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On your way out, you see Maggie, Amalia, and Dawn, all huddled together in the front hall.

Amalia’s in the middle, scribbling something into a sketch pad.

They gesture you over.

There are three different designs for the name VANISH on the pad.

“We’re designing a new logo,” Amalia explains. “Which one looks right for a group?”

You stare at the logos.

VANISH

VANISH

VANISH

You try to make a decision, but you can’t.

They all look the same.

Somehow, all you can think about is Alex’s face.

In which Ducky, on the Bench at Cosmo’s Gas Station,

Seeks His Muse

After that last entry, you put away your journal and bike over to Alex’s.

Mrs. Snyder answers the bell. She’s smoking a cigarette. As usual.

You’re scared. As usual. Even though it’s SILLY to be scared of her — you’re bigger than she is now and she’s always perfectly nice to you — it’s just a feeling left over from when you were a kid, when you hated the way she yelled all the time and you wondered how a nice guy like Alex could have such a MEAN mother.

But she’s not mean, you KNOW that — she’s a good mom and she works hard. She’s just not a JOLLY person, and you wouldn’t be either if you went through a bad divorce and had to work two jobs to support a family.

So you smile and politely ask about Alex, but she looks confused. She says she’s out. She thought he was with YOU.

You say you haven’t seen him (you’re about to add the words “since chemistry class” but you swallow them).

“Well, your guess is as good as mine, Ducky,” she says. “If you see him, tell him to leave me a note once in awhile [sic].”

She takes a deep drag from her cigarette. Her eyes are red and she’s pulling a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

And you wonder, Does she know what’s going on? She must. SOMEONE has been paying for

the therapy and the antidepression [sic] medication. Alex’s dad sure isn’t.

“Mrs. Snyder…” You want to say something but you don’t know what. You can’t talk about Alex behind his back, but you want to reassure her somehow — she looks like she needs

reassurance. But all you can say is, “I’m sure he’s at the park,” and you go.

You’re right. Alex is in the park. Exactly where you expect him to be. You cross the bridge and find him at the other side, sitting on the creek bank among the reeds.

You call out to him.

He grunts hello. He doesn’t look up.

You park your bike and sit net to him. “What’s up?”

No answer. He’s ripping up grass, one blade at a time.

You pull out a long blade, make a reed between your thumbs, and blow. It makes a good, solid SCREEEEK, and a duck flaps its wings in surprise.

The Old Alex would have tried to outdo you.

The new one is not interested. His face is a total blank. As if the muscles have been cut loose, leaving the skin to slacken.

So you shut up. Listen to the breeze. Skim stones on the water. And you think about the long summer afternoons you two used to spend here, doing nothing, absolutely nothing, exactly as you’re doing now.

Except back then, time passed so quickly. You talked about the same things over and over, or you spent hours playing the ESP game, and it was never boring.

“Tell me — right this minute,” you blurt out. “What song are you hearing in your head?”

You hope for a match. Just like old times.

But Alex yawns. “No music.”

You fling a perfect, flat stone and it skitters across the creek — all the way to the other bank.

“Yesss!” you cry out.

No reaction.

“Alex,” you finally say, “are you OK?”

He nods. “Uh-huh.”

“You seem … I don’t know, upset?”

Shrug.

“Is something going on? Something you want to talk about?”

The words sound so weak, so wimpy. But you’re trying, you’re NOT GIVING UP.

Alex keeps his eyes straight ahead. He looks as if he’s thinking about what to say, shaping an answer.

But he just yawns. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Slap.

What now, Ducky?

You’re thinking: FINE, he wants to be that way? He wants to abuse his best friend? He can stay here alone.

See if the reeds understand. See if the birds understand.

You get up, ready to leave, but you catch yourself.

You look closely at his face.

He’s not dissing you. He’s telling you the truth. HIS truth.

He honestly believes you wouldn’t understand.

And maybe he’s right. You’ve never had the URGE to do the things he does — drink or cut school or mope around and do nothing. It’s not in your chemistry. Step 1 to helping somebody with a problem is sympathy, and how can you sympathize with someone so different, someone whose mind used to be just like yours but has now veered off into the Twilight Zone?

No matter what you say or do — stay, leave, turn cartwheels, throw yourself in the creek — the blank expression won’t change. You don’t mean anything to him. Nothing odes.

Never, ever, ever give up. You repeat that to yourself, even though it sounds about as possible as Flap your arms and fly.

You sit next to him. Silently.

He doesn’t move.

You want him to know what you and Ms. Krueger talked about, that he might fail tenth grade.

You want to tell him that his teachers are concerned. But you can’t bring yourself to say it.

Maybe later. Maybe if he snaps out of whatever he’s in.

If he opens up a little.

You sit for a long time, quietly watching the sun set, until you realize you’re starving, and you convince Alex to ride home with you.

Mrs. Snyder is at the door when you arrive. You can hear her scolding him as he walks in, but even from the sidewalk you can see the relief on her face.

Afterward, you’re exhausted and your brain is overflowing with thoughts. You don’t want to go home, not just yet.

So you stop off here, at Cosmo’s.

And you write.

Which makes you feel a little better.

Very little.

BUT IT SURE WAS BETTER

THAN YOU FEEL RIGHT NOW!

What a jerk.

COSMO’S?

What were you thinking?

You just sat there, scribbling away, not even looking at the time.

Wake up, McCrae. It’s not The Ducky and Ted Show anymore. You’re a family again.

And your family eats dinner at 6:00. Always has.

So when you walked in at 7:15, and Dad was standing in the kitchen doorway, tapping his foot and looking at his watch, WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?

Way to go. Ruin everything. After Mom and Dad had planned a special “family reunion

celebration” — vegetarian lasagna, sparkling cider, ice-cream sundaes — your favorite dishes, made especially for you.

AND YOU WERE AT COSMO’S.

Yes, they’re jet-lagged. Yes, they wee eating lunch during your breakfast, and they were asleep when you got home from school. It didn’t occur to you that life would slip back into a normal routine so soon. But you could have called. You didn’t have to act as if they were still in Ghana.

And then — then, when Dad yelled at you, did you apologize? No, you made excuses. You told them Ted and you NEVER eat precisely at 6. You eat when you’re hungry — 7:30, 9:00,

midnight, whenever.

Which is NOT what they wanted to hear and just made the atmosphere worse.

So even though you WEREN’T hungry, you said in the kitchen and ate leftovers while everyone else cleaned up, and Ted glared at you the whole time as if to say HOW’D I GET STUCK WITH

THE DISHES? which was ridiculous because you would trade places with him in a minute.

After the cleanup, Mom and Dad sat with you while you finished eating. You apologized and they accepted it. But you could see they were hurt, and you felt awful. Dad suggested another celebration tomorrow — this time at 8:15, after you finish at Winslow Books. You agreed and then actually TRIED to start a conversation, to begin catching up on all the months they were away, but the phone began ringing for them, and it hasn’t stopped.

Anyway, you’re back in your room again. It’s a chilly night but you can’t turn on the heat the way you normally would, because the thermostat reads 61° and Dad won’t let you “waste

electricity” unless it’s under 60.

You feel as if you’re 10 years old and you’ve been sent to your room for bad behavior.

Oh, well, look on the bright side.

For almost 24 hours, you’ve had something you were looking forward to — a REAL FAMILY

again.

Cherish those 24 hours. Value them.

You took care of Mom and Dad at the airport. You took care of your ailing friend.

You also alienated your parents. And you alienated your friend.

Oh. And you probably flunked your math test.

Guess you’re batting a thousand, Ducky.

Thursday 12/2

Lunch & Loose Ends

You meant to stop by Alex’s on the way to school, but you didn’t.

WHY?

Because you were lazy. Tired. You wanted a break from the INTENSITY. Whatever.

But Alex didn’t show up at school. Hasn’t been here all day long.

You should have dragged him to school, the way you did yesterday.

You GAVE UP, Ducky. You’re not supposed to do that, remember?

Now what?

DO something, that’s what.

35 more minutes until the end of lunch.

Maybe I can find him.

Maybe I should cut school myself.

South of Psychology

East of Self-Help

The sections, that is.

You’re working tonight. At Winslow Books.

You picture if you stand here long enough, the vibes from the books will teach you something.

Anyway, it’s break time. You have fifteen minutes. So write fast.

Since we last spoke:

1. You didn’t cut. You chickened out.

2. You didn’t find Alex either. You called his house from a pay phone at school, but no one answered.

3. You had some long-overdue face time with Sunny.

Number 3 happened after school. You were freaking out because you wanted to stop by Alex’s but you only had twenty minutes to report to Winslow Books.

Then you heard Sunny call out, “You’re giving me a ride.”

(You have to love her. She is so cool.)

You said, “My rates have gone up,” but she ignored you ad climbed into the passenger seat.

“Winslow Books, please, servant.”

“What’s the occasion?” you asked, driving away. “Your dad hired you for the Christmas rush?”

“What, and scare away the customers? Nope. He’s taking me to visit Dorian.”

“Dorian?”

“As in The Picture of Dorian Gray? The picture that ages before your eyes?”

“Are you talking about your MOM?”

“She calls HERSELF that. You have to admit, Ducky, she does look about 100 years old.”

You bit your tongue. Sometimes you can’t believe what comes out of Sunny’s mouth.

But that’s SUNNY, that’s her style. Keep everyone off guard, break down their barriers. Laugh in the face of your troubles. Use extreme humor, if you have to — whatever keeps you going.

You admire that, kind of. But right then you don’t know how to respond. You were thinking there was something strange going on. Sunny almost always goes to the hospital alone —

SOMETIMES with a trusted friend, but never with her dad unless it’s an emergency.

“Mom’s MUCH worse,” Sunny explained. “It’s just a matter of months, I guess. Maybe weeks.

Some Christmas present, huh?” She popped a stick of gum in her mouth and held the pack out to you. “Want some?”

Sunny was trying to be cool, but her face and body were giving her away. She was coiled up, intense. Her eyes were slitted and anxious.

You could tell she was scared out of her wits.

“I could go with you,” you volunteered.

Sunny laughed. “Right. Dad’s probably already calculating how much business he’ll lose by leaving the store. Don’t be surprised if he CHAINS you to the cash register.”

You pulled into the store’s parking lot. You expected Sunny to jump right out, but she didn’t.

She was looking down at the floor, gripping the dashboard.

You put your hand over hers. “Good luck,” you said.

She whirled around, threw her arms around you, and gave you a kiss on the cheek. Then, without a word, she left the car.

You caught up to her. Mr. Winslow was waiting by the front door, pacing, looking at his watch.

He started barking out instructions to you — clean up the spill in the children’s book section, open the two UPS boxes, find another shelf for New Age books, make sure to obey the store manager while he’s gone, etc., etc., etc.

You watched him and Sunny walk away to his car.

You wished there was something you could do, some way you could make it all better.

But you knew there wasn’t.

It seems there never is.

Siiilent Niiiight …

You’re beat. You can barely hold a pen and it’s bedtime. But your mind is zingy, so here goes.

You worked at the store nonstop. Very busy.

You didn’t notice Mr. Winslow came back around 7:15, because he was so quiet. Which was totally weird, because he’s ALWAYS yelling about something.

Tonight he was in another world, wandering, reshelving books, reading. Sunny wasn’t with him; he’d taken her home.

You finally worked up the courage to ask about his wife. He looked at you — really looked you in the eye for the first time since he hired you — and said in a soft voice, “You’re kind to ask, Chris.”

Period.

Nothing else.

Which just made you worry more.

At 8:00 you left and made SURE to be home for Family Dinner: the Sequel. It was hard to concentrate. You were thinking about Mrs. Winslow and whether or not you should call Sunny.

Dad made a pretty good homemade pizza, and Mom passed around some just-developed photos that actually made the Ghana trip look like a GOOD TIME. Soon you were all laughing and chatting, and it felt OK, like the old days, sort of. Ye Older Son Ted gave a boring yet corny toast, and Dad requested that we all have “a little McCrae bonding time” on Saturday, “maybe a special trip or something.”