The Whore of Babylon, a Memoir - By Katrina Prado Page 0,12

have a name: Krista. I take the paper and stand up, heading for the telephone. I call Jenny’s house. I first ask if there’s been any sighting of Robyn, but Jenny’s mother tells me no.

“Have you ever heard Jenny talk about a girl named Krista?” I ask.

There is silence on the line a moment and I feel my heart flip-flop in anticipation.

“No,” she finally says. “I can’t say as I’ve ever heard that name.”

I thank her for her time and then call the school. The school receptionist is particularly unhelpful when I inquire about information concerning my daughter’s math teacher. I eventually learn that his name is Mr. Thornton who is located in room 312. The receptionist asks if I would like to leave a message, but I decline the offer. I check my watch, just after noon. School gets out on Fridays at 12:45; if I hurry I can be down there before the kids get out. I look down at myself. I’m still dressed in my sweats and cruddy T-shirt from last night, but there isn’t time to change. I grab my purse and hurry out the door.

The end of the school day is a parade. Kids that look like really young versions of adults abound everywhere, laughing, running, and calling out to each other. In the parking lot, parked diagonally are two cars; souped up muscle machines with more gleaming silver than a pair of Boeing 747’s. All four doors on both vehicles are opened and a deafening hip-hop beat rolls through the air like a war cry. Young men, chests puffed out, swagger around the cars like prideful lions. Some have taken their shirts off and the oversized jeans make them look stockier than they are. Heavy chains ornament necks that will, I think, someday be burdened by even heavier broken dreams.

The hallway smells like reheated sloppy Joes, and the floor is covered by scuffmarks and spots of old chewing gum worn to the color of soot. At the end of the hall a cell phone chirps to the theme song of Winnie the Pooh and a young girl’s voice answers with the predictable, first words, ‘I’m still at school,’ fading away as I round the corner to find room 312.

Inside the classroom there is one student, a tissue thin young man with short cropped blonde hair and ears the size of potato chips stuffing books into a ragged brown backpack. At the front of the room, sitting behind the desk is whom I assume to be Mr. Thornton. He’s also thin, medium build with rakish red hair and sunken cheeks. Large, 1980’s style aviator framed glasses balance at the bridge of his nose. He stands to greet me, his movements turtle-slow.

I long to skip all the formalities, and simply rush to him, grabbing him by the lapels of his corduroy jacket, shaking loose the information I need. Instead, I swallow my anxieties and smile, holding out my hand as I approach his desk and introduce myself.

“We missed our Robyn today,” Mr. Thornton says as he shakes my hand.

His palm is clammy to the touch and his fingers feel limp against my own reminding me of string cheese that has set out too long.

“I was wondering if you could help me,” I say, deciding to get right to the point.

“My daughter has mentioned a girl by the name of Krista several times,” I begin, a lie forming in my mind as a talk. “I’m having a surprise birthday party for Robyn and Krista is the one friend of hers that I seem to have lost what information I had on her. You wouldn’t happen to have a last name and a phone number?” I ask, giving him a helpful smile.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

I can’t go into it with Mr. Thornton.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. I force a brightness into my voice. “About Krista?” I finish.

He frowns deeply, creating an auburn-colored unibrow and looks upwards scanning the surface of the ceiling a few moments. I find myself wondering if this man is on Quaaludes.

After what seems an eternity his eyes find my own and he cants his head a little.

“Well, Krista’s last name is Jefferson, but I don’t believe that I have her telephone number. You might try the office,” he suggests.

I plaster a smile on my face and thank him for his time. Before I go I ask, “By the way, was Krista in class today?”

The unibrow breaks into two half crescent caterpillars. He adjusts his