“Nope. The gossip mill runs on estrogen, not testosterone.”
I rolled my eyes and took a sip of soda. “All I know is she was homeschooled for most of her life. She only came to public school this year. She didn’t seem to belong to any clique. She mostly kept to herself.”
“Is it true that she was some kind of genius?”
“A piano prodigy, yeah. Which doesn’t exactly clear a pathway to popularity. It also doesn’t make her the type to run away or get into trouble.”
“Who knows?” Gabriel said. “It sounds like no one really knew her. Plus, she was so sheltered. Maybe she’s rebelling or something.”
I shrugged. “So that’s it? Because there was a note, the police can’t do anything?”
“Even though they’re not required to, they did do some follow-up. Her parents are divorced, so they checked into the father, made sure it wasn’t a custody thing, even though she’s legally an adult. They also went to the school and questioned some kids, though my dad said it seems like she didn’t hang with anyone. But that’s it unless something else comes up. There’s no evidence of a crime and she’s not physically or mentally impaired so … she’s officially voluntarily missing.”
I settled back in the booth and mentally sifted through all this newfound information. It sure looked like Sierra had left of her own volition. What would make her write a note like that? Maybe her mother pressured her too much and she wanted to escape. Maybe she was sick of small-town life. Or she got herself into some kind of trouble.
“Ready?” Gabriel asked, plopping a wad of cash down on the bill.
“Hey, this was my treat.” I reached out to grab the bill, but he playfully slapped my hand away.
“The treat wasn’t the food,” he said. “It was the company.”
He didn’t say it with a wink or any sense of flirtation. He said it matter-of-factly. But it still got my heart racing.
As I stood and followed him toward the door, something peculiar caught my attention. A woman seated in a corner booth had her eyes glued to us. When she saw that I noticed, she lifted a menu up in front of her face.
Odd.
“So what are you going to do?” Gabriel asked, holding the door for me.
I was so disconcerted by the strange woman, I didn’t know what he meant at first. Then I realized he was asking about Sierra’s mother.
“After Perry’s failed reading, she probably thinks we’re frauds,” I said. “But I’d still like to find a way to help.”
He stopped when we reached his Jeep, and turned around. “Good. I’m glad.”
I was taken aback by how strongly he said it, and he noticed the surprise on my face.
“I’ve been there,” he said quietly, and he didn’t need to explain any further. I knew he was thinking about his little sister and how his parents had been willing to do anything to find her. And this also meant that he believed in me and my ability. He thought I could help. I reached out and grabbed his hand, gave it a little squeeze. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could offer for now.
Over his shoulder I noticed the door to the restaurant open slightly and a face peer out, then quickly dart back in. The woman again. Watching us.
“Want a ride home?” Gabriel asked.
“No, thanks,” I said absently. “Mom dropped me off. She’s due to swing by and pick me back up. We’re going Halloween decoration shopping. Don’t ask.”
Gabriel said good-bye and drove off, and I tucked myself behind an SUV. After a few moments, the woman emerged from the restaurant and hurried over to a small, beat-up car.
I rushed up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
She startled and turned around, dropping her keys to the pavement.
“What do you want?” I asked, hands on my hips.
“Nothing. I’m leaving.” She picked up her keys and fiddled with them, trying to find the right one.
“Why were you staring at me?”
“I wasn’t.” She shook her head, but her thick black hair didn’t move. Her face was too thin, and dark circles outlined her eyes.
“Why were you staring at my friend?”
She shifted back and forth, a clear tell. It was Gabriel she was following, not me.
“Who are you?” I asked, stepping between her and the car door. At the notion that this stranger might have bad intentions toward Gabriel, a brash courage I didn’t realize I had swelled in me.
“It’s none of your concern,” she said, puffing up her chest.
“If you’re stalking my friend, it is my concern.”
She eyed me curiously. “You care about him.” She stepped closer, but I didn’t back off. She considered me for a moment, then spoke. “I’ll tell you. If you promise not to tell Gabriel.”
She knows his name, I thought in shock. But at her softened voice and demeanor, my alarm subsided a bit. Still, I felt protective. I wasn’t going to keep anything from Gabriel that he should know. At the same time, I wanted to hear what her deal was.
“I can’t promise not to tell him,” I said. “It all depends.”
The woman nodded. “Maybe you’ll agree after you’ve heard what I have to say.”
“Okay.”
“I am Aleta Toscano. Gabriel’s mother.”
MY MOUTH OPENED.
Way to go, Clare. Way to impress the mother of a prospective boyfriend. Moms love their boys to date psycho overprotective girls.
“Gabriel doesn’t know I’m in town,” his mother said.
Now that I knew who she was, I was surprised I didn’t notice the resemblance earlier. She had Gabriel’s eyes.
Those eyes pleaded with me as she continued, “His father doesn’t, either. I have a room in a hotel. I only arrived today. When I saw my son in the restaurant, I hid because I didn’t want our first meeting in months to be in a place like that. I want to approach him at the right time, in the right place. We have a lot to talk about.”
I nodded slowly, words suddenly failing me.
She tilted her head to the side. “Are you my son’s … girlfriend?”
“No,” I said, wringing my hands. “We’re just friends.”
She smiled. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you looking out for him.”
I returned her smile nervously. “Thanks. I won’t tell him, Mrs. Toscano. You have the right to approach him however you want.”
“Thank you … Miss …”
“Clare.”
“Thank you, Clare.”
She held her hand out and I shook it, despite the gnawing feeling that things were about to drastically change.
On Saturday, Mom — like a woman possessed — went shopping for even more decorations. Perry was bogarting the television. So I decided what better way to spend a Saturday than with homework.
Normal teens do their homework on Sunday nights. I realize this. I am not normal.
I hate procrastinating, so much so that I often do my homework on Friday so it won’t be hanging over my head all weekend long. The good thing is, my (nonexistent) social life doesn’t usually interfere with this quirk of mine.
Before I settled in to write my paper on the causes of World War II, I checked my email.
One new message.
From mybeautifulClare. Subject line: empty.
My heart sped up. Was my secret admirer going to reveal himself? The cursor hovered over the message. I wanted to know who it was, but felt conflicting feelings on who I wanted it to be. If it was Gabriel or Justin, then it was a nice effort but didn’t help the stalemate much. If it was someone new … then I suppose my reaction would depend on who it was. But did I need any further complications in my romantic life? Especially with all the pressure surrounding that stupid dance?
I told myself to shut up and just open the email. I clicked.
I hope you liked my flowers. You deserve to be lavished with gifts. Because you are unique. You are special.
Still anonymous.
I read it over three or four times.
The note in my locker and the flowers had made my stomach do little flips over the unexpected flattery. But now I felt a bit nervous. The email was all complimentary. There was nothing threatening about it. But it didn’t seem right. I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes about whether or not to write back and finally decided to do it.
Thanks for the compliments, but I’m at the point now where I want to know who you are. Please tell me.
I hit SEND, and only a minute later, I got a mailbox error in return. The email address did not exist.
Someone had created the address at one of those free mail websites, used it once to email me, and then deleted the account.
Strange.
Wouldn’t he want to know my response to his email? Wouldn’t he want to know how I felt about his advances? Whether I was interested?
Obviously not.
But why?
Two scenarios formed in my mind.
Maybe he never planned on telling me who he was, never intended on going past the secret admirer thing. Either because he was a harmless guy who was afraid of rejection or there was no secret crush and it was someone playing a joke on me.
The other possible scenario was a bit darker. He did want to take this out of secrecy and to the next level. But he didn’t care about my response because it didn’t matter how I felt. It didn’t matter whether I wanted him or not. Because he was going to have me either way.
I shuddered, then tried to talk myself off the ceiling. I had no evidence for the creepy scenario. This secret admirer had been nothing but nice. I’d just learned to expect the worst in people. Or I’d been watching too many crime dramas with my mother.
The instant messenger window popped up with a loud bing.
MALLORYNEENEE: what’s up?
I typed back:
REDFERN: Mallory?
MALLORYNEENEE: yeah. when I was little, I couldn’t say Neely, so I said my name was Mallory Nee Nee. wasn’t I cute?
REDFERN: how did you get my IM?
MALLORYNEENEE: I’m a clever girl. so your handle … from the book?
REDFERN: no, from my hair and my name. how are you feeling?
The last time I’d seen her, she looked like she was going to blow chunks in the school hallway.
MALLORYNEENEE: I’m fine. so you got a hot date tonight?
REDFERN: no. decorating. plus, boys = complicated. we’ve been through this.
MALLORYNEENEE: you only have a few days to ask one of them to go to the dance. you’d better pick one and lock that down.
REDFERN: I might have a third option …
MALLORYNEENEE: do tell!
REDFERN: secret admirer. left a note in my locker, left me flowers, now just sent me an anonymous email.
MALLORYNEENEE: that’s cool, right?
REDFERN: I thought so at first, but now I’m getting frustrated. he should just tell me who he is already.
There was a long pause.
MALLORYNEENEE: but what would be the fun in that?
I was about to compose a response when she quickly typed:
MALLORYNEENEE: gotta go
And signed off.
I HEFTED THE LAST SHOPPING BAG FROM THE trunk, carried it into the house, and dropped it on the floor.
“Careful, Clarity!” Mom said, rushing over to the bag. “This one has the crystal pumpkin in it.”
“It’s fine. They wrapped it in, like, ten thousand layers of tissue paper.” I collapsed onto the couch and scanned the chaos. Witches, pumpkins, and ghosts of the papier-mâché and ceramic variety littered the floor.
Mom stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. “I brought everything up from the basement, but we’re missing something.”
“How can you even tell?”
She ignored me and stared at the spooky mess. “I’ve got it!” She lifted her finger in the air. “The witch crash. Where’s the witch crash?”
I groaned. That particular decoration was one we’d bought many years ago. When hooked onto a tree, it looked like a witch on her broom had crashed in our front yard. We got a ton of laughs from it the first year, then everyone started copying us, and now I despised it.
“That thing is so cheesy. It would be a blessing if we lost it.”
Mom ignored my complaint. “I think it’s in the attic. Will you be a dear and go get it?”
“What about Perry? Make him do it.” I realized I was whining, but I hated the dusty, dark attic.
“Perry is uploading a new page to our website with our pricing changes. Unless you can do that, get your butt up there.” She shooed me off the couch with her hands and I dragged myself up the stairs.
The attic door is in the ceiling of our second-floor hallway. I yanked the rope and unfolded the stairs. I gave them a push or two to make sure they were still solid and climbed up.
I feebly reached out in the dark for the pull chain of our sole lightbulb and jerked back in surprise as it hit me on the forehead. I tugged it, and sighed in relief when the light went on. The thick dusty air tickled my throat. I tiptoed across the plywood and beams, and scanned the cardboard boxes labeled with black marker. Mom kept way too much of our school junk. When were we ever going to need something from the Perry Third Grade box? But, in a way, it was sweet.
I had no idea where the stupid witch could be. There were no more boxes marked Halloween. Maybe she’d been accidentally tossed into a Christmas one. I was about to give up when I noticed an unmarked box in the corner. The dust had been disturbed around it, as if someone had recently sat next to it. I shrugged and did the same.
The box was empty, except for one thing at the bottom. It looked like an old flannel shirt, red and black. Definitely not Mom’s style. I picked it up and realized something was wrapped inside. I slowly unfolded the shirt, undoubtedly of the men’s variety, and found a framed photo of Perry and Mom. They were standing in front of the house, holding hands.
Wait.
Mom looked young in the picture. Too young to be standing with a full-grown Perry. I looked closer and realized it wasn’t Perry at all.
It was Dad.
I didn’t know from memory. I was only a year old when my father left us. But I knew in my gut this was him.
I’d heard a couple times from others that Perry looked a lot like our father. But only now did I realize how much. I wondered how it must feel for Mom, to see Perry every day and be constantly reminded of the man she loved and lost. No wonder she hadn’t moved on.
When we were younger, Perry and I would sometimes ask about our father. The only answer we got was that he left. We never knew why. But we saw how much it hurt Mom to talk about him, so we stopped asking, out of love for her.
All I knew about our dad was that he and Mom had grown up in the same town, a spiritualist community in western Massachusetts. Most of the inhabitants were paranormally gifted and they tended to marry each other to pass on the genes. Mom and Dad married, moved out to the Cape, bought this house, had Perry and me, and then … I don’t know. The rest is a blank.
I traced my finger down his face in the picture and wondered. Did he have another family now? Was he even alive?
I’d never felt my father’s absence. It was probably for the best that I was too young to remember him. How can you miss what you never had? Between Perry and Mom, I’d grown up with more than enough love. I didn’t need Dad.
But still, looking at his picture, I felt something stirring inside. A strange little ache.
Footsteps on the attic stairs alerted me that someone was coming up. I quickly rewrapped the photo and put it back in the box. I didn’t want Mom to see that I’d found it. If she did, it would probably disappear like all the other evidence that my father had ever existed. I struggled with the flaps on the box top. I almost had it closed.
“What are you doing?”
I whipped around and exhaled my relief as I saw the head poking up into the attic. “Oh, hey, Nate.”
Nate Garrick is my brother’s best friend and, to be honest, one of
my best friends, too. He’d been as much a fixture in my life as if he’d been a second brother.
He climbed the last stair and walked toward me, slightly hunched so he wouldn’t bang his head on a beam. “Do you need help carrying anything down?”
“Thanks, but I can’t even find the damn thing.” I stood, wiping my dusty hands on my jeans.
“What are you looking for?”
“That witch crash decoration we put on the tree in the front yard every year.”
“You mean that?” Nate pointed at something up and over my shoulder.
I turned around and there it was, hanging from a rafter on a hook, the witch’s legs dangling. I shook my head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it hanging up there. I’m a moron.”
He waved me off. “Ah, you were probably looking down at all the boxes, not up.”
“And you’re just being nice.”
He smiled brightly. “That, too.”
“So how’s college?” I asked, pulling the witch down.
“It’s good.” He shoved his hands in the front pocket of his Red Sox sweatshirt.
“Haven’t you come home, like, every weekend since you started last month?”
Nate shrugged. “It’s only Boston. It’s not that far away.”
“That’s not what I mean. Don’t you want to stay there and party? Meet girls? Go all Animal House?”
Nate smiled. “I do that every night during the week. Weekends are my time to come home and relax.”
That had as much chance of being true as Perry entering a seminary. Not that Nate was too serious. He had a great sense of humor and could have fun, but he was shy around people he didn’t know, especially girls. He’d been a gangly boy and a lanky tween, as if his height grew too fast for his frame. But now he was filling out, and I was sure his body, plus those dynamite green eyes, caught the attention of a few coeds. But Nate just wasn’t the girl-juggling type. He always claimed he was waiting for the right one. He was like the anti-Perry.
Perception Page 5
