“Dakota,” I say, snapping myself out of my own spiraling thought process, “this is Johnny. We work on the school paper together.”
“And we’re also friends,” Johnny adds, overenunciating. “Really good friends. Like, for years now. Right, Faith?”
I nod. “Freshman year and counting.”
Dakota smiles, completely unfazed. “You two just leaving?”
“Yeah, headed to do some things for the paper,” I say.
Dakota gives me a long hug and then shakes Johnny’s hand. “Good to meet you, John.”
“It’s Johnny,” he calls as she jogs inside to pick up what I presume is an order of black bean burger and fries. “It’s Johnny,” he says again for only me to hear.
As we drive back to the school and park at the auditorium, something in Johnny changes. His chest puffs out, like he’s been challenged for the first time. “We should definitely go to the corn maze,” he says as we settle into our seats in the dark theater a few rows behind the director’s table, which has been propped up on top of a few rows so that the drama teacher can sit and take notes with a few other crew members.
I sit with my notebook in my lap and the pen Grandma Lou put in my stocking last Christmas, with a little light that shines down on your paper. Some gadgets are just genius. The theater seats are tiny and my hip overflows a little into Johnny’s seat, pressing against his thigh, but he doesn’t make any effort to move like some people sometimes do, like my fatness might be some kind of disease they can catch. Because I never really know the politics of armrests, I take a gamble and wedge my elbow into the back of the armrest, my free hand hanging loose over my leg while Johnny takes the front. He angles his arm so that our pinkies brush every few seconds, until he hooks his pinky around mine, his hand slowly enveloping mine as I hold my breath.
A quiet gasp slips from me. Johnny and I so often fumble around each other, mumbling apologies when our skin grazes, but him taking my hand so deliberately makes me feel like there’s light pressing against my rib cage and I might just burst right here in this dark theater.
By some miracle, my body remains whole. We sit there, watching Fiddler on the Roof, Seth Frasier in the lead role, of course, as I take a handful of notes, which turn out to mostly be doodles of flowers and hearts. Our hands stay linked together until halfway through the curtain call, when someone runs through the doors at the back of the auditorium, fluorescent light streaming in from the lobby, and shouts, “Gretchen Sandoval is missing!”
A moment later, our phones light up with an emergency alert from the school district, notifying everyone of a missing student and a hotline number for anyone who has tips or information for the police.
I see the horror on Johnny’s face, every true-crime documentary he’s ever obsessed over playing back in his head.
My phone buzzes with texts from Matt and then Ches. Gretchen is the holy trinity: popular, beautiful, and rich. All the missing pets. The feral dogs. The homeless people. It was as though none of it mattered too much, but Gretchen . . . people care about girls like Gretchen going missing. If Gretchen can go missing, none of us are safe.
14
News of Gretchen is everywhere. Her name crosses state lines and quickly becomes the biggest story in a five-hundred-mile radius.
There are search parties. Men and women in fluorescent vests with dogs spread out across every cluster of trees overnight and on into the next day. As the days go on, the volume of volunteers begins to thin. Pictures of Gretchen pop up everywhere. Two in particular are used over and over again. One of her holding the family dog in her lap while she sits on a porch swing, and another of her sitting in her drill team uniform on the football field for a yearbook picture. There’s no scowling or eye rolling like I sometimes remembered her doing at school. Only angelic, glistening smiles. In the blink of an eye, she’s a two-dimensional version of the fully realized person she once was—a totally perfect and wholesome girl who everyone misses dearly instead of the less-than-pleasant person she was in real life.
We have a vigil organized by the women in Gretchen’s grandmother’s church. I stand with Matt and Ches, each of us holding candles with little paper halos around the base. There’s singing and praying and crying. Only Matt is brave enough to say what Ches and I are thinking when he whispers, “Is it awkward that we’re here and didn’t even really know her?”
At the vigil, my gaze catches Johnny’s and his lips twitch as he tries not to smile. I get it, though. Not really an appropriate time, but the thought of our fingers clasped in that dark theater gives me goose bumps.
No one talks about the missing animals or the missing homeless people. Only Gretchen. She’s the story that sells. Pretty, popular girl from a well-off family goes missing from her own gated community. Based on what the police have pieced together, Gretchen drove her car to the park in her very secure neighborhood. The rent-a-cop patrolling the neighborhood found her car later that night with the interior light on and her purse in the passenger seat, but her cell phone was missing. Her phone was later found in a porta-potty on the other side of the subdivision still in development, but they say the fact that she took her phone leads them to believe she went willingly. At first.
The week after Gretchen goes missing, Matt, Ches, and I sit huddled around our table in the courtyard, sharing every rumor and conspiracy we’ve heard.
“Honestly,” says Ches, half a sandwich in one hand and a stack of note cards in the other, “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true.”
Matt leans in. “She wasn’t all that nice. Her underlings killing her off is the most believable thing I’ve heard yet.”
I take a bite out of my peanut butter and banana sandwich, and with my mouth still full, I say, “Johnny said his parents mentioned some kind of insurance scam that her whole family’s in on. Sounds like they’re not as well off as they made it seem.”
Matt waggles his eyebrows. “Speaking of Johnny—”
“There’s not much to say,” I tell him. “He’s been all business lately.”
Ches nudges me. “And what about Dakota?”
“I told you guys. I ran into her with Johnny, and it’s been radio silence ever since. I mean, it’s not like she isn’t busy. She’s got plenty of things to worry about without adding me to the list.”
“Oh!” says Matt. “I heard someone say Gretchen had an internet lover and they ran off to the Maldives.”
But my brain is still stuck on Dakota. I check my phone, just like I have over and over again for the last week. But nothing.
I take the weekend off from the shelter, since Johnny and a whole bunch of us are set to go to the corn maze on Saturday.
“Bye, Dr. Bryner!” I call from the front desk as I’m gathering up my things to leave.
“Did you get those adoption applications processed? The ones I left in receiving?”
“Yep,” I call back. “And Kit left a message for you. Said she tried your cell and wants to make sure you didn’t forget about dinner with the Patels. To talk to them about a fundraising event? Remember?”
“Shit,” she mutters quietly so that I can barely hear. We’ve been running on a shoestring budget for years, but one of the grants that’s kept us afloat is about to disappear, so while Dr. Bryner runs around looking for funding, we’ve been covering for her here. It wouldn’t be such a big deal, but we’ve had a huge influx of adoptions in the last two weeks and only a few missing animals trickling in, and endless calls from people looking for lost fur babies.