Part 8 (1/2)

”She doesn't want to be found. What about a boyfriend?”

I thought of Pete. Was he officially her boyfriend? Would Farah say so? I didn't actually know. ”Not that I know of. Like I said, she's popular with all the guys.”

”Her poor mother...” Mom clucked her tongue. ”I'm sure we'll hear something soon. Yes, I feel it. We'll hear from her soon, so let's try not to worry.”

We sat there, together on the couch, for a long while. Mom didn't let go of my shoulder. We waited and waited some more. Sarah came home and found us sitting there. Finally, Mom got up to go fix dinner.

Hours pa.s.sed. I'd never felt so helpless in my whole life. I texted Farah every five minutes. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.

Where was she?

Chapter Seven.

My thoughts raced all night so I hardly slept. I couldn't block Farah from my mind. Where could she possibly have gone? Did her mom call the police? I remembered Farah talking about an aunt in California. Would she have gone to see her? But how would she have gotten there? Mrs. Menins said there were no relatives so maybe it wasn't an aunt after all. Did Pete know where she was? And if he did, why wasn't he saying anything? Would anyone be so mean?

Stupidly, my mind circled back to Lance. I couldn't figure him out. I tried to forget how indifferent he'd been, but I couldn't shake it. Him acting like he hated me one minute, then claiming to be my steady the next - it was bizarre. Maybe his being upset about Farah could explain his meanness. I knew they were friends, or were they more? A sharp ache p.r.i.c.ked my stomach.

No, I wouldn't go there.

Farah had spoken about doing something. What was it? Did it have something to do with me? With Lance? Pete? Why was I churning on and on?

Me being miserable didn't help anybody. Farah was the important one.

Yet my thoughts swirled all night. By morning, I felt like I'd been dragged through a field behind a tractor. Mom was making toast in the kitchen when I went in.

”Any word?” I asked.

”Nothing. I'm sorry, honey.”

”Don't you think Mrs. Menins would've called if she heard anything?”

Mom shrugged and pressed her hand to her forehead. ”I'd think so, but I don't know the woman. Let's a.s.sume Farah's safe and sound at home, shall we? I bet she'll be at school today like normal.”

I walked over to Mom and leaned into her. She put her arms around me, and I laid my head on her shoulder like I used to when I was little. Even at sixteen, it made me feel better.

”Thanks, Mom. But I can't stop thinking about her.” I gave Mom a hard squeeze, and she released me. I grabbed my backpack. ”I'm gonna go to school early. I can't sit around here waiting for another thirty minutes. I don't understand why Farah hasn't texted me. She would've, you know.”

”Go on to school, then,” Mom said. ”I suppose you can't call me when you find something out.”

”Not supposed to, but I could sneak and call you.”

”I don't want you getting into trouble. You could call from the office, though, if you needed to.”

Translation: If you find out Farah's been murdered, please let me know.

”I will.”

Sarah wandered into the kitchen and picked up a piece of toast. ”Heard from Farah?”

”No, none of us have.” I grabbed my jacket off the rack and headed for the door.

”You going already?” she asked, taking a big bite, and smearing jelly on her cheek.

”Yeah, I can't sit around another minute.”

”Sorry,” Sarah said, wiping at her face with a wadded up napkin. ”I hope she's okay.”

I turned back to her. ”I know you do, Sarah. Thanks.”

The cold air jolted through me. I flipped up the collar of my jacket to try to block the wind. Goose b.u.mps formed on my bare legs. Why was I still wearing this skirt to school? I should've changed to my uniform pants a month ago. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Gloves would have been a good idea, too.

The school courtyard was deserted. Teachers were trickling in, and I could see the surprise on their faces when they saw me there so early.

”What are you doing here?” Mrs. Binder asked, in her grating baby-bird chirp.

I hesitated, not sure how much the teachers knew about Farah's situation, if anything. ”I had some homework to catch up on.”

”You're going to get mighty cold waiting outside for the bell,” she continued. ”Students can't come in for another fifteen minutes.”

”It's okay, I'm not cold,” I lied.

”I suppose I could sneak you in. I'm a bit of a pushover for frozen students. And you do look frozen, Emili. Do you want to come in and help me with some ch.o.r.es? Perhaps correct a paper or two?”

”No thanks. I'm waiting for someone. I'll be fine.”

”All righty then. At least I offered.” She waved and went inside.

I hoisted myself onto the brick railing above the steps. The scratchy cold zapped through my legs, making me suck in my breath. At least I was next to the wall so the wind couldn't get me as easily. From my perch, I could get a good look at anyone arriving.

I kept vigil as the crowd increased. We didn't have any busses at Bates, so everyone drove, walked, or was dropped off. The traffic was getting busy, but still no sign of Farah. I watched students I hardly knew pa.s.s me. I saw eleventh grader Callie Something-or-other walk by. She barely ate enough to stay alive. Everyone talked about her all the time. Her cheeks were sunken in and even with a coat on, she could be mistaken for a stick. She appeared to be a walking ice sculpture. I watched her climb the steps and felt unbearably sad. I thought about my own issues and realized hers were literally life and death. Our eyes met for a brief second. Glancing at me, her gaze became hard and brittle.

”Hey, Callie,” I said. She didn't answer.

Then I heard all the noise and there was Farah getting out of her mom's SUV, surrounded by five - yes, five - guys.

She was smiling and tossing her fiery hair behind her shoulders. ”I was sick,” I heard her say. Then she cracked up laughing.

I slipped down from the wall, careful not to scratch my skin off. There she was, guffawing and joking as if nothing had happened. And what had happened?

She smoothed her hand down her waist and hips then, and her eye caught mine.

”Well, Emili Jones, how are you?” she asked, starting up the stairs. Her face was unusually animated. She glided forward, looking healthy, rested.

I couldn't answer her. Part of me wanted to slump to the concrete in relief. The other part of me wanted to shake her silly.