by Calla Devlin
Emma is the editor and proofreader. Everyone defers to her. Isaac writes what he regards as hard news and investigative pieces. He’s obsessed with CNN and the New York Times. He is equal parts ruthless and reverential. I am the photo editor. Everyone smiles for me. Megan is our adviser. Our school, a masterful example of bureaucracy, frowns upon the use of first names. Technically, she is Miss Eng, but she just got out of the Peace Corps and this is her first teaching job. She describes herself as our peer and a socialist. We adore her. Josh does the layout, videos, and web page. He doesn’t eat with us. He barely talks to us, but he is brilliant with anything visual.
I know he likes me, but my friends might be another story. They rejected him a while ago.
Josh defies categorization. He doesn’t wear a trench coat, but he talks to guys who do. He lives on the computer, but he isn’t the math programming type or a gamer. He talks about film and art and design. He bikes everywhere but isn’t a jock. He has friends, but he doesn’t stick to one group. It’s like he owns the school, an eccentric, weirdo king who floats from crowd to crowd, all happy to have his attention. But he’s not popular in the class president or homecoming king sense. He’s the perfect definition of “charismatic.”
He’s been suspended twice, and everyone says that he’s flirting with expulsion. One time, he put cameras in the hallways and posted various videos of what he called “douche moves.” Basically, bullying and typical jerk behavior, daily occurrences at our school. Stuff like Matt Cavanaugh grabbing Sonia Ortiz’s butt or mean girls being mean girls or Danny King, pre–anger management counseling, hitting or shoving or yelling at anyone who stands in his path.
To protect the innocent, Josh said, he blurred out the victims’ faces and then did these crazy voice-overs. Everyone knew it was him, but Josh refused to stop broadcasting his daily dispatches. As soon as the school took down a camera, he hid a new one. The only way to make him stop was to kick him out of school.
He retaliated by editing the footage and entering it in a short-film contest. He won third place.
No one knows the details of his second suspension. He refuses to share them, which drives Emma and Isaac crazy.
Josh dresses like a bike messenger and rides with the Critical Mass people who shut down the city on a monthly basis, claiming the streets for cyclists, blocking traffic and intersections. He’s political in a more vigilante sense, but he doesn’t have a cause. I’ve never heard him preach about the perils of climate change or the benefits of a vegan diet. The paper is his only extracurricular activity—that I know of.
I have been almost in love with him since sophomore year. I’ve studied everything about him without crossing the stalker line. I’ve stored up desire like a woodland animal preparing for winter. Last week, we took the same spring break camp. Five days and four nights on the Berkeley campus. Hours full of classes and lectures on multimedia art. He studied film and web design while I immersed myself in photography, learning more digital techniques. We didn’t know anyone else, so we gravitated to each other. I would have gravitated anyway. He’s my magnet, a forceful and unwavering pull. We ate together. We talked about more than school. And we kissed.
If it hadn’t been sunrise, and if we hadn’t been sober, hopped up on caffeine, I would doubt it even happened. Except I swear I can still feel his lips behind my ear, on that swirl of hair at the base of my neck. And his fingers, first on my collarbone and then down the length of my spine. And his mouth, the taste of coffee and half-and-half and a uniquely Josh flavor, salty with a hint of sweet. Kind of like black licorice.
I saw him once today, at the other end of the hall. I caught him staring, but someone started talking to him as soon as I met his eyes.
Isaac thinks Josh has a personality disorder. Emma thinks he’s arrogant. Even a little creepy. Maybe even dangerous. They tease me enough to make it clear that they don’t understand—or approve.
They see delinquent.
I see curious.
They see full of himself.
I see confidence.
Emma agrees, however, that he is oddly attractive. According to her, it’s his only redeeming quality.
Again, my friends can be a little judgmental.
As soon as I reach our table, I search the room for him. A treasure hunt. Josh doesn’t have a usual spot. Today, he sits seven tables away. His dark hair, a little on the longer side, falls into his face so I can’t see his eyes.
Isaac is in the middle of one of his tall tales. For someone who strives for objective journalism, he’s prone to hyperbole. Especially when he’s trying to impress Megan, who never appears in the cafeteria. He almost knocks over my tray with his bird-in-flight inspired gestures. Isaac speaks with more than his hands. Conversation is a full-body experience.
“Sorry, Charlotte, I’m trying to explain how huge that quake is. Crazy.”
“At least the aftershocks are over.” I pull out my phone to check for texts or missed calls from Dad. Nothing.
“Charlotte,” Isaac says. “Look.” He hands me his phone. Another quake hit an hour ago. This one larger than the first.
A huge aftershock, and we still haven’t heard from Dad. I feel like I have a rattlesnake in my belly, knotting and unknotting itself. I try really hard not to panic because, as Mom reassured me just this morning, it’s too soon to be worried. But he usually sends a text or email by now, one or two words, maybe even a sentence, letting us know that he’s safe. Nothing this time.
I don’t say anything as I place Isaac’s phone back in his hand. I type on mine, which looks and feels a decade older than Isaac’s, a hand-me-down from Mom. First, I go to the San Francisco Tribune website and scroll down the page. Nothing on the quake except for some wire photos. Then I search for Dad’s name, which pulls up his Havana anniversary story. Nothing from Ukraine.
“Derr`mo.” My friends are used to my Russian profanity and have committed various curse words to memory. That comes in handy during class. Other kids speak Spanish and Cantonese, but there aren’t a lot of Russians at my school.
I send Mom a quick text:
Anything from Dad?
I keep my phone on the table.
They’re staring at me. “It always takes him a couple of days to file a story,” I say.
“Want to watch the CNN video?” Isaac asks.
“Don’t be such an asshat,” Emma says. “Put your phone away and tell me how you’re going to help me with my chem homework.”
They banter about the molecular composition of gases as I watch my phone. By the time the bell rings, Mom still hasn’t texted back.
In English class, all I can think about is Dad. I stare at my phone, waiting for it to light up with a text. I can’t follow the lesson on the intricacies of Toni Morrison’s lyrical prose. When someone hovers at my desk, I look up. Josh. All week, I’d been worried that he’d be shy or embarrassed with me. That maybe he regretted our spring-break kiss. Regretted me. But when he smiles, I know that’s not the case. Mr. Wright tells him to sit down, and as usual, as soon as class ends, Josh is the first one out the door. Like he’s racing the bell.
* * *
After school, Emma and I walk through Golden Gate Park, dodging puddles and thick raindrops falling from the many eucalyptus and pine trees. Seagulls circle above as they scavenge for scraps. I glance up at the tops of the trees disappearing into the fog, dense and thick, making the underbrush look electric green in comparison.
We pass the Japanese Tea Garden and the Drum Bridge, a steep and intricate structure the shape of a perfect half circle. In the fog, it looks ancient, as though we stumbled through a time warp and emerged in an earlier century.
“Hang on a second, Em,” I say, and pull out my camera. The lens mists over as soon as I remove the cap. That only adds to the effect. “Stop there.”
Emma obliges and stands in front of the bridge. Wisps of red hair frame her face, and her indigo jacket pops against the misty gray.
“I can’t beli
eve you didn’t take pictures all day,” she says, knowing I like to have something to occupy me when I’m nervous. I’m not allowed to carry my camera at school—only when working on the paper or yearbook. I may have had an unfortunate incident documenting the Presidential Challenge in P.E. My gym teacher has yet to forgive me for her unofficial school portrait. Thank God she doesn’t coach cross-country or I’d be running extra miles.
“I’m thinking of asking Megan for a permission slip so I can carry my camera around. You know, say I’m ‘documenting student life’ or some crap like that.”
When Emma nods, I ask her to be still as I snap a few shots. She’s a natural model and runs through every imaginable expression and pose in rapid succession like an interpretive dancer. When she starts to fidget, I get the hint and put the camera away.
“I want you to know that out of respect for your dad, I’m not going to give you grief about Josh. Not today, anyway. But it’s coming.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Thanks for the warning.”
When she smiles, it’s easy to understand why almost everyone loves Emma. She returns to my side, and we keep walking along the path. I don’t have a good reason to worry. So why can’t I shake this feeling?
Right before the end of school, Mom had finally texted back.
Nichego. Nothing.
I don’t want to panic. This has happened before. Power is erratic. Phone lines and cell towers are down for days. An entire country can be immobilized. Japan, one of the most advanced nations in the world, was at a complete standstill after its last quake. It took days for Dad to file a story.
Emma understands when to talk and when to be quiet, the best kind of friend. We walk through the park because that’s what I like to do when I’m feeling stressed. Emma knows this, so when she asked if she could drive Dad’s car, I said yes, sure we’d end up here.
I finger the hair tie circling my wrist and focus on pulling my hair into a ponytail. “This feels different,” I finally say. “He usually texts good night or good morning or something. Anything.”
“Are all of the big papers running their own coverage?” she asks. Emma knows the difference between a paper having a reporter at the scene versus a paper that runs a wire story by the Associated Press.
Right after lunch, in biology, various parts of the brain had been listed on the chalkboard—the medulla oblongata, cerebrum, cerebellum, pineal body—and we were challenged to sort them according to function. Which controlled breathing? I couldn’t focus. I didn’t care if I got in trouble for blowing off the assignment. Hiding my phone, bent over like Quasimodo in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, I checked other news sites, everything from the big papers like the New York Times to smaller citizen journalist blogs. I did the same thing during my last three classes. Social media made my head spin. Too much fragmented information.
“I checked,” I say. “All of the major papers are running their own coverage. Dad is the only one who hasn’t published.”
She takes a deep breath and stops walking. “Just because the Washington Post is running something doesn’t mean that anything happened to your dad. He doesn’t write those short articles about the Richter scale.”
“What if something did?” My voice is so soft, it competes with the breeze.
After a quiet moment, Emma says, “Your dad is Indiana Jones. He’s going to be fine.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom.
Idi domoy. Come home.
Three
Uncle Miguel is such a regular fixture in our apartment that it feels perfectly normal to find him in his favorite chair. Only today, Dad isn’t sitting across from him drinking the cheap Mexican beer they love, playing cards, and debating the details of Central American coups d’état. Today, he looks tired, more tired than usual, and when I step forward, I see that he hasn’t shaved or even showered and that his clothes are all rumpled.
He looks like Dad after a long flight home, after spending days without running water and electricity. He has that same look too, the one Dad has when he mentions how many people died in a disaster. Dad normally doesn’t talk about that, but sometimes he can’t help it and something slips out.
Mom steps into the room carrying a plate of sesame roll and offers Uncle Miguel a piece.
“Thanks, Valentina,” he says.
She gives him a weak smile. When she turns to me, I see her eyes, red-rimmed, and how her eyeliner is so smudged that she looks bruised.
I want her to say something, but she doesn’t. I’m startled when she puts down the plate and wraps her arms around me, briefly. My fingers feel so cold, it’s like I have frostbite, but I still hold on to her, almost squeezing.
No one speaks. They know something, clearly, but they look at each other, at their hands, at everything in the room but me. That’s when I collapse on the couch and close my eyes. That’s when I know something terrible is happening.
“Skazhite mne,” I say. Tell me. “Pozhaluysta.” Please.
Uncle Miguel, kind, portly Uncle Miguel, my godfather, Dad’s boss, his best friend from college. He is the one who finally tells me my father is missing.
“Lottie, the last time we heard from your dad, he was finishing up his story and driving to one of the rural areas. He was with a photographer and another reporter from France. Then the last aftershock hit. There was a big explosion, probably a gas line, that’s blocking the roads. I’m sorry, honey, but no one has seen him since. We’re doing everything we can. You know your dad—he’s resourceful. He’s probably at a camp passing out cigarettes and writing a bunch of profiles. We just can’t get through to him.”
It takes a minute for me to catch my breath and really hear what Uncle Miguel is saying. They can’t find Dad. Everything I’ve been feeling, all the worry and anxiety, is real. It was worse today than ever before, like somehow I knew something was wrong. My heart races, and I have to think to breathe, as though my body has stopped working. This can’t be happening. Dad is too big and rambunctious for anyone to lose him.
“How do you know he’s not hurt?” I ask. My voice comes out shaky from trying not to cry. I uncross my legs and put both feet on the hardwood floor, trying to ground myself any way possible.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Uncle Miguel says. “It’s chaos over there. We’ll find him as soon as things calm down.”
I’d be more likely to believe Uncle Miguel if he didn’t look so wrecked. Mom squeezes my hand, and I don’t let go. I look them each in the eye, register their obvious grief. “What else?” I ask. “There must be more because, Uncle Miguel, you look like you’ve been microwaved or something.”
“They were in the area of the quake. Hundreds of people are missing. We’re working with all of the rescue groups, but it’s tough to get information.”
The pictures are vivid in my mind: fire and dust and rubble. Mom squeezes my hand again. I close my eyes, just for a moment, and try to push away my fear.
Uncle Miguel pulls his laptop from his bag and turns it so I can see the screen. He opens a map and traces the area with his finger, tapping the place where Dad was last seen.
“This village was hit hard,” he says. “Valentina, have you ever been anywhere near there?”
Mom shakes her head. “We never visited Ukraine. I don’t have family there.”
When Uncle Miguel closes the map, I see a photo of a car belly-up on the side of the road.
“What’s that?” I ask, my heart picking up speed.
He shuts his computer a little too quickly. “The photographer sent a few pictures.”
“Wait.” I try to even my breathing a little, suck in some air. “I thought you said you haven’t heard from them?”
“The photographer’s local,” he says with his eyes glued to the computer. “A freelancer from Kiev. He showed up at a camp and said he doesn’t know where your dad and Pascal, the French reporter, are.”
“Isn’t that weird? Mom, isn’t it?”
She smooths my ponytail, a memory
of a touch, and I feel like I’m little again. “That’s the problem, moy rebenov, it is and he won’t tell us more.” My child. She hasn’t referred to me like that since I was in kindergarten.
“We’re doing everything we can to get Jerry home,” Uncle Miguel says, sitting as straight as his beer belly allows.
When I lean against Mom, she doesn’t stiffen or make an excuse to return to the kitchen. She stays, something I’ve never needed like I do now. She cuts me a piece of sesame roll even though I can’t think of food without wanting to puke.
I look at my hands and see that I’ve clenched my fists without noticing. I’m old enough to understand that Uncle Miguel is offering a promise that he can’t keep. It’s a wish and a vow, but he isn’t in Ukraine. He can’t control the weather. He can’t call in the National Guard for a manhunt.
“Will you stay?” I ask. “For a while?”
We both know that I adore him, but right now, he’s Dad’s proxy, my only connection to him, the closest thing to having my family in one place.
Four
Way before I joined the school newspaper, Dad taught me the essential questions reporters ask. A story is incomplete until all are answered and supported. I know Uncle Miguel won’t sleep until he gets answers. He’s as determined as Dad—and as stubborn.
He’ll work twenty-four hours straight if necessary, until he finds Dad and figures out how to get him home. I should be reassured by this, but I’m not. I trust Uncle Miguel. He’s like family, and I know he’ll do anything within his power to find my father. Still, I can’t help but wonder if that will be enough.
How, from his office on Market Street, can he answer these questions:
Who knows where Dad is?
What exactly happened to him?
Where is he?
Why can’t they find him?
When did he last make contact with other reporters?
