《Change My Mind (Updates Fridays)》 – Catalyst – Me ¨C 8:15 pm Whyyyy are you coming? When have you ever gone to a party, Peter? Peter ¨C 8:15 pm Chill, I''m not going to ruin your party Me ¨C 8:16 pm Godddd Peter ¨C 8:16 pm Lol just pretend we''re not related. I do it all the time I''m only going cuz Lisa wants to go Me ¨C 8:16 pm You and Lisa can have the downstairs I''ll have upstairs If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.Divide and conquer Me ¨C 8:20 pm But also if you''re driving can I get a ride Peter ¨C 8:22 pm Lol brat Peter ¨C 11:17 pm Did you send mom to come find me? Alex I swear to god Peter ¨C 11:32 pm Go home Peter ¨C 11:32 pm Don''t come outside Me ¨C 11:41 pm No, what? Where did you go? Is mom here??? Me ¨C 11:46 pm Are you okay Me ¨C 11:58 pm Hello? Peter ¨C 1:17 am She wanted this. You have to believe me. It was her choice. Me ¨C 7:25 am What?? Did you come home last night? Me ¨C 10:57 am Peter? 1.1 – Night Owls CHAPTER ONE I heard the elastic rustle of trash bags some floors below as do-gooder Navid cleaned up the dregs of the party that had long fizzled out. Sleepy teens solicited rides from the precious few with access to a family car. The ones who hadn''t managed to stay awake were slung over every available surface: ottomans, the pool table, bathtubs, each other. Melanie and I were alone in her bedroom; at least, only she and I were conscious. Parker was passed out on the floor between us. We talked like he wasn''t there, faces illuminated by the screens of our phones. I settled deeper into the dented frame of the couch, which Melanie had torn a corner off of after an argument with her parents just before they went out of town. I wanted to believe Melanie wasn''t the type to clap back at her parents by throwing a raucous party the very night they left, but here we were. Melanie scrolled down and read off her phone: "The last text I got from Lisa. 11:15 pm. ''Come find me?''" She flopped onto her bed, throwing her phone at the wall. I winced. I hadn''t gotten used to Melanie''s fits of destruction. Everyone dealt with their problems differently, and for being such a star student, Melanie was prone to explosions. Three words. That''s it. That is all." Melanie sighed. "Your turn. Mine sets a pretty low bar." "Um..." I picked at a seam on my rubbery phone case. "Mine''s the opposite. Still not much, though. The last text I got from Peter, uh, ''Don''t look for me.''"This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. My cheeks went red in the heat of the receding lie. As far as lies went, it was serviceable. Unassuming. I couldn''t show the real text to Melanie. Not because she''d know what it meant, kind of the opposite. She''d have no idea what it meant, and I was afraid she''d ask questions. Questions I deeply wanted to answer and knew that I shouldn''t. I shut off my screen and pocketed the phone. "Ugh! I wish I could tell if she still wanted me to find her!" Melanie semi-drunkenly pounded a fist on the plush comforter. "She sends me this and then drops off the face of the Earth. No location, no hints... I feel like I''m missing something that she''s just not telling me." Was now the time? The Big Secret welled up within me like a rising tide. It felt like I was going to vomit a massive pile of feelings, like I was about to tell Melanie that I''d killed a person or that I had a huge crush on her or something.It wasn''t Lisa who was keeping the final piece of information from Melanie, it was me. It had always been me. Parker sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Oh hey," he mumbled. "I fell asleep." I pushed the Big Secret back down into the box I was never supposed to open, where it prodded my insides like an unsettled cat. That was the problem with the Big Secret: it would never be time. It wasn''t like regular secrets. It wouldn''t just change our friendship; it would change everything. The universe. I didn''t know if it was my place to change the universe. It made it impossible to talk to Melanie about Peter and Lisa; we weren''t even having the same conversation. Parker rolled over like a drugged ferret and looked at Melanie. "Can I stay over?" She gave me a look like,it''s your fault I''m friends with him. The door tentatively pushed open and Navid poked his head through. "Alex, can we go?" He jangled his keys. "I''m exhausted." I looked at Melanie, who nodded and waved a hand at me. "I''ll pick you up for school tomorrow," she said, looking somewhere just above my shoulder, vacant."There''s nothing we can do, right?" "Guess not." I knew Melanie would be fine in the morning. She was always fine in the morning. 1.2 – Charles Halter The city of Halter dated back to those free-for-all times when a person might venture out, stake any old swatch of land, and name it for themselves. That was exactly what had happened with Charles "Charlie" Halter, and when the mining rush filled in after him, the name stuck. A few decades after his passing, a few unfortunate things came to light. Firstly, Charles Halter''s surname wasn''t Halter at all, it was Hincter. And secondly, there surfaced the regrettable reports that Charlie had been involved in a number of lewd relations with horses. Read: not just one horse, although historians were out on exactly how many horses were tangled up in the inappropriate history of namesake Charles "Charlie" Hincter "Halter". The town museum left these parts out, but everyone around here knew the story. It was page one of the Halter Book of Fun Facts, partially because a town like Halter didn''t have a lot of fun facts. Sometimes, it made me wonder. When the lie was so blown that everyone knew the lie, or at least knew that there was a lie, what made us all keep pretending? So, that was Halter. A real place named for a fake person. Perhaps it was all for the best. After all, I''d rather grow up in Halter than in Hincter. My head lay smooshed against the passenger side window of Navid''s hand-me-down Lexus. The only component of the car newer than 2002 was the radio, of which Navid was fiercely proud. He had it tuned to the local station. After ten pm, KHRT "The Heart" played drowsy, easy-listening jazz to lull the town to sleep. It was working. My eyes fluttered, shoulders slumped into the chewed-up upholstery. I stared into the soft glow of the clock, anticipating the turn from 12:59 to 1:00. "If I lived in a house like Melanie''s," Navid said, "I would never leave. I would ask to be homeschooled. And I would take a shower in a different bathroom every day." "If I lived in a house like Melanie''s," I said, dark strands of hair tickling my lips, "I would throw a party like that every night." We rounded the base of a lazily sloped mountain dotted with decommissioned mine shafts. Navid braked sharply at a sudden stop sign. I jostled in my seat, feeling alcohol sloshing in my brain. "Sorry," he said, fingers tense around the wheel. Navid was newly sixteen and trigger happy with the pedals. "S''fine." I leaned back against the window. My mom''s blue beaded earrings jangled against the glass. If she knew I''d taken them, she''d have a fit. It was a greater transgression than missing my curfew, which I''d also done. "Does no one else think it''s..." Navid paused like he was about to say something sacrilegious. "...does no one else think it''s kinda dumb to host a party on a Monday?" "It''s a short week." "Even on a short week." "We can''t not celebrate a short week," I explained. "The short week needs to feel appreciated." "Yeah but... wouldn''t it make more sense to celebrate on Saturday? Or Sunday?" That would''ve been reasonable. The Quarterly had evolved, from one Halter High class to the next, into a ritual. That was the thing about rituals, and for that matter, high schoolers: they weren''t reasonable.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. There were few events in a high schooler''s life more worthy of celebration than a three-day weekend. And then there was the champion of all three-day weekends: the Halter Public School District Quarterly Educational Conference. Every three months, teachers convened to discuss educational strategies, propose budget changes, and, off-the-books, complain about problem students. And it was always, by some act of grace, held on a Monday. Thus, the Halter Public School District Quarterly Educational Conference Three Day Weekend Bash was born, or the HPSDQECTDWB for short. Or The Quarterly for short and sensible. "Monday or not, are you glad you came?" "Ask me tomorrow," he said, but he was grinning. "We''ll see how I feel." "I don''t remember you having anything to drink...?" "Zero drinks. But it is way past my bedtime." We puttered around a long curve that emptied out into a sleepy neighborhood. Cookie-cutter houses dotted the street, dark windows leering. The radio played softy and sleepily. I stared expectantly out the window, watching the street roll under us, washed out in the glow of our headlights. This was my favorite and least-favorite part of the drive home from Melanie''s. My brain buzzed with helpless anticipation, a tumbling procession of thoughts I''d told the school guidance counselor I was no longer beholden to. A tiny park, cropped short by the impeding mountain base, slid into view. Just a small soccer field, a swingset, and two picnic tables. It was the last place anyone had seen my brother Peter. I stared at it, because I had to stare at it. It wasn''t much to look at, overgrown and weedy with disrepair. This used to be the part where my stomach tightened and my throat went dry. Now, I''m just queasy. I must be getting better. The school guidance counselor was unclear on whether I should avoid the park where my brother had last been seen. I had stopped seeing the guidance counselor when I was able to convince him that I wasn''t dwelling. That was all he wanted to know. Honestly, he seemed happy to free up the time slot for students more obviously and disruptively acting out. The truth was, I drove by the park whenever I got the chance. It was a kind of morbid sickness. Sometimes I just wanted to see it. I''d tell my mom I was going to the lake, then walk over and stare out across the half-length soccer field, trying to imagine how it all went down. Navid noticed me staring and winced. "Ah, Alex." He tapped the gas and gunned past a Twenty is Plenty lawn sign. "Sorry. I could''ve gone another way. I should have." "No, it''s alright." I stared until the unremarkable little park eased out of view. "I''m over it. Really." Navid gave a somber nod and tried to make sympathetic eye contact, which I avoided. One nice thing about lying was that the more you insisted upon a lie, the more everyone around you agreed to treat it as true. Whether or not they all knew. If we all agreed to the lie, we could live in that much more pleasant reality where Alex Gartlan was totally fine. We didn''t have to believe it. Navid talked the whole rest of the drive, which I appreciated. He complained about having to be up early for dress rehearsal, but it was toothless, like the way track runners complained about running. I hopped out of the car and waved goodbye. Thanked Navid for the ride. The evening wasn''t quite chilly in the same way that late fall wasn''t quite winter. "Good luck getting past your mom," he said, smiling. He had one of those cute, I''m-not-confident-enough-to-show-all-of-my-teeth smiles. "I don''t need your luck. I''m quiet as a mouse and sober as a... as a..." "Sure you are." "As a mouse," I finished. "Mice are quiet and also sober." "Sure they are," he said, showing a couple teeth this time. "See you tomorrow, Alex. If you''re not grounded." He gave me one last look - the kind of look someone gives you when they want to say something but don''t know how - and my stomach tightened. "Thanks, Navid," I said again, and shut the door before he could say a word. He backed down the short driveway, headlights bouncing as he dipped in and out of the gutter. He spun around, barreling over the neighbor''s wildflowers, and slid out of view, back toward the park and its long-gone ghosts. I stood and stared until long after the headlights vanished. I stared in the direction of the park, as if my vision could bore through homes, through night, through time. I think part of me still believed that if I knew what happened the night Peter vanished, then I could finally let it go. The guidance counselor told me that was just another excuse to let the past hold me captive. He said I wanted to dwell. I think I agreed. After all, what was the alternative? Meanwhile, the only person in the world who knew exactly what happened that night was sleeping soundly in her bed, and if she heard me come in this late, I was definitely grounded. 1.3 – Charlie Hincter I squeaked open the front door inch by inch and, seeing no light under my mom''s bedroom door, breathed a sigh of relief. The conspiracy that I was asleep in bed remained intact. Keeping an eye on the space below my mom''s door, I crept down the stairs, gripping the handrail like a lifeline. My mind was hazy, a swirl of exhaustion and dimming drink, and my eyes wanted desperately to close. I plodded lethargically past my younger brother Colin''s room, also dark, and Peter''s empty room, which had been dark for months. Mom sometimes talked about downsizing into a smaller house now that we had no use for a fourth bedroom and she had no use for the other half of her bed. My door, standing lonely at the end of the hall, was open. I unlaced my shoes, ready beyond words to fall asleep. I was still tipsy enough to need to steady myself against the door frame, but sober enough to notice the shape sitting at my desk. "Holy-" She looked at me, or at least turned her head toward me, sitting quiety in the darkness. I slapped the wall beside my head. It took four tries before my hand connected with the light switch. "What are you doing?" I asked, clapping a hand to my pounding chest. I''d been caught. Quiet as a mouse, indeed. My mom stood from my desk, wearing an unreadable look. Her eyes were conspicuously puffy. "Oh, Alex." She rubbed her face. "You scared me." "I scared you?" I stood in the doorway, excuses flitting through my brain. The car broke down. We were talking about homework and lost track of time. I was tending to a lost, injured puppy. I definitely hadn''t been drinking. I had the sinking realization that ¨C despite my having had only two beers ¨C my breath unpleasantly evoked the inside of a keg. Quietly, as if lurking in the darkness of my bedroom was the most casual thing, she said, "I never heard you come in. I got to worrying and came down to see if you were already asleep." And then, as if we were making small talk, "did you have fun at the party?" I didn''t know what to make of the fact that she wasn''t looking directly at me. Her gaze hovered somewhere in the corner of the room, listless, dreamlike. Not sleepwalking, but not quite awake. "It was fine," I said slowly, calculating. "I''m... sorry I''m home late." As punishment failed to come, a seed of hope bloomed in my exhausted mind. I kicked off my shoes, putting exorbitant effort into appearing steady on my feet. The earrings. My hand shot to the side of my head. The beads were wound into my hair. My fingers worked subtly on the tangle. Everything about me was a mess. Play it cool. Mice are quiet and also sober. Mom sat down at the edge of the bed and patted the comforter beside her, gesturing for me to join her. Alarm bells fired in my head. I sucked in my beer breath and brushed as much matted hair as I could to mask the stolen earrings, then joined her on the bed, sitting as far away as I could without being suspicious. "Er, I''m sorry I missed curfew," I repeated, directing my rank breath out the corner of my mouth. "But Melanie''s going to be here in six hours for school, so..." "I can''t believe her parents let her have those parties." She looked vacant. "They do know, don''t they?" "Yes." I hoped I wasn''t lying. I edged away ever so slightly. "Mom... I''m exhausted." "I know, I should let you get to sleep," she said, though she made no move to get up. Her hand smoothed over a wrinkle in my comforter. Her voice was soft and meandering, with little of its usual bite. "I''m just going to miss having you kids here." I deflated. The blank expression. The puffy eyes. The midnight visit. I should have predicted this nonsequitur. The good news was that she didn''t actually want to talk about the party. The bad news was that I didn''t want to talk about this either. There were only two conversations I had with my mom these days. There was the normal, disaffected chit-chat about school and homework. And then, always bubbling under the surface of our every interaction, there was the divorce. She always acted as if it was the first time we were talking about it, and she always pretended I brought it up.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. "Mom, we haven''t seen him since he went on his speaker tour. It''s been weeks." Her entire body lifted and fell with an enormous sigh. "I''m just worried about this impacting your school, going back and forth between houses. Senior year is such an important year... I told him... I told him we should wait until you went off to college. And Colin''s not at a good age for it, either... he''s so upset." "He''s a teenager. He should get to be a little upset." "Alex, you''re a teenager." There was an eternity of difference between thirteen and seventeen. "Well-" "You get to be a little upset, too." My head swam. I didn''t need the permission. I was upset. I just wasn''t upset for the reasons she wanted me to be. I wasn''t upset with Peter for disappearing. I wasn''t upset with Dad for leaving. I was upset with everyone for expecting me to be upset on their behalf. "I just want to go to bed," I huffed, then immediately caught myself and closed my mouth, heart pounding. I would take endless conversations about my dad over a conversation about underage drinking, any day. "I feel like I''m losing you. I always felt like we were a little team, you and me." She gave me a conspiratorial look, at which I cocked an eyebrow. "I can''t help but wonder if you blame me." "I don''t blame you that dad left." She heaved a sigh that emptied her. "I wonder," she restated, "if you blame me because I let him." Because she let him. As usual, it was vague. So coy, just... hints. Whispers. Secrets. Still, I couldn''t believe the words had come out of her mouth. I worked my jaw soundlessly. "No," I finally managed. "No, that isn''t... do you think that''s what I want?" Of course the thought had come up from time to time, the way you might be standing on a tall, tall balcony and suddenly think, what would happen if I jumped? I planned to carry those thoughts to the grave, to let them lie in every pause, every weighty look my mom and I shared. She let her head droop to one side. "We''ve both been thinking it." "This whole time, you thought that was what I was worked up about? You not making him stay? You don''t need to apologize for that." "I''m not apologizing." She laced her fingers on her lap. "But I do sometimes wonder, does Alex begrudge me not snapping my fingers and making it all work? Nudging things toward easy, toward good. Remind Dad what it felt like to be in love with his family. Something small to bandage things over so we have time to think, is this is really what''s right for us? What''s right for the kids?" I did wonder how often she felt the temptation to just snap her fingers and fix everything. I knew she could. She knew I knew she could. It would''ve been easy. Like snuffing out a candle. My Dad wouldn''t know the difference. A push, a prod. A happy family. And every time the thought crossed my mind, I felt disgusting. It was the worst thing I could think of. I wasn''t aware my mom was capable of having such thoughts, even hypothetically. My mom had given me two valuable, unusual gifts. The first was uncommon: the effortless unbuttoning of the human mind. Sowing thoughts, corroding convictions, smoothing the capricious course of human emotion. All as accessible as recounting a song from the radio or adding numbers in my head. The second gift was a set of morals governing the first gift''s usage. In short: don''t. Take the keys. Put them in the freezer. Pretend they''re not there. "I thought you''d wonder why I didn''t do all I could to make it work." Her eyes fixed on some distant point in space. I had been reduced to an eavesdropper. "I just had to find out how you felt about... letting things fall apart." Her head slanted backwards, thinning hair draping down her back. She stared into the ceiling like she was watching her whole relationship play out on a screen painted eggshell. After a silent moment, she turned to look at me. My hand shot back to cover the stolen earring in her eyeline. "You know I would never," she said again, as if I needed the reminder. No, of course she wouldn''t. That was why she hadn''t. "But it just makes you think. If I''ve done the right thing." She pressed her hands into the comforter and made a move as if to stand. "I... don''t know if you did the right thing," I said. "But you didn''t do the wrong thing." She nodded. Paused. Nodded again. She didn''t look like she felt better. I wasn''t sure if I''d intended to make her feel better. "I know," she said curtly. "I just wanted to be sure that you knew, too." She pulled me in for a hug and I panicked. With a tug of guilt, I did everything we''d just agreed not to do. I summoned a panicked flurry of well-rehearsed sensations. Fresh air after a morning rain. The screen at the front of my brain was a bona-fide Febreeze commercial as I folded layer upon layer of thoughts into space. I folded the thoughts like paper mache, clumsy and clumpy and crooked, over the stench of alcohol, papering over the space between us. Working fast, I pictured the spot where the earrings would have brushed against her shoulder in the hug. I summoned images of gnarled black hair, of vast empty rooms, of shadows under a park bench, inconspicuous, vacant. I willed them away. The earrings wisped away, material and intangible and present and not. No, it was more like I smothered them in a big pile of nothingness. It was a little specialty of mine, vanishing things. Vanishing smells, vanishing sights. Even so, I''m sure it was a hack job. Like a bad Photoshop. Whatever. I didn''t have time to make art. "It''s going to be okay, Mom." She leaned into me and I held my breath, heart pounding. After a moment, she released the hug and looked at me, and my heart pounded, waiting to be discovered. What I''d done was way worse, in my mother''s mind, than drinking with friends. But it was late, and dark, and emotional, so she just patted me on the shoulders and stood to leave. I relaxed. I''d done a good enough job. "I''ll see you in the morning." she said, turning toward the door. "I''m sorry for keeping you up. I just needed to make sure you were okay." For a moment, as far as I could let her see, we were a team. "I''m okay, Mom. I am." Sometimes a liar isn''t the worst thing a person can be. Sometimes it''s the most pleasant option for everyone. 2.1 – Siblings CHAPTER TWO I''ve been disappearing things since I was twelve. Peter was fourteen at the time; he was the one who figured it out. It wasn''t just because he was older, or because he was more creative, it was because he was obsessed. He was the one most preoccupied with the how and why of it all. Spending all weekend shut in his room, lying to mom about being on the computer, sitting around trying to make things. And then, of course, if you could make things, certainly you could unmake things. "Making"and "unmaking" were simple shorthand. We weren''t really putting something into space or taking it out. We weren''t violating the laws of physics, we were violating human perception. It was less grand, more intimate, more intrusive. Something was always either there or not there, but we could make you think otherwise. And that''s what''s really important, isn''t it? (If you''re really thinking through this, you''ll say "no.")Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. (If you''re really thinking through this, you''ll say "yes.") It was a subtle and difficult art, vanishing. It wasn''t magic, I wasn''t a sorceror; I had a skill, a skill that had to be honed like any other. It took building an intuition for the way light moved and bounced, for the way air flowed, for the way shadows fell across curves and corners, for the way heat made surfaces fuzzy. I felt it in some part of my brain, like the part that tells you if a piano is in tune or if a joke is funny. Somehow, you just felt it. Like... magic? Aunt Stella hated when I called it magic. She preferred to call it natural charm. She mostly used her ''natural charm'' to compel people to honor expired coupons or pour her more alcohol than the legal limit. My Mom also hated when I called it magic, but she hated when I called it anything. Peter and I hadn''t started to get creative until middle school. I think that was when things started going downhill. For Peter, creativity meant pushing a few too many boundaries. When those boundaries were inside of people''s minds, it usually wasn''t a good idea to push them. He practiced constantly until his mind ached. He practiced in school, walking outside my classroom window and sending spiders crawling across my desk. He was sloppy. He missed details: a light source, a thin coat of hair on their creepy little legs. I was better. And I had gotten better since he''d left. But everything else had gotten worse since he''d left. 2.2 – Alex I woke up six hours later, and my mouth tasted like an overturned dumpster. I turned over and moaned; each breath tasted rank. My tongue traveled the roof of my mouth. It was dry, sticky, and filmed over. Those two beers from nine and seven hours ago had come back in full force. Sometime during the night, my taste buds had declared: Yes. Beer. Excellent. From now on, that is what we will taste like. I groggily poked my alarm clock into submission and allowed myself to lay for a while, drifting gradually through that viscous place between asleep and awake. I somehow had escaped being grounded. And I somehow had a whole conversation with my mom about the divorce without either of us spitefully mentioning Peter. The circle had tightened in without him. I wondered if the same thing would happen to Dad. And... we''d talked about... that. I shivered, thinking about her unnerving, vacant expression, and thinking about my Dad, wherever he was, clueless to the strange minds of his daughter and wife. Ex-wife. I''d never really even thought about whether he deserved to know. Whether I had the right to tell him. I couldn''t think about this now. My brain was still sleepy. I yawned, exhaling a cloud of filth that made my eyes water. Something tickled my neck. A spider, obviously, said sleepy brain. And then, holy shit, spider! I swatted at the spider and it swatted back, because it wasn''t a spider. The tangle of beads settled back down, brushing my skin. My mom''s earrings restored their natural tangibility sometime during my sleep, when I''d been too unconscious to maintain the illusion. I wasn''t sure if she''d be more upset to hear that I''d worn her nice earrings to the party, or that I''d worn them to bed. Neither would hold a candle to how upset she would be if she found out that, at one point, I''d plucked the earrings out of her brain to keep her neck from feeling tickled as we hugged. I hated lying to my mom less than I hated being grounded. Okay. School. Pants went on. Socks. I rifled around in my closet for the T-Shirt I had in mind. Found it. Tried forcing my head through a shirt sleeve, rotated it, and put the shirt on properly. I dropped the earrings in my jeans pocket with a plan to discreetly return them to my mom''s jewelry cabinet. I scrubbed at the layer of film on my tongue and caught up on a few texts. One from Navid asking if I''d gotten in without getting grounded. One from my Aunt Stella, back from a trip to Greece and asking to catch up. Mom wouldn''t like that. Some sixteen from Melanie, sent at various points throughout the party, before we retreated to her room to wallow. I checked on Peter. I knew better than to expect much. I hadn''t heard from him since that last haunting text seven months ago on the night he disappeared. I wondered when Mom would finally give up and stop paying for his phone line. The fact she hadn''t made me believe she was holding out hope that he would show up on the doorstep, like he did when he was ten years old and decided to run away in the heat of a tantrum. I was the one who found him in a small shack by the bike path. He came back when I told him we were having pizza rolls.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I scrolled up to the last message he''d sent me. May 16th. 12:17 am. She wanted this. You have to believe me. It was her choice. Chills, every time. I''d sent him some sixty messages over the last year, just checking in. Asking how he was doing. At first, I had hoped he would respond. Now I knew better. We''re having pizza rolls tonight, I texted. I put the phone back in my pocket and everything was normal. The school guidance counselor advised that I stop with the texting. I don''t know why I didn''t. Maybe I thought that, even if he wasn''t replying to my messages, there was a possibility he was at least reading them. Maybe it felt like everyone else had given up on him. I wanted to let him know that I hadn''t. Not twenty seconds later, my pocket buzzed. I jumped and felt that familiar sting of hope. Over in ten. Melanie, coming to pick me up for school. I dejectedly put my phone away. It was frustrating to be reminded that a part of me still foolishly hoped. I could hear Mom clacking away at her keyboard upstairs. Colin''s room was quiet when I passed. I paddled a beat on his door with both hands to make sure he was up, and because I knew it annoyed him. My mom''s desk came into view as I bounded up the stairs. Her eyes had that familiar up-since-four-am glaze, but she still managed to look put-together. Her desk was the usual scene of organized chaos, stacked files and sticky notes orchestrating her day. She managed them deftly, filing old tasks away with her left hand, writing new ones with her right. "How''d you sleep?" I asked. She blinked blearily and turned her head to me. A little earpiece was tucked into her hair. "Alex, I''m on the phone." "Oh. Sorry." I turned on the kettle and scoured the pantry for oatmeal. I portioned it out into two bowls as Colin came up the stairs. He was newly thirteen and just growing into his attitude. He wore his backpack over one shoulder and walked with a silly, loping swagger. He ignored us on his way out the door. "When are you coming home?" I heard Mom ask into her headset. I was caught off guard by another unpredictable nostalgic sting. I knew she must be talking to a coworker at the hospital or a fellow PTA member, but it was so easy to fill in the blank at the other end of the line with a picture of my Dad, off speaking at some convention somewhere. Maybe it was the way she said it that reminded me of Dad. It was such a practical "when are you home." You could hear the logistics. "Alex? Are you listening to me?" "What?" "When are you coming home?" "Oh. I thought you were on the phone." She gave me a look, an I am infathomably older than you, your comments are trivial in a way you can''t possibly understand look. "Why would I be asking my client when she''s home?" "I don''t know, and I''ll be home... not sure. Aunt Stella wants to see me." Her face dulled to a muted calm. Only someone who knew her could possibly recognize it as "frustration." My mom disliked many things. She disliked cream in her coffee. She disliked drivers who failed to yield the merge. She disliked me talking about our powers, she disliked me calling our powers "powers," and she disliked her younger sister. She was convinced my Aunt was trying to turn me to the dark side. In all fairness, she was. "No," she said plainly, "you''re grounded." "What?" "You missed your curfew. I thought we were clear after last time. Midnight. Sharp." Outside, Melanie double tapped her adorable horn. It was the politest horn I''d ever heard. Excuse me, may I trouble you? I didn''t move, even as Mom turned back around in her seat, fiddling with her headseat. We''d had a nice talk last night. I thought we were going to overlook things. We''d sealed the deal with a hug, dang it. Did the hug mean nothing? "When am I done being grounded?" She didn''t reply. Melanie''s horn sounded again. She used the horn more than any other feature in the car, windshield wipers, turn signal, and brake included. "Mom?" She turned around and frowned at me, pointed to her headset, then started speaking to someone on the other line. I scowled. Holding an oatmeal in either hand, I wrangled the front door open with my foot. When Melanie saw me, she honked a few more times, just for fun. 2.3 – Melanie Honk. The springs of Melanie''s Subaru sagged as I climbed in, holding the overfull bowls of oatmeal precariously over my lap. "Hey." Melanie''s black, loopy braid was sopping wet. It spattered the back of her seat with fine droplets. "Hey," I echoed. I reached into my jacket for a spoon and felt my fingers brush against my Mom''s earrings. Crap. There was no way my mom wouldn''t notice these missing. I tried to hand Melanie an oatmeal, but she waved it away. "My mom says if I hit another pole I''ll be paying for my own insurance. I''m in responsible driver mode. Both hands on the wheel." She patted the wheel with her fingertips. "I feel safer already," I said, drawing the seatbelt across my chest. "But if you feed me my oatmeal..." We passed my younger brother waiting at the bus stop. He was talking to the two other kids who lived on our cul-du-sac, showing them the pinewood derby car he was working on for woodshop. He pretended not to notice us until Melanie stopped at the intersection and laid on her adorable horn. "Speaking of being responsible," Melanie said, pausing for me to spoon feed her. She chewed, then continued with a full mouth. "Did I tell you I walked in on Nate naked? It was like, six minutes after you and Navid left." "You texted me something about that." I took a bite of my oatmeal and worked through a thick glob of cinnamon. "Does that mean you''re, like, married now?" "By Utah law, yes. Til death do we part." Melanie clamped down hard on the wheel and swerved around a pothole. The old Melanie would have slammed into it at full speed. She was taking this seriously. "Apparently Dylan got trashed and threw up all over him," she said. "I heard water running and thought someone left the sink on or something, so I went to shut it off, but nope. There''s Nate, washing his clothes in the shower." "That''s what happens when you have showers without curtains." "Right? My parents are too snobby for curtains. I don''t think they''ll be happy until they live in an eighteenth century French castle." We turned down the road that led to the road that led to the dusty path that led to the small grassy hill that was Parker''s street. Parker''s house wasn''t on our way to school. Parker''s house wasn''t on the way to anything. The nose of the car turned upward and kissed dirt. Parker was already outside sitting at the top of the hill. He put out his hand for us to stop and loped down the monster of a driveway, arms flopping as he jogged. He was still wearing the shirt he''d been wearing last night. "Hungover as hell," Melanie diagnosed. "He should cut his losses and make it a four day weekend." Parker fell into the backseat the way a tree might fall into a lumber pile. He pulled his backpack over his face. Melanie patted him over the center console. "Good morning." "I don''t even know why I''m here," Parker wheezed. "I am death." Melanie yanked the wheel sharply and we were on our way. With the first lurch of the car, Parker''s backpack tipped open and spilled pencils all over the floor. His face smooshed into the upholstery.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Into the cushy seat, he said, "Fun party." Melanie nodded with pride. She had inherited the all-important role of hosting The Quarterly. It was an honor and a nightmare, even after Navid''s cleaning effort. I could only imagine the state her house was in. Parker and I had both volunteered to come over and clean before her parents got home from vacation. Melanie''s parents had retired young after a shock success selling plastic car accessories, the little balls you used to put on your car antennae shaped like Winnie The Pooh or Mickey Mouse or a baseball mascot. No one had car antennaes anymore, but it didn''t matter; they''d already made out with their fortune. Now they spent most of their time touring the world, as rich people were want to do, leaving behind a big, empty house and a we-won''t-ask-if-the-police-don''t policy. I needed to ask Melanie how she always managed to convince them to go out of town when it was Quarterly time. "I can''t believe you abandoned me and went to Melanie''s room," Parker complained into his backpack. "Before I came and found you, I had to hang out with Dylan and Logan and Jake and the rest of the basketball guys. They never stop throwing things. Doesn''t have to be a basketball. Doesn''t even have to be ball-shaped." He stretched out, yawned, and rolled onto his side. I pushed a spoonful of oatmeal toward him and he opened his mouth lazily. "Watches, oranges, beers, diningware," Parker muttered sleepily, mouth full of oats. "Is that what basketball does to you? Just makes you want to toss random shit around? I don''t get it." The drive to school was quick. Melanie swerved around potholes like she was deathly allergic. I held the bowls of oatmeal steadily so she could take bites at stop signs, which, true to her nature, she took at a roll. At least she respected the dangerous ones. In a town this small, we all knew where the speed traps were. The parking lot was nearly full when we arrived. Students bustled around the red brick building like a hive. Athletes were just getting released from morning practice and ran to the showers, shivering, splashing through gray mounds of curbside slush. "Pull over!" Parker shouted, sitting up in his seat. As soon as the car was mostly stopped, he threw open the door and stumbled into the pavement, tripping over his feet. He pulled it together into a casual jog and joined Kimberly Ellison, his current pursuit, pseudo-casually pretending to be going the same direction as her. "''Thanks for the ride,''" Melanie mocked, watching Parker hit on Kimberly. "Do you want to carry his backpack, or do I have to?" I asked. He''d left it in the back seat. "Oh no," Melanie said, fingers clasped around the steering wheel. "I can''t, I''m driving!" "You''re right!" I said, grabbing the backpack. "I''m so inconsiderate!" I was about to push the car door open when Melanie paused me with a quick, "Hey." I knew her tone. She used it when she knew she shouldn''t bring something up, but she was going to anyway. "Only one more Quarterly and it''ll be the anniversary." "I noticed that, too." We sat there a moment, watching Parker hold the door open for Kimberly. We were early; first bell hadn''t yet rung. We had some time to sit and dwell. "Mom''s making me go back to the school counselor," Melanie said, playing with her braid. "She thinks this time of year is going to dredge up old feelings, or whatever." The school guidance counselor, Mr. Greeley, liked to make you relive difficult conversations through puppet shows. I needed puppet therapy to help me forget my puppet therapy. "I''m sorry," I said, wondering which puppet Melanie chose to play herself. I used the matted old bear named Mr. Tumbles. He was missing an eye. "I''d come with you, but I think Mr. Greeley forgot I existed, and I want to keep it that way." "Great, it''ll just be me, Savannah, and Logan, talking about our feelings." Melanie stuck out her tongue. "We have the most screwed up homeroom class in history." Our homeroom class did have an exceptionally high number of students seeing the guidance counselor. Three years ago, Savannah Carlton''s little sister died. After it happened, I remembered thinking, wow. That is so awful. I can''t imagine. That was back when my brother was still around and my parents were on speaking terms. These days, I thought I saw her catching my eye in the hallway a little more than usual, giving a quick smile. Then again, there was a big difference between Savannah''s sister and my brother. I could hope Peter was coming back. I could be angry with him once ¡ª if ¡ª he did. And I wasn''t sure if I was allowed to, or supposed to, move on. I didn''t know what was going on with Logan Southerland that had him making monthly reports to the guidance counselor. Knowing the crowd he ran with, it wasn''t anything responsible. "It''s like guidance referrals are contagious," I agreed, twisting Parker''s backpack straps. "My mom thinks I''m not handling the divorce." "I''m surprised you haven''t, like, pulled a fire alarm yet." "I''m extremely well-adjusted," I said, twisting the straps until they strained. "It mostly irritates me that my Mom and Dad keep talking about the divorce like it was some big surprise. Like they were doing just fine before Peter left and broke everyone in half." "Your mom scares me so much," Melanie said, finally opening the car door. "Does your Dad address her by ''ma''am?''" "She prefers ''Your Majesty.''" 2.4 – New Friends Whenever Melanie and I walked side by side, it alarmed me how much shorter she was than me - 5''2 to my 5''9. Her sister was her exact height, and it had been hilarious to watch them walk together down the hallway, parting the students like herding dogs. Melanie and I were barely friends back then. It wasn''t until Peter and Lisa ran off that she and I ever really talked, not until we had to deal with the rumors and speculation our vanished siblings had left behind. Before that, Melanie was just some girl in my grade, some girl whose older sister was dating my older brother. Now we were each two halves of a weird little town legend. Everyone talked about and around us for the few months after the night it all happened, and then the talking slowly stopped. Everything went back to normal for everyone except for me and Melanie. The disappearance didn''t change anything for the other kids at our school, because nobody really knew Lisa, and nobody really liked Peter. But Melanie and I were different. We were friends.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. For the first few months, she and I rarely talked about what had happened. One of us would always change the subject. It was just too... real. Too fresh. Sometimes, the best kind of support system was one that didn''t make you talk. Much less through stuffed toys for toddlers. Besides, silence suited my needs. Not talking felt less like lying. Everyone wanted to speculate about why Peter left, what his damage was. I couldn''t join in the speculation, because I knew what no one else did: that Peter was different, and his damage was incommunicable to anyone outside of my family, and even to some people inside it. The secret wasn''t mine to tell. As much as it sometimes felt like it would explode out of me. Sometimes, in my dreams, my mind would guess at what might have happened the night Peter and Lisa disappeared. I would dream myself standing in the tall, unkept grass of that little park, blocks away from Emily Nash''s house where the Quarterly was in full swing. I would dream myself watching Peter and Lisa arguing about skipping town. I would picture her hesitance, his persistence, and imagine him reaching his hand inside her head and moving her like a puppet. I always woke up then, sweating. 3.1 – Parker CHAPTER THREE We caught up to Parker ¡ª sans Kimberly ¡ªas he waited for the swim team to cross the main hallway. They hustled by on their way to the showers, sopping towels trailing pool water and a chlorine stench. I patted my pocket to make sure the earrings were still there. They jangled reassuringly. "Hey, Melanie," Nate said, hanging back from the swim train. "Hey," she returned, disinterested. "You have a towel on this time." "Sorry." Nate grinned like he wasn''t sorry in the least. "Let''s do it again sometime?" Melanie shrugged. "Sure. Next time you get puked on, hit me up." The boy behind him, a sophomore whose name escaped me ¨C Patrick? ¨C pushed him. "Let''s go, dude," Patrick, or Paul, or whatever, said. "Mrs. Olivia will chew me out if I''m late. And she''ll do it in French, so I''ll have no idea what she''s saying!" With a final shove, Nate and Unnamed Sophomore cleared the hallway, feet streaking the floor. Parker looked at Melanie, perking up. "Did something happen?" I thrust Parker''s backpack into his hands. We pushed through more early morning extracurricular clusters on our way to class. Unlike the swim team, the theater crew was never in much of a hurry on their way from morning rehearsal. Today, they were impassable. They shuffled in a tight herd down the hallway, jabbering at one another with costume mustaches. Whenever anyone tried to get past them, they pushed back with a chorus of vaguely British insults.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. We took an alternate route through the art hallway. Mr. Lawson, pursing the ''cool teacher'' vibe, had his garage door rolled up. Jazz music poured out, and some of the creative writing students were busily tearing through their work. He ran his classroom aspirationally, as close as he could manage to a smoky, backroom bar where great souls played at poetry. His expression always leaned toward disappointment. The Advanced Pottery kids were already holed up in their studio. Students in clay-caked smocks ferried projects between the kiln and the glazing tables. "Hey, detour," Parker announced. "Come see my pottery midterm." We stepped out of the carpeted hallway onto the tile floor of the pottery classroom. Mrs. Ryan was sitting at her desk with the monitor tilted away, either grading papers or discreetly checking Facebook. "Good morning, Mrs. Ryan," Parker said, throwing out finger guns. His stick arms poked out of short sleeves. "Parker," she greeted, looking over her monitor. "Showing off your midterm project?" "Indeed." He gestured to us, his audience. "Excellent," she said brightly. "I''ll find my earplugs." Parker retrieved his project from a bursting wire rack of cups and vases and less distinct creations, all in various states of completion. Parker, needless to say, was not an Advanced Pottery student. His misshapen pot looked like an attempted vase with a hole punched through one side. It clearly said "I am just here to pad out my arts requirements." "We had to make a musical instrument." He held it up. "I call it a Shouting Jar." "And how does it work?" Melanie asked, looking like she knew exactly how it worked. Parker held the punched hole up to his face and screamed into it, a loud, forceful, singular vowel of a scream. The other pottery students snickered, but didn''t look up. They''d clearly already heard the majesty that was the Shouting Jar. Melanie and I golf-clapped. "Beautiful," I said. "You should take that to Mr. Walters'' class with us." "He''s already heard it!" Parker said proudly. "He hates it." Parker put it back on the shelf and waved to Mrs. Ryan on our way out. "My mom doesn''t know how lucky she is," Parker said cheerfully. "It''s almost Mother''s Day."