The Missing Girl (7 page)

Mountain? Not really. Just a hill, although a pretty big hill. A half hour’s climb, and you had a 360-degree view of the countryside. Bears lived here, and stories about them were rampant. A bear coming down into Mallory and knocking on someone’s plate-glass door, bears in pairs rampaging through garbage, bears chasing hikers and sometimes catching them. You could believe the stories or not, but last year, in late summer, a bear had happened upon Beauty—or she had happened upon the bear—

when she’d been on this same trail. Maybe she’d cried out. She’d never been exactly sure of what happened, except that she’d barely had time to be scared when the bear turned around and lumbered off.

“Huh,” her father had said when she came home and told the story, “old Mr. Bear was more scared of you than you was of him.” And he’d reassured her that black bears, the kind that inhabited their woods and hills, were not aggressive. “Pretty harmless,” he said. “Leave ’em alone, and they’ll leave you alone. They sure don’t want to eat you. They favor berries and things like that. Only thing is,
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you don’t want to meet up with a mama, that might be another story.”

Beauty had all this in mind as she moved up the sodden path. The trees were still bare, the bark just beginning to show a reddish tint. All at once the wind came up, and glancing at the sky, she saw thick wads of gray clouds scudding from north to west. The weather was going to change. She wrapped her scarf more securely around her neck and kept moving.

At the top the sun was shining again, but it was colder up here, windier, too. She stood on a rock and looked out at the immense and distant world. This moment was what she had come for: the radiant sense of being somewhere else, far above and out of and beyond her everyday life, the life that, at one and the same time, held her up and pulled her down. She stood there, buffeted by the wind, her arms wrapped around herself, lost in a dream of the future. Finally she looked at her watch and started back.

At the base of the hill, she slowed and walked quietly as she approached a small clearing where, at various times, she had seen deer, grouse, and wild turkey. If she saw deer, her father would want to hear about it. It would start him thinking about next fall, when he’d go hunting. His
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back should be better by then, and—

The thought was abruptly cut off. People were in the clearing. Two people, a man and a woman, wrapped together, locked in a kiss, the man’s hands around the woman’s bare waist, her hands around his face.

Wait. Not a man and a woman. A boy and a girl. No, not that, either. A boy and her sister
.
Her little sister Stevie.

The hands gripping the boy’s face, as if holding him to her by sheer force, were Stevie’s hands. And the hands that were creeping down the back of Stevie’s jeans were the boy’s hands.

At once, without thinking, Beauty reversed herself and went running back up the path, not quiet now, nothing in her mind but running from the sight of her little sister passionately kissing the boy, hugging his head, the sight of the boy’s hand down the back of her little sister’s pants.

That night she lay in bed, wakeful, one arm over her eyes. What a fool she was, believing that she needed no one, that all the painful moments she dragged herself through, and had still to drag herself through, meant nothing. Believing that it was good to hold out to have a real life until she escaped Mallory.
Fool. Fool!

Everything had changed in that moment of seeing her
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sister wrapped around the boy.

Stevie—passionate, demanding, infuriating Stevie—

who was barely out of childhood, already had what Beauty, on her way to adulthood, had never had, which was—well, what? A relationship? Love? Sex? All of the above? Yes.
Yes, yes, yes
.

The name and face of Ethan Boswell came into her mind. Something has to change, she thought.
Something
drastic this way comes
. The words hummed in her ears.

From a poem, wasn’t it, something that Mr. Giametti had read to them . . . Mr. Giametti, dear Mr. G who had landed in Mallory like a rocket . . . She saw that rocket hurtling through space . . . rocket with tail of fire . . .

rocket running . . . Odd, she thought, then
she
was running, leaping into the air, and she was naked, but that was all right, because she was running over the bridge out of Mallory, and now she was in a classroom, and it all made sense, it was all wonderful, she was joyous, laughing, and then someone was kissing her, holding her face tenderly, kissing her, kissing her. . . .

In the morning she remembered the dream, the kiss.

Oh, God. Oh, God. That kiss. It was so sweet. So sweet.

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WALK LIKE A ROBOT

THE MAN STRAIGHTENS his tie, wipes his lips one more time, and checks to make sure the gas jets are turned off. He locks the door behind him and walks briskly past the empty lot that takes up most of the street.

A beautiful day, the blue sky, the trees sparkling from last night’s rain. The air is fresh this morning. He thinks about the girls. His heart quickens in anticipation, but he walks steadily, neither hastening nor slowing his steps. Long ago, someone cruel—one of the many cruel people he’s known in his life—yes, including his father—told him he walked like a robot. The remark hurt his feelings deeply.

He couldn’t forget it. He had wiped the name of that boy
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from his memory, but he remembered the voice, the sneer on the face.

He pushes away the memory. He prides himself on being rational, not wasting his time on useless memories, on sentiment. He lives an orderly life, a well-regulated life, and now a habitual part of that life is thinking about the girls.
Thinking
. That’s all he’s doing. No one can accuse him for thinking.

He hopes to see his two favorites today. The pretty one with the belly has been in the lead for a while, even though her teeth stick out, but last week he heard her yelling at the others. She lost out with him that day. Still and all he likes her and keeps her in his mind, along with the little one with the long hair and the brimming eyes.

It’s between those two now. Which one is his favorite? The tantalizing question. Maybe today he’ll make up his mind.

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MISS PRISS

AS THEY LEFT the house Monday morning, Beauty touched Stevie on the back and said, “Walk with me.” Early she had awakened to the reproachful thought that she was neglectful, so focused on her own dreary little wants and fantasies that she had overlooked the danger her little sister was headed for. She meant to make up for that right now. “I want to talk to you,” she said.

“And I want to talk to you.” Stevie stomped down the porch steps. “I have a bone to pick with you,” she said as they walked two and three abreast toward Elm Street.

“Me? A bone to pick with me? About what?” What notion had gotten into Stevie’s mind now? The girl always
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had some grievance or other hanging about.

“Me to know, you to find out.” Stevie’s slightly slanted eyes glittered. She flung her scarf tighter around her neck.

“You’ll hear. Don’t be in such a hurry.”

The five of them walked to the corner in a clump, Fancy chattering as usual. It was not quite raining, but the air was wet and heavy, and the trees glistened. The snow was rapidly disappearing, although the icy mounds along the roads remained as dirty as ever from car exhaust.

“So who goes first?” Beauty said.

“Me,” Stevie answered like a shot. “Me!”

“Go ahead, I’m listening,” Beauty said. At the same time she was counting heads: Fancy was right behind her, Autumn and Mim walking ahead. She heard them working on Autumn’s spelling. “Sarcophagus,” Mim said, and Beauty winced as Autumn confidently rattled off,
“S-A-R-C-U-F-G-U-S!”

“I saw you,” Stevie said. “I saw you!”

“What do you mean, saw me? Where? What are you talking about?” But she knew, and her heart set up a frightful clatter.

“I saw you spying on me.” Stevie’s eyes darkened.

“Spying? Are you crazy?”

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“Don’t act so innocent. In the park. I saw you. Peeping at me!”

“Stevie. I was not spying. I was out for a walk, I was coming down from the top of Farley’s, and there you were.

I went away. I didn’t hang around! The moment I saw you, I left. Did you see me? Did you see me run away?”

“Yes, I saw you. That’s why you ran, because I spotted you. How long were you there, spying on me?”

“Stop it,” Beauty said. “Just stop that. I wasn’t spying. I saw you and . . . and . . . what I want to know is, what’s going on with you? We should have a talk about”—she faltered just for a moment—“about sex.”

“Oh, no way!” Stevie grabbed the straps of her backpack and pulled at them. “I don’t need any talks about that.”

“He had his hands all over you,” Beauty said. Her ribs ached. Or maybe it was her heart. Did she sound like a horrible, jealous person? “His hands were down your pants.”

“What’d you do, stand there and take notes?” Stevie said, smiling scornfully.

Beauty drew in a deep breath and told herself to stop, but could not keep from saying, “What are you doing with
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him? I’m worried about you. Are you two—”

“Are we
doing it
? Gasp,” Stevie mocked. “It’s none of your business, but I’ll tell you, anyway. No, dear sister, Miss Priss, who can’t say
screwing
, I am not doing it.”

Was she lying? Stevie often lied. “All right,” Beauty said. “I’m glad to hear that, because you’re too young to get going like that. I don’t want you to get into . . . into . . .

dangerous waters.”

“How would you even know what’s dangerous?” Stevie said, her eyes gleaming. “You’ve never even had a boyfriend. And in case you forgot, you’re not my mother.”

“Oh, stop,” Beauty said again, futilely, and she turned around to check on Fancy. “Fancy,” Beauty called. She had stopped to talk to a little black dog. “Come on. You’re going to be late.”

“What if she is?” Stevie said. “You spoil her. She’s got to learn to take care of herself.”

Beauty went to Fancy and took her hand. “Come on, honey, there’s not enough time to dawdle.”

They walked quickly toward the others, who were waiting for them at the corner.

“I love that dog,” Fancy said. “I kissed her and she kissed me back.”

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“You shouldn’t be kissing strange dogs.”

“I know that,” Fancy said. “Good for me for knowing that. Mrs. Sokolow my teacher will be proud of me.”

Traffic was heavy on the corner of Dix Avenue. A clus-ter of people was waiting at the bus stop across the street.

“If it wasn’t for you, we would have been across already,”

Stevie said to Fancy. “I better not be late for play rehearsal.”

Beauty wanted to shush her but decided not to. She didn’t need another fight with Stevie. A man in a gray overcoat and a gray fedora, very old-fashioned looking, stood just behind them, also waiting to cross. Beauty glanced at him for a moment, then turned away. There was a lull in the traffic, and she said, “Okay, let’s go,” and they all crossed, Stevie’s stiff little shoulders in her bright blue jacket leading the way.

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FACE LIKE A POTATO

WHAT LUCK, the man thinks. Here he is, standing on the corner, behind his five birds and so close he can smell them. The one the man likes least, the big one with the face like a potato, smells of cheap perfume. She herds the others along like a sheepdog. She is a dog. He doesn’t wish to waste his time on her, doesn’t want to even think about her, but there’s a certain fascination in her homeliness. He stares at the back of her head. Underneath that long braid of hair, even her neck is ugly. Her Ugliness. He likes the way that sounds. It accounts for her, puts the name and the face and the body all together nicely.
Her
Ugliness
.

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Now he thinks about naming the others. The one who lags behind and talks without stopping and this morning smelled of breakfast eggs—that’s easy. Her Dumbness.

Or . . . wait, would Her Dimness be a better name?
Her
Dumbness. Her Dimness.
Which one?

When he clocks in at work, the two names are still reverberating.

“Hey ho!” It’s Violet, the computer whiz girl. Not really a girl, she has streaky gray hair, a too big and too white smile that chills him. She taps him on the shoulder. “Hey ho,” she says again. “What’s on your mind this morning?

How are you? Have a good weekend?”

A shudder goes through him. He half bows, twitches his cheeks into a smile. “I’m good. How about you?” He knows how to say nothing while making the right sounds.

It’s a game that he’s forced to play to keep them all satisfied.
How are you? I’m good. And you? Good. Isn’t it a
great day? We deserve some sun. You’re so right. Spring is
on the way. And about time. Well, have a good one.
All the inane, meaningless noises people make that pass for intel-ligent conversation. They might as well be pigs grunting in the pen.

In his office he sits down at his desk. Violet walks by his
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cubicle and gives him another big white smile. It strikes him that
Violet
is Her Dumbness. Of course. Which means the talky one is
Her Dimness
. Perfect. He turns on his computer, satisfied.

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THE ORDEAL

OPENING HER LOCKER after lunch, Beauty dawdled, watching Ethan at his locker taking out books, stuffing them in his backpack. Slowly she zipped her backpack and glanced at him again. Beauty Huddle, Secret Agent of Love. Then came an image of herself leaping on Ethan, grabbing his head, mashing their mouths together.

Her mind was
ridiculous
. She could barely bring herself to say hi when she saw him in the halls, not very likely that she’d be leaping on him.

But what about that
drastic action
? Was now the time?

If not now, when? She was always putting it off. Her belly lurched, and then she hurled herself—or so it seemed to
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