Losing Faith (15 page)

I pull the curtains back, let in some light, and begin my regular dusting routine. It’s not looking any fresher in here, but at least I’m keeping it at a consistent stale. Even though it’s into October, I crack a few windows.

Mom walks through the front door just before six with Dad trailing behind her. I’ve made scrambled eggs—my one culinary ability—and set the table. Sure enough, Mom wears a skirt and blouse. Her hair is tied back, and a sprig of baby’s breath pokes out from the ponytail. She’s been working at the flower shop again.

But she hasn’t brought any home, in fact she appears quite worn-out from the day. Maybe she’s not ready to go back full-time yet.

“I made scrambled eggs,” I say.

Mom gives me a look that says I’m her saving grace. The best daughter in the world.

Of course it’s not much of a competition anymore. The thought drains my smile.

Dad’s jaw is tense and I wonder if they’ve been arguing.

When we sit down to dinner, Dad eats fast, like he’s in a contest.

“What’s up, Dad? Somewhere to be?”

He takes a drink; his chin is a mess of ketchup. “I’m at the church tonight.” He says it the way he’s always said it. And in that moment, I realize it’s Friday night. Praying Parents night. Is he really going back to lead it? So soon?

“Oh,” I say and turn to Mom. They always led it together. “Are you going?”

Mom flattens her napkin several times on her lap until it looks like it’s been ironed. “No. I don’t think that would be the best thing for anybody.” Her words are quiet, and she takes her flattened napkin and carefully folds it exactly in half. Then in half again. She places it on her still-full plate and pushes herself back from the table. I watch her back as she lumbers out of the kitchen.

Dad doesn’t seem to notice the whole conversation. Or he ignores it. He slurps the last of his eggs a mile a minute, barely taking a breath. The fact that my parents barely talk to me is one thing, but barely talking to each other? It makes my stomach twist in knots.

By the time I clean up the dinner dishes, Mom is zoned out in front of the TV, and Dad has left to teach his class. I head upstairs for the computer. Even though I do have homework, I can’t concentrate on anything until I check the online directory for the listing “Monakey.” As I sit down I realize,
happily, that I haven’t thought about Dustin and Amy all afternoon.

The computer room is really just an alcove situated between my room and Faith’s. I pull my eyes away from Faith’s door. Regardless of the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her death, about the cause, or the possibility of suicide, I’m not going back in there.

The sound of the Friday Night Movie jingle trails up the stairs. I spread my schoolbooks out on the desk, just in case Mom heads up to bed and looks in on me.

Opening the online directory for Sharon, Oregon, I type in “Monakey.”

No entries found. I try “Moanakey,” “Moanakee,” “Monakee,” plus other variations. Still nothing.

I click on the Google icon and try four or five spelling combinations. “Monachie” and “Sharon, Oregon” nets a few results. I quickly tab over to my other open window and type this spelling into the local phone directory. Still nothing. So if there’s some homeschool student in our town with that last name, he must be unlisted.

Clicking back to the first Google entry, a Portland online newspaper article comes up. The small write-up talks about a car being hauled from Trundle Valley Lake, which is only an hour or so away, with the body of Mrs. Annie Monachie still
in it. The article is dated three years ago and cites the tragic incident as a suicide.

The word “suicide” brings a sick feeling to my stomach.

I click on the other two listings, but they reroute me to the same article. There’s no address, no phone number, and no pictures. Just some dead lady.

chapter
SIXTEEN

m
onday morning, I’ve almost forgotten about Dustin and Amy when I round a corner and see them leaning up against a locker kissing. I gasp, but I’m far enough away that they don’t hear me. I can’t seem to turn my eyes away though, as Dustin moves from her lips to her ear with the exact same form he always used with me.

The thought makes me feel sick, grossed-out, like he’s kissing us both at the same time. Amy giggles when his hand slides down her side. I can’t stand looking and yet I can’t stop. It’s not until I hear Clancy’s voice that it jolts my attention away.

“Hey! Enough, you two. Miss Cooper, do I have to warn
you about this again?” Mr. Clancy goes on about Principal Voth and I smile inwardly, glad that the whole world isn’t behind this happy couple. After they’re escorted toward the school office, I notice the eyes of all my schoolmates. Not staring after Dustin and Amy, but instead with their eyes on me. Were they watching me watch them? My face heats up. I drop my eyes and head for my locker.

When the first bell rings, I hustle to Ms. Lamberton’s office. She offers her same warm smile, obviously thinking I’m struggling emotionally over my sister again.

“There’s a homeschool student I’m trying to get a hold of. The Monachie kid?”

When her face straightens, I realize that’s probably not a great reason to miss first period.

“I mean, I think he knew my sister and I just want to talk to him about her.”

“You can talk to me about her, Brie.” She reaches a hand across the desk. “That’s why I’m here.”

I look down at her hand. “I know I can. You’ve been really great, it’s just he …”
He what? He’s cute, so I think he’ll be a better listener?
“I wonder if he knows things about her that I never got to know.” Probably untrue. He did bring carnations in full bloom to her grave, after all. But Ms. Lamberton looks like she’s mulling it over.

“I’d like to help you, Brie, but I can’t give out personal information on the homeschool students. If you’d like, you can write him a note. Next time he’s at the school I can make sure to get it to him.”

I stare at the desk and wonder if I should bother. The guy has run off on me twice already. But even so, something about when our eyes met makes me think it wasn’t because of me. I scrawl a quick note with my name and phone number, and pass it over. Who knows if he’ll actually call, but it’s all I can think of to do.

Plan R: Follow Mr. Clancy’s lead and stare at the ceiling until the mysterious guy’s name, address, and phone number miraculously appear.

At lunchtime, Tessa leans against her locker when I approach. I’m always tentative about going to mine if she’s around. She still scares me. But she appears happy today. Not smiling—she never actually smiles—but her lips are twisted into a kind of smirk.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey. How’s it goin’?”

“Good.” It sounds fake as it comes out of my mouth. “Not great, actually. I’m trying to find this guy and they won’t give me any information on him at the office.”

“Who’s the guy?”

I eye her. She pulls a black Sharpie out of her pocket and starts writing notes on the inside of her arm.

“Just some guy I saw at the cemetery.”

She stops writing and studies me.

“He was at my sister’s grave and when I went to talk to him he took off. Like, ran away.”

Tessa nods. “And so he goes to school here, but you can’t find him?”

“No,” I say. Then I explain the whole homeschool thing. It feels good to be honest with someone. “I can’t find a phone number or address for him anywhere. I don’t even know his first name.”

“You want to find this stuff out?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

She shrugs. “Easy.”

At four o’clock, Tessa and I are leaning against a post by the offices when Ms. Lamberton leaves for the day. Once she disappears through the main doors, I follow Tessa across the hall. Secretaries still mill about, so we duck all the way to the other end of the clear glass window. Ms. Lamberton’s office is the last one.

Of course the door is locked, which makes me think our
big plan is done, over with, kaput. But then Tessa pulls out a Visa card.

Crazy. From Tessa’s wardrobe, I’d never have thought she has access to money. She wears the same loose-fitting black jacket, with a black turtleneck underneath, almost every day.

After instructing me to watch the hallway, she gets to work, fumbling and swearing several times before I hear the click of the door.

“Come on,” she says.

I’ve never done anything like this and my heart beats like the bass drum from our pep rallies. Probably just as loud, too.

“What’s this kid’s name again?”

“Monachie,” I tell her and spell it out the way I found it on the Internet, figuring that’s the only spelling I know to be an actual name.

She ruffles the papers on Ms. Lamberton’s desk, sliding and dropping books off to the side. I hold out my hand to quiet her, but don’t say anything. She knows what she’s doing a hell of a lot more than I do.

“There’s nothing here with the name ‘Monachie’ or even the word ‘homeschool’,” she says.

“Crap. Maybe it’s filed away somewhere.”

Tessa ignores me and boots up Ms. Lamberton’s computer. “What do you think Lamberton’s password would be?”
I shrug, but Tessa rattles off words. “Guidance, friend, caring, listening, kids … dog.”

“Dog?” I ask.

“Yeah, who’s the dog in this picture? Have you ever asked her?”

I think back. I had commented on the picture the first time I was in her office. “Appy?” I say.

She plugs in “Appy,” and sure enough, it works.

“Right on the desktop,” she says, after only a few seconds. “Homeschool Exams.” She clicks on it and scrolls through the list.

A sound in the hallway makes me freeze in place. I slowly put my ear to the door, hearing Principal Voth. His voice grows louder. I can’t make out much of what he says, but I do hear the name “Hilary,” which I remember is Ms. Lamberton’s first name.

“We gotta go!” I whisper to Tessa, but she’s absorbed. “Tessa! We gotta go now. Shut that thing down.”

Principal Voth’s voice pauses a few feet away. I’m praying he ducks into the main office. When I feel Tessa behind me, I crack the door. With one eye, I see Mr. Voth standing outside the large Plexiglas window to the main office, leaning through the opening to talk to someone.

I give Tessa a nod and tiptoe out of the office. There’s
no sound behind me and I wonder if she held back for some reason. But then her hand lands on my shoulder, turning me around. She grabs my arm, and we walk straight for Mr. Voth.

Then straight past him. “Hey, Mr. Voth,” Tessa calls out over her shoulder. She’s just as casual as I’ve ever heard her.

“Hi, Tessa,” he says back.

I feel like I haven’t breathed in days.

“So what did you find out?” I ask when we reach our lockers.

“Phone: 555-0175,” she spouts. “Address: 3459 Maple Court.” She smiles. Like, really beams.

“Holy crap! You memorized all that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good with numbers.”

“No doubt. Can you do that again? I gotta write this down.”

She rattles off the address while she pulls a paperback book out of her messy locker, then shuts the door before the rest of her books fall out. When she goes to repeat the phone number, she stumbles and gets mixed up on the last part. I write down the two versions she comes up with, but decide the address will probably be a better bet.

“And what’s the guy’s name?” I ask.

Her eyes snap away from me. “I gotta go.” She clicks her lock on.

“No, wait.” I run after her when she practically races down the hall.

“Look, haven’t I given you enough?” Her tone is defensive.

When I get beside her, I can see that her unusually happy face has turned back to a scowl, and all at once I understand. She can’t remember, and doesn’t want to admit it.

“No worries,” I say, even though I really, really want to know his first name. “I have more information than I even thought possible.”

She barrels out the door and lets it slam behind her.

At home, I plug the location into the computer, and sure enough, it is an actual address. Over three miles away, mind you, but it does exist. After printing out a map, I look it up on Google Earth, so there’ll be no mistaking it.

Mom and Dad turn in shortly after nine these days. I wait until their light goes out, and then tiptoe down the stairs. In my backpack, I have the address, bus route, and five bucks in change. I’m still not sure of my plan. Knocking on a stranger’s door at ten p.m. doesn’t exactly sound like the ultimate in safety. But I need to see where he lives. And maybe I’ll leave him a note right at his house in case it’s a while before he comes back in to see Ms. Lamberton.

The bus is nearly empty for the ride over, except for the
wino in the back. I don’t know if he’s eyeing my backpack for money, or if he’s just doing the pre–pass-out seven-mile stare.

At almost ten o’clock, I exit the bus, walk two blocks, and arrive outside the address on my notepaper. It’s a two-story place, spelling out suburban middle class. A garage and a pathway on either side of the house leading to the backyard complete the picture. The porch light, along with one light on the upper floor, are the only signs of life. I sidle up beside a tree across the street.

Now that I’m here, I want to do something. But should I go up to the house and ask for their son, whoever he is? I really wish Tessa had remembered the name, and I search my imagination for what name would suit him. But I can’t think of any. He doesn’t look like any other guy I’ve known.

Before I make a move, a car pulls into the front drive and a second later the upstairs light snuffs out.

The old white Honda’s brakes make a crunching sound as it stops. A tall girl with light brown hair gets out of the car and for a second I think I recognize her profile, but then she turns away.

She grabs some grocery bags out of her trunk and puts them down briefly to fix her pant leg. That’s when I get a glimpse of those wide eyes. It’s Reena M. Black. From Facebook. Probably from Faith’s
home group, and now from the house of the cute guy who was visiting my sister’s grave. I guess that explains how he knew Faith. But why is her last name Black and his Monachie? Unless that’s what the
M
stands for.