My foot is a weedwhacker. I'm kicking the at a patch of grass that's overtaken a curb at my bus stop. Underclassmen watch with worry and wonder. I know worry and wonder when I see it. They might take me for a grass hater. Not on the slightest. it's just that my medication isn't doing anything for me this morning. I can't calm down. I don't know what happened, and that's terrifying.
I wanted to beg my mom to let me stay home from school, but after the conversation that happened late the night before I knew better. Truth is, I do feel sick. I constantly checked my phone, looking for a notification, tracking the time. 1:11. 2:47. 3:26. When my alarm finally sounded this morning, it felt like I'd just fallen asleep.
I didn't go to Dr. Sherman, I couldn't. I didn't want to write a new letter, and I didn't want to see the face Dr. Sherman would give me for the dark letter. The only person I felt comfortable seeing it was Connor.
Connor.
We made plans, we were supposed to meet up that night. Ten o'clock. But he never showed.
I sent him three emails, one asking if he was on the way, the other asking if something was wrong, and the last... An apology. I don't know what I did, I don't know what happened. I kept thinking about the million different things that could have happened last night, and the one I was stuck on was, he got tired of me. Not that I can blame him. Everyone does.
From what I can tell, I won't know. I checked social media in a hopes for a hint even though I know Connor doesn't use it. He hates the idea of having one in active use.
Jared Kleinman's last post: Just gave myself a Dutch oven.
Alana Beck wrote: In Africa and Asia, children walk an average of 3.7 miles each day to collect water.
Rox liked a photo of a swimsuit model and started following the breakfast cereal Frosted Flakes.
Another food comes to mind: Mashed potatoes. Last year, there was a fight during lunch between Rita Martinez and Becky Wilson. No one knows how it started, but everyone remembers what Rita said to Becky before she jumped on top of her. I'm going to stick these mashed potatoes up your... Rita's garbled her last word, so it's unclear whether she was referring to Becky's front door or back, but it hardly mattered. A movement began. People started sending mashed potatoes to Becky's house. They'd mime explicit mashed potato acts at lunch. In our school, if you want someone to back off, you can say "mashed potatoes."
Or you can use the cloud emoji, which is the closest visual match. Not that potatoes had much to do with my current issue.
The bus rounds the corner. I give my foot a break, standing as still as I can. I want to think about it, I want to pull out my phone and send Connor another Email, but I can't. I know I can't because that would be annoying. And if worse case happens and he got tired of me, that's worse thing I could do. If Connor followed Zoe's route, became friends so many people, there was so much I shared, things I don't want other's too know.
Things that lower my social status further than it is now.
I know about the same about Connor, but I couldn't. I never could.
I step onto the bus, unsure if it's the engine that's rumbling or my insides. No fanfare as I slink down the aisle to my seat. The kid in the row across from me is horizontal, snoring. The bus lumbers forward. T minus ten minutes until school.
English: Nothing. Calculus: No response. Chemistry: Silence.
I make it to lunch with nothing. You'd think I'm relieve, but I'm not. I want to know. I need to know.
The cafeteria is where my bad interaction with Connor occurred. The few times I see him outside of the hallways, or our secret hangouts.
Which begs the question: Why am I here? To which there is one answer: To see Connor. He's also spotted somewhere somewhere in the cafeteria. The choices always seem to be flight or fight, but I typically end up somewhere in between, doing exactly neither, I stay and I take the beating.
I creep along the back wall, partly searching for a safe table, but mostly scanning the room Connor. No sign of him. I sit and eat. I try to. My teeth snap into a baby carrot and the sound echoes in my head like gunshot. I swallow the one piece of carrot, and that's all I'm hungry for, because as I'm sitting there something occurs to me. Something unsettling. Not only have I not seen Connor today, but I haven't seen Zoe, either.
Connor's absence, by itself, isn't unusual. But Zoe being out on the very same day? It's not like the Murphys would've scheduled a family vacation in the middle of the first week of school. Zoe doesn't even really get along with Connor, so she wouldn't skip with him. If Connor was skipping, he usually mentions it, this radio silence is foreboding.
Besides, I can't remember the last time Zoe missed a day, and yes this is something I've noticed. It was hard to miss you, she's usually always spotted once in the hallways. Before I became friends with her brother, I used to search for her. Now, I just notice her. Her locker is down the hall from me, before homeroom I usually see her there. Then now, lunch, she's usually seen milling around.
I'd love to call this a coincidence, on a different day when Connor isn't silent I could, but it's not a different day. Connor and Zoe both being absent today of all days has to mean something. Not to be a narcissist, I have a terrible feeling that that something leads straight back to me.
I hope I'm wrong. Maybe their both in school, and I just haven't seen them. Maybe Connor skipped, and I'll get a message later today of him apologizing and explain he had another episode. Or both of them have the flu and that's why they're out. A few tables away, Jared is half eating and half computer staring. I tap him on the shoulder.
"What?" He says without looking up.
"Can I talk to you?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
Understood, but it's not like I have anyone else to turn to, and this is serious. "Have you seen Connor Murphy today? Or Zoe Murphy?"
"Well, well, well. I saw you talking to Zoe yesterday. Finally making the moves, eh?"
"No, it's not that." It never is, that's not the Murphy I'm worried about right now.
"Do you need help locating the vagina?" Jared says. "I'm sure there's an app for that."
He laughs at his own joke. He still hasn't looked at me. I scan the cafeteria for my friend or his sister, it's hard to tell. They could be in here somewhere. I turn back to Jared. "I just want to know if you've seen them."
"No, I haven't," Jared says. "But I'll definitely tell her you're looking for her."
"No, please don't do that." That's not what I need right now, not her.
He finally looks up. "It's already done. Don't mention it."
As I'm leaving, he asks, "Or what?"
"Excuse me?"
He point at my cast. I purposely wore long sleeves today even though it's, like, ninety degrees out. Only the last two letters of Connor's name are visible. the O and R. Connor covered so much real estate with his signature I wasn't able to cover the whole thing. Even then, I can't help the slight joy seeing the name gave me.
"Death," I answer. "Life or death." I don't know why I say it, or why share it with Jared. It feels true, always.
My cast is fully exposed in gym. Today is our physical fitness assessment. We take the test once at the beginning of every year and once at the end. Probably my two least favorite days of school.
Ms. Bortel has us in a row on the basketball baseline. Maggie Wendell, the captain of the girls' varsity soccer team, models each exercise as Ms. Bortel delivers instructions.
I look down at my arm. How am I supposed to do a pull-up? I mean, I can barely do a pull-up when I have two functioning limbs. Forget trying to di it with a cast covering half my hand. Actually, same goes for a push-up. I see my way out of this assessment. Finally this cast shows its silver lining.
When Ms. Bortel is finished with her speech, I walk up to her and display my cast. She seems repulsed by the sight of me, as if merely standing next to my soft, broken body, her muscles might become infected. I have to admit, it's impressive, the work Ms. Bortel seems to put into her physique, especially for someone that age, probably older than my mom. Still, I find it a little unfair that she's judging me without knowing exactly how I sustained my injury. What if I slipped off a roof while building a house for the homeless? Or what if I got injured while battling some racist dude?
Ms. Bortel asks, "Do you have a not for that?" For that.
"A note?"
"A doctor's note."
"I think my mom emailed it to the office."
She mutters something that I can't make out. I do, however, hear her sigh as she send me off to the bleachers. A few kids of a certain body type watch me with ency.
I manage to dodge a bullet. But my day is still not over. My mind keeps wondering back to Connor, and occasionally Zoe. I still haven't heard from him.
Connor and I were in the same class in first grade. I remember him crying a lot. I never knew why he was crying. I just know that I was never surprised when it happened. That's what Connor did then, he cried. That was a long time ago, and Connor is way different now. I've talked to him, I'm his friend, and we've shared so much. I learned thing about him I never would have expected Connor to like.
I glance up at the clock behind the basket. The day's nearly over and the worst has yet to happen. Maybe for once I should really heed Dr. Sherman's advise and choose optimism. Connor could easily have had a moment, is off getting high somewhere and trying to keep himself stable. He could be with the boy he's mentioned briefly in passing, a friend he has other then me. He never really touch much on the kid, but he's mentioned him, spent time with him on days when he didn't have plans.
Zoe could just be sick, or the Murphys kept her home while they tried to track down Connor. I doubt he went home, if he did wouldn't he have messaged me? Wouldn't Zoe be here? Things don't have to take a bad turn, Connor would be perfectly fine. But even in my head that sounds like a lie. A heavy feeling that something terribly wrong is happening, or has happened.
When the final bell rings, I skip the bus and walk home instead, trying to fend off all the terrible terrors in my head. Normally I'd message Connor, but not today. I read my house with no recollection of how I got there.
The next day is almost identical, but worse in a cumulative sense. Again, there's no sign of Connor Murphy. Not a quick glimpse of him the hallways, or a notification with a too familiar headline. He was just missing. And not just him, I haven't caught sight of Zoe either. The pressing weight that something was wrong only grew with every passing moment.
Now I'm home again and none of my usual methods of escape are doing the trick. I tend to watch a lot of movies. Ideally, documentaries about loners, outcasts, pioneers. Give me cult leaders, obscure historical figures, dead musicians. I want people with rare diseases and unusual talents. I want to see a misunderstood person who someone is finally taking the time to understand. One of my favorite documentaries is about this nanny named Vivian Maier, who happened to be one of the world's greatest photographers, except no one discovered her talent until after she died.
Tonight I tried watching a movie about Edward Snowden, the whistleblower who had to flee the United States and seek asylum in a foreign country. Seeing this guy have to live every day of his life in constant fear only amped up my nerves.
If I could just talk to someone. I've been stuck with my own thoughts for two straight days now. Dr. Sherman won't be any help, I'm sure he'll still hold some grudge and disappointment about skipping out on him. Even if mom was home, I couldn't talk to her. She was still somewhat mad about the therapy session. I mentally flip through the very short list of people I could possibly talk to. The first name that I want to reach out to, Connor Murphy, is currently MIA and the source my anxieties.
There's only really one name left.
Jared Kleinman may laugh at the Holocaust, but on the plus side, at least you never have to guess how he's feeling. I could use a dose of his unfiltered honesty. I message him and explain what happened with Connor.
Jared: You're friends with that guy? What kinda messed up opposites attracts crap is this? Is this a gay thing?
Evan: No it's not a gay thing.
Jared: Why are you talking to me about this?
Evan: I don't know who else to talk to. I can't talk to him, and you're my only family friend.
Jared: Oh my god.
Evan: I don't know what to do. I haven't heard from him which isn't normal, and now he hasn't been at school the last two days.
Jared: He could just be getting high on a bender.
Evan: Neither has Zoe.
Jared: ?
Evan: What could he be doing?
Jared: Who knows? Connor is batshit out of his mind. Do you remember second grade? He threw a printer at Mrs. G because he didn't get to be line leader that day.
Evan: I forgot about that. But he's not that bad, he's a good friend. Do you think he'll come back.
Jared: Connor? Doubtful.
On second thought, maybe I prefer my honesty filtered.
I just want to talk to him, I don't like being left out on this loop. This never happens. The longest I've gone without hearing from him was a day. It was later followed up with an explanation of a fight with his parents and a few hours spent high, hiding from the world. Those times didn't feel nearly as worrisome. Not like this, he's never ghosted a meet up with canceling before hand.
An image appears on my screen, sent from Jared: a gorgeous razor-thin girl leaning against a brick wall, windswept hair falling over one eyes, provocative stare straight into the camera lens.