something.
What?
The real story. There was a Staph. But she never took Gracie.
No?
No. My dad didn’t tie Gracie up tight enough. She got loose. She ran away and never came back.
That’s sad, too.
Why did u lie?
I thought u’d like the other story better.
I think my dad did it on purpose.
What?
Tied her up too loose. Didn’t tie her up at all. Because I was bad. Because he was teaching me a lesson.
Is that the real story, or r u messing with me?
It’s a little bit of everything.
U’d better tell me the truth.
I always will, eventually. Can’t we have a little fun first, though?
Don’t be mad.
GTG.
I love u, Mar.
That is the absolute truth.
U still there?
How?
How what?
How can u love me? It hasn’t been very long.
U’r very lovable. U just don’t know it. My job is to show it.
Accidental poetry.
Are u for real?
I am very real.
Day 8
I’M CLOISTERED IN THE bedroom, working on the toughest homework assignment of my life. Paul wants me to write a letter he can post on FindMarley.com. I need to write something that will be personal enough to connect, to make her want to rush back into my arms, but not so revealing that I can’t bear the idea of a whole nation potentially reading it. Paul told me not to worry so much because Candace is going to edit it before it’s posted to “ensure maximum impact.” The fact that he imagines this will buoy me seems to support what Michael always said: “That man barely knows you.” I’m not entirely sure whose fault that is.
The good news is, FindMarley is going viral, as intended, with links being sent all over the country. Paul assures me that this will soon amount to a solid lead, instead of just vague, unverifiable sightings; none of this is in vain.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s become something of a celebrity, a poster parent. Right now, he’s in the living room with Candace, doing a “blog tour” of widely trafficked sites. He’s been contacted by other parents of missing kids who want to emulate his efforts. He answers everyone; he’d rather tweet than sleep. A week in, and already he’s made himself an expert.
Most people are well-wishers. But the ones who are negative focus on me, not Paul. I was trending on Twitter after my “bizarre behavior” on the morning show, with speculative tweets about whatI could be hiding and who had been texting me mid-interview. I tell myself these are the kind of people who like being contrary, who enjoy imagining the worst in people. They can’t really see through me. Sure, I have secrets, but they don’t have anything to do with Marley’s leaving.
If she knew, though . . .
She doesn’t.
Please, don’t let her know. Please, don’t let her find out on Twitter.
Paul’s asked that people write messages to Marley on their Facebook pages and have links to take them to our page. Marley has her own channel on YouTube, and people are recording video messages where they reminisce and encourage her to come home. It’s really caught fire. The cheerleaders got into their pyramid formation, exhorting Marley to “C-O-M-E H-O-M-E!” Tonight, there will be a candlelight vigil in front of the high school. The local news will be there to film, and Candace is trying to get people from the San Francisco stations to show up, too. I have to make an appearance, but I’m dreading it. Despite Candace’s coaching, I don’t know if I can look appropriate, and the last thing I need is for any new Twitter trends to sprout.
We got Marley’s devices back from the techies, and there were no clues. She downloaded programs that swept them clean. Her thoroughness actually reminds me of Paul. No question whose gene pool she’s swimming in.
Paul throws himself into protocol and appears to achieve some peace of mind, but I’m besieged by interrogatives: why Marley left; how I failed her; where she went; what could be happening to her out there, as sheltered as she’s been.
What?
The real story. There was a Staph. But she never took Gracie.
No?
No. My dad didn’t tie Gracie up tight enough. She got loose. She ran away and never came back.
That’s sad, too.
Why did u lie?
I thought u’d like the other story better.
I think my dad did it on purpose.
What?
Tied her up too loose. Didn’t tie her up at all. Because I was bad. Because he was teaching me a lesson.
Is that the real story, or r u messing with me?
It’s a little bit of everything.
U’d better tell me the truth.
I always will, eventually. Can’t we have a little fun first, though?
Don’t be mad.
GTG.
I love u, Mar.
That is the absolute truth.
U still there?
How?
How what?
How can u love me? It hasn’t been very long.
U’r very lovable. U just don’t know it. My job is to show it.
Accidental poetry.
Are u for real?
I am very real.
Day 8
I’M CLOISTERED IN THE bedroom, working on the toughest homework assignment of my life. Paul wants me to write a letter he can post on FindMarley.com. I need to write something that will be personal enough to connect, to make her want to rush back into my arms, but not so revealing that I can’t bear the idea of a whole nation potentially reading it. Paul told me not to worry so much because Candace is going to edit it before it’s posted to “ensure maximum impact.” The fact that he imagines this will buoy me seems to support what Michael always said: “That man barely knows you.” I’m not entirely sure whose fault that is.
The good news is, FindMarley is going viral, as intended, with links being sent all over the country. Paul assures me that this will soon amount to a solid lead, instead of just vague, unverifiable sightings; none of this is in vain.
That’s easy for him to say. He’s become something of a celebrity, a poster parent. Right now, he’s in the living room with Candace, doing a “blog tour” of widely trafficked sites. He’s been contacted by other parents of missing kids who want to emulate his efforts. He answers everyone; he’d rather tweet than sleep. A week in, and already he’s made himself an expert.
Most people are well-wishers. But the ones who are negative focus on me, not Paul. I was trending on Twitter after my “bizarre behavior” on the morning show, with speculative tweets about whatI could be hiding and who had been texting me mid-interview. I tell myself these are the kind of people who like being contrary, who enjoy imagining the worst in people. They can’t really see through me. Sure, I have secrets, but they don’t have anything to do with Marley’s leaving.
If she knew, though . . .
She doesn’t.
Please, don’t let her know. Please, don’t let her find out on Twitter.
Paul’s asked that people write messages to Marley on their Facebook pages and have links to take them to our page. Marley has her own channel on YouTube, and people are recording video messages where they reminisce and encourage her to come home. It’s really caught fire. The cheerleaders got into their pyramid formation, exhorting Marley to “C-O-M-E H-O-M-E!” Tonight, there will be a candlelight vigil in front of the high school. The local news will be there to film, and Candace is trying to get people from the San Francisco stations to show up, too. I have to make an appearance, but I’m dreading it. Despite Candace’s coaching, I don’t know if I can look appropriate, and the last thing I need is for any new Twitter trends to sprout.
We got Marley’s devices back from the techies, and there were no clues. She downloaded programs that swept them clean. Her thoroughness actually reminds me of Paul. No question whose gene pool she’s swimming in.
Paul throws himself into protocol and appears to achieve some peace of mind, but I’m besieged by interrogatives: why Marley left; how I failed her; where she went; what could be happening to her out there, as sheltered as she’s been.
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