The operator says she’ll connect us to the 911 service there. Mom smooths her hand down my hair and back, petting me, saying, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
“What if it’s not? What if it’s too late?” How could I have been there for everyone else, millions of total strangers, and not my best friend?
The wait is excruciating. Finally, a Wisconsin 911 operator comes on the line, and my mom explains the situation. But I can’t sit idly by.
I take the phone. I am not calm. “Her name is Jenna Tanner. I think she might try to kill herself. She’s on a cliff. It’s somewhere in Wisconsin. I think she’s going to jump.”
“Do you have an address? I’ll need a location to send an officer out.”
“There’s a lake,” I say. “It’s a cliff by a lake.”
“I’m sorry, miss. There are lots of lakes in Wisconsin. Without an address, without even a name of the lake . . .”
Mom takes the phone back. “She lives in Madison. It would probably be somewhere near Madison.”
We give them Jenna’s phone number, see if they can use GPS to locate her that way. The dispatcher says it would only work if the 911 call came in from her device. They can’t help. They can’t do anything. Mom is realizing it as I am. We lock eyes. “Try her parents again,” I say. “I have an idea.”
I leave my mom in the kitchen and race to my room with my phone. I sit down at my desk and open the cliff photo Jenna texted to me in Instagram. Vicurious will not be making an appearance in this scene, but it’s the most important one I’ll ever post. It may very likely be the last one I ever post, because if Jenna . . .
No. I can’t think that. She wouldn’t. She can’t.
I quickly write a message to attach to the photo:
SOS. I need your help! My best friend is in trouble. Her name is Jenna. If you’re in Wisconsin, please help me find her. Do you know this cliff? Please, go there. Tell her I love her. Tell her—
I stop typing. What I’m about to do will change everything. I’ll lose Vicurious for good. I may lose myself. But I can’t lose Jenna.
Tell her that VICKY DECKER LOVES HER.
I click send and watch and wait. The image fills my screen. The photo starts getting likes, and I shout at the screen, “I don’t want your likes! I want your help!”
Mom hurries into my room. “I left messages again, and I called Jeanette’s office. I told her secretary, but she’s traveling. They’re not answering. I’m trying to think if there’s anyone else we can call.”
“Tristan,” I say.
“The boy who . . .” Mom grimaces.
“He might know where she is.”
“Yes, yes.” My mother nods. “It’s worth a try. Do you know his number?”
“No, but I can try messaging him on Instagram.” I pick up my phone and swipe and tap until I’m on Jenna’s page, on the photo she posted weeks ago of her and Tristan. She tagged him. I click through to his page and start writing a comment on his last post.
I’m looking for Jenna. She’s in trouble. Is there a cliff over a lake near you? She might be there. Can you—
“Vicky.” My mom taps me on the shoulder. She’s looking over my shoulder at the computer, at Vicurious—the little circular profile image of a girl with purple-and-orange hair. She points to the screen.
“I’ll explain later,” I say.
“No, look,” she says. “They’re answering.”
I turn to the monitor. Vicurious fans from Wisconsin are chiming in.
sasharocksscotland I know that place. It’s Devil’s Rock.
jesseethehiker Devil’s Lake State Park
badasschristinio Anyone at Devil’s Rock today?
I turn to my mother, who is still staring slack-jawed at the screen. She’s trying to puzzle out what I’m doing on Vicurious’s Instagram.
“Mom,” I say. “Can you call 911 back? Tell them it’s Devil’s Rock.”
She nods and hurries back to the kitchen to get her phone. I can hear her making the call, repeating all the information. But now with a location. She’s pacing the hall outside my room.
I watch my feed. More Wisconsin followers chime in. They recognize Devil’s Rock. They’ve been there before, but nobody’s there right now. Until:
staceyfromindiana My brother’s at Devil’s Rock today, I’ll try to reach him.
I drill my eyes to the screen, willing it to give me the message I want to see, but it’s taking forever and my feed is so cluttered with everyone else leaving comments, I’m afraid I’ll miss it. So I comment to her directly:
vicurious Any news, @staceyfromindiana? Did you reach him?
staceyfromindiana I can’t get through. I forgot there’s no cell reception up there.
The sound that comes out of my throat then is half scream, half groan, and my mother comes running. “What happened?”
I can’t speak now; I point to the screen and she reads. Her phone is still pressed to her ear. “They’re sending emergency responders. They’ll be there soon. I’m supposed to stay on the line until they find her.”
We both stare at the computer for what feels like hours. Mom occasionally says into the phone, “Yes, I’m still here” or “No, we haven’t heard anything more.” She nods and says, “Okay, thank you” a couple of times.
“It’ll take them a while to get up the trail,” she says to me softly.
I want to curl up on my bed until Jenna is found, but I keep watching my Instagram feed. It’s cluttered with people asking if we’ve found her, if she’s okay, if my name is really Vicky Decker. Someone even writes, “Vicky Decker from Richardson HS?”
I knew this was coming, but I didn’t think it would happen so fast. I want to disappear, but I can’t look away until there’s news of Jenna, or the emergency workers find her. I keep scrolling, reading, crying.
Finally, someone writes:
hikerdude22 My friend is up there today. He borrowed my satellite phone. I’ll see if I can reach him.
“Yes. Yes. Please,” I whisper. Mom rushes to my side to see what’s going on. She talks into the phone. “Someone’s trying to reach a hiker up there with a satellite phone . . . yes . . . I’ll let you know . . .”
We both wait and watch. Then:
hikerdude22 He’s on his way down. Just passed a girl going up there so he’s turning around to see if it’s your friend.
I start typing frantically.
vicurious Her name is Jenna. She has long brown hair.
I try to write something else to describe her, but my brain is frozen and all I can think of are things like “she can’t tie her shoes.” Every single other memory of Jenna and our friendship and how important she is to me is knotted up in my chest and I can’t seem to let any of it out or I’ll shatter into a million pieces. All I can manage to write is:
vicurious @hikerdude22 Ask him to tell her I’m sorry.
vicurious @hikerdude22 That she’s my best friend forever.
The minutes tick by like hours. What if he’s too late? What if she jumps? What if she’s not even the girl he passed on the trail?