time
that would be? Of taxpayers’ dollars?
What a waste?
Within his words were the other
things he was saying: how little this
mattered to him, and how little this
should matter to me. She’d be eighteen
soon enough, besides, he added. And
then there was really nothing they could
do.
The officer loaded a website on the
front desk’s computer, angling the screen
so I could see it—the missing children’s
database, a public record listing anyone
who was under the age of eighteen when
reported missing, on which I’d already
found Abby’s information. But he had a
point to make. He entered these terms
into the search field: current age: 17;
sex: female. Then he scrolled through
face after face and name after name, to
show me. Here was a 17-year-old girl
who had also run away. Another 17-
year-old runaway. Another, another,
another, all 17, all runaways. He kept
clicking. Another 17-year-old, but her
case
was
labeled
“Endangered
Missing,”
which
meant
she
had
disappeared
under
questionable
circumstances. This next one, too. Some
were missing, he admitted, but more—
more than he’d sit there and count—had
run away by their own choice. And they
could always go home if they wanted.
The same number leaped out at me—
17, 17, 17—pouncing and etching itself
into my skin like a bloody needle in the
midst of one of my mom’s more intricate
tattoos.
I was 17.
I was a girl.
Didn’t we matter?
And the fact that I was also 17 and
also a girl couldn’t be all there was, but
it was enough for me. It wasn’t anything
this police officer would ever be able to
understand. This was meant for me only.
A piece of information that was all mine.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said,
assuming that’s what she was, and I
didn’t correct him. “Though I assure you,
if she wants to be found, she’ll turn up.”
“But what if she didn’t run away?” I
asked. I told him about the bike—the
same one mentioned right there on the
Missing notice—and didn’t they need it
for evidence?
“I’m not sure why we would. Besides,
this here says she’s from New Jersey.
Out-of-state.”
Go , said the whispered voice close up
to the blazing-hot lobe of my left ear.
Get out of there right now, you
imbecile. Go.
This time I knew right away it was
Fiona. She knew I was about to mention
the necklace, which made me wonder
what else she knew. She’d keep insulting
me until I left.
“Okay,” I told the officer. “Thank you
for your time. I understand.” I grabbed
Abby’s flyer from off the desk and
returned it to the hoodie’s front pocket,
where the touch of the pendant would
keep it warm. I didn’t look back. I was
almost at the door.
“But maybe when I get a chance I’ll
look into it,” he called through the
window into the waiting room. My hand
was on the knob and the door was
coming open, and I knew he didn’t mean
it and that as soon as I walked out of the
station he’d let himself forget. I glanced
back at the window to be sure and
noticed him looking up at the clock on
the wall. “How old are you, miss?
Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Winter break,” I said, though
technically it didn’t start for another day.
“You sure about that? My daughter
goes to Pinecliff Central, and she had
school today, she—”
The door swung closed before he
could finish. I was still here. I was still
searching. I was the only one who
seemed to care.
— 17 —
I didn’t get far.
My eyes swam and then came into
focus: the parking lot of the Friendly’s.
The square of blacktop divided by
yellow lines. The gray concrete curb.
The bumper of my van wedged against
the curb. The sign on the plate-glass
window advertising a three-course
Christmas dinner special next week
(was Christmas next week already?) for
only $7.99. The cracks in the sidewalk.
The faces in the cracks. Smiling faces at
first and then mouths in the
that would be? Of taxpayers’ dollars?
What a waste?
Within his words were the other
things he was saying: how little this
mattered to him, and how little this
should matter to me. She’d be eighteen
soon enough, besides, he added. And
then there was really nothing they could
do.
The officer loaded a website on the
front desk’s computer, angling the screen
so I could see it—the missing children’s
database, a public record listing anyone
who was under the age of eighteen when
reported missing, on which I’d already
found Abby’s information. But he had a
point to make. He entered these terms
into the search field: current age: 17;
sex: female. Then he scrolled through
face after face and name after name, to
show me. Here was a 17-year-old girl
who had also run away. Another 17-
year-old runaway. Another, another,
another, all 17, all runaways. He kept
clicking. Another 17-year-old, but her
case
was
labeled
“Endangered
Missing,”
which
meant
she
had
disappeared
under
questionable
circumstances. This next one, too. Some
were missing, he admitted, but more—
more than he’d sit there and count—had
run away by their own choice. And they
could always go home if they wanted.
The same number leaped out at me—
17, 17, 17—pouncing and etching itself
into my skin like a bloody needle in the
midst of one of my mom’s more intricate
tattoos.
I was 17.
I was a girl.
Didn’t we matter?
And the fact that I was also 17 and
also a girl couldn’t be all there was, but
it was enough for me. It wasn’t anything
this police officer would ever be able to
understand. This was meant for me only.
A piece of information that was all mine.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said,
assuming that’s what she was, and I
didn’t correct him. “Though I assure you,
if she wants to be found, she’ll turn up.”
“But what if she didn’t run away?” I
asked. I told him about the bike—the
same one mentioned right there on the
Missing notice—and didn’t they need it
for evidence?
“I’m not sure why we would. Besides,
this here says she’s from New Jersey.
Out-of-state.”
Go , said the whispered voice close up
to the blazing-hot lobe of my left ear.
Get out of there right now, you
imbecile. Go.
This time I knew right away it was
Fiona. She knew I was about to mention
the necklace, which made me wonder
what else she knew. She’d keep insulting
me until I left.
“Okay,” I told the officer. “Thank you
for your time. I understand.” I grabbed
Abby’s flyer from off the desk and
returned it to the hoodie’s front pocket,
where the touch of the pendant would
keep it warm. I didn’t look back. I was
almost at the door.
“But maybe when I get a chance I’ll
look into it,” he called through the
window into the waiting room. My hand
was on the knob and the door was
coming open, and I knew he didn’t mean
it and that as soon as I walked out of the
station he’d let himself forget. I glanced
back at the window to be sure and
noticed him looking up at the clock on
the wall. “How old are you, miss?
Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Winter break,” I said, though
technically it didn’t start for another day.
“You sure about that? My daughter
goes to Pinecliff Central, and she had
school today, she—”
The door swung closed before he
could finish. I was still here. I was still
searching. I was the only one who
seemed to care.
— 17 —
I didn’t get far.
My eyes swam and then came into
focus: the parking lot of the Friendly’s.
The square of blacktop divided by
yellow lines. The gray concrete curb.
The bumper of my van wedged against
the curb. The sign on the plate-glass
window advertising a three-course
Christmas dinner special next week
(was Christmas next week already?) for
only $7.99. The cracks in the sidewalk.
The faces in the cracks. Smiling faces at
first and then mouths in the
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