He looks away, listening to a call over the radio, but shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about. I’m going to send Amir over this evening to work with you on that sketch.”
I dig my nails into my palms. Maybe the sheriff thinks he’s keeping it confidential, but even if the whole school hadn’t been talking about it, I deserve to be told what’s going on.
“Sheriff, I need to know—”
He opens the diner door and I look up to find my mother waiting for us behind the counter. She doesn’t smoke anymore, but I notice she’s gripping a cup of coffee, which has become her go-to replacement for nicotine.
“Thanks, Roger.” She barely looks at the sheriff as he tips his hat to head back out, no doubt to deal with Mr. Meyer. I shrink under her gaze, trying not to notice the traces of fear still on her face. There are a couple of truckers and an elderly couple seated in the booths on the far wall, and I really wish the diner was busy just so I could avoid this moment. “I’m not even going to bother telling you what a stupid move that was this morning, because I think you know.”
I stow my backpack behind the counter, find an apron, and tie it around my waist. “Aisha took me to school. It was fine.”
“You lied to Noah. Do you know how much that hurt him?”
I stare at the floor, guilt stabbing me in the chest. “Mom, I know you guys want what’s best for me, but—”
“You need to tell me when you’re going to leave and who you’re going to be with.” She lifts my chin so I have to look at her.
I push her hand away. She might’ve agonized over my safety all day, but I’m the one who can’t shake the feeling that someone is at my back.
I gesture to the door. “Don’t you think the sheriff’s got more important things to do than follow me around like a babysitter?”
Her mouth tightens. “There was no reason for you to sneak off like that.”
“You would never have let me go.”
“You agreed you wouldn’t.”
“My best friend is dead.” I smack my order pad down on the counter. “She died Friday night instead of me. Excuse me for trying to deal with that.”
“Sonia—”
“Just forget it, okay?” I jam a pencil over my ear and clock in for the evening, ignoring stares from the few customers as I wipe fresh tears from my face.
“I’m just trying to help!” Her voice gets small. “What can I do?”
My lip trembles. “I told you, I just need to focus on my grades. I can’t risk them right now.”
This is true, even if it wasn’t my whole reason for going to school this morning. Other than a small amount of money I’ve scraped together working for my uncle the last few years, I’ve never had anything resembling what my classmates would call a “college fund.” That changed a couple of months ago when Gretchen and I were both accepted to Stanford and her parents gave me the shock of my life, offering to send us both to school together. There was no point in even pausing to think it over, but I didn’t know how to process an offer like that. I was just about to accept when the University of Pennsylvania offered me a full four-year scholarship. I felt guilty turning the Meyers down, and Gretchen too, but part of me was relieved. It feels awful to be thinking about my grades of all things in this moment, but I can’t afford not to. Now more than ever.
“Honey, if that school of yours holds something like this against you—”
“Then I guess I’ll end up working here for the rest of my life.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them. She turns, silently organizing rolls of receipt paper in a drawer by the register, but not before I see the hurt flash through her eyes. This whole topic is something I try to avoid—why the diner is enough for her, why I’ve always wanted more. My whole life she’s been afraid something awful would happen if I left home. It turns out I didn’t even need to leave town for that.
The bells above the door jingle and she grabs a couple of menus from under the counter. “Roger said the school is safe. Just make sure you tell me everywhere else you’re going to be.”
The evening gets steadily busier and eventually my mom retreats upstairs with a migraine. Some of the major news crews are starting to leave town since no arrests have been made and the sheriff hasn’t been any more forthcoming with them than he has with me, but the local reporters are holding out. I guess they have nothing better to cover than a town preparing for a young girl’s funeral.
Deputy Rashid comes by to work on the composite drawing just before seven, and I do the best I can to give a coherent description of a face I never saw. He guides me through it, asking basic questions, and eventually I’m able to provide a few specific details. We end up with a sketch of a shadowy, androgynous person who looks a little like every guy in the world.