I looked at the clock—I was about to be late for PE. “I dunno.” I remembered counting out bills for Ma, organizing our fake cancer collection into denominations, from the time I was six or seven years old. “Forever, I guess.”
Ms. Lay wanted to talk to me after school, about something called the Mathletes. “It’s a group of kids I’ve put together, my best students. We go to competitions, all around the state. I think you’d be perfect for it.”
When I told her I’d think about it, she went ahead and got in touch with Ma directly. Ma was actually pretty proud of me, to my surprise. “Your math teacher says you’re something special, some kind of genius or something,” she told me when I came home. Ma was usually only interested in how things could make money for her, so a math competition in another town was not high on her list of things to do. But she said I could go, if Ms. Lay drove me.
So I went, in Ms. Lay’s car with a couple of other kids, eighth graders. Her car was nice, a silver color on the outside and had AC inside—unlike Ma’s old van. We quizzed one another on the ride there, throwing out hard equations. Even though I did pretty good in the car, I was nervous before the competition. I’d never been on a stage in my life, and here we were, face-to-face with another group of math kids, competing. Ms. Lay must have noticed, and she sat with me backstage.
“Libby, I need to tell you something.” She took off her thick glasses as she spoke. “You aren’t just good at math, you’re the best, most promising student I’ve ever had.” She gave me a weak smile, then leaned over and hugged me before I went on stage. “You can do this,” she said quietly. “I believe in you.” I carried the feeling of that hug, of her arms around me, onto the stage and into the competition.
The first few questions were tough, but then I got the hang of it and worked with my team, bringing in lots of points. We demolished them, winning a small silver cup and a certificate. Ms. Lay took us to a burger place on the way home where we celebrated. She dropped into step beside me as we walked back to the car. I was the only girl on the team. “I’m profoundly proud of you, Libby,” she said. And I could tell from her eyes that she meant it. She was profoundly proud.
On the ride home, and for days after, I would repeat that sentence in my head, over and over again. Even after we had to move, suddenly—another eviction—and I went to a new school midyear, Ms. Lay stayed in touch, encouraging me to continue my studies, to push myself. I lost touch with her when I dropped out of high school a few years later. But sometimes, when Ma was yelling at me, or I just felt like a loser, I would close my eyes and let the memory of that day, of Ms. Lay’s words wash over me. I’m profoundly proud of you. That feeling. I did something great, someone cared about me, believed in me. I made someone proud.
CHAPTER 23
SARAH WAS FAST, ORGANIZING everything in an order that I could follow, even though my mind was racing. “First, you’re going to go upstairs, throw some water on your face. No crying,” she cautioned. “Then change out of your swimsuit—when Mom gets here, we’re not going to be home.”
“We don’t have a car,” I pointed out. Dad had taken his to work, Mom had hers at the gym.
“Right.” Sarah nodded, looking over at me. “Put on something you can walk in, hiking clothes.”
Mom would never believe we had gone on a hike in this humid weather. But maybe a bike ride. “We can take the bikes,” I said. Sarah’s bike had never come back from the police, but she could take Mom’s.
“Great idea—go, go.” She motioned for me to go upstairs and she went out to open the garage. When I came down, changed, moments later, I heard the familiar tick-tick-tick as she led my ten-speed out of the garage. I looked out the window and saw her blond head, the white tennis shorts she wore over her swimsuit. Sarah taking her bike out of the garage. Tick-tick-tick. The sound of the garage closing.
“Nico?” she called to me, snapping me out of my memories. I pulled on my shoes and swallowed back the bile that was coming up my throat. “Just follow me, okay?” she said. “Don’t ask questions, just follow.”
We got on the bikes without a word and turned left from the driveway. After we rode in silence for a few moments, Sarah turned right, and I knew where she was taking us. And I knew why.
It was time for the truth.
MacArthur Park.
The last place Sarah was seen, where her bike was found.
But I didn’t want to go there, I couldn’t go there. I hadn’t been inside the park in four years. I almost couldn’t even look at it—when we drove by, I closed my eyes and held my breath. On Sarah’s birthday, my parents made me go, but just to the entrance.
I saw you.
Paula’s email flashed in my brain like a neon sign.
I saw you.