The Distance Between Lost and Found (3 page)

An excruciating few seconds pass before a whisper floats down: “All clear.”

Jonah pulls himself inside in one smooth motion. Then he reaches out a hand.

Hallelujah takes it. She grasps his forearm and he grasps hers and she is pulled up to sit on the sill so much faster than she could have climbed. It takes her breath. She swings her legs inside and lands on her feet.

The dark bathroom is ghostly, filled with shadows. There's a little bit of mud on the floor that wasn't there earlier tonight; they aren't the first ones in this way. Through the window, they watch as a figure runs out of the woods into the parking lot. One of the flashlights is hot on his heels. Another figure appears at the opposite end of the lot, then turns and ducks back into the woods.

Jonah slides the window down until it's only cracked—helping the others while covering his own tracks. Then he opens the bathroom door and checks the hall.

“Looks safe,” he says, “but move fast.” He glances back over his shoulder at Hallelujah. He reaches out, pulls a twig from her hair, and hands it to her. Then he's out the door.

“Thanks,” she says to his back. She wonders how long that twig was in her hair. If it's one Luke flicked at her earlier. If anyone was going to tell her.

She drops it into the trash can next to the sink.

She hovers in the doorway, psyching herself up. And then, heart pounding, she tiptoes down the dark hall to the large shared bedroom. Moonlight is streaming through the windows. It illuminates her single bed, her duffel bag tucked under the blanket. It catches the faces of the three Knoxville girls at the other end of the room. They all look her way, wide-eyed. When they see it's just her, they turn their backs, whispering.

Hallelujah is changing quickly, silently, into sweatpants and a T-shirt, when she sees that the girl in the next bed is staring at her. For a second, Hallelujah is sure she's going to call out. Bring the adults running. But she just rolls her eyes.

“Go to bed. Before you get us all in trouble,” the girl mutters. She flops over onto her other side, turning her back to Hallelujah.

Shaking a little, Hallelujah slips under the covers. She feels her body settle into a groove in the mattress that hundreds have settled into before. There's a spring digging into one hip, and she shifts and turns, trying to get comfortable, until her adrenaline fades and she can sleep.

She remembers standing at her locker, hearing the whispers. Whispers about her. And about Luke. She remembers turning and seeing Dani and Lynn with a group of girls they knew from Yearbook. She remembers not understanding right away. And then Dani stared her down, eyes narrowed to slits. When Hallelujah dropped her gaze, she heard Lynn's peal of laughter. “So anyway,” Lynn went on, “Luke said . . .”

She remembers the note, in English class. “You knew I liked him.” Dani's clean cursive. Hallelujah stared at her friend's back. Dani didn't turn around. And she didn't respond to calls or emails in the weeks that followed
.

By winter break, Dani was dating Luke. The rumors about Hallelujah had circulated and changed and circulated again. Still, on the first day of the new semester, she mustered up the courage to say something. To warn her former friend about who Luke really was. Dani laughed in her face. Called her jealous. Luke dumped Dani in February. Dani and Lynn still refused to speak to Hallelujah. It was like they'd never been friends at all
.

T
HE LIGHT FLIPPING ON IS BRIGHT AND SUDDEN AND
painful.

Hallelujah groans and rolls over, burying her face in her pillow. The pillowcase smells like cheap detergent. She finds a wet spot. She was drooling.

She sits up. Yawns. Stretches. And remembers what she was dreaming about.

Hanging out with Jonah. Movie night at his house. Sometimes they watched movies that were really good, but this time he'd picked action over substance: things blowing up and people driving cars off buildings, shooting at each other out the windows as they fell. Jonah loved stuff like that. Hallelujah didn't, but that didn't stop Jonah from pushing her to watch something with Bruce Willis or the Rock at least once a month.

Hallelujah smiles. For a second, she can't wait to tease Jonah about his bad taste in movies affecting her dreams. And then her smile fades, because of course she can't tell him. They aren't friends anymore. Him speaking to her last night for the first time in months doesn't change that. And anyway, in the bright light of morning, last night doesn't feel real. It feels as much like a dream as being back on Jonah's couch.

She tries to shake away her sudden sadness by going through the morning motions. She brushes her teeth. She showers, welcoming the feeling of the hot water cascading over her body and watching soap and shampoo swirl around the drain. She covers a few zits and yanks her wet hair back into a ponytail. She dresses: soft, worn jeans, a tank top, a long-sleeved shirt over that, cotton socks, hiking boots laced tight. She stuffs a jacket, an extra shirt, and extra socks into her backpack.

Alongside the water bottle, energy bars, swimsuit, T-shirt, and shorts she was told to bring, just in case, the extra clothes make her backpack heavy and awkward. She can't imagine carrying it for ten miles. But she follows instructions. Better safe than sorry.

She manages to finish getting ready for the day without saying a word to anyone. She keeps her head down. She tries to move through the room like a ghost. To be unseen.

At breakfast—slimy powdered eggs, soggy bacon, and dry toast—Hallelujah sits alone at the end of a long cafeteria table in the common room, staring at her plate. The eggs are already congealing, which turns her stomach a little. She's no gourmet chef, but she cooks a couple times a week, and she's getting better. She likes cooking. It's one of the only things she likes these days, now that she's not singing and has no friends.

Even when she completely fails at a new recipe, it doesn't look as bad as this. Still, she knows she'll be starving later if she doesn't eat now. She takes a bite. And another. She tries not to taste too much.

As she's finishing her meal, Luke and Brad walk past, Brittany and Madison and Kelsey right behind them. And Rachel. The four girls are practically wearing matching outfits: short-shorts and spaghetti-strap tank tops, jackets tied around their waists. Messy ponytails that probably took half an hour to get
just right
.

Luke looks back at Hallelujah and smirks. The Knoxville girls follow his gaze, see her sitting alone, and laugh. Whispers are exchanged. They know she's watching. They're counting on it. And it hurts. It does. But she tells herself she can handle it. As she washes down her last bite of toast with a swig of orange juice, avoiding the stares, she repeats it to herself:
You can handle this week. You can
.

She hears Rachel's voice. “I'll be right there, okay?” A moment later, the chair to Hallelujah's right slides out. “Hey, Hal,” Rachel says, plopping down.

Hallelujah looks over. “Hey,” she says warily.

“You make it back okay last night?” Rachel asks.

Hallelujah flashes back to her moment of frozen panic, when the lights were coming closer and Jonah took her arm. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were right behind me. Then you weren't.”

A shout from the front of the room: “Ladies and gentlemen! Focus over here!”

Hallelujah spins to see hike director Jesse standing in the doorway, arms crossed. In his plaid fleece pullover, frowning, he looks like a grouchy lumberjack.

“It was brought to my attention that some of y'all were out in the woods after curfew last night,” Jesse announces. His words are met by a low rumble of conversation, a rumble he stops by lifting one hand. “Not only is that against the rules, it's not safe. And it will not be tolerated.” He scans the room. “We have a good idea who was involved. So you can save yourself some trouble by going ahead and coming forward.” He pauses, like he expects someone just to walk up and confess.

“Phew,” Rachel murmurs. “We're in the clear.”

“What do you mean?” Hallelujah whispers back.

“‘We have a good idea' means ‘We don't actually know,'” Rachel says. “He's trying to lay a guilt trip on us.”

Hallelujah peeks toward the others who were out last night. They're all together, minus Jonah, at a table in the back corner. None of them looks particularly guilt-ridden. Luke's actually nodding, his face solemn and thoughtful like he agrees wholeheartedly with everything that's being said. It's his preacher's-kid face. The one that has all the grown-ups fooled. Including his dad.
Especially
his dad.

“But how can they not know who it was?” Hallelujah asks.

Rachel shrugs. “Someone screwed up. Don't question it.”

Hallelujah still feels uneasy. She'll be the first person the chaperones talk to. She's sure of it. Any hint of trouble comes back to her now. She has that reputation.

It's not fair.

After waiting another few seconds, Jesse coughs. “Well, know that this is your last warning.” He starts to walk away, then adds, “Be outside in fifteen minutes.”

The buzz of conversation starts back up. A lot of people look at Luke. A few sets of eyes find Hallelujah. They stare, even though she's not nearly popular enough to get invited to sneak out. Not anymore.

Rachel was a fluke. Rachel only needed her to find the party.

So why is Rachel sitting here now?

“Anyway, back to last night—” Rachel starts.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Hallelujah says automatically.

“You could've told me there was something up between you and Luke. Before I dragged you out there. I asked you what was up, and you said nothing. But it clearly wasn't nothing.”

“Like you honestly care.” The words are out before Hallelujah even realizes what she's saying. It's not until she sees Rachel sit back in her chair, a stung expression on her face, that she realizes how harsh she sounds.

“Ouch,” Rachel murmurs. “You don't even know me. You don't know what I care about.”

“Rachel!” Luke's voice. Rising above the din.

Hallelujah feels like every head in the room swivels toward Luke, and then toward her and Rachel.

“One sec!” Rachel shouts back. She lowers her voice. “Hal. I'm trying to apologize. For putting you on the spot last night. I didn't know. Okay?”

Hallelujah thinks of Luke's arm around Rachel's shoulders. She says nothing.

“You don't still like him,” Rachel goes on. “Do you?”

Now Hallelujah pushes her chair back. “Who told you I liked him?”

“Luke said—”

Hallelujah doesn't wait to hear what Luke said. She grabs her backpack and her paper plate covered in powdered-egg slime and runs for the trash can, and the hallway, and the front door.

S
HE SITS ON THE PORCH STEPS
. S
HE LEANS AGAINST THE
wooden railing. The gnarled limbs are worn and polished from the touch of hands. She is shaking a little, and she hates it.

She's cold. That's all it is. It may be April over in Knoxville and down in Chattanooga, but up here in the mountains, at 8:00 a.m., it feels like February. The grass on either side of the gravel path in front of the lodge is crisp with frozen dew. The clouds are low and wispy-wet.

Hallelujah is thankful for her long-sleeved shirt and jeans. She thinks about Rachel, still inside the lodge, wearing shorts and a tank top. She wonders if she should tell her to grab some layers. She decides to go back and tell her.

She changes her mind.

In the fuzzy early light, Hallelujah can see that their lodge sits on top of a high ridge. She can see for miles: trees of different greens, blue water, brown log homes sending out spirals of smoke from redbrick chimneys.

She sits there, alone, looking out, listening to the morning birds chirping and the wind rustling the trees' vibrant green leaves. She breathes in the wet pine and wet grass and wet air and feels less choked.

She thinks,
What did he tell her?

It doesn't matter. Because nothing's going to change. But it does matter. Because with Rachel, for a few minutes last night, she let herself think something might.

She should have known better. It's been this way since October, since Luke told that first lie about what happened between them. Since he trashed her reputation. Made her into a joke. Since he transformed her into someone her parents don't trust. Someone with no friends and no voice.

He's more popular than ever, while she dreams of disappearing.

She hasn't been to a youth group activity since it happened. Until now. At first, she wasn't allowed to go. It was part of her punishment. Her parents grounded her—no social activities. Meanwhile, Rich put her on youth group probation, because she'd violated the code of conduct they'd all signed at the start of the year.