The shift in public attention is a welcome change in my household, but not because of the inconvenience of having to navigate through the media trucks while coming and going from our house. The media sparked more friendly household arguments than normal, and mostly because Grandpa Hank had a thing for the National Network News correspondent, Monica Correa, who camped out with her crew for two full days. My mom says the old man verged on getting a restraining order slapped in his face. He took her coffee seven times in the forty-eight hours she was here, and each time he failed to take what my mom said were clear hints that she was not interested in his old war stories.
Like the rest of the world, Grandpa Hank has been left to watch Monica’s reporting on TV. Not that there is much new to report about the “Mystery on Cedarwood Lane.” That’s what Addy’s case has been dubbed by the media. I’m not sure who was the first to coin the phrase—probably Monica—but it caught on. I’ll never be able to say my address without it jarring some memory. Every report feels the same, but we all hang on every word when the news is on. I think everyone in Oak Forest is praying for someone to announce “She’s been found!” The police are pursuing nothing but vague leads, though. It must feel so hopeless for the Trombleys.
While I wasn’t surprised that Eleanor didn’t join me the last three nights that I lit up the garage to remove parts and wires from under the Bronco hood, I am a little surprised by how quiet everything is across the street. Nobody has come or gone since the chaos left. Morgan’s SUV is still in the same place she left it when she arrived over the weekend. The Volkswagen hasn’t budged from the curb, tracings of paint left on the windows from last week’s football game. Maybe the Trombleys went out of town to get away. It’s understandable. Maybe they’re hiding inside, keeping quiet. That seems hard to believe; it’s been a full week, and nobody can be that still and quiet for that long.
Things around here have definitely changed. Quiet, almost eerie, is kinda the new norm. Halloween came and went, and not that our street filled with high school families and empty nesters gets a lot of trick-or-treat traffic, but this year was virtually silent, other than one or two superheroes and ghosts that strolled by. Grandpa and I doled out a few handfuls of candy and ate the rest. I do wonder if people avoided our street, skipping it for others that were not covered with crime tape a week ago.
I stare out my bedroom window one last time, eyes fixed on Eleanor’s across the way, waiting for some movement, some show of light, before Jake’s horn snaps me from my intense focus. My eyes dart to the street below where my friend has his arm slung out his window, his palm up as if he’s been waiting around for me all day. He hasn’t; he just pulled up. He’s impatient, which is part of the reason he fails a lot of tests. He speeds through things to get them done. He tends to do this with girlfriends too, and a part of me wonders if his reputation is rubbing off on me. Of course, this is how I make excuses to myself for the complete lack of attention from girls at school.
Grabbing a piece of toast from my grandpa’s plate as I dash through the kitchen, I thank him as he hollers “Hey” for swiping his breakfast. He waves a hand at me and grumbles as I dart out the door and dive into Jake’s car just before he hits the gas and peels away from my house.
“Why do you have to do that?” I shake my head as I rush to click my seat belt in.
Jake cackles.
“I know it pisses Hank off.”
I grimace and cock my head to stare at him. “Why is pissing my grandpa off such a sport for you?”
“I dunno,” my friend says, a quick shrug.
I shove half of my toast in my mouth and finish zipping up my bag where it rests between my knees. It takes Jake less than four minutes to get us to campus, a drive that should be twice that if you actually stop at intersections. From a safety standpoint, I’m better off walking, a statement my grandpa makes to me every time Jake drives away from our house. It’s just that the walk takes closer to thirty minutes, and it’s starting to get cold. It’s a tough cost-benefit analysis when Chicago winter sweeps in.
Jake is busy scanning the parking lot for people he knows, and doesn’t see the Volvo station wagon parked near the main office. I’m not sure how I missed the Trombleys pulling out of their garage this morning. They must have left during my rushed shower. I’m immediately hit with a sense of comfort and dread at seeing their family car parked at our high school. I’m glad they haven’t fled completely, but their presence here means something. I’m just not sure what.
Or why I am so invested.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why I’m invested, and she just stepped through the office door with her head down, waves of blonde hair shielding the sides of her face while her hoodie covers the top.
“What, do you have Elle radar or something?” My friend’s palm slaps my back and I wince, both from the sting and from getting caught staring. Also, I hate that he knows her well enough to call her Elle. That’s me being honest about my jealousy. Doesn’t make this moment feel any better at all.
“I haven’t seen them out in a while. All week, really.” Jake’s distraction made me miss seeing Eleanor get in the car. I also missed seeing her parents come out behind her. They’re pulling out of the parking space, about to head the opposite way Jake and I are going.
“Gemma says Elle’s gonna switch to online learning for a while. Must be what they’re meeting about.” Jake slings his arm over my shoulder and pulls on my neck, giving me an awkward sideways bro hug as we head toward the center of campus and leave our view of the parking lot behind. I hate that he knows people in Eleanor’s circle and I have to rely on him for information. This is my honest jealousy rearing its head again. Still makes me feel like shit.
“I guess it’s not easy to show your face at school when your family has been the leading story on every news network for the last week,” I mumble. Jake isn’t paying attention anyhow.
“Hey, catch you at lunch, yeah? It’s on me today, early birthday present!” He peels away and slides his palm against mine before spinning right in step with Gemma, the girl he got his info from, probably while making out with her in his car. Seems he’s moved on from Charlotte Hickman. Normally, I’d chastise him for being such a douchebag playboy, but Charlotte really isn’t very nice. She’s pretentious, but maybe I’m jaded because she’s also two spots ahead of me in class rank and her family is filthy rich from owning two burger joint franchises.
I nod a goodbye that nobody sees, every ounce of Jake’s attention now on his latest infatuation. I wish I’d brought my dad’s notebook again today. It’s been a good distraction—aka excuse to be anti-social. I still don’t understand most of the notes written in it, though the fact I’m buying my first part today with the money Grandpa Hank gave me speaks volumes about the progress I’ve made.
Not everything in that notebook is about the Bronco, though, and I suspect that’s the real reason they gave it to me. Turns out, Randy Wydner had a secret passion for poetry, or maybe song lyrics. I have yet to figure it out, but I found several scribbled-out, half-finished attempts tucked inside those pages, sometimes on the back side of diagrams he’d drawn to perfect scale. It’s as though he is two different personalities sharing the same page.