Songs for the Missing (29 page)

The ceremony, as far as Elise could tell, was to thank the community as a whole and the high school in particular for their support. They would gather in a circle at midfield and Kim’s mom would make a speech. The band and the booster club had done a lot of fundraising; there was probably a big check involved.

“What do
we
do?” Nina asked.

“All we have to do is hold hands.”

“Not with them.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Elise said, “you can hold my hand.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said out of reflex, then, soberly, “I will.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Dibs on J.P.”

“You didn’t have to call it,” Elise said.

There was no traffic until they were a couple blocks from school, and then it was backed up solid, crawling. A straggly line of fans in purple and gold trudged through the slush beside them, huddled like refugees. The police were out, waving cars through stop signs. Her mom was right: Everybody was here. Nina couldn’t remember it ever being like this.

“When’s the last time we were undefeated?” Elise asked.

“Fucking never.”

The lot was full, and volunteers in reflective vests were parking the overflow on the shoulder of the road. Among the cars, she recognized J.P.’s ruined hood and wondered if Hinch would be there.

She shouldn’t have come. She should have stayed home and helped her mom make the stuffing and the turnips and the pea casserole. She should have found an excuse to stay at school, a friend who needed company, a project overdue. There was a place for her there—not the dorm but her carrel overlooking the quad far below, where her fellow students were just dots crisscrossing the walks. Safe in her perch behind the bird-proof glass, hour by hour she was turning herself into the responsible Nina she wanted to be. Here there was no refuge from the truth. Here people knew what she’d done.

She felt marked as she got out of the car, as if someone in the crowd had pointed her out. They joined the flow on the road, all of them headed the same way like cattle, toward the syncopated clatter of the marching band. It was so overcast that the field’s giant light towers were on, the white clusters burning spots onto the surface of her eyes. They poured through the parking lot and bunched up at the gate, where two tables of booster girls wearing face paint were selling tickets, stashing the money in gray lockboxes. Behind them, wired to the fence beside a fussily illustrated CONQUER CONNEAUT poster with a Viking holding a downed Spartan at sword point, was a foam-board blowup of Kim’s face.

Though she’d posted hundreds of flyers during the search, now it struck Nina as obscene, as if they were displaying her body like a martyr’s. She wanted to take off her jacket and cover it so no one could look at her.

“Kim Kim Sal-a-bim,” she whispered like a magic word, as if she could make it all disappear.

“She would hate this,” Elise said.

“Except for your hat—she’d love that.”

Getting in took forever, jammed up against everyone in their heavy coats, and then, immediately inside, they had to run a gauntlet of old classmates back for break, standing in circles and drinking hot chocolate near the concession stand. She kept moving, sticking close to Elise, using the herd as a screen, only to stop for a bottleneck at a table with another poster of Kim, this one with her smiling under a magic-markered rainbow. Two booster girls were doing a brisk business selling rainbow pins and ribbons and wristbands. She didn’t know why she was irritated by this. Not merely because it was tacky. Maybe because it was falsely optimistic. Or maybe, she thought, because she no longer was.

Ahead, beyond the crush, by the base of the stands, J.P. leaned bare-headed against the fence with his hands in his pockets and his back to the track, searching for them. His hair was shaggy, and with his coat zipped to his throat he looked thin as a rock star. When he saw them, he pushed himself off the fence, giving them a nod and a smile that was more of a grimace.

He hugged her first. Up close he was bony, as if he was doing meth.

“I like the hair,” he said, because she’d cut it short.

“I got sick of messing with it.”

“Looks good.”

He held Elise.

“So, are you ready for the Circle of Hope?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

He pulled a rolled program from his back pocket and showed them a whole doublefold dedicated to Kim.

“They’re over there, down front.”

It took her a minute to find them. Kim’s dad was wearing the same Vikings tassel cap as Elise, while Kim’s mom held an oversized purple foam-rubber finger that said Kingsville was #1. Between them Lindsay sat with her head bowed as if she was their prisoner.

“Did you go over and say hi?” Nina asked. “You don’t want to be rude.”

“Stop,” Elise said, and led them up the ringing stairs of the bleachers.

The center sections were packed all the way to the press box. They were lucky to find a spot in the corner against the back railing where they could simultaneously watch the game and the lines at the concession stand.

In the end zone the cheerleaders stretched tight a banner with Thor swinging his hammer, and their record, 9-0. The band launched into the fight song, and everyone stood to cheer as the team broke through the paper and streamed onto the field, gathering in a pack at the fifty to bounce and chant something unintelligible before taking the home sideline. To deep and universal booing, Conneaut ran to their bench, and Nina hoped they’d win.

Beyond her spite she had no interest in the game and spent most of the first half comparing her life at school to J.P.’s (it sounded like he was doing the same thing she was, keeping to himself, staying focused on work). She rose like everyone else when Kingsville scored, and again when Conneaut fumbled the kickoff, but didn’t cheer every play like Elise, and grew tired of returning her gloved high-fives. With so many people crushed together the air was surprisingly warm, but the cold of the metal bench seeped through her jeans until her ass was numb. The drummers were relentless. “SPAR-tans SUCK, SPAR-tans SUCK!” the crowd chanted, and they were right. It was 17-0 when the Vikings returned a punt for a touchdown. There was no reason she should resent it, yet she did, just as she resented the booster girls sitting at their tables and her classmates socializing in little cliques behind the stands and Kim’s mom waving her big finger whenever they scored. There was no reason she hated everyone.

“We have to go down around the two-minute warning,” Elise said.

“Just make sure you’re holding my hand.”

“We need to restrain her so she doesn’t bite anyone,” Elise explained.

“That would be bad,” J.P. said.

“We should have gotten drunk for this,” Nina said.

“Even better,” J.P. said.

“We should go out and get drunk after.” She didn’t mean it, but was helpless around them, dropping out of habit into her old shtick.

“Drunk on Thanksgiving,” Elise said. “The Nina Tersigni Story.”

At the two-minute mark the clock didn’t stop. The band was filing in three distinct lines along the track, slowly massing in battalions behind the goalposts. A man in front of J.P. explained: There was no two-minute warning in high school.

“I was wondering,” J.P. said.

“I swear that’s what they told me,” Elise said.

They started down, but with the score so lopsided the whole crowd was getting a jump on halftime, clogging the aisles and the walkway at the bottom. The seconds ticked off, less than a minute now. Twenty-five, twenty-four . . . Conneaut was resigned to just running out the clock. When it reached 0:00, the quarterback flipped the ball to the referee and the two squads jogged off to cheers.

The Larsens were already behind the bench with the Hedricks and Father John and Connie and a few girls Kim used to play softball with. A blinding light popped on—a TV camera, making people ahead of them on the stairs stop and gawk. It would be fitting, Nina thought, if they missed the ceremony because of this.

“Here,” J.P. said, tapping her shoulder, and cut into an open row, heading cross-country for the center section. She and Elise followed, awkwardly stepping from bleacher to bleacher over people’s blankets and coffee cups and smuggled-in bottles, all the way down to the bottom where there was a gate. They pushed through the mob on the walkway. Elise talked to the security guard, who let them onto the track.

In the glare of the spotlight Kim’s mom was talking to a reporter. Nina hadn’t seen her in months and was surprised at how good she looked—as if she’d had a total makeover. She was wearing lipstick, and she’d obviously lost weight. Nina had always thought of her as plain and dumpy, knocking around the house in sweatpants or Minnie Mouse scrubs from work, but here she was with a serious anchorwoman’s hair-style and a tailored suit. In her face Nina could divine the source of Kim’s beauty. On her lapel was a rhinestone rainbow pin. She held herself straight, concentrating on the reporter’s questions. Off-camera, Kim’s dad held her coat, looking the same as ever, while Lindsay and Dana Hedrick hung back, leaning into each other, whispering.

Nina thought of herself and Kim, what they’d make of this bullshit. That was all they did at the Conoco, night by night honing their bitchiness to a fine edge. Angie and Sam, Sam and Angie. Tough-ass chicks. She had their shirts in her closet at home, preserved like relics in case they ever returned.

The light died and Kim’s mom shrugged her coat on again. With both hands Kim’s dad flipped her hair over her collar. The band was taking the field, tootling a Sousa warhorse. Nina kept her eyes on Kim’s mom, waiting for her to look over. Would she just pretend they didn’t exist? She turned away to say something to Father John and Connie, watching as the color guard passed, flags rippling. She was maybe ten feet away. Nothing was stopping Nina from walking over and declaring herself. If she were alone she would have in a second and ruined everything.

She didn’t have a long speech, or a list of reasons why they were wrong. She didn’t want to shame them. All she wanted was for them to know that the three of them had loved Kim, and missed her, and would do anything to have her back. These were things they should have already known, but for her peace of mind Nina needed the Larsens to acknowledge them.

The band finished with a flourish, poised in formation, and Kim’s mom motioned for Lindsay to come stand between her and Kim’s dad. Mr. Koskoff, the band director, and some girl who was president of the booster club joined them. They were the front line. Behind them came the Hedricks and Father John, then the girls from the softball team, and finally Nina and J.P. and Elise. Connie briefed them, flashing a printed diagram and pointing to the near hash mark. They’d stand there for the speech, then turn and hold hands in a big circle. The exit music would cue them to turn and walk straight off. Nothing fancy.

“I’m glad you guys could come,” she said, and moved on.

“That was nice,” Elise said, except it sounded like a question.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the PA said, expectant, as if they were the main act, “on this day of thanksgiving, we honor and remember one of Kingsville’s own who couldn’t be with us today. Please give a big Viking welcome to the parents of Kimberly Larsen—Ed and Fran Larsen.”

All three of them looked at one another. Kimberly?

The band struck up a soaring brass version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” starting in motion as the Larsens walked out along the fifty-yard line. The cameraman hustled to stay ahead of them. The Vikings logo in the middle had been churned to purple mud, and they stopped short of that, turning to face the crowd. Group by group Connie sent the rest of them out like a director. Nina was between J.P. and Elise, and as she made her way onto the field she could see, beyond the Larsens, the six separate lines of the band intermeshing to describe, predictably, the arc of a rainbow. Instead of a pot of gold at either end, there were sequined baton twirlers.

The turf was slippery, and Elise took her hand. Of the Larsens only Lindsay visibly noted them, eyeing J.P. and trading glances with Dana. Kim’s mom and dad gazed stoically over their heads, hurt yet bravely making the best of the situation. When Nina turned to face the stands, she saw why. They were nearly empty.

During the ceremony with the checks (regular-sized, accepted with handshakes held for the photographers), Kim’s mom thanked everyone for their support. Thanks to the generosity of Kingsville High School, the reward for information leading to Kim’s safe return was now over fifty thousand dollars. There was almost no applause, only a smattering picked up by her wireless mic. Nina wondered how many of the people left in the bleachers had kids in the band.

The Circle of Hope was even worse. Kim’s mom invited the crowd to rise and join hands—pointless, since whole sections were empty. Nina turned toward the center and J.P. took her other hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and she pulled hers off to warm his fingers. Across the circle Father John asked for a moment of silence. Kim’s mom and dad bowed their heads; Lindsay waited an extra second before tipping hers. Nina studied them, feeling the urge to break free of J.P. and Elise and dash across the circle. Red Rover, Red Rover, we dare Nina to come over.

“SPARTANS SUCK!” some guy bellowed in the silence, sparking a laugh from the crowd. Kim’s mom looked around as if she might find him.

You
suck, Kim would have yelled back.

“Thank you,” Father John finally said, and the music came up—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” again—and they all let go and walked off like they were supposed to.

They waited for the Larsens, who came off last, stalked by photographers. The school paper wanted shots of them with Mr. Koskoff and the booster girl, and then a different TV reporter pulled them aside. While the cameraman fussed with his setup, the band played their versions of “It’s a Beautiful Day” and “Another One Bites the Dust.”

“Okay,” the security guard said, pointing toward the gate, “we’ve got to clear this area.”

There was no arguing with him. A pair of cops was waving people off the track. The team was coming back out, the manager rolling two Gatorade coolers on a cart. Everyone but the Larsens had to go.