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Authors: Misty Provencher
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shrieking that we need to call the police.
“Garrett’s gone!” I howl. My mom grabs my good arm and her voice stands on tiptoes.
“Gone where?” she asks. “Where did he go?”
“The woods. The man...the man with the shovel was in the woods. Garrett went in after him...”
My mom lets go of my arm and whispers into her palm, “Oh God.” Then her face morphs from worry to determination. “Where, Nalena? At the school? Were you at the track?”
I nod, gulping air.
“Come on.” She grabs my good arm again and tows me roughly to the door. She heaves her purse off the floor and stuffs her feet into shoes.
“Where are we going?” My own voice is stringy and high. “We have to call the police.”
“We’re going to Garrett’s house.” my mom says and I stumble out the door behind her.
~ * * * ~
I am g-forced to the passenger’s seat as my mother navigates down side streets. She weaves us out of our neighborhood as though she knows exactly where she is going. She does rolling yields and blows through stop signs like there is no one else on the road. When a car intersects us, she honks and flashes her lights and screams at them to get out of our way.
“I don’t even know where Garrett lives!” I tell her. “We need to get the police!”
“Shh!” The angry hiss rushes through my mom’s teeth as she takes another turn. She steers us past the old, historic sub and past the trailer park, into one of the better parts of town. It’s not the best, but it is way better than ours. The subdivisions are clustered together with signs that distinguish them from one another at the entrances. We pass Ash Brook, Oak Meadows, Pine Haven, Maple Rivers. Just when I think we’re running out of trees, my mom turns into Woodfield.
It’s an old sub, with wide shady streets created by the old trees that interlock their branches overhead. The houses are a mixture of huge colonials and enormous split levels with chalk drawings in almost every driveway and bikes and skateboards scattered like lawn ornaments.
My mom parks at the curb of a beige quad that has cream, criss-cross designs decorating every window. The house is on the corner of a street that twists away from the main one, so the lot is a pie wedge and the front yard, a trapezoid.
“How do you know this is Garrett’s house?” I ask.
She throws open her door. “Just trust me, okay?”
She’s on her way up the front walk before I can ask anything else. I jump out and follow her, sure she has this all wrong. There is no way my mom would have a clue where the most popular boy in school lives. She can’t even find the post office, and she’s been there a dozen times.
“Why do you think he lives here?” I ask when we reach the front door. She ignores me and rings the bell.
I would keep on her, except that the sound coming from inside the house wells up as though it could come smashing through the front door and crush us into the lawn. Even though the door is closed, the sound of hooting and hollering and uncontrolled chaos leaps inside. My mom rings the bell twice more. We hear wild, shrieking laughter, thumping and bumping, and twice, I think footsteps are coming to answer the door, but they don’t. My mom finally lays on the bell. She doesn’t let up until we hear someone inside screaming that there is someone at the door and then someone else screaming that someone should get it. It is like a chain of alarms that no one does anything about. Finally, a little face appears, pushing aside the curtained side light to stare at us.
The little girl has a round face and a plume of black hair, ponytailed at the bulls-eye top of her head. It looks like a thin fountain and it flutters in the air like a bouquet of feathers when she moves. She is only in the side window for a second and then she drops the curtain and we hear her shouting that there are two ladies on the front porch.
Finally, a heavy gait rumbles to the door and swings it open. I
“Garrett’s gone!” I howl. My mom grabs my good arm and her voice stands on tiptoes.
“Gone where?” she asks. “Where did he go?”
“The woods. The man...the man with the shovel was in the woods. Garrett went in after him...”
My mom lets go of my arm and whispers into her palm, “Oh God.” Then her face morphs from worry to determination. “Where, Nalena? At the school? Were you at the track?”
I nod, gulping air.
“Come on.” She grabs my good arm again and tows me roughly to the door. She heaves her purse off the floor and stuffs her feet into shoes.
“Where are we going?” My own voice is stringy and high. “We have to call the police.”
“We’re going to Garrett’s house.” my mom says and I stumble out the door behind her.
~ * * * ~
I am g-forced to the passenger’s seat as my mother navigates down side streets. She weaves us out of our neighborhood as though she knows exactly where she is going. She does rolling yields and blows through stop signs like there is no one else on the road. When a car intersects us, she honks and flashes her lights and screams at them to get out of our way.
“I don’t even know where Garrett lives!” I tell her. “We need to get the police!”
“Shh!” The angry hiss rushes through my mom’s teeth as she takes another turn. She steers us past the old, historic sub and past the trailer park, into one of the better parts of town. It’s not the best, but it is way better than ours. The subdivisions are clustered together with signs that distinguish them from one another at the entrances. We pass Ash Brook, Oak Meadows, Pine Haven, Maple Rivers. Just when I think we’re running out of trees, my mom turns into Woodfield.
It’s an old sub, with wide shady streets created by the old trees that interlock their branches overhead. The houses are a mixture of huge colonials and enormous split levels with chalk drawings in almost every driveway and bikes and skateboards scattered like lawn ornaments.
My mom parks at the curb of a beige quad that has cream, criss-cross designs decorating every window. The house is on the corner of a street that twists away from the main one, so the lot is a pie wedge and the front yard, a trapezoid.
“How do you know this is Garrett’s house?” I ask.
She throws open her door. “Just trust me, okay?”
She’s on her way up the front walk before I can ask anything else. I jump out and follow her, sure she has this all wrong. There is no way my mom would have a clue where the most popular boy in school lives. She can’t even find the post office, and she’s been there a dozen times.
“Why do you think he lives here?” I ask when we reach the front door. She ignores me and rings the bell.
I would keep on her, except that the sound coming from inside the house wells up as though it could come smashing through the front door and crush us into the lawn. Even though the door is closed, the sound of hooting and hollering and uncontrolled chaos leaps inside. My mom rings the bell twice more. We hear wild, shrieking laughter, thumping and bumping, and twice, I think footsteps are coming to answer the door, but they don’t. My mom finally lays on the bell. She doesn’t let up until we hear someone inside screaming that there is someone at the door and then someone else screaming that someone should get it. It is like a chain of alarms that no one does anything about. Finally, a little face appears, pushing aside the curtained side light to stare at us.
The little girl has a round face and a plume of black hair, ponytailed at the bulls-eye top of her head. It looks like a thin fountain and it flutters in the air like a bouquet of feathers when she moves. She is only in the side window for a second and then she drops the curtain and we hear her shouting that there are two ladies on the front porch.
Finally, a heavy gait rumbles to the door and swings it open. I
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