Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  She lifted it off the printer and said, “I spoke with Principal Higgins about your situation. And, though I’m not qualified as a physical education teacher, she agrees that for this semester, at least, you don’t need to be assigned in the regular gym class. You’ll report to me for first period.”

  She handed me the paper. The schedule was the same as before, except for the first period line, which read: Physical Education, Mullins, Patricia.

  I couldn’t stop myself. My hand raised to my mouth, stifling a sob, and my eyes watered uncontrollably. I shook, hard, staggering back into my seat. “You didn’t have to do this,” I whispered.

  She gave me a warm smile. “I did, actually.”

  I sniffed back snot that was threatening to run down my nose, and asked, “Why?”

  Her eyes stayed on me, and she said, “Sam … you seem a little lost. If I can help, I will. So for now, relax, read a book or something until second period. Tomorrow you and I will go for a run, so bring gym shorts. I’ve been needing to get more exercise anyway.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. I didn’t know how to react. Mrs. Mullins had punched a hole right through the protective distance I normally maintained, and it shook me up. A few minutes later the bell rang. I shot out the door as if I’d been launched and made my way to my second period, AP Biology.

  It was on the third floor, which was stifling hot, despite the overworked air-conditioning. Made worse by the fact that I was wearing baggy clothes and a sweatshirt. The other kids in the hall, mostly juniors and seniors, gave me odd looks as I approached the classroom. They mostly wore shorts and T-shirts.

  I made it to class in time, and the teacher waved me in. According to my schedule, his name was Mr. Bernard. A short, balding man, the teacher looked almost bizarre in khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

  “Everyone take your seats,” he called out as the bell rang.

  I scanned the room. All of the tables were occupied by two students, except for one at the very back of the room. A gangly red-headed girl sat alone. I froze for just a second, and then Mr. Bernard said, “Go on, take a seat. I’m pretty sure she won’t bite.”

  I felt my skin flush, but I didn’t need any more attention called to me today. I went to the back of the room and slumped into the chair next to the girl without saying anything.

  Mr. Bernard took a position at the head of the class and began speaking. I studied the red-headed girl out of the corner of my eye. She was pretty. Extremely pale skin scattered with freckles, blue eyes. Her hair was a tangle, tied in the back in a ponytail which ended just below her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless and threadbare baby blue shirt, which accentuated how washed out she was and how tiny her bony arms were.

  Bruises marked her left arm just above the wrist.

  “I’m Hayley,” she whispered.

  “Sam,” I replied. I tried my best to sound natural. But what’s natural? What’s normal? Was it being a jerk like Jake Fennel, or Cody Hendricks? If it was, I didn’t want to be that. I never wanted to be that. Ever since middle school, it was like they just sought me ought, a magnetic attraction, but I attracted cruelty instead of love, brutality rather than care, scorn instead of respect. And I didn’t know why.

  But Hayley glanced over at me, swallowing, and I realized she was nervous. She licked her lips, then whispered, “You from around here?”

  “No. I’m new.”

  “Me too.” She stopped speaking as Mr. Bernard approached us, handing out papers. When he got to our table, he gave each of us a two-page syllabus. I scanned it. By the time I was finished reading, he was back at the front of the room talking.

  I wanted to say, Maybe since we’re both new, we should stick together. But my throat closed up, chest tight, and I could feel my pulse at my temples. I hadn’t had a friend, someone I could trust, since Brenna disappeared. The one or two times I’d tried hadn’t gone well. Everyone had their own little group, their own ways of doing things.

  “Can I see your schedule?” she whispered.

  It was crumpled up in my pocket. I took it out, smoothing the paper. She studied the paper for a second. “We’ve got three classes together. And lunch. Want to hang out?”

  Was she kidding? I studied her for a second for signs of cruelty, signs that she was going to turn around and use dumping on me as a way to get in with the popular kids. But it didn’t seem likely. Her clothes were cheap, and one of her shoes looked extremely worn, the threads coming out at the seam. The popular kids wouldn’t have anything to do with her.

  I tried to squash the brief hope I felt. I tried not to sound too eager. I tried not to sound like I cared. “Sure.”

  I almost held my breath. But she didn’t laugh. She didn’t do anything horrible at all. But as class broke, we headed to third period together. As we walked down the hall I caught a glimpse of Cody Hendricks. He was hard to miss, because he stood a full head taller than most of the other students crowding the hallway. I kept my head down.

  “Where did you go to school before?” Hayley asked.

  “Fairfax County, Virginia. You?”

  “Birmingham. I moved here to live with my dad.”

  My eyes darted to her bruised forearm before I could stop them, but I didn’t think she caught it. “My dad lost his job and had to move here for a new one.”

  She looked at the numbers above the doors then back to her schedule. “This is it.”

  So we sat through US History together then split up for fourth period. I’d only known her two hours, but I didn’t want to leave her behind to go to my precalculus class. Not that I had a choice.

  We waved, and I walked downstairs and finally found the precalculus class. I kept my eyes to the floor as I made my way to the back of the classroom and slid into a seat, so it wasn’t until I was seated and opening a notebook at my desk that I saw the girl from the bus. The black-haired girl with too much makeup, the girl who had called her boyfriend out like a guard dog.

  I pretended to not look at her, even as I examined her. She wore what appeared to be a Prada skirt, which probably wasn’t, with a sleeveless white T-shirt. She hunched over in her seat, leaning to the right, whispering to another girl with long blonde hair, perfect in this heat and humidity.

  The two girls giggled, and I wondered if they were laughing at me. Then I realized they were looking at a phone in the dark-haired girl’s hands. The blonde giggled again. Something on Snapchat or Facebook or Instagram I imagined; something embarrassing about someone else. I’d seen their type before.

  All the same, I couldn’t help but sneak glances at the girl. I wanted to know her name. I wanted to know more about her.

  Why? So I could humiliate myself again? So I could be rejected again? I’d made a friend already today, and that was more than I had expected or even dreamed of. Don’t push it, Sam.

  The teacher entered the classroom. She was a doughy woman with rough, mottled skin and a dress that appeared to be sewn from a floral tablecloth. Her hair was grey and curled into one-inch ringlets. She wore a cheap-looking necklace and large garish rings on several fingers. This was our precalculus teacher, Mrs. Watson.

  She stomped around the room for the next twenty minutes describing the rules of her classroom. No whispering, no talking, no laughing. No trips to the bathroom. Cell phones, if seen, would be confiscated. The dark-haired girl looked away from the teacher and rolled her eyes.

  The dark-haired girl didn’t put her phone away. Instead, she held it in her lap, barely hidden by the desk. Mrs. Watson would have to be a complete idiot to miss it, but she said nothing. Either she didn’t enforce her own rules, or she enforced them for some kids. I’d encountered that before and I wouldn’t make any assumptions about how things operated here until I saw it with my own eyes.

  Mrs. Watson took the roll. Each of the twenty-five students in the room said, “here,” when she called their names … including the dark-haired girl, who I knew now was named Ashley Prichard.

  Ashley. It was a beautifu
l name, laden with the flavor of the coast, of Savannah and Charleston and the old South. It was a fitting name for a truly beautiful girl, a girl who was probably as poisonous as she was lovely.

  Ashley’s friend was named Caitlin Ludlow. She didn’t have the flawless beauty of Ashley, though she was attractive. Her nose and chin seemed out of proportion to her small eyes. I rolled the names over my tongue silently. Caitlin and Ashley. I should avoid those two.

  Everyone went quiet when the name Sam Roberts was called out, and everyone turned to look at me. I shrank in my seat. “Here.”

  For the next twenty minutes I held my breath, hoping to not make any mistakes or gaffes that would call attention to me. I was able to escape from the class with a minimum of contact, trailing after the last students.

  Hayley was waiting in the hall when I exited the classroom. When she saw me her face lit up with a smile.

  Three: Vanished

  Erin

  The day Brenna disappeared seared itself into my memory like nothing in my life before or since.

  After I realized she wasn’t in her room, for the first hour or more I worried, but I didn’t panic. Teenagers do stupid things. But I called. And called. And called again. It wasn’t like Brenna to have her phone off. She lived on her phone. Ninety percent of the time her brain was more hooked into Instagram, Kik, and Snapchat than reality.

  Almost ten a.m., I realized I wasn’t going to church. Or, I thought, I could just take Sam, then deal with Brenna whenever it was she came back home. It incensed me. For the hundredth time I checked Brenna’s location on my phone. No updates—her phone hadn’t checked in since midnight.

  “Erin, maybe you should sit down,” Cole said. “You’ve been pacing for an hour.”

  Irritation flashed down my spine. “You could stand to be more concerned.”

  He set his iPad to the side. “Erin, we were both teenagers, too. How many times did we do something that pissed off our parents? Or sneaked out without telling them where we were going?”

  I shook my head. “I never did that.”

  “Well, I did. I’m worried too, but I’m willing to bet she’ll come wandering in any minute, oblivious. Anyway, pacing won’t help. Have you called Chase?”

  I sighed. Hesitant to admit the possibility she’d snuck out and slept with her boyfriend. “I’ll call.”

  “Okay. I’m going to call in to the meeting.”

  He stood and walked toward his office. He paused for a second, as if on the verge of saying something … then continued on to his office down the hall.

  After Lori told me Brenna was dating Chase, our house had erupted into open warfare, for at least a little while. Brenna refused to stop seeing him, and for months stopped talking to Lori, who had always been her hero. I grounded Brenna, demanding that she promise to stop seeing Chase. Ayanna Walker had brokered a cease-fire, beginning with a demand that Chase meet with me.

  Ayanna and I had never been close. Even though I took the kids to church, her open and devout Christianity sometimes made me uncomfortable.

  But her husband Jeremiah was Cole’s best and only friend. They’d been roommates at Georgia Tech until Cole dropped out. When the kids were younger we’d gone to Atlanta for several years and eaten Thanksgiving lunch with the Walkers before going to Cole’s parents. They had stayed with us several times over the years when visiting Washington.

  Their girls—twins—were about Sam’s age, and Ayanna worked with teenagers professionally. Somehow Ayanna got Brenna to calm down enough to talk with me.

  Chase came over to our house on a Thursday evening. Cole was out of town (of course), so it was just Brenna, me, and Chase. He’d worn newish-looking blue jeans and a button-down shirt and looked as uncomfortable as anyone I’d ever seen.

  “Sit down,” I said, with no introduction.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he’d said.

  Once he sat in the leather loveseat, I took a seat on the couch across from him. Brenna was beside him. I didn’t like the way we were organized—the seating arrangement implied they were a couple—but it was too late to do anything about it.

  “What do you want with my daughter? You’re an adult. Why would you date a high school junior?”

  Chase flinched a little. Then he met my eyes. “Mrs. Roberts … I met Brenna at the coffee shop. I had no idea she was in high school when we met. Honestly, she seemed a lot older. I swear to you—we haven’t—we won’t—do anything inappropriate. I would never want to hurt her.”

  “You’re hurting her right now. She should date someone in her school.”

  Brenna rolled her eyes. “Mom. The boys at my school are all idiots. I lo—I like Chase.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. She’d almost said I love Chase. I needed to be careful, or I might lose my daughter while trying to protect her.

  I studied him. “Then tell me about yourself. Convince me. Because right now I see an adult who is chasing a high school girl, and that makes me want to call the police.”

  “Mom!” Brenna’s voice was hoarse as she nearly shouted the word.

  “It’s okay,” Chase said to her, resting a hand on hers. “I don’t blame her for asking questions.”

  “But Chase, she’s being a—”

  “Sweetie, stop. Let me do this.” His voice was firm, and she stopped talking. I didn’t like that. Brenna normally responded to that sort of tone with open combat.

  Maybe it was just a sign that this older boy—man—was taking advantage of her youth and inexperience. Brenna liked to act and think as if she was eighteen, but the fact was, she was a fifteen-year-old girl. She knew nothing of the dangers out there.

  “So answer my question … what do you want with my daughter?” I didn’t layer any honey on my question—I was angry and suspicious of Chase.

  Brenna rolled her eyes at the question. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a little, looking anxious. “Mrs. Roberts … I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t expect to meet Brenna, and I didn’t plan on getting involved with her. But I won’t lie to you. I love her.”

  He loved her. Bullshit. I loved her, she was my daughter. What the hell was wrong with this guy, old enough to be in college, who wanted to date a fifteen-year-old? Who does that?

  “In that case, what’s wrong with you?” I didn’t bother to filter my feelings. “Were you not able to find a girl your own age? Do you have a thing for younger girls?”

  Brenna gasped. She stood up, rage on her face. “Mama, you can’t say that—”

  “Brenna—” His interruption was soft, but once again she listened. It made my stomach twist a little to see her immediate obedience. “Sweetie, sit down. Your mother has a right to ask these questions.”

  I expected her to storm off. I expected there to be door slamming and rage. Instead, she sat down. She crossed her arms, crossed her right leg over the left, and looked away from us both, foot tapping and chin trembling. A tear ran down her face.

  Shit.

  “I love her,” he murmured. The words were no less offensive the second time around. “But I’m fully aware that she is not old enough for that kind of involvement yet, Mrs. Roberts. I promise you, I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her.”

  “Are the two of you having sex?”

  He shook his head. “No.” His answer was clear and direct. I believed him. That night, I told Cole the same, relaying the entire conversation to Cole over the phone. He had been in San Francisco … or maybe New Mexico? The last couple of years he’d been traveling so much that it was hard to remember where he was.

  It made no difference whether he was here or not. Cole was in town now, yet even with our daughter missing he couldn’t leave work long enough to pay attention. Instead, he disappeared to his office for a conference call. Who does conference calls on Sunday mornings?

  I paged through the contacts on my phone until I found Chase. I hesitated with my thumb over his name for a moment, and then I pressed it. The phone rang three times befor
e he answered.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded groggy.

  “Chase, I want to talk to Brenna.”

  “What … is this Mrs. Roberts?”

  “Chase … don’t bother lying. Please put her on the phone.”

  “Mrs. Roberts … Brenna isn’t here. I haven’t seen her since last night.”

  Impatience transitioned into panic. “Last night? You saw her last night? When?”

  “I sent her home. She showed up at midnight wanting to surprise me. I told her she couldn’t do that, that we’d agreed on the rules with you … and … we had a fight. Are you saying she didn’t come home?” His voice was rising to a high pitch, but all I heard was, midnight. Midnight. We had a fight.

  “Chase, where is my daughter.” Panic was setting in.

  “Can’t you check her phone? She complained about you guys using her phone to track her movements. I told her it was for safety. Can’t you check it?”

  “Tell me the truth, damn you!”

  Cole’s office door opened and he poked his head out.

  “Mrs. Roberts, I …I don’t know where she is!” Panicky. He stumbled over his words. Was he afraid we would find out something? Had he done something to her? “If she didn’t come home, you need to call the police right now!”

  For a second or five or a hundred I stood there, with my heartbeat whooshing in my ears. But then it hit me. He said they had a fight and she left at midnight. Either he was lying, and he had done something to her … or he wasn’t lying … and something had happened to her. My daughter.

  Cole’s name came out in a shriek.

  Sam

  Where was Brenna?

  That terrible morning, I stayed out of the way after my mom asked me if I’d seen Brenna. I moved upstairs to my room, which overlooked the driveway, and slid into the seat at my desk. Despite our age difference, we had some of the same Facebook friends. I searched through her friends and messaged them. Had anyone seen Brenna?

  No one seemed to have seen her.

  A little after ten thirty, three cars pulled up to the house. Two were Fairfax County police cruisers. The third also looked like a police car but was unmarked, a grey four-door sedan.