Breathe Me || Completed

17.2

17.2 - The Search

In the video clip, my parents are sitting in our living room on a live chat with the news anchor.

My stomach rolls over like a begging dog at the sight of them. They look the same as they did when I left, I suppose, but I realize with a start that I've barely thought about them, visualized them in the past week. I'd started to forget what they look like. They're sitting on the couch with stiff backs, very close together.

The news anchors is a blonde woman with a deep voice. She looks very official, makes it all very real.

She thanks my parents, or, as she calls them, Mr. and Mrs. Jean-Pierre, for joining her today. Then she says she is so sorry about their daughter.

Which is me. Chris holds onto my arm while a photo of me is shown on the screen. It's recent enough, me with my little sisters on the rocky beach in Portland last year, smiling shyly at the camera.

Chris is right beside me, watching the clip on Sydney's laptop on the floor. Samantha isn't watching. She's sitting in a baby blue bean-bag on the other side of the room, pretending to be writing something down in our travel journal. Her hands move across the page with thick, deep cuts of the pen as if the paper is the one she's angry with. I can tell she's listening.

". . .The latest developments are saying that the two girls have been seen traveling together," the news lady is saying. "That is, your daughter Sally Jean-Pierre and her long-time friend Samantha Novey. Do you think it's possible that Sally was coerced into running away by Samantha?"

It's so strange to hear our names on her lips, on the tongue of a woman I've never seen or met before. It's like we're characters in a movie and they're all fans trying to analyze the film.

My mother opens her mouth, but Dad starts talking before she can say anything. "Yes," he says. "We think that's very possible." He struggles for words for a second, then he continues, "Samantha's always been . . . troubled. I don't want to beat around the bush -- this girl is a very dangerous delinquent who has led my daughter astray --"

And that's enough. I close the window. Samantha is glaring at her scribbles, her body tense and sharp in the soft beanbag.

Chris sighs, letting go of my arm. "Can I see that for a second?" he asks.

I pass the laptop to Chris. He settles his fingers on the keyboard and types, search for missing maine girls.

Thousands of results flood the screen in an instant. Chris clicks on the "news" tab, unleashing a long list of blue hyperlinked articles about us and all the people looking for us. He clicks on the first one: Police Say Another North-east Teenage Girl... The title is too long to fit on the page.

When the article opens up, there is a picture of Chris, Mae, Dexter, and Kyle in their Camp Latoya t shirts, waving and peace sign-ing at the camera. The caption says, Christina Cromwell (second from left) disappeared from Camp Latoya, Bennington this morning after two runaways from Maine were seen at the campground.

We hardly need to read the article. The caption says it all.

Chris runs his hand over his newly shaved head, frowning at Christina in the picture. He frowns for a long time. Then he says, "I hope she sees this."

"Who?"

"Mae. I hope she sees me on the news. I hope she worries."

"You want her to worry?"

"Mhm. She deserves it. It's her fault I'm doing this, anyway." Chris scrolls up and down on the page but pauses again on the picture. Mae is smiling widely with Chris' arm around her waist. "She'll at least realize she shouldn't take me so for granted. You know, the whole you don't know what you have until you lose it thing."

"Yeah."

Again, I know Samantha is listening. I watch her cringe at certain words, cocking an eyebrow when Chris says "She deserves it". She's still scribbling, but she's not pretending to write anything anymore. She jerks the pen back and forth on the page, holding it in her fist like a toddler.

"Either way," I say, "We probably shouldn't stay here long."

"I guess not." Chris leans back against the soft, cool sheets of the bed, groaning. He glances at Samantha, at her angry posture and flashing eyes. "So, um, where to next, Sam? What's the plan?" he asks her.

Samantha glances at us for less than a second, her eyes full of force and vile anger, a brewing storm. Then she grunts something that sounds like a hiccup.

"Sorry, what?"

"Hoosick," she growls again. "Should take us about two hours and a half. It's--" she looks down at my father's watch "-- Ten thirty now. So we should get there around one thirty. We can eat and rest there and for about an hour, set off around two thirty for Johnsonville. That should take us four-ish hours so we'll get there at six thirty. We can stop and rest again, get some dinner, and then around seven we'll start for Schaghticoke, that's only an hour and a half, so we'll be there around eight thirty. Lather, rinse, repeat."

Then, Samantha does not talk to us for a very long time.