Shes gone, p.3
She's Gone, page 3
And then someone says, “Damn.”
I slam the skeleton and the note onto the floor and grind it under my sneaker. I grind and grind, hoping it will all disintegrate. But the skeleton is rubber, and it just rolls around under my foot. The note slips away, landing face up, taunting me.
CHLOE KILLER.
I come back to myself. People stream past me. Slowly. They’re studying me, wondering if I really am batshit. And wouldn’t a killer rage and throw things around?
My reaction is exactly what they want. They can all text their friends and say, That dude who killed his girlfriend went nuts in the hallway. He was flipping his shit.
I take a deep, centering breath. The kind Mom told me to take when I was scared of the dark. I kick the skeleton aside with my foot and leave the note where it is. Who cares, right? The online trolls have already crossed over into the real world. The calls. The junk on the porch. Dad’s tires. Ignore them.
But my hands are shaking and my heart rollicking as I open my backpack and take out my books.
“Yo, Hunter.”
Before I turn, Chad is next to me, his long arm draped over my shoulder.
“Dude, you’re back.”
He pulls me close and then lets me go. He smells like toothpaste and shaving cream.
“Thank God,” I say.
“What’s that?” He points at the skeleton on the ground, sees the note. “That’s bullshit. Total bullshit. Hey!” He yells at no one in particular and starts to look around the hall, searching for a guilty face. “Did you do this?” He points at random people. “What about you—”
“Chad, it’s okay. It’s okay. Just ignore it. It’s okay.”
There’s one kid holding his phone, filming me. But he scoots away. Everyone else moves on.
“You sure?” Chad’s three inches taller than I am, which is why he’s the starting goalie on the soccer team. That’s how we met as freshmen. He’s thin, but not weak, with hair that flops over his forehead. He wears a flannel shirt with the sleeves perfectly rolled to the elbows and carries a single textbook and one new folder. “You don’t need to take this crap.”
“I’m just glad to see someone normal. I know you came by the house.”
“Little Livvy said you were asleep both times. I was starting to feel hurt, like maybe you didn’t love me anymore.” He nudges me with his elbow. “It’s cool. I know you weren’t feeling well. But you’re back now.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Seriously, man. You doing okay?”
“I am. Maybe. Trying to.”
“Good. We’ve got a lot of talking to do. And my mom wants to have you over for dinner.”
The first bell echoes through the halls like a warning. We have four minutes to get to class.
“What do we need to talk about?” I ask.
Chad looks at his phone, shifts the book and folder in his hand. “I wanted to tell you at your house. That’s why I came over. And I wanted to see if you were okay. But I didn’t want to text you. I mean you are a suspect and everything, and I heard the cops are digging through all your shit. At least that’s what’s on the news.”
“What did you not want to text me?”
“No time now.” He pats me on the back. “Lunch, okay? And, seriously, I’m glad you’re back. Everybody wants to see you, man. Lunch, okay?”
“Okay. But, Chad, what is it?”
He pauses, scratches the clean-shaven chin where one large pimple has sprouted. “About homecoming night. About the night Chloe disappeared.”
His words jolt me, and he pats me on the back again and then he’s gone.
I kick the skeleton one more time. It grins at me from the floor. Stupid, mindless. Dead.
Seven
Either no one wants to talk to me. Or no one knows what to say.
I can’t decide which.
I slip into my first period class—pre-calc—and head for my seat near the front of the room. I have friends in this class, people I talk to on a regular basis. But everyone turns away from me and grows quiet, the chattering voices shutting off like someone hit the mute button. If this had been any other day, I’d have sworn that I’d walked into the room with no pants on or with a note scrawled on my face. That’s how quiet it is.
Church quiet. Funeral quiet.
I slide into my seat and pretend to look at something in my textbook. A heavy pressure settles on my neck and shoulders, an invisible weight. The silence is a force pushing against me. The skeleton dances in my mind’s eye, the ignorant note. Did someone in this room let the air out of Dad’s tires? I want to tell them all to fuck off, but I sit, staring at my book.
I risk one look up and see Mike Basher, the quarterback on the football team. Everyone likes him even though he’s really a terrible football player, and the fans groaned two weeks ago when the starter broke his collarbone and Basher took over for the rest of the season. He also used to date Chloe. They were a thing for about three months at the beginning of junior year, even going to the previous homecoming together. And apparently Basher and Chloe’s dad, Scott, both share an interest in old cars. About a month after Chloe and I started dating, I went over to her house and found Scott and Basher in the detached garage, bent over the open hood of the ’75 Mustang Scott was restoring. When I asked Chloe, she just rolled her eyes and told me to forget about it. The next time I went over, Mike was in the hallway when I went to the bathroom. Basher apparently walked around their house like he lived there.
Then in the second week of this semester, in creative writing class, Basher wrote a poem about a girl he was in love with, calling her a queen. And the description of the girl in the poem sounded exactly like Chloe. At first, Chloe didn’t think it was about her, but when I went through it line by line with her, she started to come around. Finally, she went to our teacher, Mr. Hartman, about it, and while he listened sympathetically, he said he didn’t think Basher meant any harm.
“It’s his artistic expression,” Mr. Hartman said. “An intense feeling given voice. I’d say there’s no real malice there.”
Chloe felt like I had pushed her to say something when her gut told her not to.
“Now Mr. Hartman thinks I’m a freak,” she said.
A couple of weeks before the accident, Chloe told me she wasn’t going to ask Mr. Hartman to write her a letter of recommendation for college. I asked her if she didn’t want to ask because she still felt weird about the whole Basher poem thing, but she didn’t answer me.
So it’s no surprise when Basher blankly meets my eye that morning. My stupid jealousy flares, even though Chloe claims he’s a bit shallow.
Then Basher does something. He nods his head subtly and gives me a quick thumbs-up.
I don’t know why Mike did that, but he lifted my spirits. Maybe things won’t be so bad. Maybe I can make it through this.
Then our teacher comes in. Mr. Berning. He’s a giant guy, well over six feet tall with bulging biceps and a military haircut. He used to coach the basketball team but stepped down a few years ago after three straight losing seasons. He still teaches though, and the guy is all business. He never smiles at anyone, never cracks a joke. All the students hate him. If his wife disappeared and he made a video, everyone would think he was guilty. No doubt about it.
But maybe Mr. Berning is a really nice guy at home. Maybe he calls his wife silly names and makes dumb jokes that he laughs and laughs about. Maybe he slips little notes under her pillow for her to find when she wakes up. I’ve never thought of Mr. Berning that way, but I understand him a little better now that I don’t want people making cruel assumptions about me. Maybe he has layers we can’t see.
Chloe and I leave notes for each other like that. We write silly things on scraps of paper—I love you! I miss you! You’re the sexiest!—and then try to leave them where the other person will find them later. Stuffed into books or the pockets of our jackets. Placed under the windshield wipers on the car. Chloe once left one that said Kiss Me in the medicine cabinet of our bathroom, and my dad found it while looking for a razor. We laughed a long time at his confused response.
Berning jumps right into graphs and functions. The stuff made zero sense to me before the accident, and it’s no fun studying math with a throbbing head and a missing girlfriend. In fact, the math stuff makes me think of Chloe. She always helps me with my calc homework. She wants to major in chemistry in college, maybe go premed. She has always gently mocked my inability to grasp mathematical concepts right away, and then when I figure it out, she kisses me and says, “See, it’s not so hard.” My mind spirals into images of her until a voice interrupts.
“Attention, please. May I have your attention, please.”
It’s Berning—he’s caught me spacing out. But the voice comes through the loudspeaker above the whiteboard. Berning rolls his eyes and caps his marker. He crosses his massive arms and stares out the window at the changing trees.
“Pardon me for interrupting class time with this important announcement.”
It’s the principal. Dr. Jackson. She almost never speaks to the school over the PA unless it’s something serious. Usually the assistant principal, Dr. Whitley, makes the everyday, mundane announcements in his soft, Kentucky accent.
So why is Jackson on the PA today?
“As you all know, our school community and the community of Bentley have suffered a horrible tragedy—the disappearance of Chloe Summers.”
My mind swirls. Those eyes study me again. A thousand eyes pushing against my back. Basher’s face is blank again. No nod. No thumbs-up. Maybe he’s thinking none of this would have happened if he and Chloe were still together. Berning turns away from the window. His eyes look like a shark’s. Cold. Distant.
The worst crosses my mind—why is any announcement being made at all? Everyone knows Chloe is missing. What could Dr. Jackson have to say that hasn’t been said?
Have they found her? Is she dead? Is that it?
“Tonight, we are going to gather as a community in a show of support for Chloe’s family and friends. At seven o’clock, we will assemble on the football field for a candlelight vigil. This vigil has been organized by the student government committee and is the students’ way of honoring Chloe. We in the administration support and applaud that effort. Everyone in the community is invited to attend. Please spread the word to your family and friends. It is vital in times of tragedy that we remember our ties to each other. Information about the candlelight vigil will be posted on the school’s website and social media outlets. Remember, unity is strength. Thank you, Garrett Morgan Bobcats.”
The PA clicks off. The room is still.
I wait for someone to say something, to acknowledge what’s going on.
Berning steps forward and says, “Okay, about this x coordinate. It’s a tricky one, and you guys just aren’t getting it no matter how many times I try to explain it…”
Eight
The morning drags. The hands on the clocks in every classroom move like they’re in slow motion. People still stare at me. Others look away. Like there’s a target on my back.
Something changes after the principal’s announcement. Voices in the hallway are more hushed. Classroom chatter is more muted. Everything feels muffled. Even though the sun shines brightly outside, it feels like one of those long, rainy days that never end.
It’s a relief when I finally make it to lunch, to our usual table, the one where we’ve been sitting since we started high school. My friend group changed that year. Soccer was a big part of my life growing up, and when I came to Garrett Morgan and made the team, I started hanging out with the other soccer players. My grade school friends faded away.
For a couple of reasons, I’m not on the team anymore. I twisted my knee pretty bad during practice sophomore year and missed most of the season. And Mom was first diagnosed the summer before that, and her illness pretty much took over our lives.
That’s also when I first took a creative writing class and joined Ex Libris, the creative writing club. That interested me more than soccer.
And Ex Libris changed my life because that’s where I met Chloe.
The first time I saw her, we were workshopping our stories and poems. I turned in a science fiction story I was very proud of, something certain to make me the most famous fifteen-year-old writer in the United States. But Chloe calmly and clearly picked apart some of the science in the story, and my face flushed with embarrassment and disappointment. I decided to quit writing altogether.
After the meeting, Chloe texted, telling me that she really liked my story, and if I ever wanted to talk to her about the science, she’d be willing to help. I’m sorry to say I didn’t take her up on it, and it was a year and a half before we started dating. But I never forgot how smart she was. How confident. And also willing to help someone she barely knew.
I’m also not as good as the other guys on the soccer team. I was probably going to get cut junior year. No, not probably. I was. Rather than go through that torture, I tried other things. But my friends are all still playing.
Hector and Cameron are already at the table. And Cameron’s girlfriend Natasha. They all look up. They all texted me right after the accident. They all came by the house while I still felt pretty sick from the concussion and couldn’t really talk to anyone.
The sight of them lifts my spirits.
Hector smiles. “He’s back,” he says, chomping on a carrot stick. He always smiles, even with carrot pieces in his perfectly straight teeth. “The prodigal friend.”
“I guess you’re not dead,” Cameron says.
Natasha nudges him, gives him a warning look. But I don’t care. That’s how Cameron deals with things. A morbid joke. A dig. When he says I guess you’re not dead he means Good to see you.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Well, I’m happy to see you,” Natasha says. “These guys are animals. They don’t know how to express themselves in a thoughtful way. But I’m glad you’re back.”
Natasha likes the grand statement, the big gesture. She likes to pretend she’s more mature than the rest of us, and we let her. Her parents went through a nasty divorce when we were still in middle school. Bottom line: the whole town knew her dad left her mom for the twenty-one-year-old babysitter. Natasha acts like nothing bothers her, so maybe she can give me tips on dealing with public humiliation.
Chloe admired the way Natasha took what people in town dished out and just kept right on going. Chloe always wished she could worry less about what people thought of her.
It’s just good to be around friends who give a shit about me.
“Where’s Chad?” I ask. I take a bite of the PB&J I packed the night before, but it tastes unappealing. My appetite has been weak. I feel like I shouldn’t be enjoying anything if Chloe isn’t around. “He said he had something to tell me.”
“He’s with Hannah,” Hector says.
“When isn’t he?” Cameron says.
Hector shrugs. He refuses to say anything bad about anybody. Ever. That’s just Hector.
But then an awkward silence settles over the table. Everyone keeps talking and eating around us. Dishes clatter. People shout and laugh. The smell of fried food fills the air. But at our table, it gets quiet. It kind of pisses me off, because I want to think this is the one place things can feel normal.
All three of them eat slowly but don’t speak.
“What?” I ask.
Hector looks away. Cameron takes a bite of his ham sandwich.
Only Natasha turns to me. “Well, we were just wondering if you’re going to the candlelight vigil tonight.”
I stop chewing. It tasted crappy anyway.
Hector looks away. Cameron takes another bite. He’d keep eating if the cafeteria were being shot up. He’d dive for cover or jump out a window with the sandwich in his hand.
“I thought about it all morning, but it just doesn’t seem right. People are saying a lot of shit. Why would I want to subject myself to that?”
Hector nods like he agrees. But then again, he agrees with almost everything anyone says to him.
Cameron kind of shrugs. “Well, we have practice. State is coming up.”
Only Natasha maintains eye contact. She’s honest. She’s willing to say what’s on her mind. That’s something she has in common with Chloe, which is why I can’t believe Chloe ran away like some people are saying. How could Chloe have a problem so big it would make her want to run and I wouldn’t know about it?
“What?” I ask Natasha because she is the most likely to respond. Maybe that’s something girls do better than guys. They actually talk about important shit.
“Well,” she says, “we all saw your video, Hunter. It’s spreading around school.”
My shoulders drop. The video. Why did I do that again? What made me think that was a good idea? “And?” I ask.
“If you don’t go to the vigil, then people are only going to know what they see in the video. And on the news. And the video is kind of, well, it kind of makes you…”
“Look guilty?” I ask. “Is that what you’re saying? Look guilty?”
Hector and Cameron look up in unison, like they choreographed the move. That word. Guilty.
Guilty.
Natasha doesn’t flinch. “Yes, Hunter. It totally does.”
My mouth starts moving. It feels disconnected from my brain, and the words just fly out. Maybe this is how Olivia feels all the time…
“How can one video do that? How can one video cancel everything Chloe and I did together? Like the time we went to her grandparents’ cabin by the lake? Or the hours we spent talking? The time she sat up all night with Livvy and me when our dog died? The fact that we…that we had started…”
