by Cat Patrick
It’s tough walking with your chin up at the arcade because the floor isn’t level and twice—near the grabby-claw games and over by the big screens where you slash fruit—the floor either dips or rises, depending on where you’re coming from.
Today, I stumbled a little by the grabby claw but made it to the Skee-Ball station without falling. But then someone was on the left-most Skee-Ball game, which is the only one I play, so I had to wait. I felt like there was a thunderstorm brewing inside me I was so impatient.
The player was a little girl who only got the ball into the lowest ring every time, so she should have been done quickly. I stood uncomfortably close to her side—this is what kids do to tell the world I’m next, so I had to do it even though it made my thighs feel weak. I whispered for her to hurry up under my breath, and to speed things along, I picked up the ball for her when she threw it so hard it bounced off the side and onto the dreaded carpet.
I’ve played Skee-Ball a lot, so I knew when she was almost done with her game. And right then, some other kid—maybe her older brother—and some adult—probably their dad—walked up. When the girl finished her game, the dad swiped the other kid’s card and let him go.
“Hey!” I said loudly, the storm inside me building. “It was my turn!”
The dad looked at me, surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. We’ll be done in just a few minutes.”
I grumbled out loud.
The man looked at me. “The other two lanes are open. You could use one of those?”
“I like this one,” I informed him, folding my arms over my chest. “I’ll wait.”
I screamed at them in my head, trying to ignore the pain in my stomach, until they finally left.
I stepped up to my Skee-Ball lane. Still annoyed about having to wait, I missed the first one, but then every ball I threw went in the tiny top circle. It was my highest score ever.
I went and checked the balance on my card and decided that I could play five more games, so I’d still have enough money on the card next weekend and the following. Thinking of next weekend made me think of Colette, and I wondered whether she’d be safe back at home by then or whether . . .
I shook my head and went to the riding-motorcycle-race game. There was only one, and thankfully it wasn’t taken, so I hopped on and chose the setting where you race through a field. I have to admit that I always picture a tornado bouncing along beside me as I’m racing. One thing on my list of things to do in life is to write the game company that makes it and tell them that the field level would be way better with the addition of a tornado.
I placed third, which was not good enough. I reached forward and slid my card through the reader again. But the screen continued to flash INSERT COINS. I tried the card reader three more times and it didn’t work. I knew I’d have to go tell Teddy, but I didn’t want to get off the motorcycle because it’s a popular game and I just knew some little kid was going to come steal it. Maybe even the Skee-Ball lane thieves. I sat there debating my options for a while, wondering if maybe Teddy would just walk by. He didn’t, though. Finally I got up.
“The card reader’s broken on the motorcycle game,” I told Teddy, facing away from the counter, my eyes on the bright yellow motorcycle. “Can you fix it?”
“I’ll have to call the manager,” Teddy said. “Card readers are his area.”
“But I have to play it!” I protested. “I got third and I need to do better, or I’ll be thinking about that the rest of the day!”
“I feel ya,” he said. I heard him open the register again. “Here, use these tokens. They’ll work.”
I turned around and smiled at Teddy. “Thank you!” I said enthusiastically. He looked surprised, like he’d never heard me say that before.
I took the coins and rushed back to the yellow motorcycle, my chin up high to avoid carpet-spotting. Three kids from my school were approaching from the other direction. I grabbed the right handlebar of the motorcycle at the same time that a girl from my science class grabbed the left. Her blond hair was in a high ponytail with a huge polka-dot bow on top that looked really weird.
“I was here first,” I said quickly.
“You were not,” the girl said, looking me up and down. “Where’s Tess?”
I sighed heavily. I’d heard that question about one million times in my life. “Who knows?”
“Really?” the girl asked, her eyes wide, her hand still on the handlebar. “That’s surprising. I mean, doesn’t she have to like babysit you when you come here?”
“No!” I said loudly. “She doesn’t babysit me. We’re the same age! We’re twins!”
“Yeah, but you don’t look anything alike,” the girl’s friend said, frowning at my outfit. She had a huge hair bow, too.
“Duh, we’re fraternal twins.” I tightened my grip on the motorcycle handlebar.
“You just seem . . . younger,” the girl from my science class said, smiling in a mean way, making her friends giggle behind her.
“Whatever,” I said, but it didn’t feel like whatever. My stomach ached and there was a lump growing in my throat. “Just move over, I’m going to play this game.”
The girl shrugged, her gaze falling to the seat of the motorcycle as she was turning to leave. “Ew, gross,” she said. Her friends leaned in to look and they all grossed out in unison. “Have fun with that!” the girl called over her shoulder at me. Laughing, they walked away.
I looked down at the seat of the motorcycle, rolling the tokens Teddy had given me around in my hand. There was a reddish-brown streak across the seat. I stared at it for a few seconds, my eyebrows furrowed. I wondered if someone else had gotten on the seat without me seeing, but they couldn’t have: I’d been watching the whole time. Then I wondered if it’d been there when I’d played the first time . . . and if I had something on my pants. Gross!
With my free hand, I brushed the back of my jeans to see if anything felt off. Sure enough, I felt wetness. I looked at my hand, and my fingertips had a faint red tint to them. Immediately, I was angry that someone had spilled something on the seat and left it there for the next person. I can’t believe what some people—
And then I got it.
There I was, standing in the middle of the arcade, with tons of people there for two-for-one Saturday around me, and THIS. As if to say duh! the pain in my stomach I’d been experiencing dug in like when a cat doesn’t want to be picked up.
I felt the color drain out of my face and turned so my back was to the machine. I looked down at my medium-blue jeans and pulled my sweatshirt down as far as it would go, which was only to my hips.
There aren’t bathrooms in the arcade. You can use the outdoor public bathroom or go to one in a restaurant.
What do I do? I thought to myself. Help! What do I do? Ohmygod, what do I do?
Tears came to my eyes and my heart sped up. I’d read about all this stuff, and had sat through health class at school, but for some reason, I’d thought it wasn’t going to happen to me. I especially hadn’t expected it today. I dug my nails into my fists, the right fist wrapped around the tokens so tightly they were poking into my skin, too. My breaths were short and fast. A kid at a game next to me looked over, got scared, and ran off. The carpet was swirling. I felt dizzy and hot and helpless, my eyes moving back and forth over the room, searching for anywhere—anywhere!—to hide and think. Tess would definitely know how to handle this problem without having a breakdown, I thought. Panicked, I kept looking for a place to go. That’s when I saw the door to the laser tag room. Without thinking about it, I darted across the arcade and slipped inside.
The overhead lights were off, but the fluorescent lights were on: bright green and pink and yellow beams told players how to get through the arena. I could hear players up ahead as I made my way down the dark path. I slipped between the partitions and felt my way to a corner that wasn’t meant
to be part of the game. I slid to the floor and got out my phone.
A memory popped into my head. In fourth grade, a group of girls in my class had coated a soccer ball in mud and thrown it at me at recess because I’d told one of them she looked like my grandma in her new glasses—which had been a fact and which had not been a bad thing, in my opinion. The girl had not agreed. When Colette saw the huge brown stain covering my new shirt and the huge tears in my eyes from being hurt on the outside by the ball and on the inside by the girls, she gave me her sweater. It was a freezing day, but she gave it to me anyway. If we were still friends, if Colette wasn’t missing, she’d help.
Slumped in the corner of the laser tag arena, I wiped away tears, debating who to text. It was either Mom or . . . Tess.
FRANKIE
Tess!
I need ur help RIGHT NOW
COME 2 THE ARCADE
She didn’t understand what I meant at first.
TESS
Frankie, come on
I don’t want to play games
I’m not playing games
I got my YOU KNOW WHAT
What are u talking about?
ARE U SERIOUS
I GOT THAT THING!
u know what I mean right
She’d gotten hers last winter, and I couldn’t believe she didn’t understand what I was talking about.
Frankie, will u just say what u mean?
I’m worried about Colette
I seriously don’t want to go to the arcade today . . .
maybe next week
I GOT MY
PERIOD!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She didn’t respond for a few seconds, which felt more like an hour.
Omg Frankie!
So awesome!
I did not think it was awesome in the slightest bit, and I couldn’t figure out why Tess or anyone else would think it was. It felt squishy and wet and dirty and crampy and I wanted to teleport myself home and take a shower. And that was saying a lot because I hardly ever wanted to take showers. I didn’t say all that to Tess because I just wanted her to stop texting me and get here already.
Hurry up!!!
I will!
Are you ok?
Yes of course
it’s not like I’m dying
Just can’t walk out of here
I’m in the laser tag area
HURRY UP
Do u have a sweatshirt to tie around ur waist or something?
I rolled my eyes, because of course I already thought of that, but I hate wearing too many layers, so all I had on under my sweatshirt was a bra.
Walking out of here in a bra is worse than with grossness on my jeans
Whaaaaaa?
Never mind hurry up!!!
Tess did come through for me, getting to the arcade in less time than I thought it would take. She brought a dark sweatshirt that entirely covered my stained jeans and walked her bike alongside mine back to the inn. Plus, she offered to help me when we made it to our rooms. There was no way I was letting anyone get near the bathroom door, and I could read a tampon box perfectly well on my own, but it was nice that she’d offered.
For a second, I forgot that she’d betrayed me a few months ago.
For a second, I had my sister.
chapter 10
Fact: For around twenty-five percent of tornadoes, you get no emergency warning at all.
“IS EVERYTHING . . . OKAY?” Tess asked quietly, glancing down at my replacement outfit: jeans with holes and a gray hoodie, wet at the top from my dripping hair. Tess was in the doorway of her room; I was out in the hallway. “I mean, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, not getting why everyone had to make such a big deal about everything. I like to just handle things and move on. “Here’s your sweatshirt.” I held it out to her.
“Thanks,” she said, walking over and dropping it in the hamper.
“It’s not dirty,” I said defensively. I’d only had it around my waist for fifteen minutes.
“I wore it riding yesterday,” she explained. “It needs to be washed.” She looked at me for a second. “You don’t have to stand in the door, you know. You can come in.”
I hadn’t been in her room recently. It felt strange to step inside.
Tess’s room looks exactly like mine—except totally different. We have the same furniture and layout, but her comforter has bright flowers and mine is solid gray. Her walls are covered with inspirational posters and her own drawings of landscapes and people and abstract shapes; mine have pictures of tornadoes from the internet, a map of where the most serious ones have happened, and some sticky notes about things I want to remember. Like passwords and stuff. Her bed is made and, unless someone else snuck in and did it for me, which I hate, mine is not. Her books are on the shelf. Her pencils are sorted by shade in a see-through case. Her clothes are in the closet. Mine . . . aren’t.
Tess sat down on the chair by her desk, her left leg folded so she was sitting on her foot. It reminded me of where I’d been sitting in my own room when Colette had been the one near the door two nights ago. Have you ever been to a rodeo when they open the bullpen and the bull charges out? That’s what it felt like, only the bull was all the questions I had about Colette and Fred and dare-or-scare bucking around in my brain again.
“Did you notice that the page about dare-or-scare was missing from the copied pages of Fred?” I asked my sister. “The one with all the dares listed out?”
“Not really,” she said, biting her thumbnail.
If Mom were here, she’d tell Tess to stop. Here’s a weird thing about us: Tess eats off her nails so there are no white parts showing at all. She always has. I think she does it when she’s stressed or maybe she just thinks fingernails are gross. But I don’t like having my nails clipped because it feels totally disgusting to me, so my nails are really long. See? Opposites.
“Do you think the police tore it out?” I asked.
Tess looked at me funny. “No, I don’t think they’d do that.”
“Well, do you think Colette did?”
“I don’t know, Frankie, why would she?” Tess seemed to realize she’d been biting her nails and stuck her hands under her thighs.
“Maybe she thought it was embarrassing. Or maybe she ripped it up to be mean to me. Or maybe—”
“What are you talking about?” Tess interrupted. “Colette would never do something mean to you on purpose.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She wouldn’t!” Tess said. “Colette has always lov—”
“I want to remember the dares we had listed in Fred,” I interrupted loudly. I didn’t want to talk about how Colette really would do something mean to me—and had. “Tess, it’s important.”
“Why?” Tess asked, chewing her nail again. “You don’t think that the dare-or-scare challenge has anything to do with Colette being missing, do you? Because those were just silly dares, like jumping off the dune and landing without falling. They’re not—”
“I just want to remember them,” I said quietly. “I don’t like when I can’t remember things.” Or maybe it was something more—something nagging at me that I didn’t want to tell Tess.
“There were a lot,” Tess said, getting up and starting to put away the folded laundry from the pile at the end of her bed. “I don’t remember all of them either. It’s not just you.” I didn’t answer, so she added, “Just look at that old Viewer account where we stored the videos.”
I smacked myself on the forehead because I hadn’t thought of that. Sometimes you can’t see the easy answer, even if it’s right in front of you. Pulling out my phone, I sank down to the floor and sat, cross-legged, eyes on the screen.
>
“You can sit in a chair,” Tess said.
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, not moving as I typed in the address for Viewer, and the password that only Colette, Tess, and I knew. “I haven’t been on this account in so long,” I said, clicking to open a video. “This is weird.”
Tess sat down on the floor next to me and leaned in; I tilted the phone so she could see. She smelled like fruity shampoo. Tess might have been the only person who could sit that close to me without it bugging me—particularly at this point in time, with no medication, limited therapy, and a missing . . . person.
“Look,” I said, my voice fading away as we watched a video of sneakers zipping through beach grass past a phone that’d been propped on something. “It doesn’t have sound,” I observed.
“I don’t remember that dare,” Tess said quietly. Then, after a few seconds, she asked, “Didn’t we make all of the videos together? Why isn’t someone holding the camera? Why is it propped up?”
