Waiting for her in my room, I put on what I thought was an okay outfit for hanging out with high school kids: jean shorts and a black tank top. I was going to wear something else, a T-shirt that had the name of my middle school tennis team on it, but I knew Sarah would make me change. Your team came in third place this season. If that was my shirt, I’d burn it. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and sat on my bed, reading a paperback from the library until Sarah was ready. But Sarah never came back in my room that morning. Moments later, I heard the garage door open, the tick-tick-tick of her bike wheels below my window, then the garage closing as she rode off.
When the cops kept asking us where she was supposed to be, or where people had seen her last, my parents could only vaguely tell them MacArthur, a vast park that spread for over five miles on the edge of our suburb. It was only about a mile from where we lived, easy to bike to. It didn’t really matter, though, because when they interviewed Max, it turned out that she had never made it past the bike racks. No one had seen her. He had waited for over an hour, calling her cell about ten times.
So it was easy to figure out who was the last person to see Sarah.
It was me.
And I knew right away to keep my mouth shut about what she had said to me. I almost told the detective, as he sat at our kitchen table. He seemed so warm and so relaxed, calmly asking questions while Mom sat wringing her hands. “Did your sister seem anxious or upset about anything that day?” he asked.
Sarah’s angry face flashed through my mind. She leaned over me where I sat on my bed, cowering. She held the stretched-out sweater in one hand, but her other hand was free. Free to hit, free to slap. I knew she could make me sorry. I answered the detective: “No, she seemed fine.”
“How about her tutor, Mr. Page, do you know him?” Mr. Page was a grandfather’s age, a retired high school chemistry teacher.
“I don’t know him,” I had to admit. “But he seems really nice.”
“Was Sarah excited to go meet her, uh, friend?” I noticed he looked down at the notebook in his hand as if to check their names one more time. “Did she mention anyone she was having a problem with—another boy, maybe, or a female friend?” He tapped the list with his pen.
I shook my head. Sarah would kill me if I told them about the situation with Paula and Max. Besides, that wasn’t really a problem, it was just how Sarah operated. Paula had liked Max, had had a crush on him for over a year. And Sarah got him. She won. Plain and simple. If Paula was mad about it, or jealous—“tough titties.” That’s what Sarah would say. Like when they both went out for cheerleading and Sarah got on the A-squad. She had worked for it, it was earned. And she would be right, but I knew it still hurt Paula that Sarah was always a little bit better. A little thinner, her hair a little blonder and longer, her cheer jumps a little higher. It wasn’t fair, but it’s just how things were. Until Max.
“Would you like something to drink?” The flight attendant leaned over my seat, pulling me from my memories.
“I’m okay,” I answered, turning to look back at my parents, and Sarah, as she raised a glass of something to her lips. Orange juice. Sarah said orange juice gave her cankers. That it was full of empty calories. But maybe she had outgrown that. I guess she had. Or her amnesia made her forget. She seemed to remember us, our names and our faces, but we hadn’t asked too many questions at the shelter. Mom and Dad were just anxious to get her home again. To have Sarah, their daughter, back.
Before I could stop myself, I flipped up my tray table as soon as the drinks cart moved by me and headed down the aisle. I leaned over their seats and said quietly, “Sarah, orange juice gives you cankers. You might not want to drink that.” I nodded to her half-empty glass.
Mom instantly shot me a look full of daggers, but Sarah kept her eyes down, her face an unhealthy pale, saying nothing. I walked on numb legs to the bathroom and slid the door lock behind me. I leaned against the wall and looked into the mirror, seeing only Sarah’s old face looking back at me.
SARAH
THE NEXT TIME, IT wasn’t really my fault. She had yelled at him for hurting my arm, and he was mad about it. So he decided to break her rules. He let me out, just for a little bit, just to watch TV with him while she was gone. It was my first time out of the room except to use the bathroom. And even then, they would watch me. “Come sit with me,” he told me. “A little closer.” It wasn’t like a question, so I did what he said.
My arm was still in a sling. He touched it gently and asked me, “That hurt?” I shook my head and he cracked a smile. I could tell I had made him happy and then I just wanted to see that smile again, to know that I was doing the right things. If I was good, I wouldn’t get hurt again.