What She Left Behind (8 page)

As I continue toward history, I feel an arm around my shoulders.
Zach’s realized that something is seriously wrong.

But it’s Alex. “Boy, you look terrible.”

I would be mad at him, except for the way that he tilts his head at me and runs his finger along my jaw. Somehow it has me feeling like I’m out of breath and I don’t even mind.

“You okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say.
Once my mom gets here.

“So, you going to history?”

“Where else would I be going?”

Some kid running to get to class knocks me into Alex.

“Hey, watch it!” shouts Alex. He starts to say “shit” but then he looks at me and smiles instead. He picks up my notebook and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Thought maybe you would skip history today instead of math.”

“Nope.”

“We can, you know.”

I look up at him. His wavy hair hangs in his eyes. I want to brush it away for him. Under normal circumstances I would be thrilled that he wants me to skip class with him. Okay, I
am
thrilled that he wants me to skip class with him. But I’m also having a hard time shutting up the voice in my head.
Where is Mom? Why hasn’t she called? Will she be waiting for me at the Dairy Dream today?

“No, thanks.”

“Oh.” He looks kind of disappointed.

“So why is it that you hate school?”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “‘Hate’ is a bit strong. I don’t actually hate school. I just don’t really care about it.”

“Why not?”

He looks at me blankly, as if I’m speaking Italian. The bell rings.

I take in a breath and let it out loudly as if I’m annoyed, instead of oxygen-deprived due to I’m-talking-to-a-hot-guy syndrome. “What I mean is, what about your future? What is it you want to be, you know, when you ‘grow up’?”

“Oh, yeah, that. I don’t know yet. I figure that’s what college is for.”

“Hello. How do you expect to get into college with the kind of grades you’ll be getting after skipping most of your classes?”

Did I really say that?

We stare at each other.

“So maybe I won’t go,” he says. “Maybe I’ll just—oh, never mind.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” My stomach sinks.

He shrugs. “I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you.” He reaches into his backpack, which looks so light it could be empty. “That Stephen King book—
Misery
. I finished it last night.”

“Thanks. Did you like it?”

“You mean, did it scare the shit out of me? Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

When we get to Robertson’s class, the door is closed. Everyone is going to see us walk in together. I feel a flutter. I push open the door and shuffle over to a seat. Alex follows me, letting the door slam behind him.

“Sara and Alex? Who knew?” someone says in a not-so-quiet whisper. Cue giggling.

Robertson clears his throat. “Pass?” he asks, looking straight at me. He doesn’t bother asking Alex for one.

I shake my head.

He opens his mouth and looks like he’s going to say something, but instead he just closes it again and goes back to his lecture.

At my desk, I close my eyes, prop my head on my chin, and yawn approximately once every twenty seconds.

Think. Think.
Where would my mom go? To her parents’ house in Delaware? Her sister’s house in Oregon?

I have more phone calls to make. I put my hand up and wave it wildly.

“Yes, Sara,” Robertson says, smiling. “Give us one of the causes of World War I.”

I blink at him. “I have no idea,” I say without shame. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

He frowns.

“Please?”

“Yes, go.” He sighs.

Alex raises his hand.

“Yes, Alex?” he says in a barely disguised shocked voice. “One of the causes of World War I?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

More laughter.

Robertson ignores him.

“Cody. One of the causes of World War I?”

Alex: “How about I go see the nurse? I think I might throw up all over your replica of the Great Wall of China.”

Robertson doesn’t look the least bit upset. “You can try all you want, Alex. I’m not going to throw you out of class. I’ll simply send
an e-mail to your coach.” He goes to his desk and hovers over the computer keyboard.

Trump.

Alex turns and gives me the “I tried” shrug. I hightail it out the door before Robertson can call me back.

The bathroom has become my new phoning headquarters. I lean against a sink, dial my grandmother’s number and wait.

“Hello,” my grandpa barks into the phone.

“Hi, Grandpa. It’s Sara.”

“Who?” Grandpa doesn’t have a hearing aid, but he really needs one.

The door opens. Rachel passes in front of me in her flip-flops, with hot-pink polish on her toenails. She stops in front of the other mirror, and works on her makeup.
Shit.
She’s the last person I’d have picked to eavesdrop on my life. Rachel’s dad owns the Scottsfield funeral parlor. Whenever you go by the place it has the name of the person who just died on the marquee, kind of like a movie listing. Her family’s been pissed at mine ever since we got someone from out of town to do Matt’s funeral.

“It’s Sara,” I say a bit louder. “Your granddaughter.”

Rachel snickers. I move away from the sinks and stare at the graffiti on the stalls. The carving that used to have
RACHEL + JASON
with a heart around it now has Jason’s name crossed out in lipstick. I peek at her again. She isn’t looking too broken up about it.

“It’s Sara!” he shouts, presumably at my grandmother.

I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Just a second, tell her I’m getting the muffins out of the oven.”

“She’s getting the muffins out of the oven!” shouts Grandpa, at a volume ten times louder than a normal person.

“So how are you, Grandpa?”

“What?”

“I said, how are you doing?”

“We’re doing just fine. Here you go. Here’s your grandmother.”

“Sara, dear. Shouldn’t you be at school? Is something wrong?”

This is the part where I should tell her that my mom is missing and my dad is insane, but instead I say, “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m home sick today.”

The toilet flushes. It sounds loud and industrial. Nothing like the toilet we have at home.

“You don’t sound sick,” my grandma says.

“I’ve been throwing up all morning. So I thought I’d call and see how you guys were doing. There’s nothing on TV right now.”

Grandma pauses, as if trying to reconcile the loud toilet flush with me being at home. “We’re just fine. We’ve got Grandpa’s heart doctor appointment this afternoon, then tomorrow morning it’s our day to deliver Meals On Wheels.” My grandma is way into volunteerism. “What kind of service projects do you have going on at your school this year?”

Our family is the opposite of my grandparents. We never volunteer for anything. Although once my mom and I are on our own, who knows, maybe we’ll start. I make something up. It’s easier than hearing my grandma talk about how important it is to help others. “I think there’s this Habitat for Humanity thing next month.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

I make one last attempt. “So, nothing else is new with you?” This is the point where she’s supposed to mention that my mom called to say that she’s on her way to see them.

“No, that’s about it,” she says.

“Okay, great then. I’ll let you get back to
Wheel of Fortune
.”

“
The Price Is Right
, dear.
Wheel of Fortune
is on in the evening.”

“Right. Of course. Talk to you later, then.” I disconnect.

Rachel washes her hands and leaves.

The call to my aunt goes similarly except that my uncle (who works from home) doesn’t need a hearing aid and my aunt definitely doesn’t believe I’ve just called to see what’s up with her. But I don’t feel like I can share the truth. If I tell them that my mom is missing and has either run away from my dad because he’s beating her up or that I think my dad killed my mom, they’ll insist that I call the police. In fact, they’ll probably call the police for me, i.e., Jack Reynolds. I’ll be as good as dead. The best thing I can do is to sit tight and wait for Mom to come back for me. There must be a good reason why she didn’t pick me up yesterday. I just can’t think of it right now.

I go back to class and put my head down.

“Sara, you were gone more than ten minutes.” I prop my head up. Robertson is towering above my desk.

“Sorry, stomachache,” I say.

Robertson narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I nod and pretend to pay attention. The last thing I need is Robertson calling home and asking to speak to my parents.

This is what my version of paying attention looks like:

Stare intently at Robertson. Squint at the board.

Write furiously:
Must leave. Have to go. Must leave. Have to go. She’s coming back. Be patient. Stay calm. Must leave. Have to go.

Pretend not to notice Alex’s desk moving closer to mine. Turn the page in my notebook so Alex can’t see what I’m writing. Copy down what’s actually written on the board. Hide the note Alex slides to me under my notebook. Try to recover from accelerated heartbeat caused by Alex’s hand brushing mine as he passes me the note.

Stare at Robertson. Stare at the board.

Think about kissing Alex. Look at Alex. Notice dimples. Wonder how someone can look so hot in a T-shirt with a sports logo on it. Imagine the scratch of stubble against my cheek. Try to slow my breathing.

Notice Alex’s desk is only six inches from mine. Let Alex lock pinkies with me so as not to cause a scene. Okay and because I want to.

Ignore snickers.

Drop Alex’s hand when Robertson turns around.

Read note from Alex:
Have lunch with me?

Send back answer:
Can’t.

Return to original page of notes. Cover page with arm so Alex can’t see and continue writing:
Must leave. Have to go.

When the bell rings, I’m the first one out the door and Alex is right behind me.

“Hey, wait up!”

My heart skips a beat. Let’s face it: Alex is hot, easy to talk to, and definitely interested.

Focus. This is no time for romance.
I pretend not to hear him. I concentrate on my footsteps. I have this little singsong marching tune playing in my head.
Mom. Mom. Where is Mom?

He catches up to me anyway.

“What’s the big hurry? Besides escaping Robertson’s lecture on the horrors of World War I?”

“Meeting someone,” I say, taking the front steps two at a time.

“The Dairy Dream again?”

Today I have a hooded sweatshirt with me. I zip it up and start power-walking.

Alex glides effortlessly along next to me. “You want to work on the history project together?” he asks.

Do I tell him no now so he doesn’t get stuck doing the paper all by himself once I disappear? I decide not to. It will give him a good excuse to ask for an extension later. I look over at him.
God, I love the way his hair always looks just a tiny bit mussed up.
“You were actually planning on writing a paper?” I say.

“With the right topic, history can be interesting.” When he smiles at me his whole face lights up. “Well, and with the right girl.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You’ve got it down pretty well. Flirt a little, flash your brilliant smile, and get the girl to write the paper for you. Only, haven’t you noticed? I’m not the most dedicated student lately.”

“So now you know I’m after you and not your writing skills.”

My heart beats faster. “And why would that be?”

“You’re pretty even when your eyes are all puffy from crying.”

I lift my eyebrows.

“That, and you’re fun to talk to.” Then, just like he did in history class, he reaches over and wraps his pinky around mine.

When we get to the Dairy Dream, I scan the cars in the lot, then lead Alex over to the picnic table we used yesterday. Our pinkies come undone as we sit. To give my hands something to do, I open my backpack and take out the book Alex loaned me.

“So what’s it about?” I ask.

He smashes his lips together and turns a pretend key. “Nope. No can do.”

I roll my eyes and turn the book over to read the back cover. “Hey,” Alex says, covering the text with one hand. “No cheating.”