“I’ve made plenty of mistakes,” she says.
For a moment I don’t say anything. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but I have a feeling it’s more than cheating on a math test. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. But my fingers curl protectively around the back of her head.
“Yeah, but, Cat . . . everyone deserves a second chance,” I say.
She lifts her head to look up at me. Her storm-blue eyes pull me in. She smiles then, a tiny curve of the lips. My heart swoops.
And then we’re kissing again, soft at first, tentative, then hungry, our mouths opening against each other. She presses against my chest and we lay back against the warm stone. My hands move over her, searching, running through her silky hair, playing down her spine, cupping the small swell of her hip. Every thought in my head is crowded out by the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her skin against mine. Her fingers slip inside my T-shirt and graze my stomach, and I catch my breath.
My phone shrills in the quiet. I fumble for it, thinking I’ll send the call to voice mail. But when I check the screen and see it’s my mom, something keeps me from ignoring the call. I answer.
“Hey, what’s going . . .”
“Where are you guys?” My mom’s voice is annoyed. I glance automatically around the clearing.
“I’m at the Greenbelt with some friends. What’s up?”
The line’s silent for a moment. Catherine cocks her head inquisitively, but I just frown.
“You took Vivi to the Greenbelt?” asks Mom after a moment.
“Vivi? No.” I adjust the phone so it’s closer to my ear. “I got your message. I’ve been out with some . . .”
“It’s almost five!” Her voice is louder now. “Her school’s been out for three hours, Gabe!”
“Wait . . .” I sit up a little straighter. “Are you saying she’s not with you?”
“Hold on. I’m calling her school.” She hangs up without waiting for my reply.
A panicky, metallic taste is rising up in my throat. I hold my breath, staring straight ahead. Something lands lightly on my back, and I half turn to see Catherine, her hand resting on my shirt.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“I guess I was supposed to get my little sister.” I frown, fumbling in my pocket for the note from the office, but it’s not there. I must have thrown it away. “She’s probably been waiting for hours for someone to get her. Fuck.” I stand up. “We have to head back to the car. I’ll have to pick her up on the way home.”
But we’ve gone just a little way down the trail when the phone rings again. It’s my mom.
“Get home right now.”
Her tone sends a shock down my spine. She’s not mad. She’s scared.
“What’s wrong?”
My mother takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“She’s missing, Gabe. Vivi’s missing.”
EIGHTEEN
Elyse
The night is cold, the sky laced with clouds, when I step out into the movie theater’s parking lot. Fake-butter smell is embedded in my hair and clothes, and my soles cling to the asphalt with every step, sticky with sugar. Fridays are both the easiest and hardest shifts to pull—the pace is hectic enough to make it go fast, but I always end up with an aching back and feet in the process. Tonight I spent six hours running from one side of concessions to the other while customers barked orders. I burned my hand on the hot dog warmer, and then the soda machine broke, so I had to spend the rest of my shift telling people that no, they couldn’t get a Pepsi. My ears still throb, even out here in the quiet darkness.
“Night,” I say to the little cluster of co-workers who just ended their shift. They mill around, lighting cigarettes, bitching about the cold. Most of them are a few years older than me. It scares me sometimes, how at home I feel with them; it scares me that I might be here forever.
“Sure you don’t want to go with us to IHOP?” Rita Solano, my fellow concessions lackey, asks. She’s one of the few girls my age who works there, a whip-smart dropout with four little siblings she’s helping to raise. “You look like you could use a break.”
I think about it. They’ll all sit at the diner until three in the morning, slugging back bottomless cups of coffee and sharing plates of cheese fries. I go out with them sometimes, and it’s usually chill. Fun to gossip, to be out late, to crack jokes at each other’s expense. Fun to feel connected to other people trapped in wage-slave hell. But I feel like I’m asleep on my feet. Plus Mom’s at home. She’s feeling better—less nauseous, at least—but she’s still pretty delicate. I can’t leave her alone for the night.
“I’m tired,” I say. “I’ve gotta go home. I’ll see you Monday night, though.”
She gives a little wave and turns back to the others, their laughter rising up in an echoing chorus.
It makes the parking lot feel especially lonely, walking away from the light and the noise, across the dark expanse to the bus stop. Exhaustion weighs me down, but I tuck my purse under my arm and walk quickly. I’ve been riding the bus home from work all year, sometimes in the middle of the night, and while nothing bad’s ever happened, the theater’s in a pretty shitty neighborhood. I’ve been propositioned more than once—and a guy followed me all the way down the street making kissing noises at me. The best thing to do is to get on the bus as quick as I can. There’s one at 1:47, and if I miss it the next one won’t be along for a half hour.
I hear the motor of a starting engine. Rita’s Camaro roars past me, honking, and a few other cars trail behind her. Then there’s silence. I look up and down the empty expanse of the parking lot, shivering in my thin coat. The distant lights of the street are bright but glamourless.
There’s a single car parked in the middle of the lot. Must be a customer’s car. Maybe the driver walked to the dive bar down the street after the movie, leaving the car behind. But as I pass it I see something move inside.
Someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat.
My pulse picks up. I change course, angling as far away from the car as I can. It’s probably just a drunk, trying to sober up before hitting the road. Or maybe someone living out of their car, trying to find a place to sleep for the night. But even though I can’t make out the driver’s features, I can sense his attention on me—can imagine his eyes burning as they follow me. I fight the urge to bolt.
The engine growls to life. A strangled whimper comes unbidden from my throat, my breath coming quicker now. I grip my cell phone in my fingers, ready to call 911 if I have to. You’re overreacting. It’s nothing. But I pick up the pace, tucking my head down and making a beeline for the road.
When I hear tires crunching slowly behind me I can’t hold it in any longer. I break into a run. I drop my backpack and tear toward the bright lights of the road. It feels impossibly far away. My feet slam against the concrete. A sharp pinch shoots through my lungs.
I hear shouting. It takes me a moment to recognize my name.
“Elyse. Elyse!”
The engine dies behind me, but the lights don’t turn off. I slow to a trot and turn to look behind me.
It’s Mr. Hunter.
I can just make out his features in the glare of the headlights. He gets out of the car and walks over to my backpack, stooping to pick it up. I stop where I am and stare. The adrenaline still shudders down my limbs, but its intensity shifts. I’m no longer feeling fight-or-flight; instead, a warm tingle of anticipation tickles through my veins.
“I’m so sorry.” He walks over and hands me my bag. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you saw my face. I should’ve parked near a light.”
“What are you doing here?” I realize as soon as it’s out of my mouth that it’s a dumb way to ask the question. What I really mean is, Why are you lingering in a dark parking lot? But he either doesn’t pick up on that or ignores it.
“Seeing a movie. I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I didn’t see you in there. You must not have gotten any popcorn.”