The Disappearance of Emily H.

by Barrie Summy

  I cross the street, walk around to the back, and twist the doorknob. Locked.

  I knock.

  No one comes to the door.

  I knock again. “Emily,” I call. “I know you’re in there.”

  No response.

  “Emily Huvar, I know you’re in there.” I emphasize her last name.

  The door cracks. “I’m not Emily Huvar. Go away.”

  I stick my foot in the opening. “Let me in.” I pause. “I’m alone.”

  “No.” She hip-pushes the door.

  “You have to.” I raise my palms. “I know your secret.”

  The door opens wider. “Hurry,” she whispers.

  She dashes to the stairs leading to the basement and flies down two at a time.

  I freeze on the landing.

  “Come down,” she says anxiously. “Someone could see you through the windows.”

  Sunlight illuminates the unfinished basement. Concrete floor, concrete steps, drywall. Two spiderwebs hang in the corners. Two. And that’s only at first glance. In other words, this place is an arachnid haven.

  I sit on the top step. “I don’t do basements.”

  “One more step? So the door will close?” Her voice shakes. This is what Jennifer does to people. She terrifies them.

  I bump down a step and shut the door behind me. It’s quiet, just the sounds of our breathing.

  With only a few small windows, the basement is bathed in a dull gray light. My fingers begin to tingle. A sparkle winks at me from a cloth bag lying next to Emily’s feet.

  Is this really happening? Am I really in a run-down, abandoned house, a few yards from Emily Huvar? The Emily Huvar, who disappeared more than three months ago? Who the police couldn’t find? Who people thought was kidnapped? And killed?

  I’m half afraid to blink in case she disappears again.

  “What are you staring at?” Standing in the middle of the room, she frowns at me.

  “Sorry, but I just can’t believe I found you.”

  “I can’t believe it, either.” She definitely sounds annoyed. “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No,” I say.

  “How did you find me?” she asks. “Tasha?”

  “Only sort of. More like a bunch of different things came together.” I pause. “I’m Raine, by the way.”

  “Tasha already told me.”

  “Do your parents know?” I ask.

  “No.” She gnaws on a nail.

  “Really? Because I think they’re worried and sad out of this world.”

  “You’ve seen them?” Her voice catches.

  “No,” I admit. “I’m going by what I read online. And what I can imagine.”

  Emily sinks to a sleeping bag spread out on the floor. It’s the same sleeping bag from the memory when she was eating my protein bar in our basement. Emily’s skin hasn’t been outside during daylight in weeks and is as pale as the drywall behind her. Her hair is stringy, and the bangs are crooked. Her fingernails are chewed way down.

  “How’d you get access to this place?” I ask.

  “The previous owners left a spare key under the mat. I’m sure they just forgot about it.”

  “That was lucky,” I say.

  “Yeah.” Emily rubs her arms, then digs in the cloth bag and pulls out a sweater. “Actually, it was Tasha who found this house on one of her bike rides. I got her to look after your mom started throwing boxes and coming down to the basement.”

  So I was right. My mother chased Emily off. “Where else have you stayed?”

  “For the first few weeks, I was in a vacant cabin in the woods. The cabin was good because the police didn’t search out that way. Then my family was evicted from the pink house, where you live, and I moved in there.” Emily waves around the room. “This place is the worst. Dirty. Gross. No electricity. No water.”

  “How much longer are you planning to do this?” I ask.

  “Till Saturday.” She buttons the sweater. “I hope.”

  I almost topple off the second step in shock. “Saturday? As in two days from now?”

  She nods.

  “What’s so special about Saturday?”

  “The street fair.”

  I almost topple off again. “You’ve been in hiding for three-plus months, and you’re coming out because of the Yielding street fair? I wasn’t even planning to go. It sounds so lame.”

  She smiles the tiniest of smiles, like she’s out of practice. “It’s the lamest.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Dust swirling around her in the muted sunlight, Emily looks up at me and blinks. “Something big’s going to happen during the bonfire.”

  I wait for her to continue.

  She clicks her tongue, thinking. It’s how Alyssa described her in the memory in Jennifer’s basement.

  “The arsonist is setting a shed and a cabin on fire,” Emily tells me. “Who knows how many acres of trees will burn, too. The fire department will be busy, monitoring the bonfire in town.” She stares at me with huge, dark eyes. “I know who the arsonist is,” she says in a chilling, soft voice. “And he knows who I am.”

  “I thought you disappeared because of Jennifer,” I say, confused.

  She picks up her Slurpee and plunges the straw up and down to break up the frozen drink. “Last year, at the end of seventh grade, Jennifer got a crush on a sophomore named Michael White. Because I was taking a class at the high school, Jennifer wanted me to get info on him, like if he had a girlfriend or where he lived. We were in the same computer science class, last period. So I followed him home one day. He lives on Sparrow. Number seventy.”

  I know where Sparrow is. It’s on the early-morning cross-country route. Jennifer probably made that happen.

  “I told Michael about how Jennifer liked him. He told me to take a hike and to tell Jennifer to take a hike.” Emily sips. “Jennifer went ballistic, yelling that it was all my fault, that I didn’t try hard enough, that I was trying to wreck her life. The next day, I went back to Michael’s house with a letter I’d written about how wonderful Jennifer was.” She briefly closes her eyes. “I know how pitiful this all sounds. But it was the only way to get Jennifer off my case. You don’t know what she’s like, but—”

  “I do,” I say.

  Our eyes meet. Silence. We don’t need to talk about how sucky Jennifer makes us feel. We both get it.

  “So when I got to Michael’s,” Emily continues, “the garage door was open. He was hunched over a workbench, his back to me. He went into the house.” She shakes her cup. “I ran to the workbench to leave the letter and get out of there before he came back. On the workbench, there were alarm clocks with the backs off: SpongeBob, Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Shrek, and some Disney princesses. Very creepy. Like a kids’ alarm clock graveyard. I heard a toilet flush. I threw the letter onto the workbench, but I missed, and it landed behind the bench. Then I heard footsteps. I took off down the driveway.”

  I move down a step so as to not miss a word.

  “That week, twenty acres burned in the woods east of the highway. On the news, they said a SpongeBob alarm clock sparked the fire. I called the police and told them about Michael.” She sighs. “They talked to him. But they weren’t convinced he was involved.” She gazes at me, her eyes even wider. “But he knew I’d ratted him out.”

  She stops and swallows. “And he told me the next time I called the cops, he’d take Tasha. He’d take her out to the woods. And he’d burn her bit by bit. Until finally she died.”

  I stop breathing.

  “And the next day, he talked her into getting in his car.”

  Still not breathing. Getting dizzy.

  “He dropped her off in front of my school. To show me he was serious.”

  I finally suck in some air.

  “That’s why I disappeared. As long as he thinks I’m dead, Tasha’s safe.” Her eyes darken till they’re black as night. “The next time I go to the police, I’ll take evidence to lock him away forever.”


  “Why’d she get in his car?” I ask.

  “Because she thinks everyone’s her friend. And because…” Emily flaps a hand to say Whatever.

  Because Tasha’s not all there, I think.

  “The next week, Michael showed up at school and went around asking students about me. Just to let me know he was checking on me. Jennifer thought I really hadn’t pumped her up to him, that I’d trash-talked her instead. Because I wanted him for myself.” Emily grimaces. “Danielle told me about the girls’ plan to leave me in the woods. I think she felt bad. And Jennifer’s not always nice to her.” Emily takes a long drink. “I already knew I had to somehow disappear. So I came up with my own plan that piggybacked on Jennifer’s.”

  I jump. My phone’s buzzing in my pocket.

  “You’re phone’s been constantly going off,” Emily says. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

  I’ve missed several calls and texts from Shirlee. I scroll down to the last message.

  Help!

  I scan the messages. Jennifer’s getting impatient and wants to get together with Michael. Shirlee’s freaking out about the whole texting scam.

  Hang in there. I’ll call in a sec, I message Shirlee.

  I look up from my phone to see Emily watching me. She’s shivering. How does she deal with the cold at night? Where does she pee? And even if you’re a little insane and don’t have a spider phobia, this basement makes ours look like a four-star hotel.

  “You want to move back to my house?” I ask.

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s finished with the basement,” I say.

  “Uh, then, yes, uh, thanks,” she says awkwardly, like she’s not used to getting gifts from people.

  “We should tell her what’s going on,” I say, the words surprising even me. But sometimes it’s good to know a grown-up has your back.

  “No. No. No.” Emily shakes her head vehemently. “You can’t tell her. She’ll go to the police.”

  I consider that. She might. She might not. My mother’s not the most predictable person on the planet. Except when it comes to deadbeat men, and even that could be changing.

  “You have to promise you won’t tell her. Or anyone. This is about Tasha’s life.” Emily’s face is so white, she’s fading into the drywall.

  I immediately feel sick at the thought of Tasha in the forest with Michael. “Okay.”

  Emily runs a shaky hand through her hair. “You have to promise.”

  “I promise.”

  My phone chirps with a text from Shirlee.

  Call me!

  “You want me to take any of your stuff now?” I say to Emily.

  “Sure.” She walks up the stairs to hand me a couple of bags filled with clothes. “I’ll come late tonight.”

  “Watch out for Mrs. Burns. She’s already seen you and thought you were me.” I stand.

  Shirlee texts. I messed everything up.

  Butterflies fighting in my stomach, I hug the wall at the side of the house, then hustle to the sidewalk. When I turn the corner, I call her.

  “I totally messed up,” she wails as soon as she answers the phone, “and Jennifer called me on it. I mentioned his mother telling him to do something in a text. Apparently, she died. I kind of forgot I don’t know anything about this guy. I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries. It could still end up okay.” I jog up the driveway to my house.

  “No, I blew it for us. Jennifer never replied. She knows something’s weird.”

  “Where are you?” I set Emily’s bags on the top step to the basement and close the door. “Want to give me your phone for the night? In case she texts him later?”

  “Sure. I’m at home. Although I don’t see her doing that. I bet she never texts him again.” Shirlee sighs. “And Jennifer’ll keep picking on us.”

  I change into shorts and a T-shirt and lace up my running shoes. I might as well get a workout with all this bouncing from house to house.

  It’s not till I’ve been running for about ten minutes and my mind is clear that I realize I never asked Emily how she’s getting evidence on Michael. I hit my forehead with my palm. I’ll ask her when she’s back at my place.

  Jogging onto Shirlee’s street, I see a little hunched figure on the curb in the middle of the cul-de-sac. The way the sun’s slanting next to her, leaving her in a big wedge of shadow, Shirlee looks like a poster for depression.

  When I reach her, she passes me her phone in silence.

  R you @ home or skool? Jennifer sent.

  ????? Again, from Jennifer.

  I want to see you. She texted after still getting no response from Michael.

  @ doc appt, Shirlee finally texted.

  R u sick?

  Prob just sprained ankle, but my mom’s making me get it checked out

  What???? I thot ur mom died????

  Meant dad. Too much pain. Going into xray.

  “You handled that well,” I say. “I love the ‘too much pain.’ ”

  She makes a face. “See how Jennifer hasn’t answered? She doesn’t love the ‘too much pain.’ ”

  “Maybe she figured out someone pranked her. And maybe she’ll never text this number again.” I jog in place. “But we tried.”

  “If only she’d trashed Alyssa and Danielle, so we’d have something to use against her.” Shirlee’s chin hits her chest. “Instead we’re still at her mercy.”

  “At least we didn’t get caught.” I smile at her, but inside I have the same defeated feeling. It’s like training really hard for a race, only to trip and fall and come in last. Except this is more important.

  Shirlee shuffles into her house, and I continue my workout. Now I’m even more determined to beat Jennifer at the first invite.

  I’m probably fifteen minutes into my run when Shirlee’s phone buzzes. I jog in place and pull it out of my pocket. It’s Jennifer.

  Sorry. My mom took my phone cause I wasn’t doing homework. Annoying. U still @ doc?

  Yeah. So much pain. I really do love the “pain” line.

  I have surprise 4 u. I’ll leave it on ur porch 4 wen u get home.

  Why don’t u give it to me Sat instead?

  Saturday?

  @ bonfire. I’ll meet u there.

  Cool. Will u sit with me and my friends?

  Sure. Jennifer must be swooning right about now.

  Wat if ur on crutches?

  U can help me right? Jennifer may have just swooned herself onto the ground.

  Of course I’ll help, silly. Just left ur house. Look on porch wen u get home.

  I turn so abruptly there’s probably smoke wisping from the rubber soles of my shoes. I race toward Sparrow. Full-on race. She can’t bump into Michael. She can’t. She can’t. She can’t. He can’t find the surprise. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

  I skid around the corner, breathing hard enough to pop a rib. I’m slick with sweat. I slow to a walk.

  Sparrow’s quiet, with no one around and only a couple of cars parked by the curb.

  From the bottom of the walkway to Michael’s house, I can see a red gift bag hanging on the front doorknob. I stride toward it with fake confidence. This neighborhood might have their own Mrs. Burns. I’m swinging my arms and walking tall. As if I have every right to the gift bag.

  What’s in it? I push apart the tissue paper. An Oily Artichokes key chain. I grasp the handles of the bag and step off the concrete porch.

  Suddenly a car screeches around the corner and squeals to a stop in front of number 70. The garage door rolls up.

  I’m totally exposed with nowhere to hide. No bushes. No trees. No porch furniture.

  Michael explodes out, slamming his door. He scowls, his eyebrows an angry slash across his forehead. “Who are you?”

  My mind is as blank as a yard of new snow.

  With cold eyes, he takes in the gift bag and my running outfit. “You’re from the middle school? Another friend of Jennifer’s? Get lost. And tell Jen
nifer to get lost.” The words shoot out like bullets.

  I nod. I edge down the steps. I’m shaking like the temperature’s dipped to subarctic degrees.

  Michael disappears into the garage. The door thuds down on the driveway.

  As I pass his car, my fingers light on fire with tingles. I glance inside. The guy’s a major slob. The backseat’s covered with fast-food containers, a balled-up sweatshirt, a pack of cigarettes, a travel coffee mug. And tiny sparkles. More sparkles than I’ve seen in ages. As if someone broke open a jumbo-size vial of glitter and sprinkled.

  I glance at the house. No sign of life. I tug open the back door and slip in.

  Keeping low, I grab the three items with the brightest sparkles. I’ll read the memories at home. I don’t actually have a death wish.

  My elbow’s pushing down on the door handle when the garage door creaks open. Footsteps approach. The trunk pops up.

  I flatten myself on the gross floor of trash, lying as still as possible. One look through the window, and I’m busted. My heart hurls itself loudly against my rib cage.

  The trunk slams shut. A cell phone rings. “Yeah?” Michael says. Footsteps fade as he moves away. The second the garage door bumps down, I’m out of the car, taking off like I’m powered by a rocket launcher.

  I sit on my bed and take a few deep, yoga-like breaths. The three objects from his car are on my nightstand: an empty soda cup, a pair of sunglasses, and a disposable glove.

  I start with the sunglasses, balancing them in my palm and staring till I’m cross-eyed. It’s a quick memory of Michael punching the car dash and swearing. I watch the memory a few times, looking for details, but don’t get anything very helpful. He’s wearing a light jacket, so it’s fall or spring. It must have happened recently, because he looks the same. The swearing is just a string of bad language. No details about why he’s losing it.

  Next I try the disposable glove. I get nothing. I try a few different ways, with the candle, without the candle, hand open, hand closed. Zip. Zero. I give up.