“Matthias, we don’t even know that he ran away.”
“Sure we do. Sure we do. He took out all that money, right? And I told you about the argument we had, how stressed out he was about college. He ran, Abby. We could do this. I know you don’t want to drive, but listen, I could borrow my mother’s—”
Deliberately, Abby said, “I am not going with you to hunt for Fritz.”
“What?”
“Matthias . . . I’m going to go to Juilliard. This summer.”
Now I held my breath, staring at the water stains on my wall. “What?” I said again.
“I was going to tell you,” Abby was saying. “This weekend, when I came up to visit—”
“You can’t go to Juilliard,” I said. “We—we have to find your brother. He’s your brother, Abby.”
Her voice was frosty. “I know who he is, Matthias. And don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I need to play the cello again, I—” Her voice softened. “Look, my mother is doing better. She doesn’t talk anymore about wanting to die. This past year—it’s been awful. And now it’s time for me to do what I need to do, to move on.”
“Move on?” I said. “Move on?”
In a low voice, she said, “He’s gone, Matthias.”
“He’s missing.”
“And we’re going to go find him? This isn’t a Hardy Boys mystery, Matthias. He’s gone. He’s my brother and I love him, I always will, but it’s been almost a year—”
“Ten months.” Even as I said it, I knew it was stupid, but I was angry.
“And I hope he comes back,” Abby continued, ignoring me. “But—I can’t do this. I have my life to live, too. Juilliard has a spot for me. It’s not like I’m going out of the country. It’s New York City. I can take a train—”
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “It’s like you don’t even love your own brother.”
A longer pause, like the empty space between peals of thunder. And then a decisive click, another pause, and then a dial tone.
I had not spoken to Abby Davenport since.
NOW, STANDING IN SAINT Margaret’s gym, listening to Gwen Stefani insist she wasn’t no hollaback girl, my first instinct upon seeing Abby was to drop my Coke and run for the door. But then Abby saw me. I stood there, ignoring Terence Jarrar as I watched Abby walking toward me, a neutral smile on her face. Her hair was cropped in a sort of pageboy bob, but aside from that and something a bit more adultlike in her stride, she looked remarkably like she had all those years before. She stopped just outside of hugging range.
“Hi,” she said.
I smiled, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Abby, hey,” I said. “Wow. You look great.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t challenging or defensive. Her words were a simple question.
“Well, I’m teaching at Blackburne now,” I said, still keeping a smile on my face. “I got weekend duty, so I’m officially chaperoning for the dance tonight. How about you? Are you here for a reunion or something?”
Abby’s red-headed companion from earlier stepped up, holding two cups. “She’s a faculty member here,” she said brightly, handing one cup to Abby. Then she smiled at me, a cherubic pixie. “Hi, I’m Kerry.”
“Matthias,” I said. We shook hands. Then I turned to Abby. “You teach here?”
She nodded. “Yep,” she said. “Started last year. French.”
Kerry looked from me to Abby. “So how do you kids know each other?”
I looked at Abby as if for permission. She brushed a strand of hair off her face and said to Kerry, “We knew each other in high school.” She turned back to me. “You’re teaching English, I guess, right?”
She was being polite and cold at the same time. “Yeah, fourth formers,” I said. “Are you still playing the cello?”
For a moment Abby’s composure slipped, and she glanced down at the floor. Kerry laughed. “The cello?” she said, disbelieving. “But Abby hates music. I’m the chorus director, and Abby can’t stand to listen to recitals.”
Abby stood stock-still for a moment and then looked up at me, her eyes registering a brief flare of panic. At that moment, the overhead lights cut out, and the students all cheered as the DJ took to the stage. A Katy Perry song played from the speakers, so loud it was almost percussive, and the students all began dancing in circles around us, waving their hands and arms and jerking their heads to the beat. Abby took the opportunity to step back into the crowd and walk away. I would have gone after her if Rusty Scarwood hadn’t walked past at that moment and tripped, accidentally spilling his Coke onto Kerry’s feet. By the time I gathered some napkins to wipe off her shoes and had Rusty stammer an apology, Abby had completely vanished.
CHAPTER TEN
The late drive home from Saint Margaret’s was quiet, most of the boys flattened by the disappointment of high expectations. Terence stared out the window into the night, his blurry reflection—two holes for eyes, a slack, round mouth—the face of a befuddled ghost. I hadn’t seen him dance with anyone, which saddened me. Only Rusty Scarwood claimed to have had a good time, and judging by the lipstick at the corner of his mouth, I suspected he was telling the truth. He held court at the back of the minibus, talking in a low voice as a few boys listened with mingled awe and regret about how he had gotten a girl’s phone number.
I tried to focus on the road, my head filled with Abby Davenport. Seeing her had shaken me, almost more than what Pelham Greer had told me about Fritz. How had she ended up teaching French at Saint Margaret’s? What had her friend Kerry meant about Abby hating music? Was she seeing anybody? I hadn’t noticed a wedding ring, but had I really looked? She walked away from me so quickly. Had she walked away because I brought up painful memories, or because she hated me? Did she know anything about Fritz? And if she did, how was I going to find out? These thoughts played in my head like a feedback loop, amplifying one another without providing an answer. But on that long drive back to Blackburne, I did reach one conclusion: seeing Abby only confirmed my resolve to find out what I could about Fritz.