Camille is my all-time best friend—
even over Makayla in South Carolina,
and Lisa in Colorado.
I’d even go so far as saying
we’re like blood sisters,
but without the blood,
unless you count the colors of red
flushed through our faces right now—
hers shining like courage,
and mine a mixture
of embarrassment
and pride.
36.
On the bus,
Camille beams,
pumped up by her victory:
“Did you see their smiles vanish?”
“You have a way with words,” I agree.
“I do, it’s true.” She closes her eyes,
lays her head on my shoulder—
affection comes so easy
for her.
I take in the moment, soak it up.
This is what having a true best friend feels like.
“Why doesn’t Jacob
ride the bus much?” eventually I ask,
remembering her other best friend
and all the boys
who witnessed the scene
just now.
“He does. Sometimes.” Camille yawns
catlike in the afternoon sun.
Camille and Jacob have been friends
since forever, even though he’s a year older.
They play basketball or soccer in her backyard
most afternoons—and have done so for years.
And although I haven’t known Camille
for near that long, and I don’t play sports,
I knew the minute we met at the community pool
this summer that we’d be good friends too.
She bounced right up to me at the snack bar,
dripping water and out of breath,
and exclaimed, “I love your swimsuit!
I’m Camille. Who’re you?”
That’s all it took!
We just knew.
I pause my thoughts
when we come to my stop,
say goodbye to Camille
and jump up to leave.
But once again,
I’m caught off guard
as I file forward
to exit the bus
and a boy’s foot juts out
and trips me up.
On purpose?
Maybe
it’s
new kid
target
practice.
It happens so quickly,
I barely catch myself.
As I collect my stuff,
he mumbles to himself, “Didn’t even
see you there!”
like I don’t
exist.
37.
Dad tapes the MISSING flyer
Mom sent of Aunt Rose
to the refrigerator,
beside a permission slip,
shopping lists,
and photos.
Are you really missing
if you don’t wander off in the woods,
get snatched in the mall, or run away?
I can’t help but think of stranger danger
and America’s Most Wanted.
Uncle Todd took that picture.
Aunt Rose is smiling at him, in their kitchen.
Jackson and Kate make faces behind her.
I can almost hear her voice—she was saying:
“Hurry up! Take the picture!
My cookies are burning.”
Then afterward, she dashed to rescue
the sugar cookies from the oven.
A treat because I was visiting!
She didn’t know then
that now she’d be missing.
I study her face, fear her features
will fade until the picture
is all that’s left
of that memory.
On news shows,
fences are papered with flyers like Aunt Rose’s,
like yard-sale signs or concert posters.
The flyers multiply like a quilt of worry
sewn by loved ones: pictures from weddings,
graduations, birthdays, ordinary days—
faces smiling,
smiling,
smiling.
All those happy faces.
38.
On a certain show,
I hear a phrase
for the very first time:
“Human remains.”
And it sounds like humans
who stay behind—a hopeful sign of people alive.
Then the true meaning sinks in—
They may not find Aunt Rose.
Without warning,
there’s pressure in my chest
like I might explode.
I call the New York apartment,
hoping to hear Mom’s voice,
but Jackson answers instead.
“She’s out for groceries, I think.
You want to speak to my dad…or Kate
or—” then his voice dies out,
and I realize he was going to say “my mom,”
so quickly I tell him,
“I’d love to speak to Kate.”
“Sure.”
And then…
after a lengthy pause,
“Hi, Abbey,” says a tiny voice on the other end.
We speak for a bit
but after a while,
I can’t think of anything
much to say,
and the silence
slinks in.
“Tell my mom I called, okay?”
And the words “my mom”
feel terribly wrong,