Speed Briggs said I was. The liar, the deceiver, the damage. I had this thing inside of me that she was right to run from. This black fear, this anger I couldnât keep down. I thought about the things I said to her that last night, and it made me sick inside. Lula was right. We were supposed to be in this together. I should have told her about Andy. I should have trusted her, above anyone and everyone else. But I failed. And now there was nothing I could do but sit around and wait for her to come home.
T HOSE FIRST FEW DAYS HAD BEEN little marathons, dividing up the town with Janet and Leo, taping up MISSING flyers in every shop window that would let us. At home, it seemed like the phone was always ringing, or about to ring. Then it wasnât. Almost two weeks had passed since Lula disappeared, and there was still nothing I could do but wait. There was no job to go to after school. No Friday nights watching X-Files with Lula. I finished my homework early and studied football strategies. I stayed home and had uncomfortably quiet dinners with my mom. I stopped going to the gymâAndy had probably dropped my membership, anyway. The school gym was uncomfortable, the older guys on the team either making halfhearted attempts at hazing me or acting all sympathetic about Lula when we both knew that, two weeks ago, they wouldâve been calling her Weird Girl just like everybody else. I built homemade weights and worked out in the garage. Whenever I left the house, I saw the flyers Janet had posted on telephone poles, Lulaâs picture getting faded and tattered from the rain. I went for long runs, looping past the woods that the police had combed again and again when Lula first went missing. I kept thinking how stupid that was. Lula hated the woods. She hated camping. Then I realized they werenât expecting to find her living in the woods.
I knew Lula wasnât dead, though. I didnât have any proof, but I was becoming more and more convinced that if something bad had happened to her, I wouldâve felt it in my bones, like a disturbance in the Force. I went to Janet and Leoâs almost every night, to check up on them. Leo smoked too much and studied maps and bus routes and talked about getting in touch with some of his buddies in army recon. Despite the endless stream of casseroles and Crock-Pot dishes brought over by friends and neighbors, Janet cooked massive amounts of Polish food and sent the leftovers home with me. Dark gray roots showed in her brassy blond hair. Her white lipstick was often smudged and she took up smoking again. She kept a box of Benson & Hedges in the back of the silverware drawer and taught me how to mix Manhattans. They would answer the door by saying, âNo word yet,â and I never knew if they were asking me or telling me.
I stayed up nights, thinking about Lula. Laughing at things sheâd said months ago. Her impression of Mrs. Dalrymple, the librarian. The way sheâd put down this smartass senior in the cafeteria one day. I became obsessed with the late-night radio show on the community collegeâs station, the one Lula used to listen to, hosted by a guy named Midnight Steve. I called Midnight Steve every night to request Lulaâs favorite songs, the ones sheâd burned for me once on a mix CD. I requested âTeenage FBIâ by Guided by Voices and âThis is Hellâ by Elvis Costello. I requested âWalking After Youâ by the Foo Fighters. I requested âMan of Steelâ and âThe Marsistâ by Frank Black. I requested âLove is Nothingâ and âFantasizeâ by Liz Phair. I requested âView of the Rainâ by Urge Overkill and âDo You Love Me Now?â by the Breeders. I requested Laura Nyro. Midnight Steve never had any of the songs I wanted to hear, but he told me how âbout if he played some Dashboard Confessional instead. I finally told Midnight Steve that he and Dashboard Confessional
T HOSE FIRST FEW DAYS HAD BEEN little marathons, dividing up the town with Janet and Leo, taping up MISSING flyers in every shop window that would let us. At home, it seemed like the phone was always ringing, or about to ring. Then it wasnât. Almost two weeks had passed since Lula disappeared, and there was still nothing I could do but wait. There was no job to go to after school. No Friday nights watching X-Files with Lula. I finished my homework early and studied football strategies. I stayed home and had uncomfortably quiet dinners with my mom. I stopped going to the gymâAndy had probably dropped my membership, anyway. The school gym was uncomfortable, the older guys on the team either making halfhearted attempts at hazing me or acting all sympathetic about Lula when we both knew that, two weeks ago, they wouldâve been calling her Weird Girl just like everybody else. I built homemade weights and worked out in the garage. Whenever I left the house, I saw the flyers Janet had posted on telephone poles, Lulaâs picture getting faded and tattered from the rain. I went for long runs, looping past the woods that the police had combed again and again when Lula first went missing. I kept thinking how stupid that was. Lula hated the woods. She hated camping. Then I realized they werenât expecting to find her living in the woods.
I knew Lula wasnât dead, though. I didnât have any proof, but I was becoming more and more convinced that if something bad had happened to her, I wouldâve felt it in my bones, like a disturbance in the Force. I went to Janet and Leoâs almost every night, to check up on them. Leo smoked too much and studied maps and bus routes and talked about getting in touch with some of his buddies in army recon. Despite the endless stream of casseroles and Crock-Pot dishes brought over by friends and neighbors, Janet cooked massive amounts of Polish food and sent the leftovers home with me. Dark gray roots showed in her brassy blond hair. Her white lipstick was often smudged and she took up smoking again. She kept a box of Benson & Hedges in the back of the silverware drawer and taught me how to mix Manhattans. They would answer the door by saying, âNo word yet,â and I never knew if they were asking me or telling me.
I stayed up nights, thinking about Lula. Laughing at things sheâd said months ago. Her impression of Mrs. Dalrymple, the librarian. The way sheâd put down this smartass senior in the cafeteria one day. I became obsessed with the late-night radio show on the community collegeâs station, the one Lula used to listen to, hosted by a guy named Midnight Steve. I called Midnight Steve every night to request Lulaâs favorite songs, the ones sheâd burned for me once on a mix CD. I requested âTeenage FBIâ by Guided by Voices and âThis is Hellâ by Elvis Costello. I requested âWalking After Youâ by the Foo Fighters. I requested âMan of Steelâ and âThe Marsistâ by Frank Black. I requested âLove is Nothingâ and âFantasizeâ by Liz Phair. I requested âView of the Rainâ by Urge Overkill and âDo You Love Me Now?â by the Breeders. I requested Laura Nyro. Midnight Steve never had any of the songs I wanted to hear, but he told me how âbout if he played some Dashboard Confessional instead. I finally told Midnight Steve that he and Dashboard Confessional
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