The Disappearance of Emily H. Page 5

  “This is stupid,” I say. “We should go home.”

  Levi looks at me, waiting for a definite decision.

  “Whatever. We’re this close. We might as well see what Jennifer’s house looks like.”

  Near the end of the street, we stop at the last two-story house.

  It’s magazine cute, with a green lawn surrounded by a little fence. The beds under the windows are full of flowers. Lights line the stone walkway leading to the front door. The place looks like a home for a perfect, happy family where generations of relatives come to celebrate Thanksgiving and everyone gets along. Hard to believe that something horrible happened to Emily on the way to this house.

  I take a few steps onto the driveway and stretch out my arms. Immediately, my fingers begin to tingle. My heart tries to hammer its way out of my chest. I don’t want to be busted on Jennifer’s front yard. What would I say? “Hi, I was out walking my dog and got lost in front of your house”?

  Sparkles are often easier to spot at night, but I’m seeing nothing here. I’m about to give up when my eye catches a twinkle. It’s a small, dullish sparkle, barely bright enough to have a shadow, on the short wooden fence.

  I hope it’s not a memory of another couple making out. Two steps take me to the fence. Levi follows, sniffing at the bottom of a post. I reach out.

  There’s a grinding sound. The garage door’s opening.

  I stop breathing. My heart stops beating. My blood probably stops flowing through my veins.

  A sleek black car backs out.

  “Levi,” I whisper. “Lie down.”

  I flatten myself into the fence, pressing up tight against the hard wood, repeating over and over in my head, “Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.”

  The car reverses slowly, then stops.

  The driver’s window rolls down. “I hope you have a plastic bag with you,” a woman says. She’s an older, plumper version of Jennifer. Must be her mother.

  I pull the grocery bag from my pocket and wave it.

  “Good,” she says. “We’ve been having a problem with someone not taking care of their dog’s business.” The window rolls up, and the car roars down the street.

  I begin breathing. My heart begins beating. I place my hand on the fence, over the sparkle.

  It’s Emily’s memory.

  It’s dusk. Emily stands in front of Jennifer’s house, leaning against the fence. Tucked under her arm is a shoe box. She breathes, and a puff of air escapes from her mouth. She contemplates the house, then glances at the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

  A breeze blows Emily’s hair across her face. When she pushes it away, she accidentally loosens her hold on the shoe box, and it drops to the ground. She quickly picks it up, pulls off the lid, and checks inside. A plastic figure of a Native American has fallen over, and she stands it up in the corner. Her gloved fingertips brush against plastic wolves, making sure they’re stable. She straightens a miniature dogsled.

  A light flicks on in the living room. Jennifer crosses the room, backlit. She goes to the window and lowers the blinds. Emily steps toward the front door.

  In the distance, a car honks. Is Jennifer’s mom returning?

  “Levi,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  We run home—fast, as if wild wolves are chasing us. The memory’s not from the night Emily disappeared. She wasn’t dressed in a purple T-shirt, and she wasn’t carrying a backpack. She had on a winter jacket, gloves, and boots. This memory is from a different night, a cold night. Still very creepy.

  Breathing heavily, I run past our truck, then take the steps to the porch two at a time. I pull open the door and am hit by the smell of frying onions and garlic. I go into the kitchen and straight to the cupboard with the glasses.

  “You okay?” my mom asks. She’s at the stove, deep in stir-fry mode.

  “Yeah,” I say, gulping water. “Fast run.”

  “I hope you’re hungry.” She smiles. “I went overboard.” She scoops food from the wok onto two plates and carries them to the bar.

  I pour a glass of water for my mom and refill mine. I’m ravenous, but I don’t think I can eat. I feel like I’m plugged into a wall socket and current is humming through me. “You know anything about the people who lived here before us?”

  “A little. The Huvars. They were the topic of conversation today at lunch.” She dumps soy sauce over her meal. Eating Chinese is really just an excuse for my mom to drink soy sauce. “Mr. Huvar applied for a job as handyman for one of our complexes.”

  “Will he get it?” My mind flits back to Jennifer’s house. What was Emily doing there? What’s the connection between the meanest girl in school and the girl who disappeared?

  My mom shrugs. “It’s not up to me, but I hope so. That family has had a run of really bad luck. The dad lost his job, and they couldn’t keep up with the rent. They were in the process of being evicted from this house when their daughter disappeared. She’s never been found. She was your age.”

  Standing by the fence with her shoe box, Emily wasn’t freaked out. It was more like she was making a decision. She seemed like she was at Jennifer’s for a reason, like she had a right to be there.

  “Earth to Raine. Aren’t you eating?”

  “What? Oh, sure.” I spear the smallest piece of pineapple and the smallest piece of chicken with my fork.

  “And you never did pick up any of the girl’s memories in the house?” She dunks a chunk of chicken in a puddle of soy sauce.

  Emily decided not to leave the shoe box in the mailbox, especially once she saw Jennifer was home. Could I have looked more closely at the shoe box Emily was holding? I’ve never tried that with a memory, zeroing in on part of it.

  “What?” I tune in to my mom. “Memories in the house? I saw her reading a magazine in the living room.”

  “Really?” My mom stops eating. “What did she seem like?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Like a girl lying on the carpet with earbuds in and flipping pages.”

  Right here is the moment when a different daughter with a different mother might give up more details. But I’m not into sharing. I’ve been so independent for so long, I’m used to working through things for myself. Sometimes, like now, I feel like I’m going to explode. But that’s just the way I do it. And because my mom never got into the mother role, she doesn’t think to quiz me to death. I mean, we were basically apart for the first six years of my life. She was away, making mistakes, growing up, trying new things, only showing up to see me for some of the holidays. I’m not sure she would’ve returned when she did except that my grandmother died, and someone had to take care of me. Also, my mother can’t read memories. It’s another thing that separates us.

  After dinner, she watches reality TV while I kind of do homework. My mind is more on Emily than on the periodic table or ancient Rome. Emily’s a splinter in my brain.

  At ten, my mom flips over to the news.

  The lead story is a fire that burned forty acres of nearby forest. The fire chief is treating it as arson because there was some sort of timer at the scene.

  “Not another fire,” my mom says, trundling into the kitchen during a commercial. She returns with her wine and sleeping pills.

  “I’m having a lot of trouble sleeping here,” I say.

  “This house was built in the late forties.” She pops off the lid of her pill vial. “It has more old-age creaks than most places we’ve lived.”

  A little later, I close my books and drop them in my backpack. “Are you up for a walk, Levi?”

  Like I had to ask? She’s panting at the door before I even have one shoe on. We head back to Jennifer’s and to the memory on the fence.

  When I get to the part where Emily’s fixing what fell over in the box, I slow down my breathing, moving through the memory at snail speed. I zoom in on every detail, from the cold air escaping Emily’s mouth to the tight weave of her gloves. I catch a glimpse of a typed label on the lid. Rewin
d. FA. Rewind again. FANG. Rewind again. FANG is the most I can see of the first line. Emily’s thumb covers the word next to it.

  Emily’s hand shifts as she goes to fit the lid back on. I see the second line clearly: BY JENNIFER SWEARINGON.

  I open my eyes. Wham. Everything drops into place. Like when you’re doing a jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly you’re on a roll and can piece together a whole section in two seconds flat.

  FANG. As in White Fang. I guess it’s a pretty famous book, because we read it for seventh-grade language arts in Detroit, too. Emily was delivering a diorama based on White Fang to Jennifer. She was doing Jennifer’s homework, or at least some of it. Was Emily also doing Alyssa and Danielle’s homework? Willow said Emily was super smart.

  Now I get why Emily was invited to a sleepover at Jennifer’s.

  Homework payment.

  On Monday morning, I’m surprised to see Shirlee and her lunch bag sitting on the curb at the bottom of my driveway. It’s not like we walk to school together.

  “Hi, Raine.” She opens her arms dramatically. “I put together a reading for you.”

  My eyes roll of their own accord. I can’t help it.

  Shirlee doesn’t seem to notice. “Someone has a crush on you.”

  Hugh actually springs into my mind, his hair as unkempt as ever. I push him out. Guys with girlfriends are not okay.

  I start toward school, and Shirlee hurries to catch up.

  “How about I win the lottery instead?” I say. “I could use the money.”

  “You’ll have your best report card ever this semester,” she says, ignoring my comment. “And you’ll come in first for two running events this year.”

  “Wow,” I say, while we wait at an intersection for a break in traffic. “Welcome to my incredible life.”

  “I have to admit, I’m kinda jealous,” Shirlee says. “I checked your reading five different ways, which is, yes, excessive. But I wanted to be sure.”

  If, and that’s a huge if, I believed in any of this craziness, I’d tell Shirlee to run my mom’s horoscope. That would be the best way to predict what’s around the corner for me.

  —

  Before sixth period, I duck into a bathroom. The second I push open the door, I know something bad is happening.

  Danielle has her arms folded across her chest. “Maybe you want to use a different bathroom.” She looks tough, but her voice comes out reedy and nervous.

  “Why?” I look past her.

  The doors to both cubicles are closed. There’s a line of six girls. Shirlee’s the first one. Jennifer’s by her side.

  Shirlee turns to look at me. Her eyes are glassy with tears.

  What’s going on?

  A cubicle door swings open, and Shirlee steps forward.

  “I don’t think so.” Jennifer quickly elbows in front of her. “You’re next,” Jennifer says with a dazzling smile to the girl who’s second in line.

  A few seconds later, a toilet flushes and the other cubicle door opens. Alyssa exits, holds the door wide open, blocking Shirlee, and ushers in another girl from the line.

  Each time Shirlee makes an attempt to get to a cubicle or to leave the bathroom, either Jennifer or Alyssa heads her off.

  The girls in line are quiet, keeping their eyes on the floor. They take their turn, wash their hands, then blow out of there as fast as possible. They’re not torturing Shirlee, but they’re not helping her, either. No one wants to face the consequences of crossing the mean girls.

  “No cutting,” Alyssa orders when Shirlee tries to get past her.

  “I’ll go to another bathroom,” Shirlee squeaks.

  Alyssa shakes her head.

  Shirlee crosses her feet.

  How long has this been going on?

  “We’ll let you know when you can leave.” Jennifer watches me as she says this, challenging me.

  I’ve never turned down a challenge. In fact, I ended up with a broken arm over a challenge to jump off the monkey bars in fifth grade. You might say I’m challenge-challenged.

  Jennifer and Alyssa go back to bullying Shirlee.

  The girls in line shuffle forward. Large tears stream down Shirlee’s cheeks. “I just want to go home,” she hiccups.

  “Come on, Jennifer,” Danielle says. “That’s enough.”

  Jennifer glares.

  “So, Jennifer,” I say, all perky and fake friendly, “what’s the deal with Michael?” I never know when or if someone’s memory will come in handy. But right now seems like the perfect time to bring up the memory I pulled off Jennifer’s purse on registration day.

  Jennifer’s whole body stiffens. Even her hair loses some of its cute bounce.

  The restroom goes silent. Shirlee stops hiccupping.

  “You know what he told me?” I lean toward her, like we’re best buds. “That he had to kick you out of his car. He just wants you to get lost and leave him alone.” I stick out my lower lip in a pout. “Sorry. I know that hurts.”

  Jennifer’s face drains of color.

  Shirlee slips into a cubicle, and there’s a click as she locks the door.

  Jennifer stares at me, her eyes feverish with hate. I stare right back. She’ll make me pay for this.

  The buzzer rings loudly in the hall.

  Jennifer turns on her heel and flounces out. Alyssa follows, giving me a wide berth, like I might be very, very bad luck. Danielle nods, and the tiniest smile flits across her face.

  The restroom empties fast. Well, except for Shirlee, who’s still in the cubicle, peeing like she drank a twelve-pack of soda.

  While she’s washing her hands, Shirlee focuses on the running water. “Thanks,” she says softly. “You saved my life.”

  “At least your bladder,” I say.

  “How’d you know about Jennifer and that guy?”

  “Just heard it around.”

  In film, I sit next to Shirlee. Jennifer and I ignore each other.

  We’re still ignoring each other at practice. Jennifer’s leading the exercises, and I’m following along, but it’s like there’s a wall of ice between us.

  Coach pulls me out of the circle.

  “Raine, you’re looking good, real good.” He taps his clipboard. “You’re a natural runner, and you’re paying your dues, doing what it takes to improve.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Our first invite,” he says, “gives the top three finishers gift certificates to At Full Speed in Albany. Not too shabby, eh? With your times, you can be in there.”

  A gift certificate for At Full Speed? I could get new running shoes.

  “Jennifer,” he calls, “I want you and Raine doing sprints together today.”

  Jennifer doesn’t answer or even react. It’s as if she’s deaf.

  I blow out a breath. Just what I didn’t want.

  After warm-ups, she walks briskly to the track. I’m right next to her.

  We stand side by side, waiting to start. Jennifer’s mouth is set in a straight line, and determination is flowing off her. She wants to beat me so bad, she’s practically pawing the ground like a racehorse.

  We take off, and she edges in front and stays there. I’m pounding the track, trying to get it together, trying to get the timing right with my arms, legs, and lungs. But it’s like they’re all operating separately, as if they belong to different bodies.

  Jennifer’s fueled by the Michael comments. For her, it’s payback time on the track. She blows me out of the water on the second, third, and fourth sprints.

  At some point, I notice Hugh. He and Avalon are walking hand in hand on the asphalt at the back of the school. She leans into him, and he puts his arm around her.

  Jennifer whips my butt again. I look up and see Hugh watching. I flush. Why do I care if someone else’s boyfriend sees me totally sucking?

  The coach walks over to us, his whistle bumping his chest. He jerks his head at me, frowning. “Raine, get your head in the game.”

  Even this doesn’t get a reaction from J
ennifer. Eyes squinting, neck thrust forward, she’s in her zone for the next sprint, getting ready to go for the kill again.

  Finally, the frustrating and humiliating practice comes to an end. No one from the team speaks to me or even looks at me, and I walk alone across the grass to the locker room.

  I’m almost at the door when Jennifer sidles up next to me. “You’re pathetic.”

  I jolt awake in the middle of the night, breathing hard, my stomach cramping. I dash to the bathroom and throw up.

  Eventually, I crawl back between the sheets, turn off the alarm on my phone, and fall into the heavy sleep of the sick. I vaguely remember my mother trying to wake me up for school, then promising to call the absence line.

  By the time I drag myself out of bed, the sun is a big yellow ball high in the sky. Levi’s in my face with her doggy breath. And Mom’s long gone to work. The house is as quiet as a morgue.

  I stumble downstairs to the kitchen, prop myself up at the counter, and nibble on dry toast.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a turquoise blur.

  With small steps, I make it to the window. It’s a girl wearing a turquoise bike helmet. She’s flattened against the tree in the backyard, a plastic grocery bag dangling by her side. Her head’s turned toward the nosy neighbor’s house. Suddenly, and I can practically see her counting one-two-three in her head, she dashes around the corner to the back of our house, where she’s hidden from the neighbors and the street.

  I cross the kitchen to the back door.

  I’m at the stairs in time to hear a key clicking in the lock. The doorknob turns. The door swings open.

  “Hello,” I say.

  She screams. The grocery bag she was carrying thuds to the floor. A couple of sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper and a banana roll out, followed by a copy of Wired, a magazine about computers and technology. The name on the address label says EMILY HUVAR.

  The girl’s gaze darts nervously around the kitchen.