Tell Them All

"Kyra is such a beautiful spirit, and we all love her so much. We just want her to get home safely." Kyra's mom holds a photo of her daughter high enough so the news camera can see it.

I stand near the front of the crowd, close enough to see it clearly: Kyra Sorenson in her soccer uniform, smiling and waving at the camera as she runs by. Not many people look photogenic when sweating on the field, but Kyra always does. I imagine her natural beauty has helped a lot with garnering such attention from both people that know her, and those who only think of her as "The Small Town Soccer Star."

I glance over my shoulder to see how far the sun has set. Most of it is now hidden behind the trees, the beams of light illuminating the orange and yellow leaves. Such a pretty sight for such an ugly occasion. I'm dreading the moment when the sun is no longer visible in the sky and is replaced by darkness, just like last night, just like every night. But, as everyone at this press conference knew, last night wasn't a regular Friday.

Some news reporters are present, with their microphones and their TV cameras, capturing the events taking place in front of the town hall in hopes for drama-hungry viewers to tune in. The idea of people using Kyra's disappearance as a form of entertainment made me clench my teeth. Even some of the people standing here in the crowd look like they can barely contain their excitement. I just know that they're waiting for the worst to happen, even if they won't admit it.

The police begin to wrap up this press conference by stating that anyone who has any information about where Kyra might be should contact them immediately. "Thank you for your time," Officer Delgato finishes. He steps down from the podium and joins the Sorensen parents, Dana and James, and begins talking to them, out of range from everyone else's ears.

Only a few hours ago Officer Delgato interviewed me and my mom at home. We answered the questions we pretty much expected to hear, such as, "When did you last see Kyra?" "Did she mention where she was going?" and "When did you find out that she had not made it home?"

The answer to the first question was simple: "About 9:30 last night? That's when she walked out of the house."

He responded with, "Did you see her get in her car?"

I squirmed at the realization. "No, I hadn't. I didn't look out the window." I knew that her car, an explorer she got for her sixteenth birthday last month, also hasn't turned up.

The answer to the second question: "She just said she was going home. She didn't elaborate, which makes sense, because, you know, why would she talk about that in detail?" That sentence might sound a bit snarky, but it wasn't meant to be. That's just what flew out of my mouth as if I lost the reins to a nervous horse before I could pull it back in.

The answer to the third question was much longer.

Early this morning, Dana called Mom and asked if Kyra was still at our house, and she responded, "No, why? Is something wrong?" I stopped shoving spoonfuls of cheerios into my mouth to pay attention to the conversation, even though I could only hear half of it. After a few seconds Mom said, "Really? You have no idea? Have you tried calling her?" If I wasn't interested before, then I definitely was now.

The phone call lasted maybe another thirty seconds, ending on "Good luck, I hope you can find her," until I could ask, "Mom, who was that?"

"That was Dana," Mom said, looking almost bewildered, like the words she was saying caught her off guard too. "Kyra never made it home last night."

My throat felt funny, as if oxygen was too thick for it to swallow. "What?"

Mom put her phone back in her pocket and started clearing up the bowls and spoons, giving her hand something to do when she's deep in thought. Or anxious. Or both. "Isabelle, did you instant message with her at all after she left?"