Please do not comment about the length, this was as short as I could edit the original chapter for it to make sense. PLEASE COMMENT/REVIEW!!! Also, read the first chapter before reading this or else it will not make sense.
The second it happened, I stood up. I was not supposed to be kissing the police officer who was supposed to help me find my sister. Who did that? I brushed nonexistent specks off of my jean-clad bottom and coughed. “I’ll answer questions again later.” I said and stared at him, waiting for a reply. He looked positively disheveled; his hair was rumpled and his police uniform was crinkled. Theo Calvin looked as if I’d smacked him across his jaw. His face had confusion written all over it. “My sister,” I tried to say, but my voice was a small croak. He stood up as well and I went upstairs without him. Before he’d even made it to the steps I dialed Ivy’s phone number. Theo Calvin appeared at the top of my stairs and my father scanned him. Theo Calvin nodded and went to talk to my father. As the phone rang, I listened in. By the time Ivy cheerily answered with a ‘hello!’ he was gone.
An hour later, I felt much better. Ivy had put me on speaker phone so I could tell everyone at once. My friends were in awe when I told them. Thirty minutes of crying, yelling, and oh-my-Gods later, I told them about Theo Calvin. They whistled lowly and murmured replies. They all felt how I did: guilty. My sister was kidnapped and I’d kissed the officer of her case. When I got off the phone, I wrapped my comforter around my body. I cocooned inside of it and clicked on the flashlight I kept in my nightstand. I was in a small cave of pink. My heavy breathing was more apparent in the blanket dome. The inside of my mini-cave grew hotter and hotter until I couldn’t stand it. I popped my head out for air. I’d done this ever since I was Clair’s age. I was scared of thunderstorms back then and hid under my then-flowery blanket. I still did it when I needed to think.
I clicked on my television and turned off all of the lights in my room. Then, I powered up my purple and pink lava lamp. The pink blobs sat dejectedly at the bottom of the purple pool. It would take a while before it got moving. My mother had it in her head that it was a fire hazard and freaked when I left it on for long periods of time. I snorted. My mother could deal with it. I glanced at the TV and saw Clair’s face. My mouth went instantly dry and my head spun. Her whole entire image filled up the screen. She was on Channel Two Action News. It was a picture of her that I had taken at the water park a few weeks back. Mom must have gotten them developed. It was a great picture. Clair’s blond hair was tied in a thick braid and her hands were on her thin hips. She had this smile on her face that said: I’m Clair! And her blue eyes were sparkling while the sun set perfectly behind her. Cheesy as it sounded, I loved that picture. My stomach lurched and suddenly I felt very tired. I turned the channel to the next one over. Clair’s face again. Then at the next channel was Clair’s face. I ended up clicking off the television. As I snuggled back into my pillows, I let loose a sad, sorry chuckle. Clair had always wanted to be famous.
The next morning, I awoke feeling disoriented. My stomach was empty and my mouth felt dry again. I glanced at the clock: 11:36. Oh crap. I sprinted to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom I shared with Leni (my mother called it the Jill-and-Jill) and started up the shower. The water was frigid at first and I quickly ran to my bedroom. I shuffled through my drawers. I pulled out a pair of weathered shorts and the first tee-shirt I saw. I quickly peeled off my clothes and jumped into the shower. The water was steamy now and then it spilled on me like an avalanche. The liquid cascaded down my back, as if washing away my worries. For a moment, all of my thoughts about Clair, Theo Calvin, and my mother rinsed away. Then, I shut off the shower and climbed out, instantly dressed. I clicked on the blow dryer and did my hair. I pulled on a pair of sneakers and thundered down the stairs. Worries about Clair flooded my thoughts as I took the steps two at a time. Just as the clock ticked 12:00, I slid off of the last step.
The look on my mother’s pale face didn’t seem like a good thing. Her lips were pressed in a thin white line and her eyes were wide. Streaks of red raced down her cheeks and as she saw me she instantly straightened. My mother wore pressed black pants and a light pink blouse. Her cheeks were porcelain white, no makeup anywhere in sight. Her red blush, black mascara, and cherry pink lipstick were not on her normally pretty face. Her blond hair was gathered up in a bun on her head. Was that a gray hair? And she did seem to have more wrinkles than usual. I wondered what they were talking about. She forced a smile and as if answering my thoughts said aloud, “Nothing’s wrong, Dixie. Everything’s okay, now let’s go see your siblings.” We walked out the door, my thoughts bouncing in my head. What could she be hiding?
My grandma’s house smelled like peppermint cookies and mint cocoa. The special treat that grandma made us when we did well at school sat on her coffee table. Our mugs were lined up in a row; the cookies piled high enough to know that grandma had just pulled them out of the oven. I was normally the first to take an enormously guilty bite of cookie which would immediately zap my taste buds with a rush of mint and chocolate, my favorite combination. Today, I sat down on grandma’s ancient couch which had a weathered wooden frame. Its cushions were patterned with red, white, and blue stripes. They were ugly, but these were the cushions grandma brought out when something had happened because they were soft and comforting unlike the stiff cushy ones she’d purchased two years ago at Rooms to Go. We kids liked to curl up on the ugly cushions and get crumbs all over their surface, which grandma was okay with because they were the cushions that she used for parties where there would be a lot of neighborhood kids or when something bad had happened. Today was the latter. I numbly rested my head in my hand which I propped up on the arm of the couch. Grandma looked unfazed, as if nothing could break her. Her red lipstick was perfectly applied and her shock-white hair was perfectly coifed. My mother settled down on the brown leather chair that she always settled in while my father leaned tiredly against the door frame. My brothers and sister thundered down the stairs moments later, looking disheveled. Preston’s eyes were blood-shot and his normally perfect hair was rumpled. He wore the same pair of light-wash jeans and frayed tee-shirt he had when I’d left yesterday. Leni was emotionless, her face a mask of stone. She looked no better or worse. She wore black shorts and a V-neck with a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her hair was straight as a pin, her eyes soft. Finn was a mess of baggy jeans and mussed hair. I noticed how Leni and Preston stood close, farther away from Finn than they needed to be.
“Cookies, anyone,” grandma asked, knowing no one would reply. Finn sat on the floor, rocking back and forth on his knees. Preston curled up on the ugly sofa while Leni stood ram rod straight. Grandma’s face was so concerned and soft, more sympathetic than I’d ever seen her. In my sophomore year when my heart had been broken by my bad boy crush, I’d run to grandma because my parents seemed to taunt I told you so although not aloud. My grandma had shrugged, taken a drag on her cigarette, and told me to get over my petty crush. She told me that Jayden Burke was just a boy, nothing else. She was right. Grandma always was. Grandma’s cheeks were red from the rogue she favored and her lips were puckered with her nose turned up as if she smelled something sour. Behind her steady gaze, I saw the panic in her eyes, and something else I couldn’t place. Grandma focused her eyes on us. “It’s not going to help Elaine to be hungry.” Grandma warned, taking a cookie for herself. She broke it in half and handed the other part to me. Everyone grimaced at Clair’s first name. Grandma was the only person who ever called Clair that and only when she was feeling especially moody as in, “Elaine, go get me my truffles, I’m feeling down today,” or “Elaine, dear, today was terrible, I need a foot massage”. Clair always obliged. I put the cookie to my lips, felt the heat radiating off of it. The golden half of the cookie smelled like a candy cane and semi-sweet chocolate. They were homemade, the chocolate melting onto my lips. I bit into it, shame surging through my veins. The cookie tasted foreign in my mouth, metallic like blood almost. I set it down on the table. Grandma grumbled.
“Have the police got any leads?” Grandma inquired, picking up the royal purple mug she had long ago declared was officially hers. Mine was the turquoise. Clair’s was the pink. My mother narrowed her eyes, looking miffed. She folded her arms across her chest defiantly. My mother looked older than I’d ever seen her with her face contorted in a sour way.
“Can we just not talk about this today?” My mother suggested, turning towards Leni, who was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Did you get an A in Mr. Fitzner’s test?” Mother probed as her mouth tightened into a thin line. I noted how my father was slumped as far away from my mother as possible. His eyes were unforgiving and almost cruel. My heart thudded, quickly in my chest. Leni did not reply. Her face was blank. Her mouth made no effort of moving. My grandmother was growing crosser by the moment. She glared at my mother, her pale blue eyes squinty.
“We will not just sit around and PRETEND that Clair is okay,” Grandma said flatly, her voice even and frank. “She has been stolen from your family and we must persist to find her,” Grandma’s hand was quivering. She seemed weak and elderly, nothing like the brave and fierce grandmother I knew. My mother appeared as if she’d been slapped in the face. A flame of red danced upon her cheeks. She was embarrassed, it showed.
“The police are handling it,” mother said, her tone still. Leni looked uncomfortable. She slunk back to the room she’d occupied before we’d gotten there. Finn and Preston shoveled cookies into their mouths so as not to be prompted to speak. My father sat up.
“I’m not going to sit and take this mockery that Clair’s kidnapper has put us through,” Grandma said, standing up and walking into the kitchen. I followed and I saw grandma as I’d never seen her before. Her eyes were glossy with tears, her lips puffed out. She looked as though she had lost her best friend. Grandma took my hand, curling her fingers around mine. She had veiny, thin hands. They were cold and soft in my own hands which were smooth yet calloused from playing the guitar. I remembered one other time when I’d seen grandma nearly crying. It was when I was five. I’d gone to her house after school because no one was there to watch me. It was the week after my grandfather had passed away. I’d knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I’d clicked open the door and gone inside. This was before she’d modernized her home, so everything was ancient. I’d set down my Strawberry Shortcake backpack on the wooden rocking chair. I had been surprised to see Preston, who was a year younger than I, asleep on the floor, drooling on the rough carpet. Baby Finn was rocking in the swing my mother had insisted stayed at grandmas. I’d wandered into Grandma’s room where she was looking dreamy on her bed. She stared at a picture of my grandfather, a single silver tear right below her eye. She’d wiped it away as soon as I walked in and that was the end of that.
Today though, it was different. Grandma let herself cry for the first time. The tears came slowly, almost forced. They were little blobs that rained out of her eyes and I saw shame written all over grandma’s face. She knew something I didn’t. I knew because she’d never spoken to my mother that way. My mother had done something. But what, I thought, feeling hopeless. My parents were speaking in hushed tones in the other room, their sentences broken apart and almost lost in the drafty house. Grandma gripped my hand tightly, the tears falling from her eyes. “I’m sorry, grandma,” I said, so softly that after a few seconds I wasn’t even sure if I’d said it at all. Grandma looked up, mortified.
“No, Dixie, I’m sorry.” Grandma said, brushing the wetness off of her face. Again, there was silence. My mother came into the kitchen, the tension clinging to the air like static to balloon-rubbed hair. My father was nowhere to be seen. Before I could ask my grandmother why she was so sorry, she spoke to my mother. “Carol, I’m sorry to be so frank, but dear, I’ve just lost my granddaughter.” The words came out wrong. We all knew. Instantly, my mother paled. Grandma gasped. I sighed heavily, pondering on why everything seemed to be going wrong. “She’s been taken from me,” Grandma corrected, smiling feebly.
“I forgive you mother,” my own mother said, smiling as well. Even though her lips were wide and her teeth shone, I knew her heart wasn’t in it.
