I wonder what I would do if any of these bottles were open—would I sneak a shot? With Dad outside waiting, I wouldn’t. But if he weren’t there, and my life was more or less back to normal, I might. If Hannah showed up at school in the morning and, just like that, everything went back to normal, why wouldn’t I sneak a bit now and then? Who says I couldn’t learn to drink like everybody else? Do people expect me and the rest of the Center kids to live sober for the rest of our lives, just because when we were young, we fucked up and got caught?
I pour the birdseed into the empty white dish as Bird dances from one foot to the other in what I suppose is excitement. A good friend would have done something. A real friend would have been sick at the sight of Hannah in that long black wig.
I’m about to shut the birdcage when I hear a tapping on the glass door behind me. I nearly scream, even though a part of me knows without question it’s Andy. It’s what I wanted, and half expected, but I’m still scared out of my mind by the shock.
I open the door, my heart still beating so hard, it’s difficult to talk. Andy leans against the door, not coming all the way in. I can smell his lemon-scented soap. I can see his dark spiky hair silhouetted against the outside light. He must have ridden his bike to the side of the house, and cut through the lawn, away from where my dad waits in the driveway.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Are you trying to get me grounded for eternity?” I ask.
“Sorry,” Andy whispers, his lips almost touching mine. His eyes look tight with fear. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says.
I shake my head no, blinking back tears. “What about you?” I ask.
“The cops called.” Andy ducks his head. I wonder if he’s crying. “I don’t know where Jonas is. Not answering his phone. The cops were calling for him.” We’re holding hands now. I don’t know how this has happened, whether I reached for his or he reached for mine. His palms are soft and dry. On impulse, I pull him close in one of those hugs that you don’t know how to end once they start.
Where could Jonas be? Far away if he had any brains, or money.
“He’s my brother, Marci,” Andy mumbles in my ear. “If we don’t say anything, maybe no one will know he was . . .” He doesn’t finish, as though even in a whisper it’s too messed up to say the words.
I want to blame someone for everything that’s happening. Jonas is a loser. If he’d only gone away to school, no one would ever have met Alex. There’d barely be any coke. We’d have partied the way we always had.
Then there’s Senna. None of this could have happened without him. Senna was the one who wanted to get a stash and deal.
There’s Hannah herself. How much of this was Hannah’s own fault? I get a chill thinking about it.
“Does anyone even care what happened to her?” I say this in Andy’s ear, not so much to him, but to myself.
Andy sniffles. “I care,” he mumbles into my hair. I want him to be brave, to have a plan. But I know this is hopeless. What’s happened to Hannah, whatever it is, is a disaster for him and for his parents, as well as the Scotts. I get a giant lump in my throat. Andy has to rat out Jonas. We both know this.
We hold each other in Michiko’s kitchen. I know I’ve been gone too long, but I don’t let go of Andy and he doesn’t let go of me, either.
“I’ve gotta go, Andy,” I whisper finally. “My dad will murder me if he sees you here.”
“I know,” Andy says. Then he kisses me—a deep kiss, a movie kiss. We are that I-don’t-know-when-I’ll-see-you-again couple.
I shut and lock Michiko’s front door. Michiko’s white rose bushes still bloom alongside the driveway, where I nearly died.
Dad has left the lights on and the engine running. I wonder how long I’ve been inside. He’s looking at his phone, his hair rumpled, his mouth pulled tight in concentration.
When I get in the car, he’s about to say something, but then stops and stares at the dashboard. He has the radio on. In the next second my head begins to throb. It’s like thunder, the sound of the radio and the sound of my own thoughts, the blood pumping through my brain.
He has the local news on. There is a short report about a search in lower Westchester for a missing teenage girl. It is a woman talking, very rapidly, as though out of breath, but in that fake way broadcasters have, where you know they are just acting upset and concerned—sounding concerned is part of their job. She says her name. She says, “Hannah Scott is missing and the family fears the worst.” They say where her phone has been found, and ask for prayers for her family.
I sit and stare. Hannah, my friend, is the girl on the news. Her story is everywhere.
Twenty-Eight
WHEN DAD AND I get home, I realize how much the world has changed.
It isn’t only the radio; the local television station also has pictures of Hannah and the search that has spread across the county, since the cops put out the news that Hannah may not in fact have run away, that details in the case strongly suggest otherwise. Mom has the TV in the kitchen on as she chops vegetables and adds them to the pot on the stove, only she’s not chopping onions and mushrooms so much as standing there with a knife in one hand and an untouched pile of shiitakes on the cutting board in front of her.
I can’t take my eyes off the TV and the supposed “crime scene.” The newscaster is a woman with long, windblown brown hair and a thin-lipped, grimacing mouth. Behind her you can see tall, wind-flattened clumps of cattails, and behind the cattails, the dark rising water of the Sound. I think how at low tide the preserve smells of decay, of the dead mussels and razor clams the seagulls peck out of shells sprung open on the large graffiti-covered rocks. Was it possible her phone was found out there because someone wanted it found? The preserve is a wild place, but it is not especially isolated. It is on the far side of the amusement park, as far from the entrance gates as the parking lot extends. But still, you could hit the pillars of the Dragon Coaster with a well-thrown stone from where the news lady is standing.
After dinner, I throw myself on my bed. For a minute or two I remain absolutely still. Then I take out my iPad and open the file labeled “Accountability.” I have to get the letter finished. If I don’t, I could lose ground with Group, and Chuck and I could become equals. I’d be humiliated, demoted if someone pointed out that my accountability letter was a day overdue. The group might even dismiss me, make me reapply and start back as a prospective. Somehow, failing in Group in front of Chuck seems even worse than failing all on my own.
I have a throbbing headache, but I start to type anyway. While I type, I think about Hannah. I think about her smile, her husky voice, her feral-cat way of standing and staring into a room, all boldness, showing no fear.
I look outside, into the dark. My window is open just a crack and there’s a slight breeze. There is the smell of earth, not yet frozen. I think about Andy and I know he is also being pulled in two. I imagine how things are at his house tonight; I wonder where Jonas is, and what Andy’s parents have found out.
I don’t know where Hannah is. I don’t have the missing piece of the puzzle. I just know how some of the pieces fit.
I sprawl across my white down comforter, start typing again and spill everything I know. I was wrong that I’m not accountable for telling what I know about Hannah. I kept her secrets when her secrets put her in danger. I’m responsible for that part.
The only thing I don’t fess up to is sneaking around in order to meet Andy at Michiko’s. This was a betrayal of trust like all the others, but there is something that feels wrong about adding it to the list. I know bad shit will keep happening to me as long as I am out of control about drinking. But even though Andy and I are both fuck-ups surrounded by even worse fuck-ups, I don’t think we are wrong to need each other.
I take a break, toss my iPad behind me onto the pillow, and stretch. It’s almost eleven, but the street has a kind of eerie glow to it. I go to the window and see the moon is full. It’s so bright there are shadows on the sid
ewalk beneath the trees that still hold their red and yellow leaves. There was something on Mom’s radio this morning, I remember now, about the moon being particularly close to Earth—closer than it’ll be for another thousand years. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It’s like those meteor showers you’re sure you’re going to see, but you fall asleep, or it rains, or you just forget to look up. But the moon outside my window is closer, bigger, I think, than I’ve ever seen it before. It looms over the street in a weird way that makes me feel watched.
They say alcoholism is a disease, but I don’t know. I think it’s something else, like another law of physics, of the universe. There’s just too much space, even in our own heads—there’s too much emptiness, too much darkness. Something has to fill it: beer, vodka—anything that isn’t nothing. That’s the law—people are afraid to be nothing, and so we make ourselves something—drunk, beautiful, scary, anything that’s real-seeming.
I shut my eyes and try to block out the too-bright, too-close moon.
Tomorrow, there’s the lawyer, Group, and the police. Everywhere I go I’ll be questioned.
I think how if this were a story, I’d know there was an end that I could skip to. But I know it’s possible for a person to be lost and never found. I want to cry, not just because Hannah is missing, and I’m the friend who should have known what to do, but because there’s no end to flip to, no certainty there ever will be. I let the tears run down my face. Somewhere, Hannah is beyond help, and I was the last one to hear from her, when she was still within reach.
There is a helicopter outside, maybe two, and they sound like they’re flying low. I wonder if it’s Hannah they’re looking for. I shudder and stare out the window. The helicopter sounds soon fade. Maybe it was just the usual traffic jam on the interstate that drew them.
I change into my baggy gray sweats and an old Ether T-shirt and get into bed, just so I can tell myself this horrible day is over. The moment I shut my eyes, my body and mind sink into exhaustion. In just a few minutes, I’m nearly asleep. But as I’m about to drift off, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Andy. All it says is Meet me by the red doors in the am. I text back that I will and shut my eyes. I’m not supposed to have my phone in my room, but I keep forgetting to hand it over, and my parents keep forgetting to ask for it. That’s the way it is with rules, I think. You have them so you don’t get confused about how you’re supposed to act. But then the rules are the first things everyone forgets.
Twenty-Nine
MOM FRIES DAD’S usual eggs, drinking her coffee from her favorite flowered mug, as though this were a completely normal day. Dad sits at the table with his paper, sipping so loud I can hear it across the room. I wonder if there’s an article about Hannah in the New York Times. Girls don’t go missing every day, or maybe they do, but not in small, suburban towns like ours. Dad has the French doors open in the kitchen. I hear the whir of a helicopter again.
The silence in the room is awkward and tense. I feel nervous, and am having trouble focusing on everything I’m supposed to do in the next twelve hours, but I don’t want to annoy Mom by complaining, so I go for some basic information.
“Mom, who’s taking me to the Center today?” I ask. I think from the way she’s dressed, it must be Dad. Her beige blouse and brown pants is an office look.
When she turns from the sink where she’s washing Dad’s breakfast dishes, I can see she’s either been crying or didn’t get nearly enough sleep.
Dad puts his paper down. “I’m bringing you. Then, you’re meeting with Barbara Fine and the detective tonight. You’ll have an hour with Barbara first.”
I nod.
“We’ll get through this,” Dad adds. I suppose this is true, but only because we have no choice. We hardly speak again. Even while Dad drives me to school, we’re quiet. I want to hear some music, anything to break the silence, but I’m afraid to touch the radio. I’m afraid to do anything that I’m not being told to do.
When Dad drives off, I stand in front of the red doors waiting for Andy. People stream past. I don’t look anyone in the face. I scan the crowd streaming across the parking lot, searching for Andy’s goofy, loping stride, when I glimpse Senna ambling toward me. I have no choice but to face him.
“Marcelle,” he says. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay, I guess,” I mumble. “It’s hard to deal with all this shit. . . .” I blink back tears and my voice sort of breaks when I try to say Hannah’s name. Senna doesn’t move. He stands next to me, crowding me, hands in his pockets. He stares over my head, squinting, as though looking for Hannah somewhere on the horizon.
“I wanted to join the people helping search, but my parents wouldn’t let me go,” Senna says. I’m shocked that Senna would say this, and that his parents had any say at all in what he did or did not do.
“They mentioned a search on the news,” I say, “but there’s no way my parents would let me go over there either.” Senna nods, and to my surprise he seems reluctant to move on.
“I guess people think I’m, like, a suspect of some kind,” Senna says abruptly. “Her boyfriend, you know, numero uno on the list.” He pauses, then adds, “My parents hired me a lawyer.” He gives me a long, questioning stare.
I look right into Senna’s eyes. I try to see inside of him, to know what he’s thinking, and I feel, weirdly, that he is doing the same with me. A person should be able to tell if another person is lying, or if they are hiding some awful truth, but I can’t tell with Senna, and he doesn’t seem to be able to tell with me, either.
“I thought about hitting the road,” he says. “But I guess that would be the kiss of death.” He pauses, looks down at his feet, then back at me again. “Do you think the cops really care if they get the right guy?” Senna asks.
I shake my head, dumbfounded. Senna doesn’t seem angry, exactly; he’s definitely worried. If he’s trying to get me to feel sorry for him or afraid that the cops aren’t to be trusted, he’s succeeding. What if the cops decide we’re all just a bunch of coke-dealing fuck-ups? What if they don’t believe my story?
Then it hits me that Senna is assuming Hannah is dead. Senna is either assuming this, or he knows it.
I take a few deep breaths. When I regain my composure I tell him I have to run to class. I’ve forgotten all about Andy. But before I go, I say, “Maybe they’re going to find her, Senna, and everything will be okay. Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I join the flow of kids heading toward the C building, and I see Senna moving in the opposite direction, but slowly, like someone wading through deep water. He stands head-and-shoulders above the crowd. He’s easy to pick out until the end of the hallway, where he takes a sharp right, toward either the Spanish building or the parking lot. I breathe easier once he turns the corner and is finally out of sight. It’s only then I think how strange it is that Andy didn’t show up.
Math is longer than life itself, but I don’t get called on, and am oddly able to concentrate on Mr. Hellman’s lesson. I have the kind of clarity that comes from having so much on my mind I can only think about what’s right in front of me.
Second period, I have Comp, during which I mostly think of Senna and everything I suspect but can’t admit to myself. Ms. Bartow is giving us the whole period to revise our personal narratives. I mostly stare at mine. I make only a few tiny changes. I’m distracted by the fact that Andy isn’t in class. Staring blankly across the room, it occurs to me that someone has taken Hannah’s desk out of her row, so that every seat is taken but her row is one desk shorter now than all the others.
Finally, I have a free third period. Getting through the hallways is like swimming upstream. Everyone seems to be going in the opposite direction from me. I don’t see faces, only bodies. Everywhere I go, I think I see Hannah. Glimpses of her hair—that color that is neither blond nor brown, but some sort of blend of both—a glimpse of her bare shoulder, but it’s another girl who’s doing that nineties off-the-shoulde
r thing. It’s never Hannah. It’s not her thin, tan leg. It’s some other girl taking advantage of the warm day. I’m walking zombie-like through the crowd and everyone is staring at me because everyone knows about Hannah.
I finally get to the cafeteria. All I can think of is getting something hot to drink and having a minute to myself. I’ll get a tea, then hang out in the freshman zone, where I’ll be safe.
I push through the heavy doors of the cafeteria and immediately meet Andy’s eyes. He’s paying for his food behind a bunch of football players. They’ve all just shaved their heads in some team spirit effort. Andy looks thin and grim standing next to them, as they jostle each other and rub their hands over each other’s smooth scalps. I think, At least there’s this distraction. Everyone can talk about how hot Brian Housman still looks bald, or how Jeremy Caine is nothing without his flowing blond locks. At least some kids seem oblivious to the fact that Hannah Scott is missing, and that all night long the police from three towns have been searching the nature preserve for any sign of her.
Andy skipped Comp, but he knows I have third period free. He must have been watching the door, waiting for me.
He’s a total mess. He staggers over to me with his coffee. Before I can say a word, Andy pulls me by my arm back out of the cafeteria. I’m annoyed, because I really need that tea, but I don’t resist.
We walk, leaning into each other but not quite touching. Then I see it. Someone has written Who killed that coke whore Hannah Scott? on the side of the soda machine. I’m struck dumb. “Jesus,” Andy says. He looks at me questioningly, as though I have any more idea than he does about who would write such a thing. Who actually hated Hannah enough to write something vicious like that?
The First True Thing Page 14
