Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,12
belonged with them, forgetting myself. I sat back down, pretending to dust something off my pants.
The father looked back at me over his daughter’s tangled hair, and mouthed, Thank you.
I was next. I didn’t think about them again until I came back to the lobby with a prescription in my fist. Jewel’s daddy was crouched, zipping up her coat. His coffee-dark hair was a mess, I noticed. I also saw a scar along his jawline.
“I hope you feel better soon, kiddo,” I told her, ready to pass out of their lives.
“You, too,” her father said, looking up at me, straightening her coat. “I’m Michael Turner.”
“Casey,” I replied, supplanting my last name instead of my given name, unthinking.
“I can call you and let you know how she’s doing.”
It was so transparent. I blushed, I think, or it might have been the fever.
Then he scooped her up and muttered, walking out the door. “Or not. She’ll be fine, it’s just a virus.”
“Maybe you could just e-mail me an update,” I said, walking with him through the door, and I rattled off my address, which was one of those that was easy to say and remember. I’d picked it brand-new, cutting off old ties in the process.
He disappeared into the night, and I dragged myself home, assuming the pleasant memory of his wide-open marble-blue eyes would be all I’d ever have of this really good dad I saw in a waiting room.
Maybe it should have stayed that way.
I grind out my cigarette, and the phone buzzes. Angel must have snuck me a text between classes.
Not there? Will call Mom.
Mallory. Oh, shit.
Dylan’s room is not the smelly den one would expect from a teenager.
It’s not what you’d call neat, but it’s not filthy, either. No crumbs, no half-empty cans of pop. His dirty laundry is in the hamper, not stinking up his room. I almost wish it were disgusting, because I’m afraid Dylan is becoming a mini-Michael, that is to say, old before his time.
I value how responsible Michael is, truly, especially given what I went through with my brother. But Dylan is still a kid, even with a smudge of mustache on his upper lip.
I pull open the closet, holding my breath, bracing myself to see empty hangers as if he’d packed his things.
But no, it looks just as crowded as ever with his black T-shirts and oversize sweaters. Anyway, it’s not like he could sneak a duffle bag into the car with his dad.
If Jewel had turned up missing, I’d be in a panic. She’s vulnerable, small.
But Dylan is a teenager. And he got dropped off at school. This much we know.
My cell rings. Michael.
“Hi.”
“Any sign of him?”
“Nothing. Angel hasn’t seen him at school, either. I think she’s going to call her mother.”
“Well, maybe she had something to do with it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe she decided to take him to an amusement park, or the movies . . . you know how impulsive she is.”
“But she could have signed him out of school, claimed he was sick or going to the dentist or something. Dylan would have wanted her to, rather than get detention for skipping, don’t you think?”
“Maybe I should come home.”
Yes, please. I don’t know what to do. “I don’t know. What would you be able to accomplish? Sit around and wait.”
“I could call his friends.”
“I already checked with Jacob’s mom. She said they’re not even friends anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. His clothes are still here.”
“Of course they are. He didn’t just take off.” The scorn is palpable. I know why; it sounds like I’m comparing him to Mallory.
“He went somewhere, didn’t he? Did he walk right into the school?”
“I told you, I dropped him off.”
“Don’t snap at me, I’m trying to help.”
A heavy, aggrieved sigh. “And I’m at work and my son is missing.”
“I thought you weren’t worried.”
In the silence of his nonresponse, I can hear newsroom noise: a din of intense conversation, like a loud and disgruntled crowd.
“Michael?”
“I’m here. Just keep trying his cell, and call any other friends you can think of. Get the band parent list out of the junk drawer and try them. If a bunch of his friends are skipping school, then we know it’s probably nothing. It’ll be fine.”
“I guess.”
“What?”
“What if Mallory comes over here?”
“Well, we can’t very well tell her not to. Dylan’s her son, and if she wants to be at the house while we track him down—”