Night School

Against the constant rumble of a police station on a summer Friday night, Allie heard her father’s voice as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. She stopped twirling her hair and looked anxiously at the door.

‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’m very sorry for the bother,’ she heard. The tone in his voice was one she knew quite well: humiliated. By her. She heard another male voice she couldn’t quite make out and then her dad again, ‘Yes, we’re taking steps, and I appreciate your advice. We’ll discuss this and make a decision tomorrow.’

Decision? What kind of decision?

Then the door opened, and her grey eyes met his tired blue ones. She felt her heart twist in her chest just a little. Unshaven and rumpled, he looked older. And very tired.

He handed a few papers to the female officer who barely glanced at them before adding them to her stack of paperwork. She reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope containing Allie’s things, which she shoved across the desk to Allie’s father. Without looking at either of them she said robotically, ‘You’ve been released into your father’s care. You’re free to go.’

Allie rose stiffly and followed her dad down narrow brightly lit corridors to the front door.

When they were outside in the cool summer air she breathed deeply. Relief at being out of the police station mingled with anxiety about the expression on her father’s face. They walked to the car in silence.

From across the street her father unlocked the door of the black Ford and it beeped its incongruously chirpy welcome. When he started the engine, she turned to him earnestly, her eyes filled with explanations.

‘Dad …’

He looked straight ahead, his jaw tense. ‘Alyson. Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t talk. Just … sit there.’

After that, their journey was silent. And at their house, he got out of the car without a word. Allie scrambled after him, the worried feeling in the pit of her stomach growing.

He didn’t seem angry. He seemed … empty.

Allie walked up the stairs and down the hallway, past her brother’s empty room. In the safety of her own bedroom, she studied herself in the mirror. Her shoulder-length, henna-red hair was tangled, black paint was smeared on her left temple and mascara was smudged under her eyes. She smelled of stale sweat and fear.

‘Well,’ she told her reflection, ‘maybe it could have been worse.’

When she awoke the next day it was nearly noon. Climbing out from under the rumpled duvet, she threw on a pair of jeans and a white vest top. Then she cautiously opened her door.

Silence.

She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, where sunshine streamed through the big windows onto clean wooden countertops. Bread had been set out for her with butter that was melting in the heat. A teacup sat by the kettle, ready with a teabag inside.

Despite everything, she really was hungry. She sliced a piece of bread and dropped it into the toaster. She turned the radio on to fill the silence but then, after a moment, switched it off again.

She ate quickly, flipping through the pages of yesterday’s newspaper without really looking at it. Only when she’d finished did she notice the note near the kitchen door.

A–

Back this afternoon. Do NOT leave the house.

–M



Instinctively, she reached for the phone to call Mark, but it wasn’t in its usual place by the fridge.

Leaning against the wooden counter she drummed her fingers, listening to the steady ticking of the big clock above the stove.

Ninety-six ticks.

Or were they tocks?

How do you tell the diff …?

‘Right.’ She straightened and slapped her hand on the pine countertop. ‘Screw this.’

She ran upstairs to her room and yanked open the top drawer of her desk to get her laptop.

The drawer was empty.

She stood still, contemplating the meaning inherent in its absence. Her shoulders slumped just a little.

Her parents did not return until late that afternoon. She’d been waiting anxiously – hopping up to peer through the window every time a car door slammed – but when they finally did come home she adopted an air of disinterest, staying curled up in the big leather chair watching TV with the sound off.

Her mother dropped her handbag in its usual place on the hallway table, and followed her father into the kitchen to help make tea. Through the open door Allie saw her rest a hand reassuringly on her father’s shoulder for just a second before moving to the refrigerator for the milk.

This looks bad.

A few minutes later they were perched side-by-side on the navy blue sofa across from her. Her dad’s hair was neatly combed now, but he had circles under his eyes. Her mother’s expression was calm but her lips were in a tight line.

‘Alyson …’ her father began, then faltered. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

Her mother took over. ‘We’ve been talking about what we can do to help you.’