11 PM Sunday, the news
Steph is pressed beside me on my old sofa, watching the television. The news is about to come on. We’re scarfing down frozen pizza that I heated up in the microwave, and it’s not bad. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.
“Lots of people can’t whistle,” Steph says.
“But it eliminates people.”
That commercial you love with the babies dancing in the mirror comes on. I picture you dancing beside the TV, being a goof. You like to make fun of your awkward dance moves, your snaps, your stiff side to side. I love that about you. You say you love my wild dancing too. I hear your voice now: “Baby, you move your body in all the right ways.”
The Komo 4 music plays. You’re the lead story.
They have your graduation photo, probably from the website. The anchor, Betty Jenkins, is saying a bunch of nice things about you. You’re a straight-A student, a popular kid, set to go to North Carolina State University on a baseball scholarship. But she doesn’t say what a good kisser you are.
My stomach is in knots. She cuts to a shot of our school and goes to that reporter woman who’s speaking so fast, she sounds excited. “Christopher Kirk went missing on Friday night. He told his mother he was going for a run, but he didn’t make it home.”
Then I’m on that damn little TV screen with my helmet. You can’t see my bike, so I look like the kind of person who needs a helmet.
Under my name, it says Former Girlfriend like a scarlet letter. Oh my god, I’m so mad. “Fuck you,” I yell.
And then, I’m talking on that little TV screen—no, I’m raging on—about the racism in this town.
Oh my god. My eyes look wild. I wish I could put up a disclaimer that I haven’t slept in forty hours. Maybe it’s superficial of me—yes, it’s definitely completely and totally superficial of me—but it’s brutal watching myself on television. My voice is higher and I look fatter. They say a camera adds ten pounds, but it’s more like thirty. I know you’d disagree, but the evidence is right there. My lip is quivering when I talk and truly, I can barely watch it. Do I really go around town looking like that? When it switches to Josh, I can finally breathe. My face is hot, no joke. He looks straight in the camera, calm and clear. “Chris, if you’re listening to this, just call and let us know that you’re okay.”
Tamara is next. Telling her goddamn story about the fence. “He came by the barbecue, looked over the fence at me, and said he’d see me later.” Her face screws up into a butthole, then she goes on, “Something must have happened.”
Then it’s Tim, and he backs me up, agreeing that people of color experience racism in this town. “I’m from the Lummi tribe.” There’s a cut, like they did some editing. “People call us names, sure.” His face twists angrily. “No doubt Chris faced it too, worse even. Maybe he headed back to Brooklyn. I would have, if I were him. But maybe it’s something else.”
Then your dad is on that screen. He has the same jawline as you. Different eyes. I’ve always thought your dark eyes with those long eyelashes were just like your mom’s. He says some stuff about how they’re hoping for the best. If anyone has information, please come forward, and then he says, “Chris, son, if you’re listening, we miss you. We love you. Please come home.”
Oh man. You would have loved to hear your dad say that. You would have loved to be here to see him. I close my eyes and try to get some mind-reading action happening. Get home fast. Your dad’s here!
Detective McFerson gives the number to call for tips and says anyone who wants to join the search tomorrow can meet at the parking lot out by Matheson at nine in the morning.
Now the reporter is talking into her microphone in front of my house, like they always do with the tragedy behind, only the tragedy apparently is our sad, ragged lawn with that damn tire.
“Police aren’t saying they suspect foul play, but there have been accusations of racism in Pendling and he was recently attacked in the area where he went running.” She finishes with some trite thing about how the search is continuing for one African American kid in this white community.
It bugs me how she said nothing about you, who you really are, how you’re the best listener I’ve ever known, how you’re kinder than most people deserve, how you have principles that you stand up to, even when it doesn’t help you. She doesn’t talk about how you smile every time I walk into a room or how you can run your hand along the curve of my neck and calm me down in the middle of a tirade. I need you to do that now. Oh my god, I miss you.
After you, there’s a story about fighting in Syria. You were before Syria.
“You did it.” Steph bumps me with her shoulder. “You got your search.”
It’s hard to feel reassured, though. I mean, we’re searching for you in the friggin woods—after two days, you’re either dead or nearly dead.
“Can you believe she said I was his ex-girlfriend?” I say.
“She’s an idiot.” Steph gives me a quick smile.
“Did I sound crazy? You can tell me. For real.”
She takes in a deep breath and holds it. Then she says, “You sounded great. Don’t worry. You did a good job.”
I frown at her. Why is she acting like this?
“It’ll help,” she says. “I’m just worried, like, how people will react about the racist stuff. You know how people are about this town.”
“Whatever.” Maybe she thinks I looked like a freak, but if it helps, I don’t care. I’d do anything to get you back.
Steph lets out a big old yawn, stretching her arms.
“You should go home,” I say. “Sleep.”
“Nah,” she says. “I’m staying here.”
She’s the twelve-hour-sleep queen. “Go,” I say. “You’ll be miserable if you don’t get your sleep. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” She grabs my shoulders and stares into my eyes. I put on my most “fine” face. Finally, she says, “Okay, I believe you. I’m going.” She throws her arms around me, squeezes my guts out. “You call me if you need me—for anything. I’m leaving my phone on.” Then she steps over the mounds of crap to exit my house.
But when she’s gone, I miss her. I’m not fine. It’s too quiet without her. I look down at my phone and read a text from Josh.
He writes: Chris is going viral