Read Online How to Be Lost by Amanda Eyre Ward - Free Book Online Page A

New Orleans she would be something wonderful.
    “Damn,” I said. “I forgot you had that racket.”
    “Maybe I’ll play tennis in New Orleans,” said Madeline.
    “Maybe you will,” I said.
    Ellie was not waiting in front of Maxwell Elementary. She was supposed to meet us on the grassy strip in front of the parking lot. Usually, parents drove into the circular driveway, but we didn’t want to risk being seen. I pulled to the curb and we waited.
    “Where is she?” I said.
    “I don’t know,” said Madeline. She was playing with her tennis racket, sticking her fingers through the holes. She took a breath and said, “I don’t think we should run away.”
    “Shut up,” I said.
    Madeline began to whimper. She told me she and Ellie had had a fight. I told her to be quiet. She kicked the dashboard and turned her face away from me, her arms crossed over her chest. After about a half an hour, every student was gone, and the parking lot was empty. Madeline and I stared at the vacant school. The jungle gym shone, and the swing set was still.
    “What’s going on?” said Madeline.
    “I’m sure she got a ride,” I said, though I wasn’t sure of anything. “I’m sure she got a ride with Mrs. Lake,” I said. I sighed, and started the car.
    “What are we going to do?” said Madeline.
    “I guess we’re going home.”
    I looked for Ellie as I drove. Maybe, I thought, she had missed me, maybe waited in another spot and then walked home. I was annoyed, but not upset, really. All my adrenaline—all the energy that had gone into planning our escape—was deflated, and I felt flat as a pancake, tired.
    I squinted against the late-afternoon sun, and searched for my sister along the dappled sidewalks of Maxwell Avenue. I slowed and peered into the windows of the Seafood Shack, where we went once in a while for fried shrimp.
    Down Sycamore Lane and through Hillside Village, we looked for her. Madeline was silent in the passenger seat. She rolled the window down partway, her fingers curled around the top, and she focused intently, trying to find Ellie. There was a terrible feeling in my stomach. I began to feel as if things had gone very wrong. I just wanted to see Ellie, her toothless smile. I was supposed to be her hero: we should have been flying down I-95 toward bliss.
    I parked the Oldsmobile and walked into the house, Madeline trailing behind me. Our mother was sitting in the kitchen and scribbling into her journal.
    “Where have you been?” she said, fixing us with a bleary stare.
    “Madeline’s tennis,” I said.
    “Oh, no!” said my mother. “Did I miss a tournament?”
    “No,” said Madeline flatly.
    “Did I hear the garage door?” said my mother, glancing at me. I shook my head. “Mrs. Lake just dropped us off,” I said.
    “Where’s Ellie?” said Madeline.
    My mother pursed her lips. I could see her trying to think. “What do you mean?” she said.
    “Where’s Ellie?” I said. “We mean, where’s Ellie?”
    “I thought she was with you girls,” said my mother. “I figured….”
    She didn’t finish her sentence. We stood in the kitchen, immobile. The day’s light was fading, and long shadows came in from the windows and sliding glass door. My mother closed her notebook. “Maybe she’s asleep,” she said, doubtfully.
    We began to call her name. We hunted through the house, in every room. We piled back in the Oldsmobile and drove around the neighborhood, calling for her, as if she were a lost puppy. When we got home, my mother called the police, and I took our pillowcases out of the car and unpacked them, putting the outfit I had imagined I would wear to my New Orleans job back on a hanger, stashing Ellie’s Gummi bears in her sock drawer.
    That night, I woke, and Madeline was standing in my doorway. “I’m scared,” she said, “Can I sleep with you?” I peeled back the covers, and Madeline climbed in. I thought about Ellie, who slept on her side, her knees drawn to her chest,