“What?” It seemed impossible. There was no clutter, no art on the walls, no dishes in the sink. Everything was impossibly clean. “It’s like this all the time?”
“She started going through this Spartan phase a little while ago.”
It could have been a hotel room. Completely impersonal, a place you don’t intend to stay very long.
The apartment was only a little bigger than Enzo’s, but the emptiness made the difference seem vast. I walked through the living area and into the bedroom. Enzo followed behind.
The white comforter and pillowcases made Lizzie’s bed look like it belonged in a hospital. The only other furniture was a nightstand. But on the nightstand, there was finally a sign of life. A picture frame—an indication that Lizzie had loved ones. I picked the frame up. There was no photo in it.
“What used to be in here?”
“A picture of the two of us,” Enzo said. “Lizzie’s mom gave it to the police.”
I wondered if it was the picture I’d seen in the newspaper right after Lizzie had gone missing.
“How does she live like this? There’s not even a TV.”
“She doesn’t spend much time at home, I guess.”
“You guess? She’s your girlfriend.”
“I don’t make her report every detail of what she does when we’re not together.”
“But you must have some idea,” I pressed.
“She goes hiking. She reads a lot. There’s not that much to say.”
I knew all about reading a lot. About how it could take you to a world that was better than the real one. A world where there were adventures and mysteries and magic. Except, of course, books ended eventually, and then you had to go back to being yourself.
“It’s kind of like she was living in a prison cell,” I said. “I’d be too freaked out to sleep here.”
Enzo shrugged. He opened a drawer in the dresser, closed it, and opened another. “Nothing scares Lizzie.”
A memory suddenly came flooding back to me.
“Did you know she made it to the second floor of the Griffin Mansion?”
“The what?”
“The mansion on the hill. The founder of Griffin Mills haunts it or whatever. Kids dare each other to go in, but no one usually makes it past the entryway. Except I heard Lizzie did.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Enzo said. “How far did you get?”
“No one’s ever dared me to go in. You have to have friends for that.”
That wasn’t exactly true though. In the third grade, Robbie Larson, who lived down the street, dared me. I was too afraid to take the challenge. High school kids snuck into the Griffin Mansion. Or middle school at the very least. I wasn’t ready for it. And I figured it wasn’t a big deal, because I’d have plenty of chances to make up for it when I was older. But, of course, I never did.
It taught me a good lesson about taking opportunities when they’re presented.
“Why do you need someone to dare you?” Enzo asked.
“What?” I hesitated, poised to open the closet.
“If you want to do something, just do it. You don’t need someone to dare you or give you permission.”
“Is that what you do?” I asked.
“No. But I wish I did.”
Enzo reached around me and opened the closet door, which distracted me from our conversation. There were clothes and shoes and even some books on a shelf. It was a normal closet. I pulled out a long, flowy dress. It was pale yellow. Lizzie would have looked like sunshine wearing it. I put the dress back and pulled out a crocheted top. A worn pair of jeans. A soft blue T-shirt.
“Hey, look at this,” Enzo said.
He pulled a book from the top shelf. I looked over his shoulder. It was a yearbook.
“That’s not from Griffin Mills,” I said.
“No. Somewhere in Pennsylvania. Middle school, it looks like.”
“I don’t really know anything about Lizzie before she moved here.”
“Let’s see what we can find out.”
We sat next to each other on Lizzie’s bed. It felt like maybe, probably, a terrible thing to do. Being alone in Lizzie’s apartment, alone on her bed, with her boyfriend. Going through her things. But I figured since we were doing it to help her, Lizzie would understand. At least, I hoped she would.
Enzo flipped through the yearbook until he found Lizzie’s class. He traced his finger over the names.
“Wow.” He pointed to Lizzie’s picture.
It was Lizzie. Same flawless skin. Same wide eyes. She was in seventh grade but didn’t seem to be going through the awkward puberty phase that the rest of the girls in her class were experiencing. Which figured.
Except it wasn’t our Lizzie. It wasn’t the cheerleader Lizzie I’d known or the laid-back Lizzie Enzo was dating. Thirteen-year-old Lizzie had dyed-black hair chopped off at her chin. Her eyes were ringed with heavy liner. Her nose was pierced.
“Did Lizzie have an emo phase?” I asked. In slightly different circumstances, like if Lizzie wasn’t missing, it would have been hilarious.
“This is just…weird,” Enzo said.
“It’s like every few years, she becomes a different person.”