“Go away,” he grunts. He tries to raise his head, but it drops farther into his lap, and he rubs his temples, making that guttural sound again. I realize he’s saying something, so I bend in closer. “I can’t leave,” he’s whimpering. “I’ve got to find her.” He’s rocking and moaning and repeating the words, and I’m watching and shaking and starting to freak out.
Suddenly, he stops moving and his eyes find me. He seems surprised to see me standing next to him. “Anna?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m going to go get you some help. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
“No!” He says the single word with force, but it’s tinged with agony, and I know there’s no way that I can handle this alone.
“Bennett, you need help.” I pivot on my heel to leave.
“No.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Please. Don’t. Go.” I stop cold and whirl around. It looks like it’s taking all his strength for him to lift his head. “It’s…” He takes another deep breath. “It’s easing up now.” But I don’t believe him. In spite of the temperature and the frozen bench he’s planted on, sweat is beading up on his forehead and running down his cheeks. He looks like me after a sprint, concentrating on each inhale and exhale. “Please. Just. Sit.”
I look around the pitch-black park, drop my backpack on the ground by his feet, and kneel down beside it. I can’t bring myself to sit on that cold bench.
“I’ll be okay.” He rubs his temples again and slowly raises his head. His voice sounds a little stronger now. “It’s a migraine,” he says between breaths. “I get them when…” His voice trails off. “Just sit with me, Anna? Please?” I look back toward the coffeehouse.
I start to lean forward to rub his back like my mom would, like a friend who knows him much better than I do might, but I catch my hands and force them to my sides. For the next five minutes, the only sound between us is his labored breath.
“Keep breathing.” It’s the only thing I can think to say, even though I realize it’s not helpful.
Finally, he sits up a little straighter. “Do me a favor?” He hasn’t even told me what it is and I’m already nodding. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“I won’t.” I shake my head and watch the sweat still dripping down his cheeks. “But can I please go get you some water? I’ll be fast.”
He doesn’t say yes, but at least this time he doesn’t argue. Before he changes his mind and stops me, I stand up, leaving my backpack at his feet, and sprint back to the coffeehouse. The girl behind the counter gives me a cup of ice water, and I run back to the bench.
“Here you—” I start to say, but my words hang in the air. My backpack is still on the frozen ground, but Bennett is gone.
Bennett’s not in Spanish on Monday. Or on Tuesday. I’m starting to lose my mind with worry, but Ms. Dawson in Administration is less concerned.
“Can I just get his phone number?” I beg. “I just want to be sure he’s okay.” I use my most responsible voice, but it doesn’t have the desired effect.
True to my word to Bennett, I’ve omitted large sections of the story I told her—like the park, the sweat beading up on his face, and the fact that he was moaning about needing to find someone. I’m not sure which part of “Don’t tell anyone about this” Bennett wanted me to keep under wraps, but I hope it didn’t include the migraine, because I can’t think of any reason to be asking about his personal information without disclosing that part.
“I know you just want to help, Miss Greene, but you know I can’t release another student’s confidential information. I’m sorry.” Her tone is patronizing and not at all apologetic. “I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow.”
How the hell do you know? I want to say, but instead I mumble, “Thanks,” and shuffle out the door. I never should have left him there. All he wanted me to do was sit with him, and instead I left him alone on a bench in a dark deserted park, sweating and panting.
I head into the locker room and change, but as I listen to the team chatter, I start to dread the idea of running in a circle on an overcrowded track. I duck out before anyone notices and make my way to the abandoned and frozen cross-country course instead. And as I run, I try to listen to the sounds of the wind and the woods, the rhythm of my feet sloshing through the mucky trail, but all I hear is his voice in my head: Just sit with me, Anna? Please? I feel horrible.
As it turns out, Ms. Dawson was wrong. Bennett isn’t at school on Wednesday. Or on Thursday. By Friday afternoon, as I’m walking The Donut between fifth and sixth—and freaking out about facing the entire weekend without knowing what’s happened to him—the solution hits me out of nowhere. It’s my only option.
I rush to Emma’s locker and wait, but she doesn’t show. When the bell rings, I pull out my spiral notebook and scribble, I need to talk to you. Folding the paper into a small square, I feed it through one of the vents and sprint to class.
After the bell rings again, I race back to Emma’s locker and find her there, reading my note. “I need your help, Em,” I blurt out. “Do you think you can get something from the office for me?”
“Probably.”
“I need Bennett Cooper’s phone number. I asked Dawson and she wouldn’t give it to me. But she likes when you come into the office and talk about your auction-party planning, so maybe she’ll tell you.” She starts to say something, but I stop her. “Please don’t ask why I need it.”
Emma presses her lips together and raises her eyebrows. She stares at me and does that tell-me-everything superpower thing.
“Look. I ran into him last Sunday night, and he was…sick. Now he hasn’t been here all week. I just want to be sure he’s okay.” I’m standing there, bracing myself against her locker and preparing for the inquisition, when she breaks into a huge grin.
“You wanna shag Shaggy!” She laughs as I look around wildly to see if anyone’s heard her. “Come on, just say it. You like this guy, don’t you?” We stare at each other. I don’t reply. She repeats herself. “Don’t you?”
I let out the breath that’s been constricting my chest. “I’m just worried about him.”
She stares at me with big eyes.
“Okay, maybe.”
She grins. “See. You did it. The first step is admitting you’re powerless,” she says, bastardizing the first of AA’s Twelve Steps. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll meet you at the car after school.”
“How are you going to get it?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”
An hour later, in the warmth of the Saab, Emma is euphoric, boasting about her skills in crafty manipulation.
“I really can’t take any credit for the first thing that happened. That was absolute luck,” she says as she whips the car out of the parking space. “Get this. I walked in and Dawson’s on the phone—with Argotta, I assume—saying she needs this week’s Spanish work so she can take it to Bennett Cooper’s house tonight.” Butterflies come to life in my stomach at the sound of his name. Someone, please shoot me. “So I offered to take his homework to him.”
“She gave you his homework?”
“No. She said she couldn’t do that—it wasn’t allowed. Not even for you, Miss Atkins.” She mimics Dawson’s voice to a tee.
“So you didn’t get it?”
“Of course I got it.”
“Great. Where is it?”
“I’m getting to that part.” She turns in to the street and the driver she cuts off lays on the horn. “So I start asking her questions about the auction—so she thinks that’s why I came in, right?—and Dawson starts telling me about this great cabin in Wisconsin that the Allens own.…”
“Oh, please. You’re killing me. Get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. So we’re talking about the auction, and Señor Argotta comes in and drops a stack of papers on the counter. She thanks him, he leaves, she goes to the monitor—now she’s telling me about some antique photos someone else is donating to auction off—grabs a Post-it, writ
es down the address, and sticks it on the pile.”
“And?”
She pauses for dramatic effect. “Two-eight-two Greenwood.”
“What about the phone number?”
She flips around to face me. “Are you kidding? No Thanks, Emma? No You’re amazing, Emma?” She brings her attention back to the road, shaking her head.
“I just wanted to call—”
“Well, she didn’t write down his phone number, and I couldn’t see the screen. But don’t you see? I got the better of the two!”
“But now I have to go there!” I wince at the thought.
She shoots me that satisfied smile she wears when she gets her way. “Exactly.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I peek out from behind the tall hedge again and stare at the house. Impressive. Two, maybe even three, stories. Tudor style. A carriage house out back, if I’m assessing accurately from this distance and the three times I’ve walked past the house, chickened out, and hidden behind shrubbery.
Why am I doing this?
I let out a heavy sigh as I move from behind the bushes, walk toward the house again—this time with a determined stride—and turn onto the recently shoveled walkway. It’s only 5:30, but it’s almost completely dark, and I’m shaking as I climb the steps. When I reach the top, I pick up the lion’shead door knocker and take a deep breath before I bring it down.
I wait.
There’s no answer.
I knock again, tightening my coat against the wind, and glad I’ve traded my tights and skirt for jeans.
Just as I turn to leave, I hear footsteps. “Who’s there?” asks an elderly-sounding woman from the other side of the door.
“I’m sorry. Never mind.” I back away and head for the steps. “I think I have the wrong house.”
The dead bolt makes a heavy thunk and the door opens slowly. She’s older but not elderly, and striking, with long gray hair and smoky blue eyes. She’s wearing a red silk scarf over her dark, loose-hanging clothes, and smiling at me with a curious expression.
“Hi.” She opens the door, wide and welcoming.
“Hi. I’m looking for someone named Bennett, but I’m so sorry. I think I have the wrong address.” I start to turn away again.
“No, you don’t; Bennett’s here. Come on in and warm up.” She moves back to make room for me in the entryway.
“I’m Maggie.” She holds out her hand.
“Anna.” I shake it, still wondering who she is.
“You must be a friend from school.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure I qualify as a friend, but it’s the simplest answer. “I’m sorry to impose, ma’am.” Yes. I’m an idiot for coming here. And I’m just now realizing this.
“No imposition, dear.” She gestures toward the room on the other side of a wide arch. “Have a seat, and I’ll go up and get him.”
I peek inside as she turns and starts up the staircase. The living room, with its massive windows, is beautiful, tastefully decorated with dark antique furniture that makes it even more welcoming than I expected it would be. The fire is warm and creates a soft glow.
Instead of sitting on the couch, I walk around, taking a closer look at the room. The wall surrounding the fireplace is lined from top to bottom with dark-stained bookcases filled with a collection of classics that puts the bookstore’s section to shame. With the exception of a large black-and-white portrait of Maggie and her husband on their wedding day, framed photos of a little girl—dark hair, bangs cut straight across her forehead—take up every available surface. Some include her mother. A few feature both parents. It’s hard to miss the framed snapshot in the center of the mantel: the same little girl, sitting in a chair and smiling up at the camera, clutching a tiny baby with a tuft of dark hair.
“Those are my grandchildren,” says a quiet voice behind me, and I jump. I hadn’t heard her return. “That’s Brooke. She’s two. And that’s my new grandson.” She runs her finger across the glass.
“They’re really cute,” I say.
She returns the photo to its shelf and picks up another one. “This is my daughter.” She points to a photo of a woman with the same little girl on her lap.
“Do they live here in Illinois?”
“No. San Francisco.” She lets out a sad sigh. “I keep trying to get them to move back home, but her husband’s job keeps them in California. I haven’t even met the new baby yet.”
Suddenly, I have the strange sensation that we’re no longer alone. I glance over my shoulder and find Bennett standing in the archway, watching us. His hair is stringy, his skin is masked by patchy stubble, and the heavy circles under his bloodshot eyes make him look as if he hasn’t slept in days. The vacant expression on his face ups the severity.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is tight, and he blinks involuntarily, like his eyes are adjusting to what little light there is in the room.
Maggie jumps in before I can find my voice. “I was just showing your friend photos of my new grandson, Bennett.” She turns back to me. “Can you believe that ? I’ve never met anyone with the first name Bennett, and now I know two of them!” She shakes her head at the impossibility.
I look back and forth between them, confused. Bennett winces.
“Do you two want some tea?” Maggie says, seemingly unaware of the tension that’s hanging around us. “I was just about to make some.”
“No,” Bennett answers before I can, shifting his weight back and forth.
Maggie ignores him and looks at me, her eyes still innocent and questioning. “Anna?”
“No, thank you, Mrs.—”
She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Call me Maggie, dear. Maggie’s just fine.”
I return her smile. “Thank you, Maggie.”
Bennett gestures for me to follow him, and we leave Maggie alone to make her tea. We climb the staircase in silence and continue down a dark hallway. Like the living room, its walls are lined with photos, but these are more dated.
His bedroom is nearly dark, insufficiently lit by a small lamp that barely brightens the wooden desk. Coffee cups and empty plastic water bottles are scattered everywhere. Books and papers are strewn all over the floor and across the surface of his twin bed. The antique furniture is beautiful, but hardly reflects the tastes of a high school boy. He looks out of place in the sea of mahogany.
He reaches over my shoulder to shut the bedroom door, and the proximity makes my heart race. Until I realize that he smells like sweat and dirty socks. My face must show something that looks like disgust, because he drops his gaze and takes a step backward. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“It’s okay…I’ll just…I’m sorry. I’m interrupting you, aren’t I?” He doesn’t give any hint that he’s accepting my apology. He also doesn’t clear space for me to sit down on any available surface, so I stand, awkward and nervous, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry about my grandmother,” he says, so quietly I have to strain to hear him.
I’m confused. “Your grandmother? Maggie is your grandmother?”
“She has Alzheimer’s.” He looks past my eyes and studies the door as if considering his next words. “In her mind, I’m—I’m like an infant.”
“Really?” I play back the conversation in the living room. “But…the pictures stop seventeen years ago.…”
He nods. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause, and I feel bad for bringing the pictures up. “They just upset her. We had to take them away.”
“So, who does she think you are?”
“After my grandfather died, money was tight and she was lonely, so she started to rent this room out to Northwestern students.” He makes a dismissive gesture and stares down at the floor. “I guess she thinks…” He trails off, and the room goes silent.
He looks horrible. His skin is sallow, and his red eyes are half closed. “Are you okay? You look tired.”
He stares at me, and when he finally talks, he doesn’t answe
r my question. Instead, he draws his eyebrows together as he asks one of his own. “What are you doing here?”
The way he asks the question makes me even more nervous. “I haven’t seen you since last Sunday night in the park. When you were…you know…” I wait a moment for a response, and when none comes, I blurt out the rest. “You didn’t show up at school this week, and I got worried, I guess, and I…I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” I reach behind me for the doorknob. “And now I know you’re alive. Which is…you know…really great. So I’ll just go now.” It hits me like a shot that a phone call would have been much more appropriate, and I want to kill Emma. What was I thinking, showing up at this guy’s house like I know him?
“Sunday.” He squints past me. “That’s right. I forgot about that.”
I let go of the knob and stare at him. Forgot? How could he have forgotten?
“Are you sure you’re okay, Bennett?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I just…” He looks worried. No. Panicked. “How did you find me, anyway?”
I feel my hands start to shake. “I got your address from the office.” It’s true. There’s no sense in bringing Emma into this if I don’t need to.
“Someone in the office just gave you my address?”
“No. It was on a Post-it.” Also true.
He looks at me, confused, and he opens his mouth to speak. But suddenly, all the color leaves his face. He wobbles a bit, feeling for the wall as he steadies himself.
I reach forward and grab his arm. “Are you okay?”
He tries to talk, but nothing comes out. He draws in a few labored breaths.
“I’ll go get your grandmother.” I start to release his arm, but he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist, just like he did in the park.
“No! Don’t!” It sounds like he’s trying to shout but he can only manage a whisper. He lets my arm go and starts steadily exhaling. “I mean…that’s okay.” He takes a slow, deep breath. “I just need to lie down.”
“Are you sure?”
He opens the door. “You need to go.” He takes a deep breath. “Now.”
“But, I can—”