When I go into the kitchen, Dad’s drinking coffee with our neighbors, the Showalters. They usually give us a ride on Sundays. Everyone turns and stares at me. I’m so embarrassed, I want to close my eyes and disappear.
“Thought you weren’t going to make it.” Dad frowns.
Why didn’t he wake me up? Yeah, I know it’s my responsibility to get out of bed on time. Still, it’s kind of strange that he didn’t knock on my door. I feel like everybody’s been talking in the kitchen for a while.
Talking about me and Alice.
“Let’s get going,” says Dad, grabbing his jacket off a chair.
Our church is on Honore Avenue, just a couple miles away, but it seems like the drive takes forever. Dad sits up front with Mr. Showalter and his son, Jacob, who’s the same age as me. I’m squashed in the back with Mrs. Showalter. She doesn’t even say good morning. She keeps staring at the window like there’s something real interesting out there. All I see are houses lined up in a row.
As we get closer to the highway, there’s a lot more traffic. Big cars going fast. Nobody walking anywhere. The homes get bigger, too. Most are tucked behind fancy metal gates or peach-colored walls. I can’t tell if they’re trying to hide from the world. Or keep their own world in.
The parking lot is full outside the church. Mr. Showalter’s going to have to park across the street at my old school. Sometimes I really miss it. Then I remember how weird it got toward the end. A lot of girls dropped out last year and started waiting tables. Some went off and got married. Guess you don’t need more school for that.
I rush out of the car and head across the road. The Beachy Amish-Mennonite Fellowship isn’t much to look at. It’s not like the glittery churches on holiday cards. No stained glass windows. Just a plain white building shaded by mossy oaks. If I were Old Order, I wouldn’t have a church. That’s because everybody meets up in their homes.
As I push open the door, everyone’s singing the first hymn, “I’ll Fly Away.” It’s my “heart song.” In other words, my favorite.
Some people might think it’s strange—the fact that we don’t sing along to a church organ or a piano. Nothing fancy like that. I still love it. There’s only our voices, lifting up the words together in harmony.
I move over to the row of pews on the left, blending into the swarm of pastel dresses and prayer caps. Maybe it’s wrong, but I really wish I could sing like Kara Horst. I scoot next to her, moving my lips and making no sound. Kara frowns as I squeeze into her row. She’s kind of showing off, dragging out the last ahh-lay-loo-yaaaaah.
Dad’s across the aisle from me, standing with a group of bearded men in dark vests and white shirts. In our church, women aren’t allowed to sit with men. Everybody looks straight ahead at Pastor Troyer. I wonder if he mouths the words, too.
After the hymn, Pastor Troyer goes over the list of prayer requests. He leans over the podium, droning on about Hilda Schwartz’s gallbladder operation. Sounds like she’s been having that operation for years.
“Let’s not forget our Old Order brothers and sisters,” he says, pushing back his glasses. “Alice Yoder, as you may already know, has been missing since Friday night.”
When I hear him say Alice’s name, everything goes hazy. I grab the pew in front of me, trying to keep my balance.
Mallory Keller turns around and stares at me. She was in my class last year. Now she works at the fruit stand on Bahia Vista Street. I know why she’s staring. Everybody thinks I saw what happened to Alice after the party.
I’m keeping secrets.
That’s what they think.
When it’s time for the sermon, I sink back into the pew. I was rushing around so much this morning, I forgot my Bible. It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t concentrate. The pastor’s voice drones on. I’m not really listening. He’s saying something about the Holy Spirit, how it changes shape, but stays the same. It might look like a dove. Or a river of flowing water. Maybe it’s like the Gulf, the currents that circle so far from the coast, yet always come home again.
Did Alice ever make it to the beach? I can’t stop going over everything that happened before she disappeared. What if I’d talked her out of going to Water Tower Park? And what if I’d never left the house that night? Would she have gone to that party without me?
Is there anything I could’ve done to keep her safe?
Finally, the sermon’s over. Not that I heard much of it. When Pastor Troyer says, “Let us pray,” everybody turns around. We kneel on the floor and lower our heads on the pews like we’re saying bedtime prayers. My knees ache, but that’s nothing compared to the hurt I’m holding inside.
All of a sudden, the Garver’s new baby lets out a long, hiccupy wail. I know exactly how he feels. I squeeze my eyes open and stare at the floor. There’s a plastic Ziploc bag under the pew. It’s filled with tiny sea creatures. Starfish. A dolphin curved like a question mark.
“Hi,” whispers the little girl in the next row. She wiggles her fingers at me.
“Hi yourself,” I whisper back, and she smiles real big.
I bet she loves the ocean as much as I do. Too bad those plastic toys are the closest she’ll ever get to their secrets. She won’t find out that dolphins have their own language. They even give each other names.
After the prayer, we turn around and sit in the pews again. Now it’s time for Pastor Troyer to pass around the microphone.
“If anything’s weighing on your heart this morning,” he says, “stand up.”
It’s always the men who get a chance to talk. The girls stay quiet, like they’re scared or something. Scared of what? I really don’t know.
Mr. Holtzer stands up. He runs the little post office near Big Olaf’s, and, believe me, he’s always got something to say.
“The Old Order girl who’s missing,” he says, frowning, and my blood turns to ice. He’s supposed to talk about the sermon. Not Alice. “I don’t think this Rumspringa nonsense has any place in Pinecraft. It’s only going to get worse.”
“Thank you, Brother John,” says Pastor Troyer. It’s always Brother this and Sister that, as if we’re all one big family. Of course, that’s all for show.
I’m so jittery, I can hardly breathe. Then Jacob Showalter stands up. I’ve never seen him talk in church before. His round face turns pink as he reaches for the microphone.
“Can I say something?” His voice cracks. When he stands up, the entire church turns and gawks at him.
“The Old Order aren’t that different from us,” he says.
Now I’m really surprised. I didn’t expect him to defend the Old Order.
“But I agree with Brother John,” he adds. “They don’t belong here.”
Everybody starts talking at the same time. I’m trying to catch my breath. Just holding on to one small thing. The pew’s smooth pinewood ridges. Sweat prickling between my shoulder blades.
“The Old Order have been visiting Pinecraft since I was a boy,” says Mr. Showalter, putting a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “It didn’t used to be this bad. Now we’ve got these Rumspringa boys stirring up trouble in our neighborhood, throwing wild parties on the beach. Do we want our girls to be next?”
Dad gets up and says, “Hold on a minute. There’s no reason to judge the Yoders so harshly.”
“And why is this your business?” says Mr. Holtzer. “Because your daughter is friends with the missing girl?”
I can’t stand to listen to him attacking Dad. This is so unfair. I won’t sit still and stay quiet. Not anymore.
“Alice didn’t do anything wrong.”
My voice comes out shaky, but no doubt, everybody hears it.
Mallory Keller twists around in her seat again.
Another head turns.
More faces stare.
The buzzing swells inside my fingertips, rising like the tide. I can’t hear the men talking anymore. Please God. Don’t let it happen. I squeeze the pew so tight, my knuckles burn.
Then I sink to the floor.
Voices shout across the church as I float away.
What’s wrong with Lucy?
Is she sick?
I’m looking up at the pews. All those women in pastel dresses, leaning over me. The stern-faced, bearded men, afraid to get too close.
When I open my eyes, Dad pushes his way through the crowd and throws his arms around me.
“She’s only doing it for attention,” Mallory whispers.
Slowly, Dad helps me sit up.
“There’s nothing wrong with my daughter,” he says, glaring back at them.
I have to get out of here. It’s too much. The faces watching me. The too-close smell of their sweat.
“Can you stand?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, but it isn’t true.
I get up and start walking toward the door. I can feel everybody’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare turn around. I grab the handle and push it open, letting in fresh air and sunlight. I keep walking across the church lawn, never looking back.
Why is this happening? Maybe I’m sick, after all. Or the Lord is punishing me. He can see inside our hearts. And if He looked inside mine, He’d know I’m sorry for not telling the truth.
Traffic races down Honore Avenue. I stand under the palm trees, watching the cars go by. Everybody in a hurry to get somewhere.
The world didn’t stop turning because Alice is missing.
I almost wish it would.
• • •
After church, we usually eat a big lunch. If the sun’s not too hot, we sit on the picnic benches in Pinecraft Park. I don’t mind so much. At least I get to be outside. Unfortunately, most of the time, I’m dragged someplace I don’t want to be. Maybe it’s because my dad’s alone. Everybody feels sorry for us. It’s all smiles and pass the apple crumble. Soon as we’re gone, they’re talking up a storm behind our backs.
When we go to somebody’s house, the girls stay in the kitchen, heating up casseroles and quiche, while the men sit in the living room, drinking coffee. It’s like there’s some invisible rule about what we’re supposed to do. (I can’t even cook toast, so if people come to our house, we usually cheat and buy a family pack of fried chicken from Winn-Dixie.) After stuffing ourselves into a food coma, everybody goes home and takes a nap.
Pretty exciting, right?
At least, that’s how it’s always been.
Nobody invites us to lunch after church. First time ever. Dad says it’s no big deal. We could eat at the Amish diner on Beneva Road. Or Der Dutchman on Bahia Vista. That’s the restaurant where a lot of girls from school ended up waitressing. Out front, there’s a glowing sign that says, “Eat in our Amish buggy!” The so-called buggy is just a covered booth with wheels.
“It’s okay,” I tell Dad. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You sure?” he says, frowning.
Usually I’m first in line. Eating is one thing I’m good at. After what happened today in church, I can’t even think about food.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
He nods. “Okay, Smidge. I’ve got some warmed-ups we can heat on the stove.” That’s Dad’s word for leftovers.
It’s a long walk home, but the Showalters don’t offer us a ride. They’re already heading down the street to Pastor Troyer’s house. Mrs. Showalter’s talking real loud so everybody knows that’s where she’s headed.
Walking home, I remember the first time Alice and her mom showed up in Pinecraft. It was Sunday after church, just like today. Me and Dad were eating lunch in the park. Sure, I’d seen the Old Order before. The men weren’t so different from my dad with their beards and straw hats. But when I saw the little girl in her long dark dress, her face hidden by her bonnet, I got a shivery feeling deep inside.
“Don’t stare,” my dad told me.
She was sitting all alone at the picnic table with her mom. When the Old Order woman turned her head, the girl snatched a strawberry off her plate. I started laughing so hard. Then the girl looked at me like we were sharing a secret. She popped the strawberry in her mouth and smiled.
“Why don’t you invite her over?” Dad asked.
I glanced up at him. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.”
“But they’re Old Order.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We do things a little different, but we’re all family.”
I walked over to their table. The girl’s eyes got real big. She seemed kind of surprised. Her mom was watching me the whole time, not saying a word.
“My dad says you can eat with us,” I told them.
The Old Order woman didn’t move. At first, I thought she was angry at me. She murmured something to the girl. I couldn’t understand the words. After a minute, the girl stood up. She didn’t look me in the eyes. Her voice sounded so strange, twisting up and down. I had to listen real careful to understand.
“What’s your name?” she said, clutching her skirt. “I’m Alice.”
Later I heard my dad and Mr. Showalter talking about the Yoders. Something about Alice’s dad. He’d been in an accident. Alice was heartbroken and needed a rest. She and her mom were visiting family down in Florida. But nobody had ever seen the Yoders before.
I liked Alice right from the start. Her easygoing laugh. The way her blue eyes sparkled when she talked. After that day, we were inseparable.
“See you tomorrow, Lucy,” she said, waving goodbye.
I looked at her fingernails, the bright red stains.
chapter nine
words and pictures
On Monday, I’m in the workshop with Dad, sanding wood for a gazebo. The planks are already drilled with holes. Then somebody can screw it together later and pretend they built it themselves.
“Quite the little helper,” says Mr. Showalter, opening the door. He and Jacob are always hanging around the shop, getting in the way.
“Lucy does good work,” says Dad and a rush of pride surges through me.
“Is that right?” says Mr. Showalter. “Wouldn’t she rather be in the kitchen?”
If I wasn’t so angry, I’d probably laugh. The only thing I know how to cook is “bumps on a log,” celery smeared with peanut butter and raisins.
Mr. Showalter eases his weight against a sawhorse. “A shame about her friend. The widow’s girl hasn’t turned up yet?”
That’s what everybody calls Alice’s mom.
The widow.
I glance up at Dad.
“No word about Alice,” he says.
“Her mother says she snuck out to a party,” says Mr. Showalter, looking at me. “I heard you were there too, Lucy.”
I can’t make up a lie. Dad already knows I was at the party.
“A lot of people were there,” I say.
“This was in Water Tower Park?”
I nod.
“That park’s quite a few miles from here. How did you get back?”
“I took the bus.” Why won’t he leave me alone?
“The buses don’t start running until six. Did you go anywhere else that night? Say, maybe the beach?”
How does Mr. Showalter know I was at the beach? Maybe his son, Jacob, heard about it. Not that Jacob would ever go to a Rumspringa party. He won’t even swim in the canal at Pinecraft Park because “it’s filled with leeches.”
Mr. Showalter keeps talking. “My son found Alice’s cell phone near the seawall this morning.”
“On Lido Key?” I’m shaking so hard, I let go of the sandpaper.
“That’s right,” he says. “But how did it get there?”
Now I’m stuck.
There’s nothing I can say.
Except the truth.
“Alice wanted to see the sunrise on the beach.”
Dad frowns. “You and Alice went where?”
“Alice wasn’t with me. I went by myself.”
“How did you get to Lido Key?”
I stare at the sawdust piled on the floor. “I got a ride.”
“A ride
from who?”
He waits for my answer. I want to run away, but I’m trapped in the workshop and there’s no going around it. If Alice is in trouble, I need to be honest about what happened that night at the party.
I swallow hard. “A boy drove me to Lido Key.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Do I know this boy?” Dad’s voice is getting louder. Now I’m really in for it.
“His name’s Faron.”
“Is that Andy Mast’s Faron?” he asks.
In Pinecraft, you’re always somebody’s somebody. But Faron isn’t from here. He belongs to no one.
“Not one of those boys from the park, I hope,” Dad says.
A Rumspringa boy.
“That’s the Old Order boy who’s been shunned,” says Mr. Showalter, like he’s the expert on everything. “Got himself a red truck. Drives all over Pinecraft in it.”
“Shunned?” Dad’s so upset, he can barely talk.
“He just gave me a ride to the beach. That’s all.”
“You will not be running around with Old Order boys, Lucy. You hear me?” he says.
“Just because somebody’s been shunned, doesn’t mean they’re a bad person.” Me and Dad have talked about the bann, how we both think it’s old-fashioned and hurtful. He doesn’t seem to remember that now.
“And what were you doing at Lido Key? The beach isn’t safe at night. You should know better.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dad shakes his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I used to tell my dad everything. Lately, we don’t talk much at all.
“Don’t mean to scare you, Lucy,” says Mr. Showalter. “But do you know if Alice has her own cell phone?”
“Yes, she does,” I say, a little confused.
“Her name was on the back,” says Mr. Showalter.
In my mind, I see Alice’s phone, the fake diamonds spelling her name. Did she make it to the beach after all?
“The cell phone was in a Ziploc bag. Thought it was kind of strange, carrying it around in something like that. Nice phone, too. Probably cost a lot.”
Snowbirds Page 6
