The Disappearance of Emily H.

by Barrie Summy

  I place my palm flat against the door and begin to push. The door inches open. I hear echoey voices. My hand flies off the door like it’s on fire. I don’t know who’s in there. But it could be Jennifer.

  “I never know where she is.” Shirlee blinks back tears. “You know when the weather’s dry and you get static electric shocks off almost everything you touch? Then it gets to the point that you’re scared to touch anything? I’m scared of everything.”

  This picture is seriously wrong. Shirlee and I are cowering in front of a door. We’re nervous and shaky each time we step into the hall. Shirlee wants to go back to homeschooling. I want to move. All because of one girl. One mean, conniving girl who wakes up every morning determined to make our lives a little more miserable.

  Something in me snaps. I clear my throat. I shake my head. I straighten my shoulders. I’m Superman throwing open the phone-booth door, waving his cape. I’m a butterfly busting out of a cocoon. I’m an eighth grader who’s done with being bullied.

  “I have an idea.” I take her hand and lead her to the nurse’s office. “She got her period early,” I say to the nurse when we arrive.

  “Supplies are in the bathroom.” The nurse looks up from her desk where she’s filling out paperwork.

  When Shirlee’s finished, I take her hand again. We walk through the hall, past the office, and out the front door.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “To Grinders,” I say. “Where we can plan in peace with a hot chocolate.” I look her in the eye, holding her gaze. “It has to stop. We have to stop her. And I have an idea.”

  Bert’s behind the counter. Does he ever go home? Or can he add “haven’t left Grinders in forty years” to his resume, too?

  He nods at us, and the sunlight streaming through the window bounces halo-like off his bald head. “Lunch, ladies?”

  I start to say no because I don’t have money, when Shirlee interrupts me. “Sure. Two specials.” She squeezes my arm. “My treat.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  There’s a noisy card game going on at one table, and a quiet game of cribbage between two white-haired ladies at another. Another table’s discussing the latest fire. Apparently, a shed burned down at Yielding Elementary last night. A few people sit alone with a newspaper. Everyone has a beige plate with a croissant sandwich, ruffled potato chips, and a dill pickle.

  Shirlee and I sit opposite each other at “our” booth.

  Before my eyes, Shirlee transforms back into her normal self. Her face pinks up. Her eyes sparkle. Her lips curve up in a smile. “Want to hear your latest horoscope?”

  “Sure.” I lean back, stretching out my legs. “Does it have anything to do with courage?”

  “More like”—she slaps a hand over her heart—“romance.”

  I groan. “No, no. I want courage, cunning, and karma.”

  “Oops.” Shirlee shrugs. “Instead you get ‘Romance is just around the corner.’ I can email you the rest of the details when I get home, if you want.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Maybe Hugh?” She opens her eyes wide.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Let me explain to you in three syllables why that won’t work: Av-a-lon.”

  Shirlee doesn’t look convinced.

  Bert arrives with our lunch specials: the same beige plates with the same meal as the rest of the coffee shop.

  I must look surprised, because both Bert and Shirlee laugh.

  “We only serve one lunch,” Bert says. “I change up the meat every few days, depending on what’s on sale.” He leaves us and goes to peer over the shoulders of the card players.

  Shirlee bites in and chews. “You have some sort of plan?” she asks after swallowing.

  “Remember that time in the bathroom when I mentioned a guy named Michael who wasn’t into Jennifer? Remember how she totally shut up?”

  Shirlee sucks in her cheeks, like I pulled a plug on her head.

  “What if we make her believe Michael likes her? Really likes her. And then he humiliates her.”

  Shirlee wrinkles her forehead. “How?”

  “I have contact info for everyone on the cross-country team. Which means I have Jennifer’s cell number. You have a phone with a number she won’t recognize.” I pick up a chip. “We’ll text her, pretending to be Michael.”

  “What happens when he texts her for real?” Shirlee asks.

  “Trust me. He’s never texting her.” I nibble. “Never.”

  “You said before that taking down the mean girl could go really, really wrong,” Shirlee says slowly.

  “We were afraid to push open a bathroom door.” I pause to let our pitifulness sink in. “How much more wrong could it go?” Of course I don’t mention Emily Huvar. I don’t know how wrong it went for her.

  Shirlee closes her eyes, thinking. Then she opens them and hands me her phone.

  It’s a fairly new phone, thin and light with a cool protective gel case. I’m having smartphone envy. I’m probably the only eighth grader in Yielding without a smartphone. But we can’t afford the monthly data charges.

  I jiggle my foot, mulling over a few possibilities, then type.

  Hi. Its Michael. Got new phone. Wanted to give u my number. Sup?

  I’m walking up the driveway when Mrs. Burns’s side door swings open.

  She marches across the yard, a determined look on her face. “You’re playing hooky!” she barks.

  She’s right. I’m ditching school and practice. I scratch my back through my T-shirt. “I have a very contagious rash.” She raises her drawn-on eyebrows. “I know exactly how you got that rash.”

  Did not see that coming. “You do?”

  “Roaming the neighborhood during the wee hours. I saw you last night, all dressed in black, sneaking into your house at two in the morning. Again.”

  Did not see that coming, either.

  She starts blasting away about underhanded, dishonest teens. I dial her down until all I hear is “blah, blah, blah,” which is good background noise while I contemplate what she said.

  Who could Mrs. Burns be mistaking me for? Not Tasha. She’s too short. It must’ve been my mother. We’re close to the same height and build. And my mom does wear a lot of dark colors, because apparently they’re slimming.

  My mother went to the movies with her work buddies last night. Did she end up staying out till two in the morning with a loser?

  Mrs. Burns notches up her pitch and is lecturing me on not ending up like Emily.

  I interrupt. “Again? You said again?”

  “I lost track after twelve. Probably more. Sometimes you’re sneaking in. Sometimes you’re sneaking out. It’s not as if I’m standing guard by the window.”

  More likely she’s standing guard by the window with binoculars. “Twelve?” I’m blown away by the number. How did I not realize this? And how did my mom feel even marginally honest with her this-is-the-last-fresh-start-we’re-staying-in-Yielding-and-living-happily-ever-after speech?

  “As if you didn’t know.” She gives me a look people use for cockroaches. “I’ll be speaking to your mother, young lady.”

  I go inside and start my homework. I’m still puzzling over the first math problem when my phone lights up with a text from Shirlee.

  She answered.

  That was fast. Apparently, Jennifer’s texting from film.

  Forward me her text, I type.

  Michael White?????

  Tell her yes. I hit send.

  Freaking out. Can’t do this. You can have my phone and text her. Shirlee’s panic comes through with her message.

  Ok.

  In minutes, there’s machine-gun banging at my door. Shirlee’s breathing hard. Her face is shiny. Her backpack’s half hanging off her shoulder. She must’ve made a quick U-turn before even getting home. “Here.” Her phone dangles from between her thumb and index finger like she’s afraid it’s got malaria or something.

  I look at the messages. “Sh
e’s been blowing up your phone.” I widen the door. “I was doing math homework. Well, more like staring it down. Operation Retaliation will be way more interesting.”

  Shirlee stares at me like I’ve totally lost it. “Aren’t you nervous?”

  “No.” And I’m not. I’m energized and empowered. Not to sound too cliché, but I’m doing this for me. For Shirlee. For Emily, wherever she may be.

  “There’s no guarantee this won’t backfire.” Shirlee’s still staring, like maybe she can stare some sense into me.

  “There are no guarantees anywhere in life.” I say this from my own experiences and from what I’ve seen in other people’s memories. “Anyway, it’s worth the risk.”

  Shirlee follows me to the kitchen, and we sit next to each other on barstools. Levi pads down the hall and lies on the rug in front of the sink.

  “Okay, Jennifer. What have you been saying?” I press the messages button.

  Michael White?????

  When there was no response, Jennifer sent another text.

  Is it really you?

  And when there was no response again, she sent another text.

  My girlfriends don’t think I should text you back.

  I type. Yes. It’s me. Sorry. Couldn’t text. Why don’t your friends want you to text me?

  “You approve?” I ask Shirlee.

  “I guess.” But she shakes her head.

  Bec you were horrible to me, Jennifer sends.

  I wasn’t that horrible.

  U were 2.

  What if I apologize? I smile.

  “You’re flirting with her.” Shirlee is shocked.

  That might help, Jennifer messages.

  Ltr. Gotta go.

  “When is ‘later’?” Shirlee asks.

  “When we feel like it,” I say, shrugging. “Seriously, I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Tomorrow? Let her check her phone every five minutes in the meantime.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We do homework together for a couple of hours. Shirlee helps me with math. It’ll be the first time in years I show all the work and get all the answers right. Score.

  When Shirlee’s phone buzzes, we both jump. But it’s just her mom, telling her to come home for dinner.

  “I guess nothing will change tomorrow,” she says wistfully, closing her science book.

  “With Jennifer? No, not that fast. But it’ll change at some point. Thanks to Operation Retaliation.” I roll out the words.

  She slides her phone in her pocket and picks up her backpack by the loop.

  At the front door, her phone buzzes again. She pulls it out. “Jennifer.” There’s excitement in her voice. She reads aloud, “Sup?”

  “She’s impatient,” I say. “That’ll help us.”

  “You want to respond?”

  “No,” I say. “Let’s go with your plan.”

  After Shirlee leaves, I take Levi for a walk, feed her, then do more homework.

  I’m in the middle of atoms and molecules when the key turns in the porch door. “Raine?” my mom calls. “Did you see the side of the house?”

  “Why?” I meet her at the door.

  “Just something that will make you happy,” my mom replies cryptically.

  We peer around the porch. Leaning against the wall is a mattress. Next to it are several flattened cardboard boxes.

  “I cleaned out the basement yesterday,” she says when I don’t jump up and down with joy. “And replaced the lightbulb because there wasn’t one. Guess what I found? Washer and dryer hookups.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I will never go into a basement to do laundry. My clothes could be so stiff with dirt, they walk to school on their own, and I still wouldn’t do it.”

  My mother laughs. “I’d go down and do the laundry. You could fold in the living room.” She sighs. “I’m so tired of Laundromats.”

  I scan her for sparkles, hoping for a heads-up on last night. Nothing. “Mrs. Burns was over earlier,” I say. “Where were you last night?”

  “The movies,” she says.

  “What’s his name?”

  I can tell from the way her shoulders hitch up that she’s drawing in a deep, calming breath. “Derek.”

  I feel like I took one to the stomach. Derek. The name makes it real. “What’s all this?” I make a sweeping motion toward the mattress and broken-down boxes. “What’s all the fresh-start crapola about?”

  “I’m not getting involved with him. The secretary at work arranged for him to come out with us last night. I didn’t even know about the setup.”

  “You were out till two in the morning.”

  My mother wrinkles up her face in puzzlement. “What?”

  “Mrs. Burns said she saw someone sneaking back into our house at two in the morning. Who else would it be?”

  “She must’ve been confused. I was home by midnight. Maybe she woke up in the middle of the night and was still half-asleep. Who knows what she saw. A dog? A cat? A tree?”

  “Was she confused twelve times?” My hands are on my hips.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said she saw someone sneak in or out at least twelve different times.”

  “Don’t you think you’d notice if I was out that much?” my mom says reasonably. “Twelve is a lot. I’ve only been out a few times. Four, tops.”

  I nod. I definitely would’ve noticed twelve times. Mrs. Burns must be losing it. She’s old.

  “I really am trying,” Mom says.

  I believe her. I believe she’s really trying to make it work in Yielding. The problem is that trying and succeeding can be hundreds of miles apart.

  That’s why I wait till she goes to bed before rummaging through the kitchen trash for a movie ticket stub.

  My mother is not a liar. At least, not on purpose. If she said she was going to the movies with a group from work, she did. If she said she told Derek she wasn’t in the dating game, she did. It’s the between-the-lines stuff I worry about. The “meta message,” as Mr. Magee says.

  I need a sparkle. A sparkle with a memory about last night. I could watch my mom in action and judge for myself. Not that I seem to have any control over when sparkles and memories show up. But I have to try.

  I stamp on the kitchen trash can pedal, popping up the lid. My fingers immediately begin to tingle. There, lounging at the top of the contents, is half a Yielding Cinemas ticket. No sparkle, but the tingling fingers give me hope.

  I set the ticket in my palm and stare at it till my eyes go blurry. Nothing. I hold the ticket tight and close my eyes. Still nothing. On the counter, I place the same candle I used to pull the memory from Jennifer’s necklace. I listen to the same tracks on my laptop. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What’s the deal? If it weren’t for my fingers, I’d swear the ticket didn’t have a sparkle.

  Finally, beyond frustrated, I give up. I’ll have to trust my mother. Trust. That’s a novel concept when it comes to my mother and relationships.

  I drop the torn ticket back in the trash, giving the can an annoyed kick.

  That’s when I notice a little sparkle fighting its way up from beneath some broken eggshells and a wet tea bag. I poke these things aside, clearing a path. The little sparkle shines brighter now, its points white-hot, jumping toward me from a crumpled Uncle Bob’s Peanut Butter Protein Bar wrapper.

  Some runners have lucky socks. Some have lucky shoes. I have my lucky Uncle Bob’s Peanut Butter Protein Bars. I got hooked on them when we lived in Tennessee, three moves ago. Now my mom orders them from a store in Nashville, and when you add up shipping and the cost of the bars, they’re pricey. I eat one, and only one, the morning of race day. For every record I’ve set, every event I’ve won, there’s been an Uncle Bob’s Peanut Butter Protein Bar in my stomach.

  I brought my remaining three bars from Detroit and stored them at the back of the kitchen cupboard, keeping them safe until the first invite. My mom’s deathly allergic to peanuts. She wouldn’t go near an
Uncle Bob’s Peanut Butter Protein Bar, never mind unwrap one.

  Who ate my bar and dumped the wrapper in our trash? Has Tasha been back? Did I misjudge her, and she actually does have another spare key?

  Whose memory is flashing at me?

  I reach for the wrapper. I fold my fingers over my palm and close my eyes.

  They fly back open.

  It can’t be!

  I tighten my grip and close my eyes again.

  Muttering under her breath, Emily Huvar is rooting around in our kitchen cupboard. In one hand, she holds a small flashlight. In the other, she’s grasping an Uncle Bob’s Peanut Butter Protein Bar.

  Suddenly she freezes, a look of panic on her face. She switches off the flashlight and drops to her knees at the far end of the counter.

  Rubbing my eyes, I stumble to the sink and fill a glass with water. I reach up to close the cupboard Emily left ajar. I sip water, then, yawning, shuffle out of the kitchen, inches from where Emily’s hiding. There’s a creak when I step on the middle of the third stair leading to my bedroom.

  Still crouching, her head tilted, Emily listens and waits. After several minutes, she stands and tiptoes through the kitchen, very slowly opens the door leading to the basement, then heads downstairs, the flashlight beam bouncing off the concrete steps.

  In the corner of the room, she plunks down on a mattress covered with a sleeping bag. She unwraps the protein bar halfway and begins eating. She sits quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the bar, then stands, pulls on a dark hoodie, and swings a black backpack over her shoulder.

  She tiptoes upstairs. Back in the kitchen, she clamps the remaining part of the bar between her front teeth and shines the flashlight into the cupboard. With her free hand, she pushes the protein bar box with its sunshine-yellow letters and cartoon picture of Uncle Bob to the back of the cupboard. She pauses, then sticks her hand in the box and snags another bar, which she shoves in her pocket.

  She crumples the wrapper of the bar she’s eating and drops it in the trash.

  Emily Huvar is living in our basement.