This is Not a Love Letter Page 2

  How do you tell people that there’s a good reason you look like white trash? I just shrug and look toward Steph’s house across the street. “It’s been there forever.”

  Tim looks down the street. “We should check out the bus station and Amtrak. Just in case.”

  “Good idea,” Josh says.

  “A bunch more people are out looking,” Tim says. “We’ll find him.”

  Josh presses one finger to the edge of his eye. “Yeah we will.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Joshy.” Tamara gives him a hug. The hoodie’s sleeve falls down. She’s got a splotch of blue on her forearm, which seems strange. Never pegged her as the type to help with painting her house. Man, I really want that hoodie.

  “Text us if you hear anything,” Tim says.

  Then they all climb in the truck and it roars down the street. Josh and I gaze down the street after them.

  He sighs. “I’m going to keep riding the trails.”

  I follow him down the driveway. “Do you think he ran into those guys from the Heights again?”

  “They were from the Heights?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “He didn’t tell me who.”

  “Man.”

  He swallows. Never seen him look so worried before. That’s what freaks me out more than anything. If you were just taking off like last time, you would’ve told him.

  He jams on his helmet. “I’ll let you know if I see anything.” Then he rides off down the road.

  He’s already searched for hours, and now he’s going back out—it’s pretty amazing to have a friend like that. I can see you guys living next door to each other when you’re eighty. Isn’t that funny? The two of you on your separate porches in your rocking chairs. You wouldn’t need to sit beside each other. You barely talk anyway. (I just heard you answering me in my brain. “Of course we’d sit next to each other.” Okay. Whatever.)

  At this point, I’m not sure what to do. I’m thinking this would be a good joke. Maybe you’re trying to show me how bummed I’ll be if you’re gone. (I am! Come back! I’m bummed, seriously bummed!)

  For a full minute, I stare down the empty street, toward the river, thinking you’re going to show up, as if the powerful force of my mind could make it happen. I wait for you to run toward me, that dimple of yours diving into your cheek, your smile so wide it’s like you’ve opened the cloudy Northwest sky and let the sun come in. You’ll say you were joking. You’ll pick me up and swing me around. Then, your lips will rest on mine, and we’ll sway back and forth, and you’ll dip me back, like in some old movie. I wait, hoping, but you don’t come running down the street, and it’s not a joke.

  7:40 AM Saturday, your house

  I have to tell your mom what I know. As much as I don’t like cops, this might be the one time we need them.

  I take off toward your house.

  I’m breathing hard after two blocks. Should have grabbed my bike. I suck at running. It’s the boobs, I swear. I know you’re a boob guy, but most of the time, they’re a damn hassle.

  For the last block, I slow down to a trot. Tell myself not to panic. Maybe you’re home. This is not the kind of day bad things happen.

  There’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s the most beautiful day we’ve had in weeks. The guy on FM 101 is probably calling it a Blue Blazer.

  Normally, on a day like today, you’d be waking me up with some cheesy thing like “rise and shine” and then you’d make me coffee and half an hour later, we’d be hitting the trails, me on my bike, you sprinting ahead, leaping over logs with your long, beautiful legs, like some goddamn gazelle, and I’d be chasing you down, panting like a hyena, carrying my bike over those same damn logs. This is what I want to be doing instead of wondering where the hell you are.

  When I get to your duplex, your blue truck is in the driveway, and I think, Thank god, you’re home!! But then I remember you left your truck, and I feel this crushing disappointment like the damn truck started itself up and drove backward, over my twitching body. I guess I wouldn’t be twitching until after my body was crushed. First, I’d scream. Then get crushed. And then twitch.

  I slide my finger along its gleaming side. Not a speck of dirt. Inside there’s no garbage and the dashboard is shining. You just cleaned it. For someone who doesn’t really care about what he drives, you sure clean it a lot.

  At your screen door, I pause. The cold metal handle rests in my hand. I’m worried your mom is going to be mad about this break. Maybe she’ll blame me.

  I open the screen door and knock, and then I step back and let it shut, like a door-to-door salesperson, or a kid who has to knock on doors for his religion. You never talk much about being a Jehovah’s Witness, just that you decided it wasn’t for you.

  The inside door swings open. Your mom is wearing a dark purple skirt with a white blouse and a purple cashmere cardigan. Her short, dark hair is curled under. She always says a person should try to look her best. Put your best face forward. But she has huge bags and her eyes are all red—I bet she hasn’t slept all night—and, baby, you got to know, today her best face isn’t all that great.

  “Hi.” I cannot believe I hung up on her.

  “Jessie!” She throws the screen door wide. I step into the house and she pulls me into a warm hug that smells faintly of cinnamon. “I was hoping you’d come by.”

  It is such a relief that she hasn’t gone all cold on me. She’s been like a second mom to me—I like her more than I like my own mom. Maybe that’s bad to say, but it’s true.

  My hand rests on the back of her soft cashmere sweater. Her breathing is shallow.

  “I just found out,” I say. “Josh woke me up. He told me you called, but I didn’t realize it was—” I suck in a breath. “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet. I talked to the elders at the church and they say there’s no point panicking for nothing. He’ll be home soon.”

  I can’t believe she’s asking the elders for advice at a time like this.

  A buzzer rings in the kitchen. “I made some chocolate cinnamon bread for when he gets home. Have to take it out of the oven. Come on in.”

  Your house feels different. It’s too quiet, too dark. Then I realize that the television is off, and that’s why it’s strange. Instead of light bouncing off the flowery wallpaper and the constant sound of a ball game or one of your mom’s shows, there is only the quiet tick of your old grandfather clock.

  Out of habit, I glance up the stairs, expecting to see you lumbering down, your kneecaps bobbing, your head ducking so you don’t hit the ceiling. But the stairwell is empty.

  I slide off my flip-flops and follow your mom toward the kitchen. My bare feet press into the Persian carpet you brought all the way from Brooklyn. It’s strange being here when you are not.

  All I can think is, man, I can’t believe I have to tell her about those guys. She always goes on about how nice people are in Pendling, but you were beaten up bad, and we both know underneath lots of people aren’t all that nice.

  You said they didn’t beat you up because you’re black, not really. Those two words. Not really. You said it was about baseball.

  It was a Saturday night, three weeks ago. Your voice on the phone, all pinched up: “Can you come? I’m hurt.” I ran all the way to your house. Your sister and your mom were at the Jehovah’s Witness hall. You said to come right in, you were in your room. I ran up the stairs, threw open your door.

  You were laid flat on your clean blue sheet. The fact that you hadn’t showered or changed was what made me realize it was bad. Your legs and arms had mud caked on them from being kicked on the ground, and your face was swollen on one side. You squinted at me when I came in, said you needed ice. Even then, your dimple danced on your cheek.

  I flew down the stairs and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and then hurried back up. Your mattress sagged as I dropped down beside you. When I lifted up your T-shirt, the movement of the fabric across your skin made you wince. You
r ribs were so swollen, right away I knew something was broken. I placed the ice pack on them. You let out a moan and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. I ran the tips of my fingers over the goose bumps on your arm.

  You told me what happened.

  “You have to call the cops.”

  “It’s nothing,” you said.

  “It isn’t nothing! They could have broken your pitching arm. That’s not a normal fight.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  But I was mad. “If you don’t call the cops, they’ll do it again.”

  “I’m not calling the cops.”

  No matter how many times I begged you to report it, you wouldn’t. So I made you promise you’d never run down there again alone.

  You. Promised. Me.

  When your mom and sister got home, you told them you fell. Your mom went on and on about how you had to be careful on those trails, how it’s easy to trip, all those branches and logs. Raffa stood, watching, her skinny eleven-year-old body curving into the door, scared, like she knew.

  And now I’m in your kitchen and I have to tell your mom that you lied and I lied for you. Which I hate. Because if there’s one thing I know about myself, maybe I can be brutal, maybe I tell it too straight, but I’m no liar.

  Your mom taps the top of the bread with two fingers and glances at the large pendulum clock on the wall. That worry line you tease her about is forming between her eyebrows. “It’s almost eight.”

  “I think you should call the police,” I blurt out.

  She frowns. “Maybe they picked him up.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe they saw him running and thought he was running from something. They could have arrested him.”

  This did not even occur to me. “But he’d get a phone call, right?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Cops here are different from Brooklyn cops.”

  She gives me a look down and up. Fair enough. How do I know they’re different? You and I did get pulled over for nothing more than once.

  “He’s probably going to come home any minute,” your mom says. “He did this right after we moved here, too. Didn’t show up all night.”

  “But he texted Josh that time.”

  “Fifteen years old! I was fit to be tied.”

  “Please call the police.” My voice cracks. “It’s different this time.”

  She frowns. “Jessie, do you need to tell me something?”

  “It’s not safe where he was running.”

  “How’s that?” She folds her arms in front of her body and gives me that look she gives you when you come home with an A- instead of an A.

  The words fall from my mouth like nails out of a bucket. “Remember his black eye a few weeks ago? Some guys from the Heights beat him up. He was running down there, in that same area, at that same time.”

  “Chris was fighting?” From her face, I see she doesn’t believe it. She knows how you feel about violence.

  “He didn’t fight back. I wish he had. Then, they wouldn’t mess with him again.”

  She frowns.

  “He promised me he wouldn’t run down there by himself again, but he was mad at me, so he did it anyway. And now he’s missing.” Sharp slivers of sadness cut at my insides. If you were here, you’d calm me down, speak to me in your low, steady voice, rub my back, tell me it’s going to be okay.

  “Well, let’s not overreact.” She sighs. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to call the police.”

  “I called the hospital,” she says. “I thought maybe he’d been hit by a car. But he wasn’t there. I never thought about fighting. I didn’t figure that kind of thing happened here.”

  Not here? Fighting’s our town’s favorite sport. If there’s a week without a fight, it’s a goddamn miracle. “People fight all the time. Just not Chris.”

  “He’s a good boy.” She turns to dump the chocolate cinnamon bread on a plate and then takes out a knife and slices it. Steam cuts into the air. The smell of chocolate fills the room.

  “Please call. Just at least report him missing.”

  “He’s eighteen,” she says. “We may have to wait twenty-four hours.”

  “You can tell them he’s in high school. Please?”

  She gazes at me, worried, then picks up the phone and dials 911. On the other end, the operator answers and your mom says, “I’m sorry if I should be calling another number, but my son didn’t come home last night.” She sounds uncertain now. I wonder if she’s ever called the police before. “He’s eighteen, but he’s in high school. His name is Christopher Kirk.”

  I can hear a high-pitched female voice on the other end, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I take a bite of the chocolate cinnamon bread. The chocolate chips are hot and melty.

  “Oh yes?” your mom responds to the woman. “Isn’t that something?” Then, she explains that you went for a run last night. Another pause. “Yes, well, I thought he was at his girlfriend’s house, but it turns out he wasn’t.” She gives your height and weight and what you were wearing: six foot two, 180 pounds, black shorts, blue T-shirt, Nike running shoes.

  She doesn’t mention your dimple. Or the way your eyes sparkle when you look at me. Or how you like retro candy. And of course, she says nothing about that sexy line of muscle by your hip. Or how you’re a really good kisser.

  “Thank you. Good-bye now.” She hangs up. “Can you believe it? The dispatcher knows Chris. He coached her son on that Little League team.”

  It doesn’t surprise me. There are thirty thousand people in our little town in the Northwest, but everywhere we go, people are always slapping you on the back, saying hi. After three years, you know more people than I do, and I’ve lived here my whole life.

  “She said they’ll put out an APB for him. All the police officers in the area will be looking.”

  “You should tell them that he has a dimple.”

  “I’ll tell the detective when he calls.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You watch, now that I called the police, Chris is going to walk through that door.”

  I look toward the door of the kitchen. You don’t walk through.

  She adjusts her smooth pearl necklace. “Last night he was studying for his exams. I brought him a peanut-butter sandwich. He ate it and told me he was going for a run. Said he had to burn off some steam. Said he’d be back soon.”

  “See? He’s not going to say that and not come home.”

  “You’re right.” Her jaw quivers. I’m scared she’s going to cry, but then she turns away and wraps the chocolate bread in tin foil.

  I don’t know whether I should ask if she’s okay. “Where’s Raffa?”

  “Upstairs.”

  It’s strange that Raffa didn’t come down to say hi.

  “Josh is riding the trails right now, looking for him,” I say.

  She’s quiet for a second. When she speaks, her voice is tight, like an elastic stretched too far. “That’s good.”

  “Do you want me to stay and talk to the police?” I admit it, I hope she’ll say no. I really, really, really don’t want to talk to the police.

  She reaches her hands up to her eyes. I think she’s crying, but there’s no sound. “Don’t you have to work at the pool today?”

  “I could call in sick.”

  “No, you go,” she says, turning around, her eyes shining. “It’s best I talk to the police alone.”

  I’m relieved for a second, but then I wonder why. “I’m sorry I hung up on you last night,” I blurt out. “I thought it was Chris. I didn’t know it was you. We’re on a break for a week and—”

  She cuts me off. “You’ve got nothing more to tell me about. You’re a teenager. You’re doing what teenagers do.”

  Does she mean it’s okay for me to do stupid things just because I’m a teenager? “He wants to turn down that scholarship and stay here with me.”

  “He’s going to turn it down?” She p
resses her lips together, and I can tell she’s mad. If you walk in the door right now, I’m going to regret this.

  “I told him he’s going. I’m not letting him give up his dreams.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m getting back together with him, though,” I say. “Soon as he comes home. I can’t live without him. I love him.”

  Those three words come, unexpected, little birds that decided to fly out of my mouth right at this minute and spin their way into your mom’s ears.

  You say I love you to me all the time. It’s as easy for you as saying pizza. But the few times I’ve said it, I’ve had to force the words out of my mouth. It’s like I’m getting a tooth pulled. No joke. It’s painful. We don’t say that in my family. It’s not normal for us. But now, I’ve said it to your mom, like it’s nothing.

  She squints at me, kindly. “I know you do, Jessie.”

  “Can you let me know if you hear anything?”

  My throat feels all clogged up, like I’ve swallowed a big chunk of crusty bread. Did you know that we release a hormone when we get sad that actually causes the throat to swell up?

  “Of course I will.” Her brown eyes crinkle and she forces a smile. “I’ll make sure he calls you as soon as he gets home.”

  8:35 AM Saturday, Steph

  I walk to Steph’s house and try to see if there’s any light coming through the brown bedsheets covering her window. Doesn’t look like it. She’d want me to wake her up for something like this, but if I knock on the glass, her mom’s boyfriend might freak out. You never know when they’re on a bender—it’s always best to call.

  Besides, I have to pee. Badly. I know that will make you smile. You always tease me about being an inconvenient pee-er. Right when we have to leave for school. Or when the movie’s about to start.

  Back in my house, I dodge piles of laundry, step over newspapers, arch my body around what looks like Mom’s old collage stuff. I’m pretty desperate now and only thinking, Toilet.

  That’s when my toe slams into something hard, something that was not there yesterday. Pain shoots through my body. I scream, grab my foot, and fall into a pile of old sheets. I search the floor for the offending object.