Chapter 2
Eve
The last time I saw Lark, it was almost dark. She was limping up the driveway with a brace on her knee and a huge bag over her shoulders. Her hair was clipped in a twist. I was at my desk, drawing a windmill in a field scattered with leaves. Some were like crumpled stars, others like hands. I drew them tiny and distinct, each one the size of a dime. I knocked on the glass, and Lark looked up and waved. I thought she looked tired. Maybe her knee was hurting.
That was weeks ago. Days later, she went missing. My parents called me into their room to tell me. The news was on, but the TV was mute.
“Lark’s father just called,” said my dad, still holding the phone. “He wanted to know if you knew where she is.”
“No . . .” I was annoyed. I had a chem lab to finish.
“She wasn’t at the gym when her father went to pick her up,” he explained.
“And?” I asked
“Her parents thought you might know where she is.”
“No idea.” I shrugged.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” my mom asked. Her face was puckered, like she was trying to keep something inside.
“Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”
“Sometimes girls share things they wouldn’t tell their parents,” my mom said.
“No.” I shook my head. “Lark and I haven’t been close in a long time.”
Outside it was snowing. Huge flakes fell thick and heavy. I think about that night in drawings, little squares of a story—Lark with a brace on her knee, me at my window, my parents talking to me from their bed, snow falling, the tree by the river.
The next day at school, a circle of girls gathered outside of World Civ. “She probably ran away after a fight with her parents,” said Alyssa.
“Maybe she’s with some guy she met online,” said Beth, Alyssa’s best friend.
I know Alyssa from the swim team, back when I used to swim. She’s tall, still a serious swimmer, drowning in her boyfriend’s letter jacket.
“She wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I know her. She’s my neighbor.”
“Well, I know her too,” said Beth. She flipped her Goldilocks hair and glared at me. “She was my sister’s best friend until she got so obsessed with gymnastics.”
“Did the police question you?” asked Alyssa. “I heard they went to every house on her street.”
“No.”
With this I became less interesting. If I had lied, the circle would have opened for me. But I don’t lie.
The bell rang, then the new girl from Boston stepped in front of me. She’s clumsy and chatty, long curly brown hair parted in the middle. Alyssa and Beth find her accent hysterical. In class, they goad her to ask questions so they can crack up.
“She’s probably been kidnapped,” said Boston, chewing her gum. “By a serial killer.”
A hush fell. Alyssa blinked. My stomach fluttered and jumped, like a bird was trapped inside. And then Mr. Haus put his head out the doorway and told us to come in. He wasn’t angry, so I figured he knew about Lark.
In class, everyone was quiet and well behaved. No one texted or played Tetris or whispered to a friend. Mr. Haus pointed to the Tigris and the Euphrates on the frayed map. Some kids asked questions, and all of us took notes. In the margins of my notes, I drew a circle of girls. Girls talking and listening. One clutching her binder. Another holding her hand to her mouth, afraid. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about what Boston said and how she was probably right.
Girls who go missing for more than a few hours are usually found dead. Three summers ago, in different parts of the country, two girls went missing the same week. One was riding her bike home from a friend’s house. The other was taken through her bedroom window. Their school portraits smiled at us from the magazine racks in grocery stores. Our mothers turned off the news when we walked into the kitchen. They didn’t want us to know about things like this yet. I bet every girl
Eve
The last time I saw Lark, it was almost dark. She was limping up the driveway with a brace on her knee and a huge bag over her shoulders. Her hair was clipped in a twist. I was at my desk, drawing a windmill in a field scattered with leaves. Some were like crumpled stars, others like hands. I drew them tiny and distinct, each one the size of a dime. I knocked on the glass, and Lark looked up and waved. I thought she looked tired. Maybe her knee was hurting.
That was weeks ago. Days later, she went missing. My parents called me into their room to tell me. The news was on, but the TV was mute.
“Lark’s father just called,” said my dad, still holding the phone. “He wanted to know if you knew where she is.”
“No . . .” I was annoyed. I had a chem lab to finish.
“She wasn’t at the gym when her father went to pick her up,” he explained.
“And?” I asked
“Her parents thought you might know where she is.”
“No idea.” I shrugged.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” my mom asked. Her face was puckered, like she was trying to keep something inside.
“Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”
“Sometimes girls share things they wouldn’t tell their parents,” my mom said.
“No.” I shook my head. “Lark and I haven’t been close in a long time.”
Outside it was snowing. Huge flakes fell thick and heavy. I think about that night in drawings, little squares of a story—Lark with a brace on her knee, me at my window, my parents talking to me from their bed, snow falling, the tree by the river.
The next day at school, a circle of girls gathered outside of World Civ. “She probably ran away after a fight with her parents,” said Alyssa.
“Maybe she’s with some guy she met online,” said Beth, Alyssa’s best friend.
I know Alyssa from the swim team, back when I used to swim. She’s tall, still a serious swimmer, drowning in her boyfriend’s letter jacket.
“She wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I know her. She’s my neighbor.”
“Well, I know her too,” said Beth. She flipped her Goldilocks hair and glared at me. “She was my sister’s best friend until she got so obsessed with gymnastics.”
“Did the police question you?” asked Alyssa. “I heard they went to every house on her street.”
“No.”
With this I became less interesting. If I had lied, the circle would have opened for me. But I don’t lie.
The bell rang, then the new girl from Boston stepped in front of me. She’s clumsy and chatty, long curly brown hair parted in the middle. Alyssa and Beth find her accent hysterical. In class, they goad her to ask questions so they can crack up.
“She’s probably been kidnapped,” said Boston, chewing her gum. “By a serial killer.”
A hush fell. Alyssa blinked. My stomach fluttered and jumped, like a bird was trapped inside. And then Mr. Haus put his head out the doorway and told us to come in. He wasn’t angry, so I figured he knew about Lark.
In class, everyone was quiet and well behaved. No one texted or played Tetris or whispered to a friend. Mr. Haus pointed to the Tigris and the Euphrates on the frayed map. Some kids asked questions, and all of us took notes. In the margins of my notes, I drew a circle of girls. Girls talking and listening. One clutching her binder. Another holding her hand to her mouth, afraid. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about what Boston said and how she was probably right.
Girls who go missing for more than a few hours are usually found dead. Three summers ago, in different parts of the country, two girls went missing the same week. One was riding her bike home from a friend’s house. The other was taken through her bedroom window. Their school portraits smiled at us from the magazine racks in grocery stores. Our mothers turned off the news when we walked into the kitchen. They didn’t want us to know about things like this yet. I bet every girl
Similar Books
