“Dustin! We have to go! My mom is going to kill me!” Jenna scaled the middle console and was already buckling her seatbelt before Dustin fully understood the situation.
“Okay. It’s okay. Calm down,” he said, as he climbed awkwardly over the console and into the driver’s seat. He glanced at Jenna as he started the car and put it into gear. Her eyes were wide, and her chest was heaving. “Jenna, it’s not like we’re out partying. We fell asleep.”
“Right, but my mom would probably be less upset if she knew we were at a party instead of alone . . . in the back seat of your parents’ car,” Jenna said.
Dustin kept his gaze on the road, but he could feel Jenna’s eyes on him. “Then we’ll tell them we were at a party and lost track of time instead,” he offered.
With a heavy sigh, Jenna slumped back into her seat and focused on the road ahead, keeping her thoughts to herself. This had been the third time in a month she’d been with Dustin and missed curfew, so she knew an interrogation awaited her at home.
Less than ten minutes later, they pulled under the streetlamp in front of the Kemps’ modest Lannon stone Tudor on Berkeley Street. Dustin put the car in park and reached for the keys in the ignition, but Jenna stopped him.
“It’ll be better if you don’t walk me to the door.” She removed her hand from his and unbuckled her seatbelt.
“Why? I can back your story about us being at a party.”
“Dustin, I’m not going to lie. So trust me, it’s better if you just go.” Jenna leaned over to kiss his cheek. Before he had a chance to object, she already had one foot out the door.
“Text me to let me know how it goes!” he rushed to say before Jenna closed the door, but most of his words had been trapped inside the car. He watched as she jogged up the sidewalk to the house then held the front storm door open with her back and fumbled with her keys. She didn’t find them fast enough, though, because the inner door flew wide open within seconds. After Jenna disappeared inside, he got a glimpse of Mrs. Kemp saying something to her before peering out into the darkness at Dustin’s car. He waved, but her only response was to shake her head as she closed the door.
With an exasperated sigh, Dustin drove off. He wondered the whole way home why Mrs. Kemp no longer seemed to condone his relationship with Jenna after all the years they’d been friends. He’d talked to his mom about it a few weeks ago, and she tried to explain it from a mom’s point of view, but he still didn’t get it. Would Mrs. Kemp rather Jenna date some dude who only wanted to get into her pants? His mom said to give Jenna’s parents some time to get used to the idea that Jenna (and pretty much all their classmates) were at the age when hormones started raging. Dustin did his best to hide his amusement over this advice because most of his friends, himself included, had hit that age years ago. But his amusement was short-lived because Jenna didn’t seem anywhere near as interested in sex as he was.
Some of his friends called Jenna a prude and joked about her uncle being a pastor. Dude, you’re never going to get into the pants of a pastor’s niece. His rebuttal was always some sort of jab, such as calling them assholes or saying they couldn’t get a girl like Jenna even if it was in their dreams. The passive-aggressive smile Dustin always had plastered on his face at times like these was only there to hide how pissed off it made him when they talked about Jenna that way. It also hid his hypocrisy because Dustin wasn’t innocent of dating girls whose pants were known to offer easy access. But that was never the reason why he wanted to date Jenna.
Chapter Three
Keeley
Saturday, October 28, 2017
One Day After Jenna’s Disappearance
“I’m leaving . . . Bye!” I call out as I’m about to walk out the door, but I pause when I hear quick footsteps moving down the hall.
“Hey, Keeley?” my dad says as he enters the mudroom. “Make sure you let us know if you get in touch with Jenna. And if not, please check in soon. Your mom is a bit shaken up about this whole situation.”
“I don’t understand why. I told her there’s probably nothing to worry about. I’m sure Jenna’s fine.”
“Yeah, well, you know your mom. Hey . . .” he fingers the thick scruff along his cheeks and chin. “. . . if you ever want to talk about anything—you know, friends, boys, school—my door is always open. Like, literally, just pop in anytime.” He chuckles as he gestures in the direction of the hallway, which leads to his home office.
“Yeah, I know, Dad. Thanks.” I return his warm smile as I step outside.
As soon as I close the door, I take off running. The weather has been mild for October in Wisconsin, so I instantly feel warm and wish I hadn’t thrown on a third layer. But my mom was insistent. Better to be warm than cold, Keeley, and you can always remove a layer.
Delaney lives about six blocks from the north side of Jolliet Park, and Jenna and I are on the south side. Whenever Jenna and I run to the park, we meet on the corner of her street, right next to the streetlight and the KEEP OFF sign Mr. Fitzgibbon’s has had on his lawn for as long as I can remember. Out of habit, I stop when I reach the streetlight and look down the block at Jenna’s house. I’m tempted to make a pitstop, just in case. Is it possible Jenna went home already and her parents are too busy interrogating her to let my mom know she’s okay?
No, I can’t. If she isn’t there, Mrs. Kemp will ask me questions that I don’t have the answers to. Questions I don’t want to answer. I’m afraid I won’t be able to look Jenna’s mom in the eyes and not tell her the truth.
The faint sound of a dog barking reminds me that I’m no longer moving. I glance up from the spot where Jenna and I always used to meet and see Mr. Fitzgibbons peeking through his curtains at me, his rusty-colored poodle beside him pawing at the window. I wave at my retired high school math teacher. He returns the gesture and promptly turns away from the window, letting the curtains fall closed. I guess that’s my cue to be on my way.
As I run the final few blocks to Jolliet, memories of my childhood come flooding back. Jenna, Delaney, and I have been meeting at this park ever since sixth grade when our parents agreed that, as long as we stuck together, we were old enough to hang out here without adult supervision. It was about the same time the playset in my backyard began to feel babyish, but we still used the playground equipment at Jolliet when no one else was there. When we entered middle school, our main priority became talking about boys and pretending we were too old for things like swings and monkey bars. But there is one piece of equipment we never stopped using.
The Jolliet merry-go-round holds a special place in my heart—and probably in Jenna and Delaney’s hearts too. I’d bet money on it. When we became teenagers, instead of running until we couldn’t pick up any more speed and hopping on, we would just sit—none of us wanting to admit that spinning was way more fun. After all, we had to act cool. If there were little kids on it, we’d sit on a bench and wait for them to leave. Sometimes we’d offer to give them a spin, laughing at their dizzy smiles and occasional screams. Then when we became freshmen, for some reason, it was cool again to get the merry-go-round going as fast as we could before hopping on. But instead of laughing hysterically like when we were kids, we would lay still and enjoy the dizzying effect it had on us, wondering if that was what it would feel like to be drunk. Of course, we all know now that it isn’t quite the same.
But the merry-go-round has never been just a place for us to play or try to act cool. It’s also a place we would go when life sucked. Like when we were ten and Jenna’s first dog got hit by a car and had to be put down. Or when we were thirteen and Delaney’s dad moved out. Or in eighth grade when Haley Tompkins started spreading rumors about us, which was ridiculous and probably a result of Haley’s crush on Dustin, who was always hanging around Delaney, Jenna, and me at lunch and during school dances. According to Haley, Jenna was flirting with Delaney’s crush and I was seen coming out of the bathroom stall where it said “Jenna Kemp is a lesbo” on the wall. There was also something about Delaney’s dad havi
ng an affair with my mom. That one really made us laugh. All of Haley’s efforts might have turned us against each other if she hadn’t started mixing our names with the alleged offenses. After a horrific week of classmates whispering behind our backs and us hearing bits and pieces of the lies, we ended up at Jolliet. Instead of discussing any of the crap Haley was saying about us, we sat on our merry-go-round and made a Haley Tompkins voodoo doll out of sticks and leaves and dandelion stems. We burned that ugly thing to a crisp, and none of us have spoken to the real Haley by choice since.
It’s been nearly two years since we last spun on the merry-go-round, probably because we’ve been too busy hanging out in the woods instead, where kids our age sometimes smoke or drink if it isn’t too cold outside. Delaney and I have steered clear of most of that. Jenna’s another story, of course.
When I see the Jolliet Park sign, I reduce my pace to a slow jog. Delaney catches sight of me but doesn’t wave like she normally would. Instead, she continues sitting cross-legged, hands gripping the edge of the merry-go-round, and looks back down at the ground. As I move along the tree-lined path Jenna and I have jogged along together so many times, a knot forms in my stomach. I can’t decide if it’s because of all the childhood memories we’ve shared here or because the last time I was here, Jenna was too.
“Hey,” I say as I bend and place my hands on my knees to catch my breath. I crane my neck to glance up at Delaney.
“Hey,” she responds, uncrossing her legs and dropping them over the edge.
“So, how did Mrs. Kemp sound? What else did she say?” I ask, standing upright and taking a seat next to her. I grip the bar next to me and lean my head against it, my chest still heaving.
Delaney sighs and remains silent for a few seconds as she checks her phone. “She was calm at first . . . sniffled a few times while we caught up. She asked how I am, how’s school, how’s my mom . . . said she’s due for a haircut so she’ll probably pay my mom’s salon a visit soon.” She glances over at me. “You know Mrs. Kemp . . . always really nice.” I nod, and she continues. “Anyway, then she asked if I saw Jenna last night, and when I told her I’ve hardly spoken to Jenna for two months, she started bawling. Said she had no idea we haven’t hung out for that long. Then she started rambling and saying things like she was just trying to be understanding, thought Jenna breaking curfew so often lately was just typical teenager rebellion—nothing to worry about. She didn’t want to make things worse by butting in, and that she was trying to make amends with Jenna over the whole diary situation. Then she asked—”
“Wait . . . what diary situation?”
“No idea,” Delaney says. “I thought maybe you knew.” I shake my head as she continues. “So then she asked about Leighton. I mean, Keeley,” we lock eyes, “she thought we’d been hanging out with Leighton too. They have zero idea what’s going on with Jenna. How is that even possible?”
I shrug and shake my head. “All I know is Mrs. Kemp has been busy taking on more roles at church since Pastor Steele took over, and of course, Jenna’s dad is always super busy until it gets too cold to work outside, but I still don’t get it either. You didn’t . . . tell her anything, did you?”
“No. I didn’t know what you might have said, so I didn’t say anything. This is it, though, right? I mean, now they’re probably going to interrogate her big time and find out about everything. Don’t you think?”
“For sure. And there’s no way she’s not getting grounded for, like, the rest of high school.” We both laugh, but the lighthearted moment is fleeting because the things Jenna has been doing aren’t anything to laugh about. “Anyway,” I clear my throat, “where should we start? Do you want to try calling Dustin again?”
Delaney pulls her phone out of her pocket and looks at the screen. “No. I already have . . . a few times. And I texted once.” She sighs. “You’d think after talking to Mrs. Kemp he’d call right away.”
“Maybe he didn’t talk to her yet. Maybe he’s still sleeping,” I offer.
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he’s already trying to find Jenna on his own.” She rolls her eyes. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t assume anything until you hear from him . . .” I’m staying out of this love triangle. “Should we talk to Leighton?”
“How? Neither of us has her number? And I certainly don’t feel like calling Mrs. Kemp to get it.”
“Me either . . . She doesn’t live far from here. Should we just go to her house?”
Delaney looks at me as if I’ve suggested we walk across hot coals. “Are you serious? Leighton hates us.”
She hates you, Delaney. I have no idea how she feels about me.
“And what if Jenna is there? How do you think she’ll react to us showing up? I’d rather call. I bet Lou Tang knows Leighton’s number. We can easily get his number, or we can DM him on Insta.”
“We’re not calling the resident drug dealer, Delaney. Besides, who cares if Jenna gets mad at us for showing up at Leighton’s? Her mom and dad think she’s missing, and they’re going to call the cops if she doesn’t get her butt home. Whether she likes it or not, we’d be doing her a favor.”
I get why Delaney is nervous about showing up at Leighton’s house, and it has nothing to do with the rumors about Leighton being expelled from her last school for fighting. (Word has it she ripped out a chunk of another girl’s hair, big enough that it left a huge bloody bald spot.) I’d be uneasy around Leighton too if she’d called me out on being a shitty friend to Jenna. Not so much because of the shitty friend part, really, but more because of the reason.
Most people were shocked when Delaney and Dustin started spending time together, even me. But after his split from Jenna, and the way she pulled away from us, who’s to tell them who they can and can’t date? Besides, Jenna’s the one who broke up with Dustin. Leighton’s the only one who ever said anything. And she didn’t do it discreetly, nor did she sugarcoat her opinion about their “betrayal.”
But I’m not going to Leighton’s by myself, so Delaney needs to forget about the scene Leighton caused, even if it’s only for the next hour or so.
Delaney and I walk the first half of the ten-block trip to Leighton’s neighborhood mostly in silence. But as we pass the Mobil gas station on the corner of Hampton and Santa Monica, a guy pumping gas into a white Chevy yells, “Hey, you ladies cold? We got plenty a room if you want a ride.” He taps the top of the car a few times, and the rear driver’s side window opens, releasing a cloud of smoke and my grandpa’s idea of noise pollution at its worst: gangster rap.
“Well, isn’t that impressive?” Delaney whispers under her breath. She gives my elbow a tug, encouraging me to keep up with her quickening pace, but I fall behind a few steps as I sneak a peek inside the car, which is filled with guys about our age. I don’t recognize any of them, though, so I lose interest and pick up my pace to catch up with Delaney.
“Oh, okay, I see how it is!” the guy at the pump yells. Then he adds, “Typical white girls,” just loud enough for us to hear.
Delaney stops dead in her tracks, but before she can turn around, I link my elbow with hers to keep her moving. “Don’t even bother. It’s no big deal.” If Jenna was with us, she’d have gone back to confront the guy before I had a chance to stop her. She’s always been the outspoken one, but only when it’s on behalf of someone else, never herself.
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. “But it pisses me off. You know?” She presses the pedestrian crosswalk button, and we wait for the light to change.
“I know. But why bother? Clearly, he’s an idiot,” I say, wondering if I should have just let Delaney tell him off. It might have been fun to see his face when he got a better look at me and realized the white girl label doesn’t quite fit. That’s life when you’re a mixed kid.
Three blocks later, we turn into the Juniper Court cul-de-sac.
“I think it’s that one,” I say pointing at the fourth townhouse in on the left side of the circle. “I r
emember those tiered planters from that time we picked up Jenna.”
“Me too,” Delaney says.
We’re about to cross the circle when she stops and turns to face me.
“What?” I ask, looking around to see if there are any cars backing out or turning into the cul-de-sac.
“Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe we should just get Leighton’s number instead. Or . . .” She pulls her phone out of her pocket and pokes at the screen. “Maybe Jenna turned her phone back on.” She puts the phone to her ear, and even if I couldn’t hear Jenna’s voicemail greeting, I’d know she didn’t answer based on the frustrated expression on Delaney’s face.
“Come on, Delaney. Yes, Leighton totally embarrassed you, and she was wrong to stick her nose in where it doesn’t belong. But can you just let it go? At least until we find out if Jenna is here? You can’t make me go to the door by myself.” Because Leighton scares the shit out of me.
“Yeah, sure. Fine.” She looks over at Leighton’s house. “You lead the way.”
Delaney walks beside me as we cross the center of the cul-de-sac. When we reach the stairs, she falls back and stays on the top step as I ring the doorbell then fold my arms across my chest like I mean business. Seconds tick by without a peep from inside, so I ring it again.
Still nothing.
“Okay . . . no one’s home,” Delaney says.
I glance back at her and knock, unwilling to believe Leighton and Jenna aren’t inside. Or maybe even Leighton’s mom or dad or someone else who might live here. Surely, they could tell us if Jenna spent the night.
“Keeley, they’re either not home or they know it’s us and they aren’t going to answer, so let’s just—”
“Shh. Did you hear that? That ding? It sounded like a phone.” I glance back at Delaney and lean my ear toward the door. After a few seconds of silence, I back away with a sigh. I raise my hand to ring the doorbell one final time but lower it when I hear the door being unlocked. As the door slowly opens, I quickly refold my arms and contemplate whether I’m going to play good cop or bad cop. The next thing I know, I’m face to face with Leighton, her multi-colored hair, and a blank stare.
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