Finding Mary Jane (3 page)

When I was a kid, we had a family emergency plan for if the house caught on fire. Everyone was supposed to leave all of their belongings and run outside to our special pre-appointed meeting place: the big oak tree in the back yard. We also had a safe word in case a stranger ever came to pick us up from school. It was Belle. My mom had chosen it because I was the youngest kid and she didn’t think I’d forget my own middle name in an emergency.

We never had to use the safe word for anything, and our house never burned down. I think the most tragic thing to ever happen to our family was the divorce. And even that went pretty smoothly. It’s naive to feel that your house will never burn down and that safe words are pointless, but it doesn’t stop me from thinking that way.

The first night Ben didn’t come home wasn’t anything to worry about. I’d left the lights on out of fear of being alone in the house, but besides that I had fallen asleep with no problems. All my thoughts were filled with my insane crush on Bluntz so I barely had room in my mind to wonder why my brother wasn’t home.

The second night Ben didn’t come home, well, that’s when the rock settled into my stomach. All of my attempts to call him went straight to voicemail. I got it, that he was heartbroken and sad and all that, but why did he want to be away from home? From me?

Now, five miserable days later, I sit under the oak tree in the back yard as the sun sets behind a row of houses to my right. I know Ben won’t magically show up at our childhood meeting place, but I don’t like being in the house anymore. I’ve even turned down hanging out with Jill because I’m afraid if I leave the house for even a minute, I might miss Ben. Mom would demand that I come home if she knew I was alone, so I’ve been avoiding her, too.

For five whole days I’ve eaten cereal and watched the big TV and listened for Ben’s car pulling into the driveway. This house feels like a prison. I feel like a little old lady who obsessively worries about everything. Ben is eighteen and capable of running his own life.

I hope he isn’t doing drugs wherever he’s hiding.

But he probably is.

I’ve pretty much realized that Marla was the catalyst to Ben’s new drug habit. She worked at a smoke shop after all, and had Ben wrapped around her finger. He must have done it just to feel cool and fit in with her crowd. And now that she is gone, I know Ben is sad about it but hopefully he can heal and go back to normal.

Although the bag of joints he had when I last saw him worry me.

I really want Ben to come home.

I wake up around two in the morning in the living room, having passed out on the couch. An infomercial on TV advertises the shockingly low price of some kitchen appliance that no one will ever actually use. And if you call now, you can get two of them for the price of one. I check my phone on the coffee table: zero missed calls, zero new messages.

Because I’m so exhausted and not thinking clearly, I get this crazy idea that maybe the explanation for Ben’s absence is in his room, waiting for me to discover it with a bit of snooping. He’s been gone all week so maybe he was at YMCA camp or a convention for…I don’t know—stuff. Yeah, that could be it.

I know I sound crazy. I don’t care.

I skip up the stairs, still disoriented from having been asleep and almost slam my shoulder into the wall as I round the hallway to Ben’s room. It reeks in here even worse than usual.

His desk is empty, devoid of any flyers for week long extravaganzas. There are no clues to tell me where he has gone. The only clue I can find in here is incredibly bad: his cell phone charger plugged in by the nightstand.

If Ben had planned a trip, he would have taken that. He probably would have taken his debit card from the nightstand too.

I plop on his bed and sink my head into his pillow. It has a touch of that skunk smell, but mostly smells like him. Pounding my fists on the pillow, I say to no one, “Where
are
you?”

There is a crumpling sound, and I reach under the pillow, finding a ball of paper. It is a folded piece of notebook paper that’s been crumpled up. My heart races. It’s the letter.
The
letter. It’s none of my business but I have to know what Marla had written that was so cruel it drove Ben to binge on weed and then disappear.

Slowly, I sit up in bed and unfold the note.

I’m sorry it has to be this way, but now that you know the truth you can at least see why we can’t be together. I’m not covering for your ass anymore, so if you want to avoid a lot of trouble, you’ll get the money to Max ASAP.

Please know I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Last I counted, you owe $5000.

Don’t do anything stupid.

-Marla

Maybe it’s because I’m so freaking tired, but none of this letter makes any sense. Who is Max? I’ve heard his name several times at the smoke shop, but never actually met him. I read the letter a few more times, trying to figure out why Ben would owe someone money and why that constitutes a breakup from Marla.

But it is the very last line that doesn’t make any sense at all.

PS- You have until Wednesday.

Chills prickle up my arms, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. That was three days ago.

I call Ben’s phone one more time for good measure, and although I know it will go right to voicemail without even ringing, I can’t shake that small hope in my chest that maybe he’ll pick up. When he doesn’t answer, I listen to the computerized female voice telling me to leave a message after the beep. I know these words by heart now. When the beep comes, I sigh into the phone. “Ben. It’s me. I found Marla’s letter in your room. Where are you? Please come home.”

I sigh again, listening to the nothingness on the other line. Would he even listen to this? “I love you,” I say, just in case he does listen, and then I hang up.

Somehow, I manage to sleep for the rest of the night, waking up around ten in the morning to the sound of dogs barking next door.

I roll over in Ben’s bed, feeling around for my cell phone. It’s at the foot of the bed, under the sheets. I must have had a rough sleep, although I don’t remember any of it. No dreams, nothing. But now that I’m awake, all the dread and anticipation for what might happen to Ben rushes into me full force, causing my fingers to tremble as I look at my phone.

One new message.

I almost don’t want to click on it. If it’s from Ben, then everything is fine. If it isn’t from Ben, then everything still sucks. For this brief moment, I’m hanging in limbo and it’s the most relief I’ve felt all week. Taking a deep breath, I click on it.

It’s from Jill.

Want to go to the mall and buy fake designer sunglasses?

Of course I don’t want to do that, GOD why would I want to do that? Sure, it’s our favorite thing to do when we have some extra cash, but can’t she tell from my lack of calls and messages lately that I just want to be left alone? I type
no
and stop myself before I hit send. Not wanting to be a total jerk to someone who doesn’t deserve it, I type
but thanks though
.

Still dressed in my ratty jeans and a shirt of Ben’s, I slip on my flip flops and go down to the kitchen. The house is empty—duh—I don’t know why I keep expecting someone to be here. I’m not in the mood for breakfast, or lunch considering what time it is, so I just sit on a barstool and alternate staring at the clock on the wall and the marble counter top in front of me.

The head shop opens at noon.

I will be there the moment Marla unlocks the doors and flips on the open sign. She has some explaining to do.

An hour ticks by, one minute hand swish at a time on Mom’s old kitchen clock. It’s a rooster with a clock in the center of it. Dad bought it for her one year on her birthday. She doesn’t even like roosters. Nothing in our house or in our lives had ever had anything to do with roosters, yet he bought her a freaking rooster clock for her birthday. That’s the reason they divorced. Well not that one thing, but several little things like that.

I’ve spent the last five days worrying sick about Ben, and now as I sit at the kitchen counter, I don’t think about anything. It’s as if the obsessive-worry part of my brain has met its quota for the month and therefore won’t function anymore. That’s fine with me really. I enjoy staring at the patterns in the marble better than thinking about Ben. Wondering if he’s dead.

No, of course he isn’t dead.

Why would I even think that?

I lose track of time and end up leaving the house ten minutes before noon. Okay, so I won’t get there exactly as she’s unlocking the doors, but I’ll probably beat most of the customers. It’s not like potheads wake up before noon so they can take care of all their pot-smoking needs before lunch.

Lawson’s historical district is made up of one long street called The Strand, lined on each side with two and three story shops from the 1900s. The original brick road remains, dividing each side of what used to be Lawson’s booming commerce. Now all of the important stores, banks and city hall buildings are located a few blocks away on Main Street. Greene Shoppe’s side of the road is a collection of eclectic shops and places that look as though they should have gone out of business decades ago, but for some reason that makes no economic sense, they are still open for business. I’ve only been inside three of the stores, two antique shops and one coffee place called Java Jazz.

Careful not to step on a puddle of water nestled between the cracks of the dilapidated sidewalk along the strand, I wish I had a car to get there faster. I pass the old movie theater, its screen lifeless ever since a tornado ripped the roof to shreds, deeming the place irreparable. I smirk as I pass the marquee still advertising the last movie played there
, Gone With The Wind
, wonder how a tornado’s winds were able to rip off the roof but not the plastic letters a mere ten feet away. They are now weathered and cracked to a crisp.

A boy wearing threadbare jeans and a black Alkaline Trio shirt sits on the sidewalk leaning his back against the concrete theater wall. His hair is black and long, knotted and stringy and somewhat resembles a botched dreadlock job. The clumps of hair are so uneven, tangled in every which way, that it probably got that way from simply never washing it. He holds a black triangular shaped guitar plugged into a mini amp.

He strums the strings carelessly but precisely as a song of passion mixed with hair metal chords and pent up teenage angst blare through the nine inch speaker. A black top hat flipped upside down sits in front of him for tips. A piece of cardboard is propped on the hat. Written in comic book style handwriting are the words, “Ninjas killed my parents. Must get revenge. Need money for ninja lessons.”

I glance around. I don’t know who he expects to fill his hat because I am the only person on the streets and my pockets are empty.

“Hey,” he says, his voice raspy.

I don’t want to talk to him but I’m only a few feet away so it’s not like a have a choice. “Hi.”

“Got any requests?” The grunge kid taps his guitar, smiling at me with oddly white and clean teeth.

“Um,” I say, reaching into my pockets to illustrate my point. “I don’t have any money, sorry.”

“Pretty girls get songs for free.”

My first instinct is to retort with something smart-assed, like saying how I don’t see any pretty girls around. Instead of blushing, batting my eye lashes and swooning like most girls would do, I always dismiss compliments. They never really mean anything coming from teenage guys. That, I’m sure of.

I take another step forward, intent on walking away but still not totally convinced that I should. He’s still staring at me waiting for a song request, so I roll my eyes and kind of squish up my face in a nervous motion that I hope portrays something like, “Oh you think you’re so funny? Well guess what? You’re not!” But it probably looks more like I’m having a Nano-second seizure.

He shrugs, removing the guitar strap from around his neck and lets the guitar sit flat in his lap. “Suit yourself.” Next to him is a metal cylinder resting on a flattened paper bag. He picks it up, holds it to his mouth and fishes in his pocket for a lighter. I’ve seen that thing before in Ben’s room. It’s a pipe. Flicking on the lighter, he holds the end of the pipe and sucks in air through the end in his mouth. When he exhales, smoke pours out of his lips like a fog machine.

Why is everyone in this damned town obsessed with marijuana except for me? He sees the look on my face. “Forgive me.” He bows his head. “Would you like a hit?” He holds the pipe and lighter out to me. They are both purple. I shake my head in a violent no.

“You really shouldn’t do that,” I say. He snorts, giving me this apathetic look that I’m sure his mother has seen on him a million times. Assuming he has a mother.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, shoving the paraphernalia into the paper bag and folding the top closed. “But you’re only conditioned to think it’s bad. It’s really not.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say. “I would love to listen to your well thought out argument about weed, but I really have to go.”

The door of the head shop had barely closed behind me when I hear a squeal of delight. Marla’s black flats tap across the floor as she runs over to me, grabbing my elbow as if she’s checking that I’m real. “Lexie!” she squeals.

The shop is even darker than usual with its curtains drawn and only half the lights turned on. Transfixed by new dancing fairy lights strung along every rack and counter, I don’t pay much attention when Marla reaches behind me and locks the door.

“So.” She claps her hands together and holds them in front of her chest. “Ben sent you. That’s cool, I can’t work with that.” She looks me over and frowns. “What did he send you with? You don’t even have a bag. Is it outside?” She glances behind me as she says it, even though no one can see through the covered windows.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, trepidation creeping over me. Didn’t she just lock the door? What’s going on here? I look around, hoping to see Bluntz—or anyone really—but see only racks and racks of drug stuff instead. The smile on Marla’s lips fades into a thin line. “Ben didn’t send you with anything?”

The money
.

“Ben isn’t here,” I say, scratching my cheek. “He didn’t send me. I came on my own.”

Marla’s hands go to her hips and her knuckles go white as they dig into her skin. “What do you mean he isn’t here?”

Mental alarms are going off in my head, screaming that something is wrong. “I found your note.” I feel dirty saying it, letting it out on the open that I snooped through Ben’s things.

The thick line of eyeliner makes Marla’s glare a million times more severe. I stammer, “I, um, well he’s not home. He hasn’t been home all week and I found the note and I thought maybe you knew where he was.”

The only sound is Marla’s slow, heavy breaths as she stares at me, processing what I just said. I’m compelled to keep talking, babbling about whatever I can think of just to rid the air of this suffocating silence. But right as I open my mouth, Marla holds a finger out, shushing me.

She turns around and says, “Cody.”

Bluntz appears from behind the beaded curtain, wearing black framed glasses that I’ve never seen before. He rests his hands on each side of the door frame. “What do you want?”

“We have a visitor,” Marla says, gesturing to me. Bluntz ducks around a jewelry rack to get a better view of me. His face does a mini seizure of its own; first shock, then horror, then acceptance. I doubt Marla notices this like I do.

Marla continues, her voice all high and on the verge of delirious. “Baby sis here says that Ben is missing. He hasn’t been seen all week.”

Bluntz’ forehead creases. “I see.”

Marla takes a step closer to me, and then backs away as if she can sense all my fear and it burns her skin. “I guess Ben will have to learn the hard way that if you can’t pay a debt, you will forfeit your collateral.”

“Marla,” Bluntz says warningly.

She snaps her fingers and points at me. “Take care of her, will you? I have a business to run.”

I am so confused. And it only gets more confusing as Bluntz makes his way toward me. I smile, and open my mouth to say hi. He doesn’t look at me as he walks up and grabs my arm with his hand. He walks us to the back of the store, pushing me in front of him.

I think about trying to break free, but it’s not like I can’t trust Bluntz. Maybe he’s taking me up to the terrace again, where he’ll apologize for Marla’s rudeness. We get near the doorway with the stairs, and he pushes me past it to another doorway. One that says
do not enter
. It’s in the darkest corner of the store, by all the old clearance merchandise.

“What are you doing?” I whisper so Marla can’t hear. He doesn’t say anything, he just grips my arm tighter as he chooses a key from his keychain and unlocks the door. I try to wiggle around to face him, but he doesn’t let me. His grip is really starting to hurt my arm, and it’s so tight it’s making my fingers get tingly.

He pulls open the door, and like the terrace stairs, there’s nothing but blackness in front of me. “Bluntz?” I say, the panic rising in my voice. This is so not good.

“Shut up,” he says. It sounds more regretful then mean. “Just shut up and walk.”

Crushed to the core, I do as he says and I shut up. I lift my foot high, preparing to land on the stairs in the darkness in front of me, and take a step.

The stairs don’t go up this time, they go down. I realize this just as my body flies forward and tumbles down the longest flight of stairs in the history of architecture. Pain shoots through my hands and knees and head. And then everything goes black.