were only thirteen.”
“You bothered him for no reason,” she said harshly. “Because you were so carefree.”
It had seemed like a good reason at the time. I remembered how Lara couldn’t stop crying. Autumn was her friend. Our reasons seemed brave and irreproachable.
I didn’t respond to Callie, letting her marinate in frosty silence. But after a few minutes, she tried resuming our conversation.
“Do you still remember her name?” Callie asked quietly. “Even though you didn’t know her?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was Autumn Sanger.”
—
Lara came over crying that day. She didn’t even notice what she’d interrupted. Curtis had been tugging Joyce’s braid, stroking its soft tendrils, but he dropped her hair so fast, Joyce’s head jerked to one side. I saw Joyce trying to hide a small frown as she smoothed her hair back. “Did you hear?” Lara’s lips were trembling. “Autumn Sanger disappeared.”
Curtis left the two of us on the couch, where he’d been wedgedbetween us, and Joyce slid her hand across the cushion, still warm from his butt. They’d been flirting all morning, and I’d been trying to stop them. I’d blinked my thoughts steadily at Joyce, but she’d refused to hear a thing. “What do you mean? She ran away?” Curtis was slipping an arm around Lara, and I’d never even heard of Autumn Sanger, but my heart was starting to race. Something awful had happened—it electrified my blood.
“They think she got kidnapped.” Lara spoke as though she’d run the whole way over. Little gasps in between, trying to catch her breath. The ceiling fan rotated slowly above us, as if life was continuing as normal, but Joyce’s knees started bouncing up and down, like she was trying to run away.
“Girls, go to Rebecca’s room,” Curtis commanded.
“What? Why?”
When we didn’t move, Curtis led Lara away so they could talk in private. But the doors in our house were so thin we were able to listen from the hallway. Curtis thought Autumn had run away. That’s what he told Lara. He didn’t think she’d been kidnapped at all—Autumn had talked about hitchhiking to California. But Lara said she’d know if she’d run away. And anyway, Autumn hadn’t said good-bye.
Then she mentioned Mr. Hort and Curtis said no. No way.
Mr. Hort was an old guy who lived in our neighborhood. We’d all heard rumors about how he hired hookers and made them wear children’s clothes. A girl from school once told me she’d seen them dancing in Mr. Hort’s backyard. They were sucking on pacifiers, their hair in baby curls.
“He’s too old and weak to do anything,” Curtis said. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Aunt Bea was standing behind us, an amused look on her face. She was still wearing the T-shirt she slept in, which hung halfwaydown her bare thighs. I smelled smoke on her breath as she pressed her ear against the door.
“Don’t tell me they’re knocking boots already.” She banged on Curtis’s door. “Hey, you got Peeping Toms out here!”
Joyce’s face went beet-red, and I tried to explain about Autumn. But instead of asking me for any details, my aunt told us to go to my room.
—
“We need to contact her,” Joyce said, as we lay side by side on my bed. I’d already turned off the lights in hopes of encouraging ghosts and spirits. Joyce reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Do you think Mr. Hort took her?”
“Ask her,” I said. “Let’s call her right now.”
“Autumn Sanger,” we whispered again and again until the words melted together, and our voices became slow, and the backs of our throats ached.
Then I heard a small clear voice in my head. “Basement,” it said.
All the hairs on my arms stood up. “Basement!” I announced to Joyce.
“Whose basement?”
I thought for a moment. “Mr. Hort’s!”
Then I was there, in Autumn’s place, locked in his basement. I was shivering in the darkness, rough cement beneath my back. It was cold. My throat
“You bothered him for no reason,” she said harshly. “Because you were so carefree.”
It had seemed like a good reason at the time. I remembered how Lara couldn’t stop crying. Autumn was her friend. Our reasons seemed brave and irreproachable.
I didn’t respond to Callie, letting her marinate in frosty silence. But after a few minutes, she tried resuming our conversation.
“Do you still remember her name?” Callie asked quietly. “Even though you didn’t know her?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was Autumn Sanger.”
—
Lara came over crying that day. She didn’t even notice what she’d interrupted. Curtis had been tugging Joyce’s braid, stroking its soft tendrils, but he dropped her hair so fast, Joyce’s head jerked to one side. I saw Joyce trying to hide a small frown as she smoothed her hair back. “Did you hear?” Lara’s lips were trembling. “Autumn Sanger disappeared.”
Curtis left the two of us on the couch, where he’d been wedgedbetween us, and Joyce slid her hand across the cushion, still warm from his butt. They’d been flirting all morning, and I’d been trying to stop them. I’d blinked my thoughts steadily at Joyce, but she’d refused to hear a thing. “What do you mean? She ran away?” Curtis was slipping an arm around Lara, and I’d never even heard of Autumn Sanger, but my heart was starting to race. Something awful had happened—it electrified my blood.
“They think she got kidnapped.” Lara spoke as though she’d run the whole way over. Little gasps in between, trying to catch her breath. The ceiling fan rotated slowly above us, as if life was continuing as normal, but Joyce’s knees started bouncing up and down, like she was trying to run away.
“Girls, go to Rebecca’s room,” Curtis commanded.
“What? Why?”
When we didn’t move, Curtis led Lara away so they could talk in private. But the doors in our house were so thin we were able to listen from the hallway. Curtis thought Autumn had run away. That’s what he told Lara. He didn’t think she’d been kidnapped at all—Autumn had talked about hitchhiking to California. But Lara said she’d know if she’d run away. And anyway, Autumn hadn’t said good-bye.
Then she mentioned Mr. Hort and Curtis said no. No way.
Mr. Hort was an old guy who lived in our neighborhood. We’d all heard rumors about how he hired hookers and made them wear children’s clothes. A girl from school once told me she’d seen them dancing in Mr. Hort’s backyard. They were sucking on pacifiers, their hair in baby curls.
“He’s too old and weak to do anything,” Curtis said. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Aunt Bea was standing behind us, an amused look on her face. She was still wearing the T-shirt she slept in, which hung halfwaydown her bare thighs. I smelled smoke on her breath as she pressed her ear against the door.
“Don’t tell me they’re knocking boots already.” She banged on Curtis’s door. “Hey, you got Peeping Toms out here!”
Joyce’s face went beet-red, and I tried to explain about Autumn. But instead of asking me for any details, my aunt told us to go to my room.
—
“We need to contact her,” Joyce said, as we lay side by side on my bed. I’d already turned off the lights in hopes of encouraging ghosts and spirits. Joyce reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Do you think Mr. Hort took her?”
“Ask her,” I said. “Let’s call her right now.”
“Autumn Sanger,” we whispered again and again until the words melted together, and our voices became slow, and the backs of our throats ached.
Then I heard a small clear voice in my head. “Basement,” it said.
All the hairs on my arms stood up. “Basement!” I announced to Joyce.
“Whose basement?”
I thought for a moment. “Mr. Hort’s!”
Then I was there, in Autumn’s place, locked in his basement. I was shivering in the darkness, rough cement beneath my back. It was cold. My throat
Similar Books
