by Amber Garza
“I didn’t skip school. I told you. I don’t feel well,” Amelia said. “I called myself out, okay? I didn’t want to bother you. You’ve been really stressed.”
It was true. Whitney had been stressed. But no, that wasn’t a good excuse for lying. “Next time, you need to get permission before you can stay home. And no more calling yourself out, okay?”
“Fine.” Amelia kicked off her flip-flops near the door.
“Where were you today? How come you’re not in bed if you’re sick?”
“I was earlier, but then I decided to go down to the pool for a little while. Lay out. Figured some vitamin D would do me good.” She smiled. “And it did.”
Whitney nodded, believing her easily. She always liked the feeling of the sun on her skin when she was sick too. When Amelia passed by on her way to her room, she expected to get a whiff of chlorine, outside air. Instead, Amelia smelled like something Whitney couldn’t place. Kind of like a spice she recognized. Cinnamon? Cloves?
Whatever it was, it was foreign. Unfamiliar. Weird that it was coming from her daughter.
12
THE THIRD TIME I spent the night at Millie’s, we snuck out to go to a party. She wore this black leather jacket with fringe all along the sleeves. Her hair was wild and loose with large curls, and her lip gloss was a deep berry color. She looked amazing. I had on a sundress, and my hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She lent me a pair of combat boots that were way too narrow, but I shoved my feet into them anyway. Then she talked me into letting my hair down, and she swiped a coat of the same dark lip gloss over my lips. I still didn’t look as good as she did, but it was an improvement.
I’d never been to a party before, so I had no idea what to expect. My only frame of reference was from watching sitcoms. With that in mind, I’d been expecting bumping music and wall-to-wall kids dancing and making out.
That’s not at all what this party was like.
This party was at an apartment downstairs from Millie’s where these two college-aged boys lived. And it literally consisted of them and a couple of their friends. We were the only girls.
It was clear right off the bat that the apartment belonged to two guys. There were no decorative touches at all. Just a ratty couch, torn fabric, dirty yellow stuffing poking out. There were two dinner trays on either side of it, which I assumed were supposed to be end tables. They were covered in ashtrays and books of matches. In the kitchen, a little card table was set up. On the counter was a box of Coors Light, ripped open in the wrong spot, and a half-empty bottle of vodka.
There was no music playing and the room was dimly lit by only one lamp.
I remember reaching for Millie’s hand, wishing we could leave. She squeezed my fingers and tugged me forward. The smile she wore kept my protests locked inside. No way would I do anything to wipe that smile off her face.
She was happy. Ready to have fun.
Who was I to spoil that for her?
I’d never even taken a sip of beer before, but when one of the guys held out two cans, Millie took one and immediately popped the top, so I did the same. It tasted so much nastier than I thought it would. Way too bitter.
Millie talked the guys into putting on some music. The minute the beat swelled around the room, her body started swaying. She reached for me. Giggling, I joined her, trying not to care who was watching. We spun in circles and swayed our hips back and forth. Beer kept sloshing out of my can, but no one seemed to notice.
They all noticed Millie, though.
The guys kept glancing over at her appreciatively.
She was clueless. Her attention was fixed on me. It made me all warm and fuzzy inside. The beer helped with that too. Made me feel all warm and loose, my limbs moving with more ease than usual.
That’s why I took a second beer when the guys offered.
Millie lit up a cigarette. It crackled as she brought it to her sparkly lips. Drawing the cigarette away, she blew out a plume of smoke. Then she held it out to me, asking if I smoked. I never had, but I lied and said yes. Then I took it in between my fingers. The edge was stained in deep berry.
It was kind of embarrassing how much I coughed after attempting to take a drag. I think everyone knew then that I’d never smoked before. I heard a few chuckles from the guys. But Millie didn’t make fun of me at all. She made some comment about there being a first time for everything, and then she told me to try again.
Millie was so persistent that I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. But the truth is I hated it. Hated the way it coated my teeth in a nasty ash taste, hated the way it made my head pound and my mouth feel cottony.
After a few more tries, my stomach got all crampy and shaky, so I hurried to the bathroom. Trying not to touch the sides of the stained toilet seat, I hovered over it. Saliva filled my mouth. I gagged, coughed, tried to puke. But nothing came up. Eventually, the nausea subsided. I splashed some cold water on my face and took a few deep breaths before emerging from the bathroom.
When I returned to the living room, I found Millie sitting cross-legged on the ground with a couple of the guys, smoking. From the hallway, it looked like a cigarette. But as I got closer, the overwhelming scent of pot was undeniable. The guys huddled around her were leaned back, eyes red and glazed over, tiny slits.
Millie offered me a hit when I sat down next to her. She held the joint out toward my face, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. It glowed red on the end, emitting its pungent aroma.
I’d vowed to myself back in eighth that I’d never use drugs after watching a disturbing video in health class. Kids were convulsing, acting erratically, crazy-like, as if they could no longer manage their own bodies, control their own impulses. I hated feeling out of control. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would do that to themselves voluntarily.
I doubted pot would cause me to act like that, but I’d overheard a girl at school saying she smoked pot once and unbeknownst to her it was laced with acid and she totally tripped out. I shook my head at the joint being offered. It was the first time since we’d met that I said no to Millie, but she was cool about it. Didn’t make me feel bad at all. And in that moment, I liked her even more.
As I sat so close our thighs touched, I thought nothing could ever tear us apart.
I thought we’d be friends forever.
13
SATURDAY, 4:45 P.M.
ALMOST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
AFTER DROP-OFF
“HI, MS. CARTER,” Becca answered.
Whitney didn’t bother with pleasantries this time. “Becca, did you get the picture I sent?”
A pause. “Yes, I got it.”
“And?”
“I um...yes...I think I know who that guy is.”
“Oh? ’Cause you never texted back.”
“I know. I just...I was trying to get a hold of Amelia first.”
Whitney’s pulse jumpstarted. She looked away from the pool. At the trees, the green grass, a group of boys walking by in the distance, their voices carried on the wind. “Did you?”
“No. She never answered her phone.” A sigh. “I know we’re not really hanging out right now, but she’s been my best friend for a long time...and I just...I don’t wanna, like, tell on her or whatever.”
Whitney gripped the edge of the fence. “I understand, Becca, but if you care about Amelia, then telling me what you know is the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that Amelia would kill me if she knew what I was about to say.”
“Amelia may be in trouble. And what you have to say might help her. I think she’d understand.”
“Okay. Yeah, you’re right.” She started sounding more like herself. More self-assured. “Do you remember the last night we had a sleepover and Amelia got sick?”
Something fluttered low in Whitney’s gut. She’d always known there was more to this story.<
br />
Voices spoke in the distance, at first nothing more than a soundtrack to Whitney’s slumber. Then the timbre changed, yanking her from sleep.
“Oh, my God.” Becca’s voice rang out.
A door flying open. Footsteps pounding.
“You okay?”
Whitney shot out of bed, heart pounding. Amelia! Practically falling, she blindly stumbled out of the room and into the hall. Amelia’s bedroom door was open, but no one was inside.
Coughing, sputtering and retching came from inside the bathroom.
“Amelia?” Whitney attempted to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. She hit it with her palm. “Amelia.”
“Mom?” Amelia’s voice was thick, pained.
“You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Becca answered. “Just not feeling great. I think maybe it’s food poisoning.”
Food poisoning? Ugh. Thank God Whitney hadn’t eaten fast food with the girls.
“Are you sick too, Becca?” she asked.
“No.” Becca answered through the door. Whitney heard Amelia retch again. “But I didn’t have the salad.”
Whitney nodded. Yeah, it was the produce that usually did it. “Do you need some Pepto Bismol? I think we’ve got some.”
“We have it,” Becca answered.
“Okay.”
“It’s all right, Mom,” Amelia said. “Go back to bed.”
“Are you sure I can’t bring you something?” Whitney leaned her head against the door, the coolness of the wood seeping into the warmth of her cheek. She imagined Amelia hunched over the toilet, Becca comforting her. It should’ve been Whitney. It had always been Whitney. “A cool washcloth? Some water?” What if she was getting dehydrated? “Or I could run to the store. Get some coconut water or Gatorade. You need some electrolytes.”
The toilet flushed. “Oh, my God, Mom.” Amelia groaned. The faucet turned on. “I’m fine. Just ate something bad. Go back to bed.”
“Uh-huh,” she said now, anxious to finally find out the truth. Even when she’d pressed Amelia about it days afterward, she had maintained her food poisoning story.
“Well, earlier that day we’d run into some boys who lived in your apartment complex. Apparently, Amelia had talked to one of them before. Mike, I think. Or Michael? I don’t know. Something with an M, I think. Or maybe an N? I honestly have no idea. I was too busy texting Alec all night. We had kinda had a fight and he—”
“Becca,” Whitney urged, knowing how easily Becca went off on tangents.
“Right. Sorry. Anyway, they invited us to hang out later in the night. So, after you went to bed, we went and met them down by that little park area. You know, where the slide and jungle gym are? They had alcohol. Beer. A bottle of rum, and some kind of sweet stuff. It was actually really nasty. I only had a couple of sips, but Amelia straight downed it. Anyway, that’s why she was throwing up and stuff. And, afterward, Amelia kept seeing that guy. Michael, I’m pretty sure is his name. Anyway, he’s the guy in the picture with her.”
“Do you happen to know what apartment number he lives in?”
“Um...no. I never went into an apartment.”
Whitney stared at the picture of Amelia on a bench with Michael—or whatever his name was.
“The older guy that Amelia was texting with—his name wasn’t Jay, was it?” she asked.
“I mean, maybe?” It came out like a question. “I feel like maybe it was two letters, though. JT, maybe.”
Jay Thomas.
A shiver worked its way up Whitney’s spine.
“Okay, thanks,” Whitney said.
“Also,” Becca said suddenly, “I guess I wasn’t completely honest earlier.” Whitney tightened her hold on the phone. “I do know why Amelia and I aren’t really hanging out anymore. It’s because of that guy. Michael or whatever. He’s not a good guy. He, like, parties all the time and brags about doing some pretty bad stuff. Anyway, ever since Amelia started hanging out with him and his friends she’s not been herself anymore.”
Yeah, Whitney knew firsthand how much Amelia had changed.
Was this why?
“Do you know the names of any of his other friends?”
“Um...there was another guy named like Carey or Craig or something. Oh, God. I honestly wasn’t paying that much attention. I was so worried about—”
“Alec. Yeah, I know,” she said, disappointed in Becca. Weren’t girls supposed to look out for each other? Have each other’s backs? Wasn’t it some sort of code?
She’d always thought Becca was such a good friend to Amelia. Now she wasn’t so sure.
But she was appreciative that at least she’d come clean now. “Thanks, Becca.”
After hanging up, she turned to Natalie, whose eyebrows were raised in question. “Apparently, that boy is someone named Michael who lives in our apartment complex and Amelia has been seeing him behind my back.”
Natalie touched my arm. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
Tears pricked Whitney’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “There’s so much I don’t know about. So much she’s been keeping from me.” Tucking her phone into her pocket, she looked up at her friend. “I can’t believe this is happening. I really thought she’d be back by now.”
“Maybe she is. Let’s go back to your place and check,” Natalie said, but her tone lacked the conviction it had had earlier.
* * *
When they returned to the apartment, there was still no sign of Amelia. Whitney couldn’t waste any more time. She called the police and reported her daughter missing. The woman she spoke with said she’d send an officer out to her apartment within the hour.
Whitney’s weekly call from her mom came a few minutes after she’d hung up. Whitney stared at her phone, hesitating. Could she even handle a conversation with her mom today? It was always shallow. One-sided. Whitney often joked that it was nothing more than a box for her mom to check every week. A way for her to pat herself on the back, to feel like a good parent.
“You should answer,” Natalie pressed. “She might know something.”
Whitney doubted her mom knew anything about Amelia, but decided it was worth a shot. Anything was at this point.
At the sound of her mom’s voice Whitney’s spine instinctively straightened, her shoulders tensing.
Sit tall.
Spine straight.
Smooth your skirt.
Stop fidgeting.
Quiet down.
After clearing her throat, she responded to her mom’s greeting, “Hi, Mom. How are you?”
Natalie left Whitney alone in the kitchen, ambling into the family room. She leaned her back against the counter and stared out the window. Across the way, the guy’s kitchen was dark. Empty. She focused in on the plant he had in the window. The green, curving leaves, the bright blue planter.
“Good. How about you?” She could picture her mom standing elegantly over the kitchen counter, elbow rested on top, phone to her ear. Her platinum bob was no doubt brushed neatly, not a strand out of place. And even though she’d probably only gone to the store today, she was most likely dressed formally, full makeup on. Her mom had never known how to have a scrounge day.
Whitney could keep this up. Say she was fine. Answer a few questions about her work, Amelia’s schooling, possibly the weather, or her mom might share a tidbit about one of her neighbors, a person Whitney had never even met. Then her mom would say it was nice talking to her and hang up. It was a script Whitney had memorized. They rarely veered from it. Today would seem like the day to go off-book, but Whitney wasn’t even sure how to do that.
What would her mom do if she told her about Amelia?
Would she empathize? Try to help? Or would she criticize? Accuse? Make Whitney feel worse?
Whitney wasn’t sure. That was the problem.
Their rela
tionship had been strained all of Whitney’s life. She’d seen pictures from when she was an infant and a toddler, heard stories from others about that time period, and it appeared that her mom had been an attentive, loving parent back then. Maybe if her brother hadn’t been born with cystic fibrosis, that would’ve continued. But from the time Kevin came into this world when Whitney was five, her mother’s whole existence was about him—his breathing treatments, medications, hospital stays. Her parents’ main focus in life was keeping him well. The logical part of her understood. Her brother was ill. He needed constant care. That wasn’t his fault. She’d often felt sorry for him. Felt bad that he’d been dealt such a shitty card in life. But her empathy toward him had always been overshadowed by her jealousy. By her longing for a relationship with her parents that only he had.
He hoarded them, hearts and all, and deep down she hated him for it.
She’d watched her mom care for Kevin for years. Comfort him. Meet his every need. Perhaps, she was being too hard on her mom. Maybe if she knew about Amelia she’d rise to the challenge. Be here for Whitney.
Either way, Whitney didn’t have it in her to stick to the script today. She was weary. Scared. If ever she needed a mother, it was now.
Clearing her throat, Whitney instinctively raised her chin. “I’m actually not that great, Mom.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Um...I don’t really know. Amelia went to a friend’s last night and hasn’t come back yet.”
“I see.” By her tone, Whitney knew what she was thinking.
Like mother, like daughter.
Whitney regretted opening her mouth. “But I’m sure she’s fine. Probably on her way home now,” she backtracked. Clearly, Amelia wasn’t with her mom, so it wasn’t like she could help. “Maybe it’s just a case of getting our wires crossed. A miscommunication.” She was rambling now. God, why did she always allow her mom to have this effect on her.
