Frowning, Jessa sweeps her hair behind her ear and over one shoulder. It’s the rich red-blond of apple cider and she touches it all the time, the same way Dad pats his pockets to make sure he’s got everything he needs. It’s no secret that she’s gorgeous. She knows she’s beautiful the way I know yellow and blue make green. Some girls don’t like that. Liz Bash sneers about her in the second-floor bathroom and says she’s one of those girls (like there’s only two kinds of girls, and you’re one of those or you aren’t). I’m not exactly Jessa’s white knight, but I don’t see the point in begrudging her looks. I’m fine, possibly cute from certain angles and under the right circumstances and with enough work, but sometimes I think I’d eat live spiders and roll in rotten fruit to see what Jessa sees in the mirror, just for a day.
“Why can’t we take your car?” she asks.
“I need to bring it to the garage for the weekend. Something’s up with the starter.” This is a half truth, as there have been a few shaky starts recently. What follows is the total lie: “I really want to go shopping.” I slip a little whine in my voice.
“Fine, I’ll text Mom and find out.” She hardly bothers to hide her phone, but she won’t get caught. Mr. McCormick’s done fussing with the DVD player and has retreated to his desk, surrounded by copies of Bram Stoker’s Dracula and stacks of everyone’s essay but mine (Lindy went with “a family matter” in her note). Anyway, it’s Friday, and the last Friday before February break. Not a teacher at Sugarbrook High has their head in the game, hence Alicia Silverstone. In history next period, I’m betting we’ll watch a History Channel documentary on Nazis.
This is good. It gives me time to plan. I’d go into the city alone if I could. Technically, Jessa and I are best friends. We grew up in each other’s houses. Shared teething rings, then sleeping bags, then issues of Vogue. A few years ago we learned about mutualism in biology; how a certain kind of shrimp will drill a sandy home in the seafloor, and in will move a goby fish alongside it. Seems generous, but the shrimp is mostly blind and counts on the little bug-eyed fish to keep watch, and warn it with the flailing of its body if a bigger fish approaches. I hang out over at Jessa’s house and let her copy my English homework and sometimes math, which I secretly love because it’s just like a puzzle written in code. And while I’m there, Jessa polishes up my hopeless art assignments or paints my nails. Meanwhile I get to gaze at her big brother, Chad, who lives in their giant luxury basement and goes to college, and who I’ve had a lingering and unrequited crush on since fifth grade. I guess that makes me the goby fish?
Maybe that all sounds bad. Machiavellian, Mr. McCormick would say. Maybe it’s just honest. But I’m counting on Jessa for three reasons:
1. She doesn’t have a car, never even got her license, and depends on Chad or her parents or her boyfriends to drive her anywhere.
2. She will never turn down a suggestion to shop on Newbury Street, though I can barely afford the cupcakes.
3. Most important, Dr. Van Tassel—Jessa’s mom, who is all about girl power, and doctors under her maiden name—works at Good Shepherd Hospital. I know for a fact she usually has second shift on Saturdays. And it’s her I really need.
While I’m waiting for an answer I slide my hand into the front pocket of the faux-leather satchel at my feet—a present from Dad for my seventeenth birthday—and rasp my fingers against the rough outside of the stone. Whenever I feel myself start to panic because Dad’s been missing for two days now, I think of the stone and repeat to myself that he’s searching. He’s searching. He’s searching. I wanted to stay home today and start my own search, but Lindy wouldn’t let me, said I’d already missed on Tuesday and, in situations like these, normalcy is the best policy. Whatever she means by that. School won’t be normal for long, not once word gets out.
As far as I can tell, none of my classmates know Dad’s gone. Yet. I spent most of chemistry eyeing Ashley Griffin, who revealed nothing. No sympathetic half smiles, no gossiping behind her purple-painted nails. Of course, she might not even be Officer Griffin’s daughter, but she’s still the type who knows everything before everyone else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her surprised, not by the box of Plan B that tumbled out of Dominique Melcher’s backpack during study hall or Josh Lopez’s brother’s second DUI. Girls like Ashley Griffin are the mouth of the river of gossip at Sugarbrook High, and the rest of us try not to sink in the current. Say what you will about Jessa (and you can say a lot), but she doesn’t blab secrets.
Not that I plan to tell her about Dad. I don’t plan to tell anyone. I’m not embarrassed or anything—I know Dad must have a good reason for skipping out in the night—it’s just that nothing anyone comes up with will be the truth. They’ll say he ran out on us, or that his murdered body is floating listlessly down the Mystic River. False and false. I don’t want anyone to think of my dad that way.
I flinch as a pencil flips past my face and clatters against the frosted windowpane to my left. Katie Rodriguez and Liz Bash giggle behind me, but Mr. McCormick doesn’t look up. I turn on Jessa, who grins unapologetically.
“Mom’s working at three tomorrow. She’ll drive us in, but we have to, like, get my brother to pick us up after.”