17 & Gone (3 page)

from the counselor’s shed; it was an

empty road, one on which no cars

passed; it was a slick, sweet-smelling

summer’s night.

That was it, that was the last of her.

She lingered on it, and so did I, holding

the memory between us like something

sweet slowly licked off a shared spoon.

I watched the reflective light mounted

on the back of the bicycle catch and

glow and grow small as she traveled

into the dark distance. Watched her

pedal, quick at first, then slowing to

coast down the hill. Watched as she

lifted both arms from the handlebars for

a heartbeat of a second, then put them

back down and held on. I watched her

go.

Then I lost sight of her. The bike

dipped under, but the image of the road

stayed still. I was leaning forward,

trying to see farther, when the mirror

went dark and I realized someone was

pounding on the window of my van.

My neck turned until I was face-to-

face with the intruder.

It was Mr. Floris, ninth- and tenth-

grade biology teacher by trade and

prison guard in his dark dreams and

deepest fantasies. Everyone knew Mr.

Floris loved trolling the school grounds

during his free periods, itching to hand

out detentions. And even though it was

no surprise to find him in the parking lot

seeking to foil late sleepers and

slackers, it was still a shock to be

caught. I’d forgotten where I was.

He rapped his knuckles on the glass,

then lowered the red scarf that he’d

wound around his face to keep out the

cold. When his mouth was free, I saw

the chapped lips beneath his mustache

shape out the words:
You. Roll down

this window this instant, young lady.

There was only a single layer of

window glass between us, but I couldn’t

hear him. I heard nothing but the distant

whirring of two bicycle wheels. Then he

pounded again, and I heard that and

flinched and was rolling down the

window and saying, “Sorry, Mr. Floris.

I didn’t see you there.”

At the same time I was taking another

glance in the rearview mirror, needing to

know—was she still in the van with me?

Was she huddled behind my seat, in the

dark cavern in back? But something was

blocking my view: the reflection of the

pale girl in the mirror who must have

been rubbing at her eyes again, a bad

habit. She had smoke-gray tracks of

mascara streaking down her cheeks as if

she’d been holed up in the van crying.

She wasn’t. I hadn’t cried in years.

On top of my head was the puffy wool

hat my friend Deena Douglas stole from

the mall and didn’t like on herself and so

gave to me. The hat was pulled low over

my eyebrows, hiding my ears and hiding

the view of the backseat where Abby

still could be.

“Miss Woodman,” Mr. Floris said,

“you do realize it’s third period and you

should be in class? Get out of this van

and come with me or I’ll have to write

you up.”

I’d never been written up before. This

was before I started skipping all that

school, before the “marks” on my

“permanent record” that I’d “regret” for

the “rest of my life.” This was before I

shattered into the particles and pieces

I’m in now.

Even so, I didn’t get out of the van.

“But . . .” I said, pausing there,

waiting.

Because didn’t he see?

I was expecting him to notice her

behind me. He was close enough to my

window that he must have been able to

see the bench seat and who was in it.

There . . . the apparition of a girl hiding

behind her hair, wasn’t she there with

her grimy face and her scratched-up

knees?

I could still smell her. I could sense

her breathing, too, her mouth sharing air

with my mouth even though logically I

knew it wasn’t possible.

But Mr. Floris’s eyes landed on

something else: The lighter in my

dashboard had thrust itself out with a

hard
pop
.

“That’s it, Lauren, get out. Now. I’m

writing you up.”

He didn’t see—he was blind to it. To

her. Soon enough he was opening the

door for me and waving me out onto the

icy pavement. I glanced directly at her

only once, when I was reaching down to

rescue her flyer from the floor.

Her long hair was tangled with

leaves, I noticed then, stuck through with

loose green leaves and pine needles and

matted with twigs and sap. One bruised

knee was bleeding, and the trail of blood

had wound down her leg to between her

toes. She was wearing one flip-flop. The

other had been lost somewhere I

couldn’t imagine.

I knew she fell off the bicycle; I could

see it happening, a loose rock under her

tire catching her off-balance in the dark

depths of the night. But did she get up

again, or did something stop her? What

and who did she meet at the bottom of

that hill?

She didn’t say. I wouldn’t have

expected her to tell me in front of him,

anyway.

I stepped out of the van, closed and

locked the door, and followed Mr.

Floris to the front office, where I was

about to be awarded a block of after-

school detention. But I did look back. I

kept looking back. Nothing would keep

me from looking for her now.

— — —

That was the first time I was visited by

Abby, who met her fate outside the

Lady-of-the-Pines Summer Camp for

Girls. Now, there are so many more

things I know about her.

She’s Abigail Sinclair of Orange

Terrace, New Jersey. Yes, there’s that.

But she’s really only Abigail to her

grandparents and her homeroom teacher.

To everyone else, she’s Abby.

Abby with the smallest speck of a stud

in her nose, so it looks like a sparkling

star has been plucked from the sky and

hung low beside her face, a star that

follows her wherever she goes, night or

day. Abby who chews her nails, just the

ones on her thumbs. Abby who never

wears skirts. Abby who’s afraid of

clowns and isn’t kidding when she says

so. Abby who doesn’t mind when it

rains. Abby who played flute, for three

months, then quit. Abby, solid C student.

Abby, still a virgin, on a technicality,

which
does
count. Abby who can tap-

dance. Abby who can’t whistle, no

matter how hard she tries. Abby who

likes, maybe even could have loved,

Luke.

Abby with brown hair, brown eyes,

120 pounds, 5'7", small scar on her right

knee from tripping over the back step

when she was five.

Abby: age 17, reported missing

September 2, but gone before that, gone

in summer and no one went looking.

Gone.

—
3
—

I
don’t know how I made it through the

day I first found Abby.

My memory holds on only to vague

pieces, because other, sharper things

have since come to take their place. I

remember the detention slip for cutting

class and smoking in the parking lot, torn

ragged on one side so it looked like

someone had taken a bite out of my

sentence, but I don’t remember the

detention itself. I don’t remember what

happened in my classes or what I

learned, if anything. I don’t remember

lunch period with Deena, and what

particular kind of slop-on-a-tray I

carried to our table and then put in my

mouth. Or what plans she made for her

eighteenth birthday party, which was all

she could talk about even though it was

weeks and weeks away. Or anything else

she said.

At one point there was my boyfriend,

Jamie Rossi, at my locker, asking what

happened and why I was late, and I

remember this because it was the first

time I had ever kept something from him.

“Just engine trouble,” I heard myself

telling him, “that’s all.” I didn’t say

anything about a girl taped to a telephone

pole, a girl hidden in the back of my van.

It was still possible I’d imagined it.

Imagined her.

I have this freeze-frame of Jamie in

my memory, this picture. In it, the hood

of his sweatshirt is popped up over his

head, and the dark curls over his

forehead are spilling out because he

needed a haircut again like he seemed to

practically every other week. He’s

leaning in, eyes closed so I see how long

his lashes are. And there are his lips out

to meet mine. His stubble showing, but

only on his chin, because he couldn’t

grow a full beard, not if he tried. I can’t

tell what he’s thinking—if he believes

me—because his eyes are closed. Not

that I could ever guess, with Jamie. He’s

a guy, so he’s used to keeping things

close.

Then the picture of Jamie’s face falls

away, and I must have kissed him back,

or a teacher came by and stopped us, but

I don’t remember that part.

I was outside myself, as if I were

standing at the dip in the highway that

led to Pinecliff Central High School, the

last place you could turn before heading

to school, all while some shadow-me

was inside the building going to my

classes, kissing my boyfriend, answering

to my name when it was called.

I couldn’t get Abby out of my mind.

During my free period, I did a search

online, on one of the library computers,

and found a listing in the missing

persons database for an Abigail Sinclair

from New Jersey. That flyer on the

telephone pole may have been a few

months old, but she was still out there

somewhere. She was still 17 years old.

Still missing.

There was also a public page online

that her family or friends must have

made for her—a memorial of sorts

where anyone could post a message:

ABBY!

IF

YOU

ARE

READING THIS! Come home!

We miss you.

----------------------------------------

--------------

Abigail, it’s your cousin Trinity.

You have Grandma and Grandpa

so worried you have no idea.

Where are you????? Call me if

you’re reading this. We just want

to know you’re ok!

----------------------------------------

--------------

Dear Abby, I have never met u

but I am praying for u every night

----------------------------------------

--------------

Abbz U R missed @ school <3

----------------------------------------

--------------

luv you girl come home!!!!

It was when I was scrolling through

this page of notes left for Abby, notes I

felt sure she’d never seen, from some

people she didn’t even know, that I

realized a person was standing behind

me, waiting for the right moment to

speak.

When I turned in my chair, I watched

this girl’s gaze peel away from my

computer screen and go to me. I didn’t

recognize her at first, and then her face

took on shape and I realized she was a

freshman, a girl I’d seen around school. I

was more aware of the fact that she was

breathing, undeniably alive, than of

anything else. This girl wasn’t missing;

she was right here. And all I wanted was

for her to go away.

“Hey, Lauren,” she said, “we saw you

this morning. Are you, um . . . okay?”

“You saw me? Where?” The thought

of being watched while I was in the van

alarmed me.

“Before school? You were in the

middle of the road? The bus almost hit

you? We all saw you and we called out

the window to you.” She waited. “Didn’t

you hear us?”

I shook my head. A feeling of cold

came over me as she brought me back to

that moment—so immediate I could have

been out on the windy highway beneath