The bus comes to a halt at my stop, not before spraying muddy rainwater all over the sidewalk along which I’ll need to walk. With gratitude, I nod to the only other person on the bus⸺the driver⸺and signal for the side door to open. Hopping off the raised platform, my feet land in a puddle sitting in a pothole, the cold spring water travels up the edge of my boots and down into my socks. I pay no mind to the spongy feeling my socks have taken on; I’ll be changing my shoes soon anyways.

I pull the sleeves of my wrinkly button down over the charm bracelet and tighten my ponytail. The hair that was straightened this morning has its normal frizz again.

The neon light from Lowe’s Bowl was the only light gracing the small side road of rural St. Jacobs. Even if the population barely scraped two-thousand, the streets constantly brimmed with the boisterous tourists from neighbouring towns coming to suck up some ideal of small-town life, the leachers⸺or so Mom says.

The city bus pulled away from behind me, splashing a spray of dirty street water on the back of my boots. I didn’t bother to open my umbrella. Allowing myself one final breath, I hike my purse across my chest and walk to the dented, main entrance doors.

The familiar and comforting smell of cheap shoe cleaner and boiling oil from their classic French fries calm me and I find myself smiling when Mr. Lowe greets me at the front register. His shiny red face, balding head, and tightly buttoned collar made me wonder sometimes how any oxygen reached his brain.

“Evening, Miss Waters.” He pivoted to pull a pair of women’s bowling shoes. “They others are already here. Arrived a few minutes just before you did.”

I smile, take the shoes and hand him a five-dollar bill. “Awesome, thanks. Tell Mrs. Lowe I say hi.”

Rounding the corner, I sigh relieved, when I do in fact see my friends, the only ones in the open room. We were the only ones who came to the alley on a Sunday evening.

Amelia Smythe, the blonde bombshells with tanned skin and a million dollar smile, sees me first. She’s our small town princess⸺being the Mayor’s daughter⸺and my best friend. Attached at her hip is her longtime boyfriend and all around cool guy, Mark Fernandez. He doesn’t see me until Amelia taps his head with a long manicured nail, he was too busy chatting⸺or bickering⸺with Carmen Lewis.

Carmen sits across from them, a spot for me next to her. Over six-feet tall with the most coily hair I’ve ever seen, Carmen is a sight to be seen. She and Mark banded together as primary school kids since St. Jacob’s was not a place for immigrants.

I drop my purse onto the table and throw myself onto the empty seat. I lean a head on Carmen’s shoulder and say, “I’m sure done with this rain.”

Mark’s face is sullen as he looks up from his game of tic-tac-toe on the paper table cloth with Amelia. “Too bad it’s not supposed to stop for another few days.” He draws an X and wins the round, drawing a green line through his Xs with a crayon.

“Please,” Carmen says, “I’m fine with it. My dad’s felt bad for me so he’s been picking me up after soccer practice.”

“Mom’s lent me her car, at least,” Amelia says, drawing an angry face on the table in front of Mark. “She’s always down at the police station anyway.”

I slink in my seat, tugging at the charms.

“Oh my God, Char!” Amelia exclaims. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

My gut rolls and I say, “It’s cool. Don’t even worry about it.” When no one looks convinced, I sit up and speak more forcefully. “Seriously, guys. Ava’s an adult. She can handle herself. Now, don’t tell me you all have cold feet now?”

Carmen pushes her club soda away and smacks her hands on the table. “Let’s start the game.”

✦✦✦

My alarm clocks yells at me, I roll over and fumble with it until it quiets down. Even in the dim light at seven in the morning, the fact that this was my mom’s room as a teenager is evident: faded pink floral wallpaper clearly from the eighties dawned the walls, and my room was still home to her old wardrobe and little knick knacks she didn’t want throughout the house otherwise.

I exchange my red lifeguard hoodie for a red striped knit sweater and my sweatpants for a pair of skinny jeans. After grabbing a pair of socks and braiding my hair, I make my way towards the main floor.

Upon the second last step, I freeze. Mom is just in the living room, and it’s obvious how close she is when she opens her mouth to speak. “She’s been gone for a week, Arthur.” Oh good, she’s not just talking to herself, my father’s there as well. “If she comes back, she’s not going to be welcomed.”

Bravely⸺or more likely stupidly⸺I take the last steps and come face to face with my mom and dad. Mom’s eyelashes are clumped together, something that always happens when she’s mad and squeezes her eyes too tight. Dad’s tired, I can tell by the bags under his eye and the fact that his Priest’s dress shirt isn’t ironed.

I avert my eyes as my courage wains and I pass between my parents, mumbling a quiet “Excuse me.”

They know I heard them talking about Ava and I’ll never hear the end of my eavesdropping tonight at dinner. I don’t worry too much about it, I’ve still got a few hours of peace until then.

Mom doesn’t work and the only pocket change she gets is what Dad gives her every day, so when my Mom starts her yelling again about the money Ava stole from her, I just retreat to the washroom to take a break from my family.

Within fifteen minutes, Amelia arrives in her Mom’s Jetta. She steps out of the driver's side to greet me as I make my way down the rotting steps of my porch. Really, I’m not surprised by my friends choice of attire. Skinny jeans, a white lace top, and a close-fitting pearl necklace. It’s covered not by a raincoat and rain boots, but by a blush cashmere coat and black booties. Truthfully, it’s not practical look for the drizzle of rain coming down on us. I don’t say anything regarding her attire, though.

“Morning,” I say, handing off the travel mug filled with dark roast black coffee. I zip up my rain coat and open the door on the passenger side as Amelia returns to take her place behind the wheel. “How’s your mom?”

As female mayor of a small town no stranger to prejudice, Ms Mayor Smythe had the character traits she needed: an unapologetic honesty, a disposition for control but rarely any motivation for it, and a great mother not only to her only daughter but to all the youth in the city⸺or at least I think so.

“Normal, I guess,” she responds.

The high school is on the edge of the county, a ten minute drive if there’s no traffic. As it remains a rainy Monday in early spring, the roads bustle; students getting drives from their parents, rational people refusing to walk in the rain, and closed side roads that redirect all traffic.

There’s never much conversation between Amelia and myself, there never really needs to be.

“My mom asked about you at dinner last night,” Amelia says, her eye’s not drifting from the road, her hand not making any move to leave the gear shift.

“Yeah?” Asked about me specifically or my family? There’s a difference.

“She wants to know if you’re coming to the gala.”

Right. The gala. It’s not really that I don’t want to go, Carmen and her girlfriend that she never lets us see will be there. Even Mark promises to go, which is a miracle even-of-itself. But me, no, there’s too much otherwise going on. Mom would have a fit, insisting I’m smearing her attempts to get Mayor Smythe out of office. And I couldn’t get a dress⸺though Amelia would offer⸺it’s just that the only income I get comes from lifeguarding at the public pool in the summer months.

“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly.

“It’d be a good excuse to have fun. C’mon, I could even get you a date⸺if you want.”

Chewing on my lip, I peel back a layer of skin. I taste blood shortly after. “Is it really a good time? To have the gala, I mean.” I bite my tongue, then continue, “Like I think your mom should be more concerned about Ava…”

“Char, she spends almost every waking hour down at the station with Sheriff Stock. They even found the GPS for your mom’s car down in the Conestogo River.”

My head hits the headrest. It’s the first… anything. Any proof that Ava did and does still exist after she disappeared two weeks back. My car was gone, mom’s wallet was emptied, but Ava’s room was untouched. Stupidly, we thought she’d come back, she’d done it before: run off with her long time on-and-off boyfriend Noah Weber, from the wealthier part of town. The longest they’d ever taken off for was three days. Today, it’s been sixteen.

“And my mom?” I ask.

“Been by my house ten times since Wednesday, apparently” Amelia says, “but Mom could be being dramatic.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see she tosses a glance my way. I just rub my eyes in defeat.

Cautiously, she pulls into the student parking lot, riddled with flooded potholes and assorted litter. Like I expected, the lot was nearly full, and as rare as it was, I knew why: even in the lower-middle class neighbourhoods of St. Jacobs, rain brought everyone together, even if it was with their parents’ cars.

“What are you going to do about it?” Amelia asks, putting her car into park.

As vague as it is, I know what she’s referring to. “I don’t know.” I pop the car door and swing out, my backpack and worry for the day ahead in tow.

As per usual, the day goes on, fading quickly until last period is wrapping up. The normal events happened as they always did: someone was injured in Carmen’s gym class, someone slipped in the cafeteria and split food all down the front of themselves, and a pair of boys almost got into a fist fight in the smoke pit but it was broken up by the hall monitors before it could get too out of hand.

Every Monday and Wednesday in the springtime, Amelia, Mark, and I would sit on the bleachers until Carmen’s outdoor soccer practise was done. Today, thankfully, they held the drills inside, so the three of us sat by my locker along the main hallway. Carmen is Mark’s ride home since the bus routes don’t go out towards his house, and Amelia just hangs around to spend more time with her boyfriend. I stay around because it’s better than going home.

“Mark,” Amelia says, peering up from her physics textbook. “Any update on your ride to the gala?”

“Yeah. My parents are out of town, so I’ll need to bus or something.”

I slam my book shut, not bothering to put my bookmark back⸺the only reason I was reading the book is because it’s from Ava’s cardboard box in the garage. “I can drive you,” I tell Mark, then turn to Amelia. “You probably can’t leave anyways. It’s no big deal.”

“Char,” she begins, and I know that look on her face, “your car is gone.”

“So?” I ask incregusstly. “Dad could lend me his, he won’t need it, and it’s not like I’m going far.”

“Hm.” Amelia huffs and she looks back down at the lined paper between the pages of her textbook. “I still want you to get a date to drive you. Mark, Carmen or her girlfriend can drive you.”

I eye my best-friend, noting to myself to message Mark and see if he’s still open to a ride from me.

“And hey…” Amelia gets my attention. “Mark’ll just have to come early.”

I unzip my backpack to stuff my book away and pull out my phone. I drop it to the floor, however, when I see ‘Mom’ on the screen. She’s calling me. It goes to voicemail.

Mark hasn’t noticed, his eyes are back on his school issued Chromebook, working away on some essay. Amelia, the keen eyed girl, does notice.

“Y’know, I was thinking today about where you could get information about your sister.” Amelia isn’t look at me, she’s looking down the hall. I don’t mimic her. “Ethan Stock.”

“The sheriff’s kid?” Mark asks, bringing himself back into the conversation. “What’s he going to know?”

“Piper’s never been able to keep anything from her darling boy since her husband passed away a few years back. She probably rants all day to him at dinner.”

There’s a breeze behind me and my hair blows towards my face. I turn over my left shoulder to see a boy’s back. Ethan Stock in the flesh. Oh Amelia.

The boy was a sight to see: never in the cafeteria, never outside over the lunch hour during the sunnier days, only ever in my English class’ far corner.

“Just try it, Char.” Amelia is not one to bargain. I can say no, but I owe her. “What’s the worse that can happen?”

Stalling, I ask, “How do you know about his relationship with his mom?”

“Mom’s not dealing well after Dad left.” She’s somber. “Go find him, Char.”

Frustrated but slightly grateful, I stand up, slinging my backpack over one shoulder as I go. I start to walk.

“Fine,” I say, “but if he offers me smokes, I’m leaving.”

In my humble sixteen years, I’ve always lived in the same town as Ethan Stock: the tall, black haired boy with olive skin and black jean jackets. Have I ever spoken to him? No, not really. Unless that time when I was presenting a speech in sixth grade and had to ask the entire class a rhetorical question counts as speaking to him.

Oh God, what am I even doing? I don’t know this kid, how am I supposed to go up to him and ask for his… his what? Help? Information? Support? Or his belittlement? That I wouldn’t need to ask for, I’d receive it regardless.

This is illegal isn’t it? Asking him for information that I have no right to? No, I do have a right to know, he’s the one that’s out of line. I sigh, he’s only out of line if he knows anything, and I don’t know if he knows anything.

I halt in front of the library doors. He was headed down this path, right? The school’s library serves as both our ‘private one’ and a public one with separate doors. Because of this, the library had good funding, and was state of the art: it had three desktop computers.

I catch sight of him: hunched over⸺though the shelf he’s looking at is probably at my eye level⸺in the crime section. His earbuds are in, and he’s not paying attention to anything but the poorly written early nineties crime books.

I grip the straps of my backpack and make my way over towards him. I clear my throat, knowing he can’t yet hear me. I step around the shelf until I’m on one side and he the other. I wait for him to push the books in front of my face aside. He doesn’t. Indignantly, I take three steps to my right until I’m at the end of the aisle. I walk up to him, reading the name of the book in his hand.

“That’s not his best work,” I say, reading the man’s name off the cover.

His jaw clenches but he doesn’t move to take an earbud out. “What do you want, Waters?”

“What about my first name? Do you know that?”

He pauses, book still in hand at reading distance. “I’m guessing you’re not Ava.”

I snicker. “Funny, really.”

“Waters, I’m serious: what do you want?” His voice is uninterested, he’s more worried about the average crime book in his hand.

I don’t hesitate. “I need help.”

“With picking a good novel? By the cover of your book in the hall, you’re beyond help.” There’s a moment where I want to speak up and tell him it’s not mine, I’m not reading it because it interests me. But I stop, he wants to aggravate me.

“Good to know I’ve already made an impression,” I say.

“It takes six seconds to make a first impression.” He finally turns to look at me, the book now behind his back. Ethan’s glasses sit crooked on his nose with finger prints along the lenses. His pale yellow graphic t-shirt is so worn in I can’t tell what print used to be on it, even though I am at the perfect height to check out his short. “I’ve had an impression of you since first grade.”

I cross my arms. If he watches me chew on my cheek, he doesn’t show it. I don’t know if I’m glad or disappointed. “I can understand the weather being a downer but I don’t take out my aggression on others.”

“What ‘aggression?” And when I keep quiet, he shrugs and turns back to the book shelf. “This is just my personality.”

“Sure.” Oh God, here it comes… “I need help with Ava’s case.”

Ethan doesn’t turn his face but I see his eyes flick to the side. “Why me?”

I asked the same question. “For your company.”

“Charlotte Waters being sarcastic. I thought sarcasm was a Sin.”

I look away, embarrassed. “You bring out my worst.” I’m red up my chest and neck⸺thankfully my sweater hides some of it. Only some though. “It’s been so long, Ethan. If there’s anything you know, please tell me.”

I figured he knew why I here. He doesn’t hesitate before saying, “I’m not putting my ass on the line for nothing.” He pushed up his glasses and I’m relieved because it was starting to get on my nerves. “What about a deal?”

I, however, turn it over in my head, finally realizing the potential consequences of this with Ethan. “What is it you want?”

His lips turn down in thought. “I’m not sure yet. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Hesitant but proud and relieved, I stand straighter. “Alright, Ethan. You better hold your end of the deal.” I pivot and start to leave before stopping. “And thanks, Ethan.”

He waves me off with his now empty hand, the book is back on the shelf.

Dad places the hot casserole on the fabric coaster, his hands covered in gripped oven mitts. He passes me a plate as I run my fingers over the top of my water glass. “Thanks,” I say, as he dished some dinner out to me.

Mom throws her cloth napkin onto the table. “What is with you tonight?” she demands.

“Sorry. It’s my head⸺y’know with the rain.” It’s a lie, well, a partial lie. My head does throb like it normally does when the weather is particularly active, but I wouldn’t chalk my foul mood down to just the pain in my head.

“Don’t excuse your laziness,” Mom says.

“Nora,” Dad tries to reason. Mom, as he and I both expected, doesn’t pay any mind to his warning.

“No, David. She needs to stop feeling so bad for herself.” She turns her glare from Dad to me. “The world will move on without you.”

“I’ll try harder.” She’ll hold me to that.

The rest of dinner is quiet; Dad clears his throat every few minutes, then say something about his day or the church only to be met by a quiet scoff as Mom worries more about her wine than Dad. To lie and say this was an unusual dinner would be a crime against Ava’s ability to make conversation with or without her presence. Something comes up, Mom gets mad, whether it’s directly related to us or not, then we remain silent as Mom fills her wine glass one, two, three times. The schedule was as follows: eat for ten minutes, go upstairs and finish my meal, then complete any homework I’d not done before Mom pounded on my door for dinner.

I grab my glass and my plate, then return back to my bedroom where I resume the silence of dinner at my desk. There’s music coming from my school issued Chromebook⸺I’d hit the spacebar as I passed my bed⸺but it’s no louder then a whisper.

That’s why I jump when my phone rings from where it lay on my bed, buzzing like mad and playing the classic jingle I had yet to change. I push my chair back and lean across the bed, grabbing the phone in my hand. It’s an unknown number, our area code however, so I pick it up.

“Hello, Charlotte speaking.”

“Ah, good,” the other end of the line says.

“Ethan?” I exclaim. As soon as his name leaves my tongue, my hand flies to my mouth as I listen to see if Mom’s chair scrapes across the hardwood as she stands and comes to talk to me. Quieter, I ask, “How’d you get my number?”

“Amelia Smythe,” he grumbles.

Before I get a chance to wonder if he’s paused so I can speak, he starts again. “I was thinking: it’s been years since anyone checked the Farmhouse.”

I hesitate. I had forgotten about the Farmhouse on the edge of town, one of the oldest buildings in the county. Deteriorating for years, it’s been left to the tall grass and stray cats in the past decade or so. There’d been a few week period where Ava and her then boyfriend, Noah Weber, and a slew of other grade elevens would camp out in and around the property.

I’d never been.

“You think she’s there?” I ask.

“God no, Waters.” If he’s amused by my response, it doesn’t show in his voice. “I think she’s been there.”

“Then why hasn’t it been searched before?”

“Something about a search warrant and the owners.”

“Oh.” I don’t really follow, but that’s why Ethan’s here⸺or there, in his home rather⸺I don’t need to understand the law if he does.

He ignores my surprise. “If you’re up for it, I’m going tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s eight o’clock and raining,” I say, glancing out my window to see, in fact, it is still raining as Mark said it would.

“Take it or leave it, Waters.”

I pivot around, away from the window. “Fine. I’ll need a ride.”

“I’ll get you in ten.”

“Ethan,” I say forcefully, hoping he’s not already taken the phone from his ear. “You need my address.”

“Already got it, small town remember.” This time, he does hang up and I’m left with a bad decision and a sneaking suspicion that he’ll be here in less than ten minutes.

I click my tongue. Mom wouldn’t let me go out this time of night, let alone with Ethan Stock of all people. Even I have my doubts about him, he could be a basket case, but I guess I know more about that kind of thing than he does.

I braid my hair, flattening out the puffy sides as little baby hairs escape to curl around my forehead and cheeks. I grab a flashlight and book it downstairs, not going as quietly as I should.

I round the corner towards the living room, halting as I see my parents on the couch. I slip the flash light into the waistband of my jeans, pulling my sweater over to hide the top end.

“I’m going out,” I announce, my confidence sparked by the brown liquid in Mom’s glass. “With Amelia.” Mom doesn’t like her, or her mother; in fact she very much dislikes them, but she likes their money. “She’s getting a dress for the gala,” I lie.

“Take a picture if she picks one,” Mom insists. And I know why she asks that of me.

“Course,” I say, remember the flashlight shaped lump up my back. “I don’t know when I’ll be back but I’ll message.” I show my phone⸺it’s completely off but she doesn’t need to know that.

Grabbing my coat and yanking the hood over my head, I’m out the door, key in my pocket. I wait under the covered porch for Ethan to come up along the street, and sure enough, under four minutes later, the yellow lights of his car light the street as he rounds onto my driveway. I take one last glance as my parents’ shadows on the couch before walking down the driveway to his truck.

I pop the front door and it opens with a creak and a thud. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, slamming the door and buckling up.

“No problem. I figured if we were doing something illegal, it’s the least I could do.” He starts the ignition. “And, hey, if they cops get us, she could double as a getaway car.

“This thing?” I ask. “We could run faster.”

“Me run?” Ethan exclaims, “I don’t think so.”

The first time Ava went missing, I was in eighth grade, and it took Dad four days to own up and say that Mom was lying, and Ava was indeed not at my grandparents' place a few towns over. She was in grade eleven and that was her first time in the Farmhouse, and the last I thought.

She was put in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, Noah came to us that day to tell us. By the time I saw her again, it’d been a week. I can remember walking into her shared hospital room with two old people who moaned and cried about gibberish -- Ava doesn’t have to be here, with them, I thought. I had used one of her nail polish shades while she was gone, and it was along the sides of my nails. My fingers, wrapped around her phone, were shaking despite my grip.

“Here,” I said, dropping the phone on the bed, “I bought this for you. Noah gave it to me.”

“No thanks, Lotty.” Her tone is sharp. She turns back to Mom who stands with her arms crossed and her hair limp, she hadn’t been pleased that we had to come before she could finish getting ready. “Get out,” she grumbles. “This is bad enough.”

The next time, she turned up in Toronto, a city of about a million a two-hours drive away. For once, Mom and Dad agreed on something, so I wasn’t told any of the specifics. All I know is that Noah wasn’t with her.

Ethan’s rusting truck sprays muds up onto the side windows and my stomach lurches. My hand latches onto the handle and Ethan ignores my concern, while he maneuvers us out of a flooded hole along the once dirt road.

“Careful!” I shriek, as more mud lands on the windshield. The wipers don’t do a good job of clearing it.

“No more comments,” Ethan says, “please.”

Agitated, I just look at him.

I guess the ‘no talking’ was only for me because he speaks again no more than thirty seconds later. “You have an umbrella right?”

I slump. What an idiot I am. “No sorry, I forgot.”

“No worries.” His tone is sarcastic. “I’m sure the rain will stop just for you.” Despite his harsh words, he doesn’t seem genuinely upset. I suppose, he can’t be: I’m wearing a raincoat, he’s wearing a hoodie.

I chew the inside of my lip, waiting for the truck to stop. I zip up my jacket to my throat and throw the hood over my head. Opening the door, I don’t see if Ethan is doing the same, right now, I don’t really care if he is.

My feet land in a puddle up to my mid calves and some water makes it into the top of my boot. With sloshing socks, and teary eyes, I make my way towards the dark silhouette of the farmhouse. The sun has set, though some light remains through the forest in the distance, as twilight hasn’t ended.

I click my flashlight on as Ethan’s sloshing feet get closer to me. At the porch, I yell over the rain: “How are we going to get in?” The front door is boarded and so too are some of the windows. Some are just smashed.

Ethan follows the beam of my flashlight with his eyes. “You stay here. I’ll check around back.” Before I could say we have all the time in the world and that we can go around the house together, he’s down and off the rickey porch. I turn back to the house as Ethan retreats into the darkness. Oh Amelia, this wasn’t a good idea. Ethan Stock? He’s a good company as a corpse.

What I assume to be the once white siding had chipped, and been dirtied after years of neglect and heavy rain. Much like the pillars supporting the overhang I stand under, I don’t know if I should touch it.

The wind whips around me, yanking hair from my braid to blind me; I stumble practically blindly towards to house, arms stretched out. Chilled and tired, I follow the support of the brick wall as I search for a way in.

A window with shattered glass and a rotting frame sits only a few feet away. Some pieces still stick out, their jagged edges making me debate finding Ethan and telling him I didn’t find a way in. No, this is fine, I’ll get in here.

Pulling my sleeve down over my fist, I knock out most of the remaining glass. I lift my foot and place it on the window frame -- it squishes under the weight -- and grab my flashlight with my mouth as I stabilize myself, hands gripping the sides. Lifting myself in, there’s a pain up my arm, then a snag as the glass rips a piece of my jacket.

Grabbing the flashlight with my good hand, I shine it towards my left arm: there’s a bloodied line spreading about three inches between my elbow and shoulder. The blood drips around my arm, covering my yellow jacket maron. “Goddamnit,” I growl to myself.

I try not to breath through my nose, really not wanting to inhale mold or asbestos. Beneath the beam of light, there’s smashed beer bottles and trash. Destroyed camping lanterns and sleeping bags decorate the garbage.

“Water?” Ethan calls from outside. “Where are you?”

“In here.” I make my way back to the window, he’s there, looking in towards me. Hair soaked, glasses disgusting, nearly slipping from the bridge of his nose.

He approaches the window but halts, and my flashlight follows his line of sight. A spear of glass coated with blood sticks out proudly. Stomach aching, I take a small step back, the blood along my arm suddenly seems hot. He’ll surely make us leave if he sees the gash: he’s callouse but not an idiot, I could surely get some infection or tetanus in here.

“Come in,” I say, “the coast is clear.”

He pushes away the glass then double checks that it’s all gone, before crouching into the farmhouse. He doesn’t ask but I pass him my flashlight and let him lead his search. Hands free now, I can put pressure on the gash.

“This place is nasty,” I say. “I don’t know how Ava could stay here.”

Ethan bends down to pick up a sleeping bag. He passes it to me, I know the bag and the handwriting on the tag he look at. It’s my Dad’s sleeping bag from his camping days.

“Ava made it this way.” That shuts me up.

He moves to take it back from me but I jerk back, holding it to my body. It wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve done because Ethan gets a glimpse of my blood, which has now made a trail down to my fingers.

He grabs my forearm and twists it to get a glimpse of the cut, I don’t look at it, I prefer to look past him. “We should go,” I say.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“There were more pressing matters,” I insist.

“Are you going to faint?” he asks. “I can’t have another Waters sister disappearing.” He drops my arm and tosses the sleeping bag back onto the heap of garbage.

“Are you threatening to put me down?”

“No, just to leave you bleed out in the fields. Tell me, Waters, ever wanted to be a farmer’s worst nightmare?”

Through the house, through the window, through the rain and mud, we make it back to the car. Ethan had offered his hoodie to cover the wound, something about ‘rainwater being absolutely disgusting’ so he now only sports a T-shirt.

In the truck, I lay his sweatshirt over the seat, not wanting to get blood all over it. He protests and tells me to worry more about bleeding out on his seat and dying over a ‘bit of blood’. I use practically an entire tissue box to wipe the blood from my arm, hands, shirt, and even on my face. Soon, the backseat is flooded with red tissues, his hoodie, my jacket, and my knit sweater. I’m down to just my black undershirt, and a makeshift bandage made of a spare shirt he had in his glove box.

Ethan’s in a sort of daze, driving around back roads slowly as to give me as much time as I need and to not get stuck in the growing amounts of mud every second it continues to rain.

“You’re going to need stitches,” he says. “Or medical attention.”

“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “I’ve seen worse.” I really haven’t but it seemed like something that would reassure him. I was wrong.

His face turns towards me, an unreadable look on his face. Then, as quickly as he looked to me, he looks back to the road.

“We can start heading back to my house now,” I say, following his actions and looking only to the dark road ahead. “I best not be out too late, my Mom will worry.” I don’t know if ‘worry’ is the right word.

He nods.

I clench my jaw. “And thanks for your help.”

“It was a pleasure.” He’s sharp.

“Are you always this sarcastic?” I ask, not really taking his mood into account.

Ethan shakes his head, some of the tenseness gone. “Sometimes I sleep. Not often though.”

A thumping on my door wakes me; I roll over, only to swear under my breath when my weight falls on my left arm. I sit up, only to fall back face down onto my pillows when I see the brightness of my room -- I forgot to close my blinds last night.

“Get up, Charlotte!” Mom yells, her knocking ceasing only for her voice. “You’re going to be late!”

I hesitate before responding, sitting up for real this time, my feet find the floor. I don’t mirror her tone when I respond: “Sorry. I’ll be down in a minute for breakfast.”

“No,” Mom clips, “you should have thought about that before you slept in. Now hurry up, or you can forget about your lunch money too.”

Her heeled shoes recede and I’m left to debate how worthwhile it is to actually get up today. I decide, after only contemplating for a second, that it isn’t worth it, but too bad. I get up, head the to the washroom, fix the bandage, brush my hair, and then return to my room to get dressed.

I should learn to keep my backpack in my bedroom.

At the kitchen table, Dad wears his black shirt and slacks, his clerical collar on his neck. In his hand is the mug of foul herbal tea he drinks every morning and every night. A ritual, he calls it. A waste of cupboard space, I call it.

As I expected, at the head of the table, there’s no placemat. I’m without breakfast this morning. Mom comes behind me and takes her normal spot across from mine, a steaming mug of black coffee in her hand. I grip the back of Dad’s chair.

“Morning,” he says, “I hope dress shopping went alright -- you got back quite late.” Dad sips his tea, and I know that unlike mom, he wants me to speak.

“Yeah.” I eye his omelette. “We got stuck in the mud.”

“As long as you and that car of Amelia’s are alright.”

I drop my hand from the top of his chair and head to the kitchen, where I assemble my bag for the day. Too, there are dishes to be done. I’m not done reaching my backpack when Mom speaks, her voice low but purposeful:

“The Weber brothers were arrested last night. Again,” she says, running her finger along the edge of her mug. “Shameful boys.”

“Where’d you hear that, dear?” Dad asks, though with fake interest.

I continue to pack my bag: binder, textbook, pencil case.

“Word travels fast, I suppose.” Her hubris turns to me: “You remember the Webers don’t you, Charlotte? Noah and Blake.”

Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I say, “They’re unforgettable. You’ll be happy to hear I have no classes with Blake.”

Mom’s lips tighten and I’m left with my eyes so wide they burn dry as I await her response. “Stay away from that boy.”

“Do you even know him?” I ask quietly, making my way to the fridge to grab a water bottle. “He’s not Noah. I wouldn’t be so quick to judge him, you could be arrested for being an atheist in this town.”

Mom stands and her coffee spills onto the table, then down onto the floor. “And I wouldn’t be so quick to defend him. You’ve not spoken to him in four years, be careful before you blindly care for people!” She’s venom and it’s me she’s after.

“Nora,” Dad warns, “sit down.”

“Charlotte Ann Waters, I am your mother and you will obey me when I tell you never talk to Blake or Noah Weber.” I want her to put her hand in her boiling coffee. I want her to shut up, so I make her.

“You’re right,” I admit, barely above a whisper.

“I can’t hear you,” she says.

“You’re right!” I yell, slamming the fridge.

She exhales and sits down, her dress pants having narrowly avoided her coffee. “That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She huffs again, reaching across the table for a napkin. Or a handful. “Mayor Scythe and Sheriff Stockholm say ‘they’re just youth’, but they’re not. Those boys are stupid, don’t be like them, Charlotte.”

I bow my head, Yes, Mom. I’d speak if my simmering insides could calm down before the awkwardness sets in. Based on the look in Mom’s eyes, it’s not worth it.

I grab my backpack and my water bottle and wait on the porch, Amelia’s due here in ten minutes anyway.

Without fail, Tuesdays are always worse than Mondays. That fact turned out to be true when my Trig substitute was a bag of bones with a temper worse than my mom, and when Amelia asked me what happened to my arm after she gave me a hug -- because she knew I was crying when she picked me up -- and I couldn’t come up with a good explanation so she now thinks Mom hits me, and when I realized Mom had, in fact, taken my lunch money from my wallet. And my debit card.

“I’m not that hungry,” I say, stashing my wallet back in my bag. “I’ll find us a table or something.”

Amelia turns to me, still walking towards the cafeteria, she says, “Okay, but if I buy some fries would you help yourself.”

I can’t help but smile. “As long as there’s-”

“No ketchup, I know.”

I slow down when I notice the black-clad figure leaning against a locker. Amelia playfully claps me on the back: “He called you last night, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did,” I say, watching him scroll on his phone.

“Good thing. I was worried he wouldn’t.” Amelia tightens the straps of her backpack. “Text me if you still want those fries.”

Then she leaves, and I’m alone, trying to figure out if I should go to Ethan or not. I decide I should.

“Hey,” I say as I cross the hall. “Longtime no see.”

He looks up and for a second, I can tell he’s wondering to whom I’m speaking. It isn’t until I’m right beside him that he knows it’s him my words are directed at.

He looks over his shoulder then mine. Quietly, he demands, “Why are you here?”

I drop my act of confidence. “To talk to you?”

“Not here with me, here at school. Shouldn’t you be resting or something?” Ethan makes an attempt to cover his face with the binder in his hand.

“Oh right, last night.” I’m not as dense as he thinks I am. I’m fully aware of his anxiety. I lower my voice, “Say, what do you think the student body would think if they saw us talking?” Truthfully, I don’t think anyone besides Mom would care, but there’s a sense of fun in frustrating the boy in front of me.

Ethan’s not as dense as I’d like to think he is. He straightens up, dropping his binder to his waist. I decide to talk before he gets a chance, if he and I keep going at it, we’ll never get anywhere.

“I’m going to talk to Blake Weber. He’ll know something.”

Hoping Ethan does as I want, I stand up off the locker and start to walk down the hallway. It’s cleared significantly since I first spotted him here, but not so that if Ethan were to leave me walk away it wouldn’t draw eyes.

He catches up to me. “He won’t know as much as Noah.”

Trying not to cringe at the time. With false conviction -- the only kind I know -- I say, “That’s what I’m hoping.”

The secretary is a bit skeptical, I could see it in her eyes. Ethan, three feet behind me, leaning against the bulletin board with PSAs about post-secondary education, and ‘safe relations’ on the wall behind me. After a beat of awkward silence, the secretary sighs and retreats back to the announcement microphone. “Blake Weber, please report to the main office. Blake Weber to the main office.”

I give her a tight lipped smile, turning on my heels I stalk out of the office, Ethan’s still soaked converse squeaking behind me. At the door, I take a sharp left then stop. I lean against the wall just outside the office.

“Was that your best idea?” Ethan asks, “Have them call him down for a ‘project’?”

I shrug. “Beats roaming the halls to find him.” Unless you want to walk the halls with me, during lunch, when everyone is in the hallways eating, I want to say flippantly, but now’s not the time to accuse Ethan of being embarrassed in my presence. No, I’m more focused on my own potential embarrassment: Blake Weber is coming to see me -- he doesn’t know that but he will -- here now, when the last time I ever spoke to him was four years ago. I was 12, and embarrassing then. How embarrassing am I now? Oh God, Mom was so right.

Ethan, on the other hand, is the image of serenity. Hands in pockets. Shoulders relaxed. Breathing level. It’s maddening. “You should hide your sweaty palms before he sees,” Ethan says and I look down to my hands.

They’re not that sweaty. Instead of lamely defending myself, I just wipe my hands on my pants and glower at the other wall, imagining it’s Ethan I’m glaring at. He is not helping.

Blake Weber turns the corner: sporting his usual -- as I’ve seen him walking around the school in -- white tee, St. Jacob’s Collegiate Institute football jacket, and trendy -- but too europeen for my liking -- shoes. He comes by his wealth honestly, that’s something to admire I guess.

Blake Weber is people smart, I’ve always known that, so I’m not surprised when he stops a few feet from us. He knows the office didn’t call him down for them, they called him down for us. He doesn’t pivot around, nor flip me off, instead he smiles. If the sarcastic expression on his face could really be considered a ‘smile’.

“Ethan Stock and Charlotte Waters, I thought I’d never see the day.” He looks between us. Ethan’s upright now, hands at his sides. He must think of Blake as everyone does, a lousy excuse for the ‘house on the hill’. His parents don’t do town life very well.

Blake Weber is taller than me but shorter than Ethan, with a stocky build and hands practically the size of baseball gloves, he’s textbook football player. Too, his tan doesn’t do him any kindness in his attempt of assimilation to the town common folk. The Webers travel, a lot. And to exotic places.

“What do you need?” Blake asks when neither Ethan nor I make any comeback to his comment. “I was enjoying lunch, thank you very much. Whatever it is, make it quick, I didn’t think I’d be seeing the likes of you two.”

Harsh. I clench my jaw; he’s as I remember, a snarky boy far older than he looks with a sharp tongue and established power in this town to get away with it.

“Generous of you,” Ethan says, not even bothering to fake gratitude. “We have some questions for your brother.” Or you, if you’ll answer them, I want to add on, but I keep my mouth shut.

“And here I was thinking your mother did all the interrogation. Or don’t you remember, you were there last night,” Blake says, looking from the target of his words to me. Does he expect me to get upset with Ethan? I don’t care he was there last night, nor do I care he didn’t tell me. If it had any importance to me or Ava, he would have. I think.

“Watch it,” I warn mainly Blake, but Ethan too. “Or I’ll have to buy leashes.”

“Oh,” says Blake, “Cupcake, I’m flattered but not only am I not into that kind of stuff, you’re also not my type.”

And I should have known Ethan would make a comment back. Not in my defence of course, but at my expense. “She’s not a cheerleader? Not a dyed-blond?”

Blake exhales out of his nose, with a gentle expression on his face: he’s amused. He deliberately doesn’t answer Ethan before he turns around and begins to walk away. “I’m not as shallow as you may think,” Blake says solemnly, Ethan struck home with that comment. Blake stops, tilts his head over his shoulder then says, “Do follow me, you know how I feel about those office ladies -- old bats.” Blake starts walking again.

I look at Ethan, he looks at me. There’s a silent word of agreement between us as we decide that it is worthwhile to follow Blake to wherever he’s leading us. And hey, it’s two against one, the sheriff’s son’s word against a town outlaw. And Blake knows that.

Blake leads us up three flights of stairs, around a few corners, past fewer and fewer students until we’re the only group within earshot. St Jacob’s Collegiate Insitute matched the time period when it was built, nearly two-hundred years ago: tall red walls, yellowing white pillars, drafty windows, and far too much room for the number of students. Once, SJCI held a collection of youth from the townships and even some from the tri-cities. That was when the school offered French Immersion, then about three decades ago the school board decided it didn’t need French anymore. The number of freshman from that following year was some half of the year before.

The once bustling building was now just for this town and anyone who wanted country life from the cities over -- so, ironically for how often they come to our farmer’s market, not very many.

Ahead of us, Blake stops at a door, then he shoves it open with his shoulder, all while still looking around the empty hallway. It’s the boys’ washroom. I eye Blake when he looks to the two of us.

“Oh, please,” Blake says, “I don’t want anything you have to offer.” Then he turns to Ethan, and with the same amount of pride, he says, “And you, I just don’t like you.”

Ethan, just as fed up with Blake’s charade as I am, pushes through the door frame, pausing only to glance at me with a skeptical look in his eye. Ethan knows how terrible of an idea this is -- that makes two of us, but I’d never admit that.

My birthday is in the middle of October, it had passed months ago, for which I was thankful. I don’t need the gifts my mom buys me that disappear back into her possession or the reminders that they brought with them.

Three years ago, it had been my birthday weekend, Mom and Dad were away. I can’t quite remember why. So when Ava approached me about going to a party with her on a Friday night, I had no valid excuse. That’s how I found myself alone at some stranger’s house party, leaning against the wall, a sealed water bottle in hand.

I hadn’t noticed Blake approach me, so when he spoke in my ear, I had jumped.

“Hey, Lotty,” he greeted, moving to lean next to me.

“Blake, hi,” I said, not too sure how to react. “How are you?”

“Good, good. High school’s tough, though.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it. It’s weird being back with Ava.”

Blake laughed and took a sip of his ginger ale -- odd kid. “Noah refuses to drive me so I have to get a driver, he’s a total snob.”

A laugh made its way from my throat and I clasped his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for that. Can’t imagine.”

“Don’t patronize me, Lotty. Rumour has it we’re dating.”

“No,” I exclaimed in disbelief. “Do you know where Ava is? She totally ditched me the second we got here.”

“I don’t know.”

My tongue clicked and I crossed my arms. “You’re a liar. Where are they?”

“Fine -- they’re fine. Don’t worry about them.”

Lying snake. Moralless Bastard. Sheep. And all those manifest in the only other person Ethan and I share this room with.

“So, tell me,” Blake says from where he sits on the edge of the semicircle sink. His ankles are crossed. “Why--”

“Why are we working together?” Ethan supplies from his position at the custodial cupboard. He sits, his legs out straight in front of him, bag in his lap.

Blake looks at him. “No,” he lilts, “I want to know why you need my help. You have Detective Playset over there, so why add me to the mix?”

I chew my cheek. “No one knew Ava better than your family.”

“Alas,” he says giving what beneath a sarcastic expression is real remorse. “But Piper Stock has already weaseled everything there is to know out of Noah and myself. Ava’s got this genetic condition where she speaks but doesn’t tell.”

Brick wall, that’s what it’s like talking to him. Or a self-serving insect.

“What’d you tell my mom?” Ethan asks.

“All we know: Ava talked about running away, Noah said he’d go with her.”

“Run away where?” It’s a demand Blake better answer.

Blake stands up from the sink, takes two long strides with his legs that are longer than mine and half my torso combined. He’s in front of me in all his damned glory: cologne, expensive watch, glamourous teeth. I want to shrink back, turn around and grab Ethan by the forearm and hightail it out of the bathroom before Blake gets a chance to even answer my demand. It can’t be that valuable, can it? Did they actually tell the Sheriff? Did they lie?

I don’t do anything, however.

“You might want to check for the goose’s passport,” Blake tells me solemnly.

The basement of my home had never been furnished in all the fifty years it’s been standing: dank and dark, foul and freezing. I made a promise to myself when I was eleven that I would avoid venturing down into the basement at all costs after a rat had babies Dad got Typhus. Now, here I am, at the top of the stairs to the basement, I barely remember finding the rotting rat and rat babies in the laundry hamper.

The stairs are uncarpeted and cement, and they lead straight down to the filing cabinet with all our documents. I take them two at a time, so quick that I find myself as the base of the stairwell before I can even remember when I decided to take the first step. In the darkness, my hands reaches up for the string of the single light bulb; found it, I yank the yarn with a tied knot at the end and the furnace room is brightened.

I kneel down, tearing open the filing cabinet doors with scuffed lock faces. File after file, my fingers sort through. Birth Certificates, Marriage Certificate, Ava’s Graduation Certificate. In the drawer closest to the ground I find them, in their worm ziplock back, I find our passports. I open them to their middle where the pictures and identification hide: mine, Dad’s, Mom’s, Ava’s? Where’s hers? It’s not in the bag.

“What in Christ’s name are you doing?” Mom yells from behind me.

I stop, vomit in my throat. She stands behind me at the base of the stairs, where I was just moments earlier. I turn to face her.

I stand up straight. “Ava’s passport isn’t here.”

Eyes alight, Mom stalks up to me, and yanks the pile of passports out of my hand. She slams them shut and holds them close against her hip.

“Do you think she took it? The cabinets were unlocked.”

She’s cool and calm, until she’s not. Like right now. “Don’t you get it, Charlotte?” She paces around me, circling me until I’m dizzy from turning and turning and turning to watch her moves. “Avaline is not and will not come back. It is everyone’s best interest that she steers clear from this town.”

My voice is barely a whisper. “Do you know where she is?”

“I wish I did!” Mom seethes. Her finger points at me, nails sharp and directly at my jugular. “Then I would personally ensure that girl doesn’t embarrass this family again.”

She knows me, knows that I got what I wanted. So Mom drops the passports back in the cabinet, slams both the drawers shut and makes a turn to head back upstairs.

Biting back yelling, I exclaim: “What did Ava ever do to you?”

She stops. “Your naivety is nauseating. Do you even have the slightest idea of all the money I’ve wasted on her?”

“I don’t!” I yell. “No one ever tells me anything.

“You know what, Charlotte?” Mom asks me. “You are beginning to sound a lot like your sister and unless you want to end up as good as dead somewhere, clean up your act.”

“I’m not her,” I seeth, baring my teeth and clenching my fists.

“Not yet,” Mom growls, “But there’s something to be said about Waters women.”

“What?” I ask. “We’re all bitches.”

“No,” she says. Then she’s up the stairs.