Kolbie and Neta have a life without me fades. Neta really needs a distraction right now. And if that’s Chase . . . well, then, that’s good for her. And I’m glad. She needs something positive in her life.
She wiggles a little. “Yeah, kind of. I just wish he were here, you know? So we could hang out as often as RJ and I did. RJ was always just—around when I needed him.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
I wish Alex were here too. Everything feels strange now. Before Alex, I would have been fine sitting here in the basement with Neta, eating ice cream and talking about guys and watching reality shows.
And now it doesn’t feel like enough.
The doorbell rings upstairs. “Expecting someone?” I ask, but Neta shakes her head and chooses reruns of Teen Mom . . . but then Rob Samuels comes stomping down the stairs. One of his sneakers is untied and he’s grinning and holding a liter of Dr Pepper and a big brown paper bag that says SMILEY’S, the name of the local grocery store. A big tear runs up the side.
“Hey!” he says. “What’s up?”
I want to drag Neta in the bathroom and force her to explain herself, but she just points to the recliner near her shoulder. “What’s up, Rob?” she asks. “Grab a seat.”
He sits down. I shoot her a look. She could have at least told me he was coming. I feel slightly intruded upon. I thought it was girls’ night.
“I heard it was junk food time,” he says, and tears open the brown bag and leans forward to dump it out between us on the blankets. An array of candy flows out in a sugar waterfall: caramels, little packets of Sour Patch Kids and Swedish Fish, chocolate truffles, red and pink Starburst, and even fun-size packages of Skittles.
I relent a little.
“I’ll get a little ice for the soda,” he offers. “Are you done with the ice cream? I can put it back in the freezer if you want.” He collects the ice cream containers and runs up the stairs, like he knows exactly where everything is.
“What?” Neta asks innocently. “He’s helpful.”
I glower. “Helpful, huh?”
“This has nothing to do with you. I swear to God. He’s just been sweet to me at school. That’s all. So I told him he could hang out with us, and obviously he is cool because he is basically a girl, snack-wise. I mean, look at this. His sweets game is on point. There is not a Funyun or beef jerky in the mix.”
She throws herself back on the pile of candy, doing a snow angel in the mess. I giggle in spite of myself.
“I guess. But I love Funyuns. And beef jerky.”
Neta makes a face.
Rob stomps back down the stairs, three glasses filled with ice balanced in his hands. “Ladies first,” he says without any trace of irony, and fills our glasses with cold Dr Pepper.
I observe him. He does seem sort of harmless, and if Neta’s the one who wants him here, I don’t exactly care. He sinks back into the chair and grabs a chocolate truffle off the floor.
“You can’t tell my friends I’m here,” he tells me, popping the truffle into his mouth. “I’d lose major points. Oh, hey, is this Teen Mom? I don’t think I’ve seen this one.” He leans forward and scoops up a couple of Starburst.
I watch him for a few seconds longer, but he sort of seems content just staring at the TV, so I nudge Neta.
“So, Chase this weekend, huh?” I ask, and she practically bubbles over with excitement. I let her talk over the television, which normally drives me crazy. Somebody needs a little happy in their lives, and if it can’t be me, it might as well be Neta.