The Missing Read online

  At the very end of the rows of tables, she found the Sherlock Holmes Society. There was no giant crowd. No official-looking sign-up sheet. No gaggle of popular people quietly nodding their approval as she approached. Nope. The twelve-year-old genius freshman who’d skipped two grades was helming the table. Draped over his shoulders was a checked wool cape, and he was chewing on a decorative corn-cob pipe.

  He was pale and doughy, like in bed at night he ate Skippy Super Chunk peanut butter out of the jar with his fingers. He looked at her boobs for a long while, so she crossed her arms over them. He didn’t stop looking, which made her hate him, because only cool boys were supposed to notice the outline of her nipples, and by seeing them become spellbound and announce that they loved her so much they’d kill for her. They’d die for her, or at least buy a porterhouse for her.

  The genius freshman chewed on the fake pipe that his parents had probably bought for him as a souvenir from the Indian reservation on Penobscot Island. “We need three people to form a club or the school won’t assign a teacher,” he said. Then he flicked the sign-up sheet in her direction like he was doing her a favor. Like he figured she wasn’t smart enough to solve a Sherlock Holmes mystery, but hey, he needed a warm body for the head count.

  “Screw you, freshman,” she thought to say ten minutes later, but in the moment she only mumbled, “This isn’t cheering practice,” and walked away.

  At the racks, she unlocked her rusty red boy’s bike that her dad had gotten for her from the dump when she was a kid. It was too short now, and her knees scrunched when she rode it. No one else was out here. Every other kid in Corpus Christi was back at the high school having fun. Even the football team canceled practice for club day. Yeah, right now they were all laughing at the way she’d run out of the auditorium. As soon as she left, the party had started. They were doing keg stands, turning off the lights, hooking up. And the genius freshman, he’d been a test. The Sherlock Holmes Admiration Society really was the secret society of popular kids, only to get accepted, you had to shove the freshman’s corn-cob pipe up his ass. Literally.

  Her dad was right. She was a loser.

  She kicked her bike, which sent sparks of pain through her toes, but she didn’t care. She kicked it again, and this time her whole foot cramped up. It felt good to hurt. She was glad she hurt. The bike fell over, so she jumped on it until its frame bent and its chain came loose, and the plastic flower broke off its handlebar. She pretended the bike was her school, her dad, the dough-faced genius freshman, her crappy strapless dress from Target. After a few minutes, she was panting. The bike was bent. Some of its paint was ground into the cement, and it sparkled there like red granite dust. A drip of sweat rolled into her eye. The bike lay there, unmoving. The bike was dead.

  She started walking. Screw the bike. Screw everything. She wished she had a knife so she could cut herself with it. She wished she’d kicked the bike so hard that it had exploded into metal ash. She wished she could crush the school in the palm of her hands so everybody inside it would die while she laughed. She wanted the blood vessels in her brain to burst so that she’d fall into a coma, and everyone would write cards saying they were sorry for keeping her on the outside all these years; they’d only been kidding. Really, they liked her. We took the joke too far, they’d say.

  But that wouldn’t happen. Sophomore year wasn’t going to be any different from freshman year. Sure, her dress fit tighter than a sausage’s second skin, but nobody’d asked her out. Except for the dorkiest freshman in the world, nobody had even looked at her. Her grades were bad except in art, where they were mediocre. Even her online friends didn’t like her. They’d write long, soul-baring notes to each other at first, but after a while, even if she IM’ed ten or fifteen times a day, they stopped answering, and sometimes even blocked her mail. She didn’t have a special talent or a pretty face. Couldn’t run fast or dance. To be honest, the genius freshman had been right. She never figured out Sherlock Holmes’s cases before the stories ended. Sometimes she couldn’t even figure them out after the books explained them. This year would be just like last year, which had been like every year before that. She was a nobody. An embarrassment. A sack of shit.

  She kept walking. She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t have any other place to go. Maybe she’d wander around for a few hours, and after dark she’d walk through the front door and tell her dad that she’d joined the club anyway. Been elected president, in fact. He might believe her. At least it would delay the shit-eating grin, like he was so happy they were both swimming in this loser stew together, and he didn’t have to go it alone.

  Half a mile down the road, she reached the Puffin Stop. She looked in the window, but Enrique Vargas wasn’t there. Instead his little brother was ringing up sales behind the counter. Enrique was nice. He let her hang around the shop even if she didn’t buy anything. Twice he’d turned a blind eye when she’d reached inside the revolving spits of the “Frankenator” and stolen two shriveled Ball Park hot dogs. She loved Enrique a little bit. She’d written him three letters, all of which she’d buried under the loose boards in the basement so her dad wouldn’t find them. Probably she should have burned them, but if she’d done that, she figured they wouldn’t come true. “My love,” one of them said, “Even though you’re foreign, I’d die for you. You’re just like Leo from Titanic, so I know you’d die for me, too.”

  But Enrique’s little brother sucked. At school he sneered at her because she wasn’t pretty, or maybe because he knew he could get away with it. He probably thought if he teased her, people would like him even though he had an accent. He was right. So even though she was thirsty and wanted a Coke and for once had the dollar fifty-five for all sixteen ounces, she kept walking.

  She went up the hill. Past town. Toward the woods. She wished she’d worn a coat or even a sweater. But she’d been too excited about her pretty dress and big boobs. After a while she came to the back road that spanned the distance between Corpus Christi and Bedford. She’d heard a kid was missing and half the town was looking for him. He was the son of the CEO of the hospital, which explained why everybody cared so much. Last year her dad got fired from the morgue for taking too many sick days. His severance package was running out, and he needed to get off the couch and start looking for work again, but she doubted he would. Probably he’d just sit around drinking beer until he lost the house, and then where would she live?

  Meanwhile, they didn’t ever go out to eat, or buy groceries except at the Puffin Stop. They didn’t say grace like they’d done before her sister left to tend bar in Florida. Their lawn was brown even in summer. They didn’t wave to people in town, and no one ever waved to them.

  Her dad’s beer club was in a shack about a mile down the road. Most of its members were from Bedford, because Corpus Christi people usually belonged to the golf club. The beer club was a place where her dad met his friends and played cards. Since the fire at the mill her dad didn’t go there much. Most of the members had moved away.

  Cars drove by in either direction every few minutes. Cops and volunteers looking for James Walker, she guessed. They slowed as they passed. When they saw that she wasn’t someone they recognized or knew well enough to offer a lift, they sped up again. One of the cars practically came to a dead stop at her side. She turned to give the driver a dirty look, because she was sick of everything right now. Sick of happy cheerleaders, her dad, her crappy dead bike, and Fluffernutter: What the hell? Marshmallow’s not dairy, is it? She turned, ready to flip the bird at the driver. Instead of raising her middle finger, she blushed. The car was a used yellow Saturn. She and the driver locked eyes. The driver was her dad.

  He was a skinny guy with a full head of curly brown hair, which he was stupid proud of. He dated lots of widows and divorced ladies in their thirties, but none of them ever stuck around. He couldn’t hold his tongue. “You’re ugly, stupid, lazy, useless,” he probably told them after a week or two. She knew because he couldn’t hold his tongue w
ith her, either.

  He was wearing his favorite gray sweat suit. Favorite and only. In the passenger seat were three Tall Boy Budweisers. Which meant that the other three lay empty on the floor. He’d been driving around, drinking them, while waiting for the club to open. For a second she saw him not as her dad, but as a middle-aged lush trying to pick up jail bait on the side of the road. She was ashamed of him. What was worse, he looked disappointed, like he’d thought he might get lucky tonight, and instead he’d found his least favorite girl. So they were both disappointed.

  But it was cold out, and the sun had set. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a flimsy dress. There were no street lamps along this road. Best to look on the bright side. At least she had a ride. She slumped her shoulders like somebody who’s so accustomed to defeat that being sad about it is a formality, and headed for the passenger-side door. Everything felt like it was closing in around her, like life was sucking the air out of her lungs. Home again, home again. Another year with no place to go but the four walls of her room. She shivered as she walked. The shit-eating grin spread across her father’s boozy red face. He gunned the accelerator. The door handle tore loose from her fingers, and before she knew what was happening, he was driving away.

  She watched the car roll down the road. Smoke wheezed from its tailpipe and its orange lights faded in the distance. She stood shivering in the middle of the street for a while, expecting him to come back. Only kidding, he’d say. I’m sorry. I took the joke too far. You must be freezing. But he didn’t come back. He left her there, all by herself. She held out for about ten minutes before she started crying.

  She walked for a long while after that, even though it was getting dark, and her teeth were chattering. After about a mile she passed the beer club where her dad’s car was parked. She thought about kicking it, just like her bike, or running a key along its cheap yellow paint, but she kept walking. Another hour passed. After a while she could see flashlights flickering inside the woods. A few people were calling James Walker’s name.

  She headed for the searchlights. Maybe someone out there had an extra sweater. The woods were dry and brittle. Crack, crack, crack was the sound under her shoes. Her dad would be out late tonight. If she turned around now, she could be sleeping in bed before he got home. But she’d still have to see him tomorrow. The branches scratched her face, and she thought about his shit-eating grin. She started crying again. She’d seen the look in her father’s eye, like driving away wasn’t the thing he’d really wanted to do. Really, he’d wanted to hurt her. She couldn’t go home. Not tonight. Not ever again.

  That’s when she heard the rustling. It sounded like leaves being raked across dry grass. She stopped. There wasn’t any wind, but the branches between two big pine trees were shaking. An animal? she wondered. And then her heart beat faster. The branches were high up, and thick. A big animal.

  She backed away. Slowly. One foot behind the other. You’re not supposed to run from bears. You’re supposed to shout and jangle bells to scare them away, but right now shouting at a bear sounded pretty brainless. The branches of the trees shook harder until at the top, even their trunks began to sway. The lower branches swung in wide circles, and she thought, strangely, of the oars of a gigantic boat. This thing was strong.

  One foot, the next. She backed away. Her heart slowed. She wasn’t thinking about her dad, or home, or how much she hated everyone in the whole world. She was backing away, one step at a time.

  It came out from between the trees. The man. He was bigger than any man she’d ever seen. At least seven feet tall. Except for an open hospital gown, he was naked. She tried not to look at his hairiness down below. Along his belly she could see a line of stitches. Some were torn open, and inside she saw an unbleeding pink lesion, like his wound was from the movies, and made of dye and wax. His sagging skin slid up and down his ribs as he got closer. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but then she understood. His skin was bouncing because he was running straight for her!

  The distance closed. Ten feet. Eight feet. Five feet. Displaced wind rushed against her as her mind fired off segmented thoughts like a string of firecrackers. What dark eyes you have, she thought, and then: The better to swallow you with, my dear. And: Rah-Rah Team! And finally: Run. Run. RUN!

  Before she made the decision to do so, she was sprinting. Her Payless slingbacks went flying. Sticks and sharp rocks stabbed the soles of her feet. Behind her, the ground shook as the man in the woods gave chase.

  She didn’t look back. Her mind was still firing off thoughts, but they hardly made sense now (Black-Eyed-Monster-Shit-Eating-Grin!).

  It was dark suddenly, and she didn’t remember if clouds had rolled in, or it had always been this way. She leaped over what looked like a log and her feet sank down (Mud? Blood? A Tall Boy of Bud?) into something wet and soft. She fell, and then crawled on her knees for two strides before getting back on her feet again.

  Behind her the ground shook with each heavy step the man took. But was he really a man? He was hunched, as if more suited for crawling on four legs. He closed the distance between them. Her bouncing breasts ached as she ran, and she wished she’d worn a bra today. She tripped again, this time over a rock, and scrambled to get up, but now someone was in front of her, too. Not the man, but a group of people. About ten of them. They were short, or else hunched down. The searchers!

  “Help me!” she tried to scream, but it came out a panting whisper: “Hhhh meee.”

  They came closer, and she saw the way the moonlight reflected off their lunatic black eyes. She scrambled along the leafy ground, but was afraid to stand. The naked man was behind her, but maybe these things were worse.

  More of them came out from the shadows. She didn’t know how many. She was too scared to count. Their bare feet were dirty, like they lived out here now. Most of them were kids. Young, like James Walker’s age. A few were her age, too. The ones who’d been out sick from school. Though it didn’t matter, she couldn’t help but wonder: Are the cool kids hanging out someplace new?

  “Hey Jeannie, are ya lost?” Justin Ross asked. He was crouching so that his fingertips were touching the ground. For ten years he’d sat behind her in school. For ten years he’d tormented her. But he was different now. Leaner. Paler. Meaner.

  She stood and crossed her arms around her chest, like somehow building that barrier would protect her. It would make her invisible like when she was watching TV with her dad, and they’d leave her alone.

  “Naw, she’s just looking for her mom who ran off,” said Liesa Perry, who spent twenty-three dollars on blue eye shadow from Chanel. She was wearing it now, even though the rest of her face was gaunt and pale.

  “You steal that dress, Jeannie? I think you did. I think your daddy’s welfare only covers booze,” said Jackie Wyatt, who had written on the chalkboard in the seventh grade, “Jean Rizzo can’t give it away!” All of Jackie’s pretty black hair was gone, and Jean wondered if she’d stumbled across the real truth in these woods: Popular kids were monsters.

  “No,” Jean whispered. Liesa’s mouth was red, and the color wasn’t from lipstick. Jean made a sound. A gasp, sort of. Then she bumped into something warm and firm. She swiveled. The man clapped his hands and smiled, like they were playing a game. His gown was open.

  She looked in every direction, but there was no place to run. Could she shout? Would the searchers hear her?

  At first she didn’t feel it. But then she recognized that familiar pinch. One of the kids behind her was lightly plucking strand after strand of her hair from her scalp. She knew it was Justin, because he’d teased her this way every day for ten years. “I think you stole that cheap dress,” she heard him whisper, “I think you should be punished.”

  Her instincts took over. She took a swing. It connected it with the wet hole in the naked man’s gut. Her hand came out red and the man reeled. Blood spilled from his mouth and he dropped to his knees. She used the time. She ran.

  She didn’t make it far. Just
in grabbed her by the shoulders. She fell backward. Pins and needles, needles and pins, it’s a happy girl who always grins, she was thinking: Rah-Rah Team! He dragged her along the dirt while she struggled until all of them, even the man, were holding her down against the ground.

  “Shh—” she said, which maybe was going to turn into shit, maybe was a plea for them to please, for once, leave her alone.

  She looked up from the ground at their black-eyed faces. They grinned, like this was funny. The man had chased her here on purpose, she understood. A trap. “What did I ever do to you?” she whispered.

  Their breath was rotten. She tried to crawl away, but they held down her arms. Someone was sitting on her legs. She saw her reflection in their black eyes: a cheap gingham dress. It was torn at the hem, and her cowlike breasts were poking out from the fabric. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but her arms were pinned. The cold air stung her exposed places. They could see her secret things: her birthmark shaped like a butterfly, and the stray black hairs encircling her nipples. Why don’t you like me? she wondered. Am I that bad?

  She saw herself in them; twenty black orbs like spider eyes. Her reflection swam inside them. She lived in the reflection, and the reflection lived in her. They smiled and waved hello at each other: dead Jeannie and living Jeannie. She whimpered as she swam, and then stopped swimming, and sank into the black.