JENNIE
The rest of march
The first text comes in on Thursday. The thing is, they were all perfect days.
As soon as I read it, I call Manoban, but she's already turned the phone off and I go to voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, I text her back: We're all so worried. I'm worried. My girlfriend is a missing person. Please call me.
Hours later, I hear from her again: Not missing at all. Found.
I write immediately: Where are you? This time she doesn't answer.
My dad is barely speaking to me, but my mom talks with Mrs. Manoban, who says Manoban has been in touch to let her know she's okay, not to worry, and she promises to check in every week, which implies that she's going to be gone for a while. No need to call in psychiatrists (but thanks so much for the concern). No need to call the police. After all, she does this sometimes. It appears my girlfriend isn't missing.
Except that she is.
"Did she say where she went?" As I ask it, I suddenly can see that my mom looks worried and tired, and I try to imagine what would be happening right now if it was me and not Manoban who'd disappeared. My parents would have every cop within five states out looking.
"If she did, she didn't tell me. I don't know what else we can do. If the parents aren't even worried … well. I guess we need to trust that Manoban means what she says and that she's all right." But I can hear all the things she isn't saying: If it were my child, I'd be out there myself, bringing her home.
At school, I'm the only one who seems to notice she's gone. After all, she's just another troublemaker who's been expelled. Our teachers and classmates have already forgotten about her.
So everyone acts as if nothing has happened and everything's fine.
I go to class and play in an orchestra concert. I hold my first Germ meeting, and there are twenty-two of us, all girls, except for Diana's boyfriend, Adam, and Lizzy's brother, Max. I hear from two more colleges—Stanford, which is a no, and UCLA, which is a yes. I pick up the phone to tell Manoban, but her voicemail is full. I don't bother texting her. Whenever I write back, it takes her a long time to respond, and when she does, it's never in answer to anything I've said.
I'm starting to get mad.
Two days later, Manoban writes: I am on the highest branch.
The next morning: We are written in paint.
Later that night: I believe in signs.
The next afternoon: The glow of Ultraviolet.
The day after that: A lake. A prayer. It's so lovely to be lovely in Private.
And then everything goes quiet.