Catherine
The halls of the high school were particularly quiet on Tuesday morning. The students seemed tired, and at first, I thought it was just the cloud-covered sky and the cold. But something else was blowing in with the cold front. We just didn’t know it yet.
An office aide stood in the doorway, his hair frizzy and carrot-hued. He was more freckles than alabaster, already a chip on his shoulder as a freshman. Today the years of teasing and bullying were missing from his expression. Instead, he seemed anxious as he placed the note on the teacher’s desk.
“Tatum?” Ms. Winston called. “You’re wanted in the office.”
“But the test,” she argued.
“Gather your things,” Ms. Winston said, staring at the paper in her hand. “Now.”
Through the glass wall, I saw Anna Sue walking down the hall, escorted by another office aide. She had her books with her.
Tatum paused, watching her friend. Their gazes met for half a second before Anna Sue passed.
Tatum grabbed her backpack and hurried into the hallway, calling for Anna Sue to wait.
The moment they were out of sight, a few whispers lingered, but then we all went back to our tests. As I filled in circles, the uneasy feeling that something was wrong settled over me. The halls were quiet and tense. The students were exhausted, subconsciously ready for the terror that was about to settle into the bones of the school.
The bell rang, and hundreds of teenagers filed out into the hallways, stopping off at their lockers to exchange books and supplies in the two minutes we were allowed.
“Did you hear?” Madison said, breathless.
“No, but I can feel it,” I said, closing my locker door.
Elliott and Sam appeared next to us with the same confused expressions.
“They’re saying Presley isn’t at school today, and all the clones were called into the office,” Sam said.
“Madison,” Mrs. Mason said, glancing at me. She touched Madison’s arm. “I need you to come with me.”
“Me? Why?” Madison asked.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked.
“Just come with me, Maddy. Don’t argue,” Mrs. Mason whispered.
Madison walked with Mrs. Mason down C Hall toward the office.
We stood watching, a crowd forming around us. People were asking questions, but their voices blurred together.
“Do you think it’s about Maddy’s car?” Sam asked. “Maybe they got caught and want to talk to her about it?”
“Didn’t you see Mrs. Mason’s face?” Elliott said. “Whatever it is . . . it’s bad.” He reached down, sliding his fingers between mine.
Second and third hour came and went. After class, I expected Madison to be at my locker, talking so fast about whatever they’d taken her to the office for, her words barely audible. Elliott, Sam, and I waited at my locker, but Madison never came.
“She’s still in the office,” Sam said.
That was when I noticed the tears, the somber faces, some even looking afraid.
“What the hell is going on?” Elliott asked.
Sam pulled out his cell phone. “I’m texting Maddy’s dad. He should know what’s going o—”
Mr. Saylor passed us, giving Sam a strange look before disappearing around the corner.
“He’s going to the office,” Sam said, putting his phone away.
“I’m going,” I said.
“Catherine, no,” Elliott said, but before he could finish his sentence, I had already closed my locker and was following Mr. Saylor.
Mrs. Rosalsky seemed panicked the moment Elliott, Sam, and I walked in. She stood, holding out her hand.
“Catherine, you should go. You too, Elliott. Sam, go with them.”
“Where is Maddy?” I asked. “Mrs. Mason came for her two hours ago. We just saw her dad.”
Mrs. Rosalsky lowered her chin, meeting my gaze. “Catherine, go. They’ll call you in soon enough.”
“Miss Calhoun,” a man said, stepping out of Mrs. Mason’s office. Madison followed him out with her father, looking horrified.
“What’s going on?” Elliott asked.
“I’m Detective Thompson,” he said, shaking Elliott’s hand. He eyed us with his bulging blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” Elliott said, nodding once before peering around to see Madison. “You okay?”
Madison nodded, looking small behind her father.
Detective Thompson wore a dark, worn suit, his Western boots wet from a weekend of rain. His wiry gray mustache made him look more like a cowboy than an officer of the law. “Since you’re both here, why don’t you step into Mrs. Mason’s office?”
I looked to Elliott, searching for an answer in his expression. I hadn’t a clue what was going on, but Elliott seemed unfazed. He took my hand, leading the way. As we passed, Madison’s eyes expressed a dozen warnings. Her hand brushed over mine and Elliott’s as she left with her father, silently wishing us good luck.
Mrs. Mason was standing behind her desk, gesturing for us to take the two chairs that sat in front of it. We did, but Elliott kept hold of my hand.
Detective Thompson stared at our interlaced fingers as he sat in Mrs. Mason’s chair, clasping his hands behind her nameplate.
“Do you know why we’ve brought you in here today?” Thompson asked.
Elliott and I traded glances and then shook our heads no.
“Presley Brubaker didn’t come home last night,” Thompson said matter-of-factly.
I frowned, waiting for the words to make sense, for the detective to explain.
“She ran away?” Elliott asked.
Thompson’s mouth twitched. “It’s interesting you’d say that, Elliott. No one else I’ve spoken to seems to think so.”
Elliott shrugged. “What else could it be?”
The detective sat back, as calm and collected as Elliott. They were staring at each other in a sort of standoff. “I’ll need your birthdates. Let’s start with Elliott.”
“November sixteenth. Nineteen ninety-nine,” Elliott said.
“February second,” I said.
Detective Thompson snatched a pen from Mrs. Mason’s jar and scribbled down our answers.
“You had a birthday this weekend, huh?” the detective said.
Elliott nodded.
“Catherine?” Mrs. Mason said. “Do you know where Presley is? Have you heard from her?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Mrs. Mason.” Thompson said the words, but he waited for me to answer.
I tried to relax, to appear as confident as Elliott, but Thompson had already made up his mind. It felt more like he was expecting a confession than conducting an informal interview.
“The last time I saw her was after the game Friday night in Yukon,” I said.
“You traded words?” Thompson said.
“That sounds an awful lot like leading, Detective,” Elliott said.
Thompson’s mouth twitched again. “Kids these days,” he said, putting his muddy boots on Mrs. Mason’s desk. Some flat, dried pieces fell off onto the wood and the carpet. “You watch far too much television. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Mason?”
“In some cases. Elliott and Catherine are two of our best students. They show exemplary behavior as well as maintain impressive grade point averages.”
“You’ve seen Catherine quite a bit since her father died, haven’t you?” Thompson asked. He’d meant the question for Mrs. Mason, but his eyes remained on me.
Mrs. Mason stumbled over her words. “I’m sorry, Detective. You know I can’t discuss—”
“Of course,” he said, sitting up. “So? Catherine? You and Presley traded words at the ball game in Yukon?”
I thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think we did.”
“Madison seems to disagree,” Thompson said. “Isn’t that how you got to the game? Your friend Madison?”
“Yes, but I never spoke to Presley,” I said with confidence. “Madison responded to her a couple of times. She told her hi, and then . . .” I swallowed my words. Implicating Madison in any way was the last thing I wanted, and if Presley was missing, any hostility, even if it was warranted, would draw Thompson’s focus.
“Told her to eat shit?” Thompson asked. “Isn’t that what she said?”
I felt my cheeks flush.
“Yes?” he asked.
Elliott breathed out a laugh.
“Is that funny?” Thompson asked.
“Presley doesn’t get talked to that way a lot,” Elliott said. “So yes. It’s a little funny.”
Thompson pointed to me and then to Elliott, wagging his finger back and forth. “You two are an item, aren’t you?”
“Why does that matter?” Elliott asked. For the first time, he showed signs of discomfort, and Thompson zeroed in on it.
“Do you have a problem answering that question?” Thompson asked.
Elliott frowned. “No. I’m just not sure what it has to do with Presley Brubaker or why we’re in here at all.”
Thompson gestured to our hands. “Answer the question.”
Elliott squeezed my hand again. “Yes.”
“Presley has a history of bullying Catherine, doesn’t she? And you . . . you have a history of punching holes in walls.”
“Doors,” Elliott corrected.
“Kids,” Mrs. Mason said. “Remember, you can have an attorney present. Or your parents.”
“Why would we do that?” Elliott asked. “He can ask us anything.”
“There was a party after the game. Did either of you go?” he asked.
“I went with Sam,” Elliott said.
“Not with Catherine?” Thompson asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I didn’t want to go,” I said.
Thompson watched us for several seconds before he spoke again. “And why is that?”
“Elliott took me home, and I went to bed,” I said.
“You went home?” he asked, pointing at Elliott. “The night of his birthday? After a big win against Yukon? That’s odd.”
“I don’t go to parties,” I said.
“Never?” Detective Thompson asked.
Thompson puffed out a laugh, but then he grew stern. “Did either of you see Presley after Friday night?”
“No,” we both answered in unison.
“What about last night, Youngblood? Tell me about your evening after football practice.”
“I walked around for a while.”
I looked at Elliott. He’d told me he had things to do between football practice and coming to my house. It didn’t occur to me to ask what he’d been doing at the time.
Thompson’s eyes narrowed. “Walked where?”
“Around my neighborhood, waiting for Catherine to settle in.”
“And why’s that?”
“I waited, and when I saw some movement, I threw a few pebbles until she came to the window.”
“You threw rocks at her window?” Thompson repeated, unimpressed. “How romantic.”
“I’m trying,” Elliott said with a small grin.
Mrs. Mason leaned against her file cabinet, pressing her lips together into a hard line. Elliott took most things in stride, but the detective didn’t know that. To him, Elliott could seem flippant—or worse, callous.
“Did Cathy come to the window?” Thompson asked.
“It’s Catherine,” Elliott said, his tone firm. Much too firm for speaking to an adult, especially a detective.
“My apologies,” Thompson said, a spark in his eye. “Continue.”
Elliott sat forward and cleared his throat. “Catherine came to the window, and . . . we talked.”
“That’s it?”
“I might have climbed the side of her house and stolen a kiss,” Elliott said.
“Is that how you scraped your hands?” Thompson asked.
Elliott held up his free hand. “Yep.”
“What about your knuckles?”
“Fight Friday night after the game.”
“Oh?” the detective said.
“We were still feeling invincible after the game. Got into it with the wrestlers. Stupid guy stuff.”
“I heard you beat Cruz Miller senseless. Is that true?”
“I got a little carried away, yeah.”
“Was it over Catherine?” Thompson asked.
“We were both mouthing off. We’re over it.”
“When did you leave Catherine’s house last night?”
Elliott moved around in his chair. Honesty meant risking the detective telling Mama that he’d stayed the night in the Juniper.
“Elliott,” Thompson prodded, “what time did you leave Catherine’s?”
“I can’t remember,” Elliott said finally.
“You two aren’t telling me something. I can tell you now, it’s best just to be honest in the first place. Otherwise, anything you say later will be questioned.” When we didn’t divulge, he sighed. “Do you have any idea what time he left?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t look at the clock. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me, Catherine. Is Elliott a little too possessive for your taste? Maybe a little controlling?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“He just moved here, right? You two look awfully serious.”
“He stays with his aunt in the summers,” I said. “We’ve known each other for several years.” Walking the tightrope between the truth and lies was something I’d done many times, but in this case, Thompson had an agenda, and I wasn’t sure if my half truths were doing more harm than good.
Thompson tapped his wrinkled index finger on Mrs. Mason’s desk, his wedding ring catching the fluorescent light. He cradled his chin with his other hand. I kept my eyes on his thin hand, counting the liver spots, wondering if his wife knew he terrorized high school kids for sport. The way he watched Elliott made me think he was just getting started.
“Anything else?” Elliott asked. “We should get back to class.”
Detective Thompson was quiet for a while, and then he stood up abruptly. “Yes. Catherine, why don’t you head back to class.”
We stood, hand in hand.
“Elliott, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me,” Thompson said.
Elliott took a protective stance in front of me, holding me close. “What? Why?”
“I need to ask you a few more questions. You can decline, but I’d just be back with a warrant. We can question you then.”
“A warrant for my arrest?” Elliott asked. Every muscle in his body was tense, as if he couldn’t decide whether to run or attack. “Why?”
Mrs. Mason stood, holding out her hands. “Detective, I know you’re not familiar with Elliott, but I think you’re sensing possessiveness when Elliott is actually just very protective of Catherine. Her father passed away a few summers ago, and she and Elliott have a history together. He cares about her very much.”
Thompson arched a brow. “And Catherine has a history with Presley Brubaker. We’ve established that Elliott is very protective of Catherine . . .”
Mrs. Mason shook her head. “No. You’re twisting things. Elliott would never—”
“Will you come to the station with me, Mr. Youngblood? Or will I be seeing you at football practice with a sweet new pair of silver bracelets?” Thompson asked.
Elliott looked down at me, then back at the detective, exhaling through his nose, his nostrils flaring. His expression was severe. I’d only seen that look on his face once before—the day we met.
Detective Thompson’s face lit up, and he patted Elliott on the shoulder. “Well, then, Mrs. Mason. I might not be familiar with Mr. Youngblood now, but we’re going to get to know each other real well this evening.” He gripped Elliott’s arm, but I held on to him.
“Wait! Wait a second,” I said.
“It’s going to be okay.” Elliott kissed my forehead. “Call my aunt.” He fished in his pocket and handed me his car keys.
“I . . . don’t know her number.”
“I do,” Mrs. Mason said. “Request a lawyer, Elliott. Don’t say anything else until one arrives.”
Elliott nodded and then left with Detective Thompson. I followed a respectful distance behind, escorted by Mrs. Mason. I watched out the wall of windows at the front of the school while Thompson opened the back of his navy-blue Crown Victoria. I touched the icy window, watching helplessly until Elliott and Thompson were out of sight.
I turned to Mrs. Mason. “He has nothing to do with this!”
“Come back to my office. We’ll find Leigh’s number. We should call her. Now.”
I nodded, following the counselor back to her office. I sat down in the seat I had just occupied minutes before. My knee bounced, and I dug my thumbnail into my forearm while Mrs. Mason tapped on her computer, then picked up her phone.
“Mrs. Youngblood? Hi, it’s Rebecca Mason. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Presley Brubaker has gone missing, and Detective Thompson from the Oak Creek Police Department has come to collect Elliott for questioning. He just took him to the station less than five minutes ago. Elliott asked that I call you.”
I could hear Leigh panicking through the phone, firing off questions.
“Mrs. Youngblood . . . Leigh . . . I know. I know he’s a good boy. But I think . . . I think you should call an attorney to meet Elliott at the station as soon as possible. Yes. Yes, I’m so sorry. Yes. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Mason hung up the phone and then covered her eyes with one hand.
“Becca,” Mr. Mason said, walking through the door.
Mrs. Mason looked up, trying her best to keep it together, but when she saw her husband, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.
Mr. Mason rounded the desk and helped his wife to her feet, holding her tight as she tried not to cry. I fell into Mrs. Mason’s line of sight, and she released her husband, straightening her blazer and skirt.
“Catherine?” She cleared her throat. “Leigh is on the way to the police station. John should be there soon. They’re calling Elliott an attorney. I want you to go to class”—sympathy touched her eyes—“and I want you to try very hard not to worry. If anyone, and I mean anyone, bothers you about this, you come straight to me. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Good. I have an appointment with Tatum, Anna Sue, and Brie in ten minutes. Check in with me after lunch, please.”
I nodded, watching her stride out of her office, determined to hold the school together if needed.
The walk to my locker from the office seemed to take twice as long as usual. I twisted the dial, but when I yanked, the door wouldn’t open. The bell rang, and I tried again, desperate to avoid suspicious eyes and whispers. When I failed again, my bottom lip trembled.
“Let me,” Sam said, yanking straight up on the latch. The lock released, and he pulled my locker open.
I quickly switched out my books and slammed the door, twisting the dial again.
“Maddy went home,” Sam said. “Can I walk you?” He looked around. “I should walk you.”
I glanced over my shoulder, cowering under the accusatory glares of other students passing by. Word had already spread. “Thank you.”
Sam kept me close, walking me across the commons to B Hall. The students glared at me and Sam, and I worried he would become a target, too.
When we reached my world lit class, Sam waved to me and went on to his class. I slipped behind my desk, unable to miss Mrs. McKinstry pausing to look at me before taking roll.
I closed my eyes, holding Elliott’s keys tight in my hand. Just a few more hours, and I could go to him. Just a few more hours, and—
“Catherine!” Mrs. McKinstry said.
I looked down, feeling warm liquid pool in my palm and drip down my wrist. Elliott’s keys had punctured my hand.
Mrs. McKinstry grabbed a paper towel and rushed over, forcing me to open my hand. She dabbed my palm, the white paper soaking up the crimson.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” she asked, surprised. “What on earth do you have to be sorry about? Just . . . go to the nurse. She’ll get you cleaned up.”
I gathered my things and rushed out, relieved that I didn’t have to suffer through an entire class with twenty-five pairs of eyes on the back of my head.
The nurse’s office was across from administration, just around the corner and ten feet down from my locker. I stopped at 347, unable to take another step. Feeling Elliott’s keys wadded with the paper towel, I turned on my heel, running toward the double doors that led to the parking lot.