I would say, You’re in for it. I would say, I’m so sorry. I would say, Run.
But I can’t say those things to these girls. So I pretend to be someone else, like everybody does, like I used to do proficiently, once upon a time. I ramble, ironically, about being prepared and then about discipline. “The thing about writing is, no one is going to make you do it. . . .” I drift. “That’s probably true about most things, as an adult. That’s probably the main problem with being an adult. It would be a lot easier if someone would just come in and tell you what to do.
“The thing is, with writing, you never have any security. That’s another thing that’s true as an adult, actually: marriage, jobs, children.” I laugh inexplicably. “For some reason we teach kids that you make a choice and it lasts forever. I guess to keep the college system going? But the truth is, you’re going to lose everything, probably earlier than you think. And you’re going to have to start over. And over and over and over.”
And then I feel this is too depressing, so I throw in a little true crime. “But it’s important to remember how lucky you are. There are people your age who have been murdered, kidnapped. All the time. Every day. There are people who just disappear and are completely forgotten. . . . So you should be grateful.”
A light pall has settled over the room. Clementine’s jaw has loosened. Even Jed looks taken aback. Finally, Clementine says, “Does anyone have any questions?” and then cringes like she shouldn’t have asked.
Six hands rise at once, and my chest loosens a little. Maybe I did make an impact. Maybe it was refreshing to hear an adult be honest for once.
Clementine calls on a girl with a YouTube tutorial’s worth of makeup slicked on her face.
“Are you from Texas?” she asks. I am confused until I realize she is talking to Jed.
He stretches back in his seat and says, “West Texas,” like anyone knows the difference.
“Wow,” one girl says.
“Like a real cowboy,” says another one.
“Does anyone have questions for our guest speaker?” Clementine interjects. “About how to make a living as a writer, maybe?” I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that question.
One diligent girl raises her hand. “What are you working on now?”
“A murder mystery.”
This makes the class stew and Clementine looks concerned.
“Is it a true story?” Asha asks.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“How can you not be sure yet?”
“Because I’m in the middle of the story.”
Jed clears his throat. “What time d’y’all have lunch around here?”
The audience is sidetracked.
“‘Y’all’!”
“Oh my God, his accent!”
Clementine steps in. “All right, well, we still have ten minutes, so why don’t we all thank our guest and then have silent-study time?” Her eyes flit over me and I feel my cheeks burn, feel my chest hollow. I was terrible. And I couldn’t even talk for fifteen minutes. The class thanks us and Clementine leads us the few steps back to the door. “You can wait for me in the teachers’ lounge. Left outside, then third door on the left.”
Jed and I follow her directions down the halls, which smell conflictingly of age and teenage pheromones. I try not to think about what I said, to replay the moments in my mind, but I can’t resist any opportunity to hate on myself. I am disappointed, and I am angry I am disappointed, round and round in a vicious cycle.
I have to remind myself that I came here for you, to talk to Clementine about you. So what if I sounded psychotic? So what if Jed is walking carefully around me, like he expects me to crack at any minute? I did what I needed to do.
I sit on a plastic chair next to a stained wooden table in the teachers’ lounge: a closet with a coffee machine. Jed makes a coffee, then sits down beside me, too close to me in the tiny room. Then he grins.
“Well, that was entertaining.”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
His smile leaks out his eyes. “I’m not. I’m not laughing at you.” He puts his hand over mine and exhales. “You have to admit, we make a pretty depressing pair, Sera Fleece.”
My eyes meet his and I feel something turn over inside me and that annoys me. It annoys me that I’m in this picked-apart lounge in the middle of nowhere with an alcoholic West Texan divorcé and I feel just as lusty as I did as a teenage girl, hanging pictures of River Phoenix on my wall. It was supposed to be better; it was supposed to be more. Jed looks at my lips.
I take my hand away as the bell rings—even in a tiny school in the middle of nowhere, they use the same screaming wail.
A few teachers trickle in to use the coffee machine, but they all back straight out. When Clementine appears, it’s just Jed and me.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, although I’m sure she regrets her invitation. “It means so much to them to see . . .” She drifts off, in the process of pulling out her chair, perhaps realizing that what they saw was a woman twice their age who was just as lost and confused as they are, if not more. “I appreciate the effort.”
Jed tries to hold in a laugh and ends up snorting.
“You’re very welcome,” I say as she takes a seat. “And now—”
“How’s your week?” Jed jumps in, shooting me a look like I was born without manners. Manners are the last thing on my mind right now; this is an investigation.
“Fine.” Clementine sighs and I can see she might be tired, although it is hard to tell with mothers. “There’s been a mite infestation at the lumberyard, so everyone’s a little on edge.” It is clear that by “everyone,” she means Homer. I think of how he appeared in the kitchen, how he caught her outside the church. I thought I told you . . . What? Was it something about me?
I look pointedly at Jed, making sure he’s not about to interrupt me again. Then I begin, “I wanted to show you something.” I start to take the list from my pocket. Jed watches closely as I lay it out on the table in front of her. “This is a list of names Rachel Bard wrote.”
Clementine jerks like she’s about to leave the table but stays seated. “Rachel Bard. Tasia LeCruce. Florence Wipler,” she reads from the top.
I point. “Clementine Atwater.”
“Where did you find it?”
I clear my throat, try to keep my voice even, determined. I am an investigator. I am not a joke. You are missing and I am going to find you. “Do you have any idea what it might be?”