“Because Angelique doesn’t want to be found?”
“Because we don’t need some skinny-ass white lady trying to save her soul by slumming it in the ghetto. Come on, have you looked in a mirror? This ain’t your neighborhood.” She delivers this with the kind of disdain only a teenager can muster.
I take the second hit, surrendering the battle but focusing on the war as I lead Kyra and Marjolie away from the pack. Their classmates have already grown bored with the show. My initial appearance had been interesting, but Angelique’s case is old news. Nothing of interest here.
“How long have you known Angelique?” I ask casually.
“Six years.” Marjolie speaks first, her voice soft, her gaze cast down. “I live near her in Mattapan. My family is Haitian, too.”
Kyra shrugs. “Two years, when we both started at Boston Academy. I used to steal Angel’s notes. Eventually she began giving them to me. Told me she never minded helping a friend. So then, you know, we became friends. Angel’s like’s that. She has this way . . .” Kyra shrugs again. “She’s way too good to be, like, missing, you know? But she’s got hidden reserves. She’s gonna come home, just you wait and see.” Kyra’s nostrils flare. I get the impression this has been a lot of words for her, and she meant every one of them. Beside her, Marjolie is nodding.
“I’ve worked fourteen missing persons cases,” I volunteer. “All around the country. Missing kids, missing adults. You know the one thing they all had in common?”
The girls wait. I have their attention now.
“The victims’ own families, even the ones they loved and who loved them, still didn’t know them. Not all the pieces, the jagged edges, the still-forming dreams. I think in the end, no parent or sibling truly can. That’s where friends come in. Angelique’s aunt, her brother, they see what they’ve always seen, combined with what they want to see. But you two . . . You knew Angelique. You are the family she chose for herself.”
Marjolie looks like she’s going to cry. Even Kyra has lost her edge. She appears younger. Less certain. She glances at Marjolie, who now appears scared. Why scared?
A bell rings, shrill and insistent. Behind us, the kids begin gathering up their belongings.
I make it quick. “Did Angelique have enemies at school? Kids who threatened her? Kids she threatened?”
“We stuck together,” Kyra says. “Watched each other’s backs. And don’t you go talking smack about my girl—Angel never threatened no one in her life.”
“What about gangs?”
“No way. Academy’s neutral ground. Principal Bastion says first time she catches wind of a gang sign or threat, that’s it, we’ll be wearing school uniforms.”
I translate that to mean the uniforms are the threat, and Kyra and her peers are taking it seriously.
Marjolie adds, “Angel wasn’t the kind to call attention to herself. She’s woke, you know. Sensitive to others, but unlike some others who always gotta be making a fuss.” She and Kyra exchange knowing glances. Marjolie continues. “Most of the kids in our school, they didn’t even know Angel’s name till the police showed up asking questions.”
I understand about half of what Marjolie said, but with the sea of kids preparing to exit, now is not the time. “Boyfriend?” I prod.
The girls exchange a glance. Marjolie is uncomfortable. Kyra sets her jaw.
“Yes, Angel had a boyfriend,” I fill in.
“No,” Kyra corrects. “At least . . .”
“We don’t know,” Marjolie clarifies quickly. “Angel came back to school last year . . . different. We teased her—”
“Had to be a boy,” Kyra interjects flatly.
“She said no—”
“Lost the big V. Still think so.” Kyra glances haughtily at her friend. “Not gonna convince me otherwise. Good for her.”
“She would’ve told us,” Marjolie insists. “Why keep it a secret?”
“Maybe he’s batshit ugly.”
Marjolie huffs out a breath, turns to me. “Kyra just likes to pretend she knows Angel the best. Summer before last year, I was the one who spent two months with Angel at the rec center; there were no boys. I mean, no one special.”
“Did Angelique have a job?”
“Babysitting. But she also helped out with her brother, so it’s not like she had tons of time.”
“But you’re saying she returned to school in the fall different? How so?”
More exchanged glances.
“I think Stella found her groove,” Kyra drawled.
Marjolie shook her head. “She was just—”
“Distracted. Big-time.” Kyra again. “She started giving me class notes with only half the material. And when I asked, it was like she didn’t even know. She’d, like, space out or something. From Mrs. Brain Trust to Mrs. Wish You Were Here.”
“Did she seem scared distracted? Or dreamy distracted?”
“Distant,” Marjolie murmured. “She seemed distant, but also like . . . more solidly herself. Like she was alone, even when she was with us, but to her, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.”
I think I understand. Together but separate. I know that feeling well.
Across the street, the bell tones at a more insistent volume. The girls edge toward the street. Their classmates are already departing, exhorting fierce gravitational pull. I speak faster.
“She changed her clothes that Friday after school. Do you know why?”
Both girls shake their heads, take a couple more steps. I quickly follow.
“Did you see her after she changed? Maybe she’d put on a dress, date clothes?”
More negative head shakes. More shifting sideways.
“Okay, okay, one last question, side door of the school. The one you guys use for smuggling in contraband, how do you prop it open? Is there a rock, stick, pencil for jamming the lock?”
Both girls startle, stare at me.
“You need to go, I need answers. Quick.”
My insistent tone, combined with the demanding bell, does the trick.
“Can’t prop it open,” Marjolie murmurs rapidly, voice low. “The janitor checks. Kids bring a friend or two. Couple of kids do the spotting, while the third runs out and grabs . . . whatever.”
“So when Angelique went back into the school Friday afternoon, which of you held the door?”
Kyra and Marjolie draw up short, faces paling.