Missing (6 page)

This time I have something I want to buy. I pick up a can of saddle soap and then, on an impulse, a brush with soft brilliant-pink bristles. When I leave the store, I check my watch. I have fifteen minutes until school starts for the afternoon, and there's something else I want to do.

I walk a couple more blocks to the museum. I've been thinking about that little girl who disappeared—Livia Willard—and I'm wondering if the museum might have some more newspaper clippings about her.

I pass kids going the other way, back to school, holding Slurpies, bags of chips and cans of soda. I avoid their eyes, though one girl says hi. Startled, I say hi back. The museum is in a small blue building that looks more like a house. A CLOSED sign hangs on the door. A smaller sign in the window lists the days and times that it's open, and I try to memorize them.

The school is quiet when I get back, the hallways empty. I'm late. I stash the brush and saddle soap in my locker and run to math class.

It's Sunday afternoon and it's hot again, but not muggy like before. I'm lying on my stomach on a towel on our dock, propped up on my elbows, reading. I just washed my hair and it's drying in the sun, spread over my shoulders. A motor thrums and I glance up. A boat is speeding toward the dock, two streams of white wake spreading out behind it.

It's Van. He cuts the motor when he gets close and drifts in to the dock. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. I put my book down and sit up.

Van scrambles out and ties the boat to the side of the dock. He's barefoot, in cutoff jeans with no shirt. Something gold glints in the sun. It's a tiny cross on a chain around his neck. I've never known anyone my age who wore a cross. It's giving me all kinds of signals, but I'm not sure what they mean.

Van dangles his feet in the water, and I sit on my towel, my knees drawn up to my chin. We talk for a while about school, mostly which teachers we like and don't like, the same kind of nothing conversation we've been having every day while we wait for the school bus. Then Van says, right out of the blue, “You should try coming to the youth group in the fall.”

I hide my surprise by slathering sunscreen on my legs. No one's invited me to anything for a long time. “What is it?” I ask.

“It's a group of kids that meet at the Baptist church.”

“Oh,” I say. Van has got to be kidding. I instantly remember the kids holding hands in a circle outside the school that day. The religious group. Now I know where I've seen Van before, besides in social studies. He was the guy who smiled at me. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

In a youth group, you'd probably be expected to talk about your problems to strangers. Like Alcoholics Anonymous or something. No way I'm doing that. But I can't say that to Van. “I don't believe in God.” My voice sounds loud, too loud. I don't want Van to leave; I just don't want to join this group.

Van just shrugs. “So? Not everyone in the group goes to church. Pastor Jim won't care. He opens it up to anyone who wants to come.”

“Who the heck is Pastor Jim?” I say. I grin. “And is that his real name?”

Van looks slightly ticked off. “He's in charge. Officially. But he's cool. He stays in the background. Let's us run it the way we want.”

I'm not interested, I'm really not. But I ask anyway, “What kind of stuff do you do?”

“Hang out, watch movies, sometimes we go bowling or swimming or something. Just stuff.”

Van sounds edgy now, and I wonder if I've offended him. The youth group might be okay; it's just not for me.

He stares at me. “You should try it,” he repeats.

I don't like being pushed. “What? Stand around holding hands in a circle at school and looking weird?”

“It's just a prayer circle,” says Van. “Just a way to get the day off to a good start. You wouldn't have to be part of it if you didn't want to.”

“I like being alone,” I say. “Honestly. Groups just aren't my thing. It's actually fun not having friends.”

I don't know why I said that. It was supposed to be funny, but it sounds pathetic. Van's face is more transparent even than mine. He doesn't embarrass easily but he definitely looks annoyed. “I don't think sarcasm suits you,” he says stiffly.

I'm tired of talking about this. I stand up and stretch. “Have you ever seen Renegade?” I ask.

“Who's Renegade?” says Van.

“A horse,” I say. “Come on.”

Van's impressed with Renegade.

We've brought apples, cut into slices, but Renegade still won't take them from my hand. We perch on the fence rail, watching him pace back and forth on the opposite side of the corral. The wind is blowing, tossing his mane.

“One of these days I'm going to start training him,” I say. “When he gets used to me.” I've been reading and rereading the articles I printed off the Internet, and I'm immersed in words like
pecking
order
and
dominance
and
partnership.
But I'm still not sure how to start. I've been trying all week to get close enough to touch him, but he always skitters away
.

Van nods seriously, as if he thinks I can really do it. “We have two ponies,” he says. “My sisters ride.”

“How about you?” I say. “Do you ride?”

“Nope. I've never been interested.”

“I used to ride all the time,” I say. I didn't plan to tell Van this. It just kind of spills out. “My mom and dad trained horses. Dad taught me how to ride when I was about three. I've got a picture of me sitting in front of him on his horse. When I was seven, they bought me an awesome horse called Monty.”

“Really?” says Van. He sounds interested. Not annoyed anymore. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“Well, your dad's fixing up cabins right now. That's not exactly training horses. And you've never said anything about your mom.”

Now I'm really wishing that I had kept my mouth shut. I go for the condensed version. “Mom died in a riding accident when I was nine. We sold our stable. The rest is history.”

I know I sound flippant but it's the only way I can deal with this. I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone says it's better to let things out instead of bottling them up inside. I've never tested out that theory. Neither has Dad. I've already told Van more than I meant to. And I don't feel better. I just feel kind of scraped out inside.

“You must miss your mom,” says Van.

“Actually I don't.”

I've had enough. I jump down from the rail. Van jumps down beside me. “You must have hated giving up your horse.”

I don't say anything.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

I shrug. “Forget it. It doesn't matter anymore.”

It's not exactly a lie, what I've told him, unless you can lie by leaving things out. There's no way I'm going to tell Van about Mom leaving us. It's complicated, way more complicated than Van thinks.

To his credit, he shuts up.

Van ends up staying for dinner. He phones home from the lodge. I'm in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes for a salad, and Tully's frying hamburger meat for tacos. I can hear Van saying, “Just tell Mom. Okay? It's none of your business. Just tell Mom.”

“Sisters,” he says when he gets off. “You're lucky you don't have any.”

After we eat, Tully makes tea. We linger around the table and Tully tells stories about the Masai Mara in Africa. Dad and Van especially like hearing how it's the women who build the houses. They cover them with cow dung. Honestly.

“Come to think of it, the women do most of the work,” says Tully.

“We should move there,” says Dad, and Van snickers.

“Ha, ha,” I say.

But I wouldn't mind going to Africa and seeing some of the things Tully's seen. I add that to my list of dreams—travel the world.

Van and I take Max and Bob for a walk after dinner. (Tinker is asleep on her bed, exhausted from chasing squirrels all afternoon, and won't budge.) We follow the dusty road that leads along the lakeshore, past the cabins. Between the trees, the lake glitters in the setting sun. A quavering cry breaks the stillness, sending goose bumps up my arms. Van says, “It's a loon. There's a pair that nests here. They come every year. They nest on the island in the middle of the lake.”

“I heard them one night,” I say, “but I didn't know what it was.”

The loon cries again, and this time there's an answering warble, far down the lake. I think about how cool it is that Van knows they come every year and where they nest. Dad and I will be gone in the winter, but Van will still be here. He's told me how he and his dad build a skating rink on the lake. It's hard to picture on this warm summer night, and I wish that I could see it.

Piles of rubble are heaped up outside cabin five, along with stacks of tarp-covered lumber and several sawhorses. Sawdust carpets the ground. We peek in the door. Most of the inside has been ripped out. The walls between the bedroom, the bathroom and the main room still stand, but there are no closets or cabinets or anything.

“It's going to be nice when it's finished,” I say, remembering bits of Dad and Tully's conversation. “They're putting in pine siding and tile in the bathroom and brand-new appliances.”