1 I

The bus comes to a halt at my stop, not before spraying muddy rainwater all over the sidewalk along which I’ll need to walk. With gratitude, I nod to the only other person on the bus⸺the driver⸺and signal for the side door to open. Hopping off the raised platform, my feet land in a puddle sitting in a pothole, the cold spring water travels up the edge of my boots and down into my socks. I pay no mind to the spongy feeling my socks have taken on; I’ll be changing my shoes soon anyways.

I pull the sleeves of my wrinkly button down over the charm bracelet and tighten my ponytail. The hair that was straightened this morning has its normal frizz again.

The neon light from Lowe’s Bowl was the only light gracing the small side road of rural St. Jacobs. Even if the population barely scraped two-thousand, the streets constantly brimmed with the boisterous tourists from neighbouring towns coming to suck up some ideal of small-town life, the leachers⸺or so Mom says.

The city bus pulled away from behind me, splashing a spray of dirty street water on the back of my boots. I didn’t bother to open my umbrella. Allowing myself one final breath, I hike my purse across my chest and walk to the dented, main entrance doors.

The familiar and comforting smell of cheap shoe cleaner and boiling oil from their classic French fries calm me and I find myself smiling when Mr. Lowe greets me at the front register. His shiny red face, balding head, and tightly buttoned collar made me wonder sometimes how any oxygen reached his brain.

“Evening, Miss Waters.” He pivoted to pull a pair of women’s bowling shoes. “They others are already here. Arrived a few minutes just before you did.”

I smile, take the shoes and hand him a five-dollar bill. “Awesome, thanks. Tell Mrs. Lowe I say hi.”

Rounding the corner, I sigh relieved, when I do in fact see my friends, the only ones in the open room. We were the only ones who came to the alley on a Sunday evening.

Amelia Smythe, the blonde bombshells with tanned skin and a million dollar smile, sees me first. She’s our small town princess⸺being the Mayor’s daughter⸺and my best friend. Attached at her hip is her longtime boyfriend and all around cool guy, Mark Fernandez. He doesn’t see me until Amelia taps his head with a long manicured nail, he was too busy chatting⸺or bickering⸺with Carmen Lewis.

Carmen sits across from them, a spot for me next to her. Over six-feet tall with the most coily hair I’ve ever seen, Carmen is a sight to be seen. She and Mark banded together as primary school kids since St. Jacob’s was not a place for immigrants.

I drop my purse onto the table and throw myself onto the empty seat. I lean a head on Carmen’s shoulder and say, “I’m sure done with this rain.”

Mark’s face is sullen as he looks up from his game of tic-tac-toe on the paper table cloth with Amelia. “Too bad it’s not supposed to stop for another few days.” He draws an X and wins the round, drawing a green line through his Xs with a crayon.

“Please,” Carmen says, “I’m fine with it. My dad’s felt bad for me so he’s been picking me up after soccer practice.”

“Mom’s lent me her car, at least,” Amelia says, drawing an angry face on the table in front of Mark. “She’s always down at the police station anyway.”

I slink in my seat, tugging at the charms.

“Oh my God, Char!” Amelia exclaims. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

My gut rolls and I say, “It’s cool. Don’t even worry about it.” When no one looks convinced, I sit up and speak more forcefully. “Seriously, guys. Ava’s an adult. She can handle herself. Now, don’t tell me you all have cold feet now?”

Carmen pushes her club soda away and smacks her hands on the table. “Let’s start the game.”

✦✦✦

My alarm clocks yells at me, I roll over and fumble with it until it quiets down. Even in the dim light at seven in the morning, the fact that this was my mom’s room as a teenager is evident: faded pink floral wallpaper clearly from the eighties dawned the walls, and my room was still home to her old wardrobe and little knick knacks she didn’t want throughout the house otherwise.

I exchange my red lifeguard hoodie for a red striped knit sweater and my sweatpants for a pair of skinny jeans. After grabbing a pair of socks and braiding my hair, I make my way towards the main floor.

Upon the second last step, I freeze. Mom is just in the living room, and it’s obvious how close she is when she opens her mouth to speak. “She’s been gone for a week, Arthur.” Oh good, she’s not just talking to herself, my father’s there as well. “If she comes back, she’s not going to be welcomed.”

Bravely⸺or more likely stupidly⸺I take the last steps and come face to face with my mom and dad. Mom’s eyelashes are clumped together, something that always happens when she’s mad and squeezes her eyes too tight. Dad’s tired, I can tell by the bags under his eye and the fact that his Priest’s dress shirt isn’t ironed.

I avert my eyes as my courage wains and I pass between my parents, mumbling a quiet “Excuse me.”

They know I heard them talking about Ava and I’ll never hear the end of my eavesdropping tonight at dinner. I don’t worry too much about it, I’ve still got a few hours of peace until then.

Mom doesn’t work and the only pocket change she gets is what Dad gives her every day, so when my Mom starts her yelling again about the money Ava stole from her, I just retreat to the washroom to take a break from my family.

Within fifteen minutes, Amelia arrives in her Mom’s Jetta. She steps out of the driver's side to greet me as I make my way down the rotting steps of my porch. Really, I’m not surprised by my friends choice of attire. Skinny jeans, a white lace top, and a close-fitting pearl necklace. It’s covered not by a raincoat and rain boots, but by a blush cashmere coat and black booties. Truthfully, it’s not practical look for the drizzle of rain coming down on us. I don’t say anything regarding her attire, though.

“Morning,” I say, handing off the travel mug filled with dark roast black coffee. I zip up my rain coat and open the door on the passenger side as Amelia returns to take her place behind the wheel. “How’s your mom?”

As female mayor of a small town no stranger to prejudice, Ms Mayor Smythe had the character traits she needed: an unapologetic honesty, a disposition for control but rarely any motivation for it, and a great mother not only to her only daughter but to all the youth in the city⸺or at least I think so.

“Normal, I guess,” she responds.

The high school is on the edge of the county, a ten minute drive if there’s no traffic. As it remains a rainy Monday in early spring, the roads bustle; students getting drives from their parents, rational people refusing to walk in the rain, and closed side roads that redirect all traffic.

There’s never much conversation between Amelia and myself, there never really needs to be.

“My mom asked about you at dinner last night,” Amelia says, her eye’s not drifting from the road, her hand not making any move to leave the gear shift.

“Yeah?” Asked about me specifically or my family? There’s a difference.

“She wants to know if you’re coming to the gala.”

Right. The gala. It’s not really that I don’t want to go, Carmen and her girlfriend that she never lets us see will be there. Even Mark promises to go, which is a miracle even-of-itself. But me, no, there’s too much otherwise going on. Mom would have a fit, insisting I’m smearing her attempts to get Mayor Smythe out of office. And I couldn’t get a dress⸺though Amelia would offer⸺it’s just that the only income I get comes from lifeguarding at the public pool in the summer months.

“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly.

“It’d be a good excuse to have fun. C’mon, I could even get you a date⸺if you want.”

Chewing on my lip, I peel back a layer of skin. I taste blood shortly after. “Is it really a good time? To have the gala, I mean.” I bite my tongue, then continue, “Like I think your mom should be more concerned about Ava…”

“Char, she spends almost every waking hour down at the station with Sheriff Stock. They even found the GPS for your mom’s car down in the Conestogo River.”

My head hits the headrest. It’s the first… anything. Any proof that Ava did and does still exist after she disappeared two weeks back. My car was gone, mom’s wallet was emptied, but Ava’s room was untouched. Stupidly, we thought she’d come back, she’d done it before: run off with her long time on-and-off boyfriend Noah Weber, from the wealthier part of town. The longest they’d ever taken off for was three days. Today, it’s been sixteen.

“And my mom?” I ask.

“Been by my house ten times since Wednesday, apparently” Amelia says, “but Mom could be being dramatic.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see she tosses a glance my way. I just rub my eyes in defeat.

Cautiously, she pulls into the student parking lot, riddled with flooded potholes and assorted litter. Like I expected, the lot was nearly full, and as rare as it was, I knew why: even in the lower-middle class neighbourhoods of St. Jacobs, rain brought everyone together, even if it was with their parents’ cars.

“What are you going to do about it?” Amelia asks, putting her car into park.

As vague as it is, I know what she’s referring to. “I don’t know.” I pop the car door and swing out, my backpack and worry for the day ahead in tow.

As per usual, the day goes on, fading quickly until last period is wrapping up. The normal events happened as they always did: someone was injured in Carmen’s gym class, someone slipped in the cafeteria and split food all down the front of themselves, and a pair of boys almost got into a fist fight in the smoke pit but it was broken up by the hall monitors before it could get too out of hand.

Every Monday and Wednesday in the springtime, Amelia, Mark, and I would sit on the bleachers until Carmen’s outdoor soccer practise was done. Today, thankfully, they held the drills inside, so the three of us sat by my locker along the main hallway. Carmen is Mark’s ride home since the bus routes don’t go out towards his house, and Amelia just hangs around to spend more time with her boyfriend. I stay around because it’s better than going home.

“Mark,” Amelia says, peering up from her physics textbook. “Any update on your ride to the gala?”

“Yeah. My parents are out of town, so I’ll need to bus or something.”

I slam my book shut, not bothering to put my bookmark back⸺the only reason I was reading the book is because it’s from Ava’s cardboard box in the garage. “I can drive you,” I tell Mark, then turn to Amelia. “You probably can’t leave anyways. It’s no big deal.”

“Char,” she begins, and I know that look on her face, “your car is gone.”

“So?” I ask incregusstly. “Dad could lend me his, he won’t need it, and it’s not like I’m going far.”

“Hm.” Amelia huffs and she looks back down at the lined paper between the pages of her textbook. “I still want you to get a date to drive you. Mark, Carmen or her girlfriend can drive you.”

I eye my best-friend, noting to myself to message Mark and see if he’s still open to a ride from me.

“And hey…” Amelia gets my attention. “Mark’ll just have to come early.”

I unzip my backpack to stuff my book away and pull out my phone. I drop it to the floor, however, when I see ‘Mom’ on the screen. She’s calling me. It goes to voicemail.

Mark hasn’t noticed, his eyes are back on his school issued Chromebook, working away on some essay. Amelia, the keen eyed girl, does notice.

“Y’know, I was thinking today about where you could get information about your sister.” Amelia isn’t look at me, she’s looking down the hall. I don’t mimic her. “Ethan Stock.”

“The sheriff’s kid?” Mark asks, bringing himself back into the conversation. “What’s he going to know?”

“Piper’s never been able to keep anything from her darling boy since her husband passed away a few years back. She probably rants all day to him at dinner.”

There’s a breeze behind me and my hair blows towards my face. I turn over my left shoulder to see a boy’s back. Ethan Stock in the flesh. Oh Amelia.

The boy was a sight to see: never in the cafeteria, never outside over the lunch hour during the sunnier days, only ever in my English class’ far corner.

“Just try it, Char.” Amelia is not one to bargain. I can say no, but I owe her. “What’s the worse that can happen?”

Stalling, I ask, “How do you know about his relationship with his mom?”

“Mom’s not dealing well after Dad left.” She’s somber. “Go find him, Char.”

Frustrated but slightly grateful, I stand up, slinging my backpack over one shoulder as I go. I start to walk.

“Fine,” I say, “but if he offers me smokes, I’m leaving.”

In my humble sixteen years, I’ve always lived in the same town as Ethan Stock: the tall, black haired boy with olive skin and black jean jackets. Have I ever spoken to him? No, not really. Unless that time when I was presenting a speech in sixth grade and had to ask the entire class a rhetorical question counts as speaking to him.

Oh God, what am I even doing? I don’t know this kid, how am I supposed to go up to him and ask for his… his what? Help? Information? Support? Or his belittlement? That I wouldn’t need to ask for, I’d receive it regardless.

This is illegal isn’t it? Asking him for information that I have no right to? No, I do have a right to know, he’s the one that’s out of line. I sigh, he’s only out of line if he knows anything, and I don’t know if he knows anything.

I halt in front of the library doors. He was headed down this path, right? The school’s library serves as both our ‘private one’ and a public one with separate doors. Because of this, the library had good funding, and was state of the art: it had three desktop computers.

I catch sight of him: hunched over⸺though the shelf he’s looking at is probably at my eye level⸺in the crime section. His earbuds are in, and he’s not paying attention to anything but the poorly written early nineties crime books.

I grip the straps of my backpack and make my way over towards him. I clear my throat, knowing he can’t yet hear me. I step around the shelf until I’m on one side and he the other. I wait for him to push the books in front of my face aside. He doesn’t. Indignantly, I take three steps to my right until I’m at the end of the aisle. I walk up to him, reading the name of the book in his hand.

“That’s not his best work,” I say, reading the man’s name off the cover.

His jaw clenches but he doesn’t move to take an earbud out. “What do you want, Waters?”

“What about my first name? Do you know that?”

He pauses, book still in hand at reading distance. “I’m guessing you’re not Ava.”

I snicker. “Funny, really.”

“Waters, I’m serious: what do you want?” His voice is uninterested, he’s more worried about the average crime book in his hand.

I don’t hesitate. “I need help.”

“With picking a good novel? By the cover of your book in the hall, you’re beyond help.” There’s a moment where I want to speak up and tell him it’s not mine, I’m not reading it because it interests me. But I stop, he wants to aggravate me.

“Good to know I’ve already made an impression,” I say.

“It takes six seconds to make a first impression.” He finally turns to look at me, the book now behind his back. Ethan’s glasses sit crooked on his nose with finger prints along the lenses. His pale yellow graphic t-shirt is so worn in I can’t tell what print used to be on it, even though I am at the perfect height to check out his short. “I’ve had an impression of you since first grade.”

I cross my arms. If he watches me chew on my cheek, he doesn’t show it. I don’t know if I’m glad or disappointed. “I can understand the weather being a downer but I don’t take out my aggression on others.”

“What ‘aggression?” And when I keep quiet, he shrugs and turns back to the book shelf. “This is just my personality.”

“Sure.” Oh God, here it comes… “I need help with Ava’s case.”

Ethan doesn’t turn his face but I see his eyes flick to the side. “Why me?”

I asked the same question. “For your company.”

“Charlotte Waters being sarcastic. I thought sarcasm was a Sin.”

I look away, embarrassed. “You bring out my worst.” I’m red up my chest and neck⸺thankfully my sweater hides some of it. Only some though. “It’s been so long, Ethan. If there’s anything you know, please tell me.”

I figured he knew why I here. He doesn’t hesitate before saying, “I’m not putting my ass on the line for nothing.” He pushed up his glasses and I’m relieved because it was starting to get on my nerves. “What about a deal?”

I, however, turn it over in my head, finally realizing the potential consequences of this with Ethan. “What is it you want?”

His lips turn down in thought. “I’m not sure yet. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Hesitant but proud and relieved, I stand straighter. “Alright, Ethan. You better hold your end of the deal.” I pivot and start to leave before stopping. “And thanks, Ethan.”

He waves me off with his now empty hand, the book is back on the shelf.

Dad places the hot casserole on the fabric coaster, his hands covered in gripped oven mitts. He passes me a plate as I run my fingers over the top of my water glass. “Thanks,” I say, as he dished some dinner out to me.

Mom throws her cloth napkin onto the table. “What is with you tonight?” she demands.

“Sorry. It’s my head⸺y’know with the rain.” It’s a lie, well, a partial lie. My head does throb like it normally does when the weather is particularly active, but I wouldn’t chalk my foul mood down to just the pain in my head.

“Don’t excuse your laziness,” Mom says.

“Nora,” Dad tries to reason. Mom, as he and I both expected, doesn’t pay any mind to his warning.

“No, David. She needs to stop feeling so bad for herself.” She turns her glare from Dad to me. “The world will move on without you.”

“I’ll try harder.” She’ll hold me to that.

The rest of dinner is quiet; Dad clears his throat every few minutes, then say something about his day or the church only to be met by a quiet scoff as Mom worries more about her wine than Dad. To lie and say this was an unusual dinner would be a crime against Ava’s ability to make conversation with or without her presence. Something comes up, Mom gets mad, whether it’s directly related to us or not, then we remain silent as Mom fills her wine glass one, two, three times. The schedule was as follows: eat for ten minutes, go upstairs and finish my meal, then complete any homework I’d not done before Mom pounded on my door for dinner.

I grab my glass and my plate, then return back to my bedroom where I resume the silence of dinner at my desk. There’s music coming from my school issued Chromebook⸺I’d hit the spacebar as I passed my bed⸺but it’s no louder then a whisper.

That’s why I jump when my phone rings from where it lay on my bed, buzzing like mad and playing the classic jingle I had yet to change. I push my chair back and lean across the bed, grabbing the phone in my hand. It’s an unknown number, our area code however, so I pick it up.

“Hello, Charlotte speaking.”

“Ah, good,” the other end of the line says.

“Ethan?” I exclaim. As soon as his name leaves my tongue, my hand flies to my mouth as I listen to see if Mom’s chair scrapes across the hardwood as she stands and comes to talk to me. Quieter, I ask, “How’d you get my number?”

“Amelia Smythe,” he grumbles.

Before I get a chance to wonder if he’s paused so I can speak, he starts again. “I was thinking: it’s been years since anyone checked the Farmhouse.”

I hesitate. I had forgotten about the Farmhouse on the edge of town, one of the oldest buildings in the county. Deteriorating for years, it’s been left to the tall grass and stray cats in the past decade or so. There’d been a few week period where Ava and her then boyfriend, Noah Weber, and a slew of other grade elevens would camp out in and around the property.

I’d never been.

“You think she’s there?” I ask.

“God no, Waters.” If he’s amused by my response, it doesn’t show in his voice. “I think she’s been there.”

“Then why hasn’t it been searched before?”

“Something about a search warrant and the owners.”

“Oh.” I don’t really follow, but that’s why Ethan’s here⸺or there, in his home rather⸺I don’t need to understand the law if he does.

He ignores my surprise. “If you’re up for it, I’m going tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s eight o’clock and raining,” I say, glancing out my window to see, in fact, it is still raining as Mark said it would.

“Take it or leave it, Waters.”

I pivot around, away from the window. “Fine. I’ll need a ride.”

“I’ll get you in ten.”

“Ethan,” I say forcefully, hoping he’s not already taken the phone from his ear. “You need my address.”

“Already got it, small town remember.” This time, he does hang up and I’m left with a bad decision and a sneaking suspicion that he’ll be here in less than ten minutes.

I click my tongue. Mom wouldn’t let me go out this time of night, let alone with Ethan Stock of all people. Even I have my doubts about him, he could be a basket case, but I guess I know more about that kind of thing than he does.

I braid my hair, flattening out the puffy sides as little baby hairs escape to curl around my forehead and cheeks. I grab a flashlight and book it downstairs, not going as quietly as I should.

I round the corner towards the living room, halting as I see my parents on the couch. I slip the flash light into the waistband of my jeans, pulling my sweater over to hide the top end.

“I’m going out,” I announce, my confidence sparked by the brown liquid in Mom’s glass. “With Amelia.” Mom doesn’t like her, or her mother; in fact she very much dislikes them, but she likes their money. “She’s getting a dress for the gala,” I lie.

“Take a picture if she picks one,” Mom insists. And I know why she asks that of me.

“Course,” I say, remember the flashlight shaped lump up my back. “I don’t know when I’ll be back but I’ll message.” I show my phone⸺it’s completely off but she doesn’t need to know that.

Grabbing my coat and yanking the hood over my head, I’m out the door, key in my pocket. I wait under the covered porch for Ethan to come up along the street, and sure enough, under four minutes later, the yellow lights of his car light the street as he rounds onto my driveway. I take one last glance as my parents’ shadows on the couch before walking down the driveway to his truck.

I pop the front door and it opens with a creak and a thud. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, slamming the door and buckling up.

“No problem. I figured if we were doing something illegal, it’s the least I could do.” He starts the ignition. “And, hey, if they cops get us, she could double as a getaway car.

“This thing?” I ask. “We could run faster.”

“Me run?” Ethan exclaims, “I don’t think so.”