The Missing Girl by Norma Fox Mazer Page A

sense of being somewhere else, far above and out of and beyond her everyday life, the life that, at one and the same time, held her up and pulled her down. She stood there, buffeted by the wind, her arms wrapped around herself, lost in a dream of the future. Finally she looked at her watch and started back.
    At the base of the hill, she slowed and walked quietly as she approached a small clearing where, at various times, she had seen deer, grouse, and wild turkey. If she saw deer, her father would want to hear about it. It would start him thinking about next fall, when he’d go hunting. His 81

    back should be better by then, and—
    The thought was abruptly cut off. People were in the clearing. Two people, a man and a woman, wrapped together, locked in a kiss, the man’s hands around the woman’s bare waist, her hands around his face.
    Wait. Not a man and a woman. A boy and a girl. No, not that, either. A boy and her sister . Her little sister Stevie.
    The hands gripping the boy’s face, as if holding him to her by sheer force, were Stevie’s hands. And the hands that were creeping down the back of Stevie’s jeans were the boy’s hands.
    At once, without thinking, Beauty reversed herself and went running back up the path, not quiet now, nothing in her mind but running from the sight of her little sister passionately kissing the boy, hugging his head, the sight of the boy’s hand down the back of her little sister’s pants.
    That night she lay in bed, wakeful, one arm over her eyes. What a fool she was, believing that she needed no one, that all the painful moments she dragged herself through, and had still to drag herself through, meant nothing. Believing that it was good to hold out to have a real life until she escaped Mallory. Fool. Fool!
    Everything had changed in that moment of seeing her 82

    sister wrapped around the boy.
    Stevie—passionate, demanding, infuriating Stevie—
    who was barely out of childhood, already had what Beauty, on her way to adulthood, had never had, which was—well, what? A relationship? Love? Sex? All of the above? Yes. Yes, yes, yes .
    The name and face of Ethan Boswell came into her mind. Something has to change, she thought. Something drastic this way comes . The words hummed in her ears.
    From a poem, wasn’t it, something that Mr. Giametti had read to them . . . Mr. Giametti, dear Mr. G who had landed in Mallory like a rocket . . . She saw that rocket hurtling through space . . . rocket with tail of fire . . .
    rocket running . . . Odd, she thought, then she was running, leaping into the air, and she was naked, but that was all right, because she was running over the bridge out of Mallory, and now she was in a classroom, and it all made sense, it was all wonderful, she was joyous, laughing, and then someone was kissing her, holding her face tenderly, kissing her, kissing her. . . .
    In the morning she remembered the dream, the kiss.
    Oh, God. Oh, God. That kiss. It was so sweet. So sweet.
    83

    WALK LIKE A ROBOT
    THE MAN STRAIGHTENS his tie, wipes his lips one more time, and checks to make sure the gas jets are turned off. He locks the door behind him and walks briskly past the empty lot that takes up most of the street.
    A beautiful day, the blue sky, the trees sparkling from last night’s rain. The air is fresh this morning. He thinks about the girls. His heart quickens in anticipation, but he walks steadily, neither hastening nor slowing his steps. Long ago, someone cruel—one of the many cruel people he’s known in his life—yes, including his father—told him he walked like a robot. The remark hurt his feelings deeply.
    He couldn’t forget it. He had wiped the name of that boy 84

    from his memory, but he remembered the voice, the sneer on the face.
    He pushes away the memory. He prides himself on being rational, not wasting his time on useless memories, on sentiment. He lives an orderly life, a well-regulated life, and now a habitual part of that life is thinking