Wish You Were Dead

Tuesday 7:05 A.M.

THE AIR WAS clear and chilly. Val’s and my breaths came out in plumes of white vapor. She was frisky this morning and I sensed that she wanted to canter, but I kept her at a trot because I wanted to think without worrying about where we were going. It was Tuesday, and Lucy was still gone.

The trees were bare, but the ground still had splotches of orange, red, and yellow. As Val trotted down the wooded path, I heard the crunch and clatter of a deer crashing away through the underbrush. It was no use trying to imagine where Lucy was. The night before there’d been rumors and IMs speculating on an impulsive rendezvous with an old camp friend, a chance meeting with an L.A. talent agent, an impulsive fling with one of the guys from FCC who’d been at the party. All were possible. But then again, the impossible never became rumor, did it?

I turned my thoughts to Tyler. Ever since grade school I’d made it a practice every six months to develop a crush on some mysterious boy with whom my path had crossed at a sports field or on vacation somewhere, or in the waiting room at my orthodontist. Usually these mystery crushes were brief and unfulfilled, as I never had the nerve, or guile, to make contact. But with Tyler it was different. He was at school day after day, so there were opportunities aplenty. It was actually hard to come up with excuses for not trying to connect with him. Besides, I kept reminding myself, I was a senior and had never had a real, steady boyfriend. It was my goal to have one by the time I graduated.

The alarm on my cell phone chimed. It was time to turn Val around and head back to the stable, and from there, to school.

When playwrights, novelists, and songwriters wanted to pick a town for their characters to either dream of living in, or to hold up as an example of all that was too materialistic and trendy and chic, they often chose Soundview. Almost everybody who lived here was well-to-do, if not just plain rich. Many drove fancy European cars, had vacation homes at faraway beaches or ski areas, and took several long holidays a year. It was said that Soundviewers exuded an air of entitlement—they felt they deserved the best of everything.

Back in the 1990s, a group of parents, worried that their kids might take “the entitled life” for granted, got together and urged the high school to institute a mandatory community-service requirement. Among the programs kids could choose from were Habitat for Humanity, Meals on Wheels, or Safe Rides. That fall Courtney had signed up for Safe Rides mostly because I had.

“Can you believe Ms. Skelling is calling an emergency lunch meeting?” she asked irritably on the lunch line. Everyone in Safe Rides had gotten e-mails the night before from our faculty advisor. I’d actually been glad, since it would mean seeing Tyler.

“Why can’t it wait?” Courtney went on. “We usually meet on Thursdays. She is such a pain. I wish I’d signed up for Meals on Wheels, except old people creep me out.”

“I guess we’ll see pretty soon,” I said, wondering what was really bothering her. “So … still no news about Lucy.”

Courtney slid her tray down the rail and said nothing. One of my faults, I’d been told, was that because I hated confrontations. I always went out of my way to be nice and undemanding. And that sometimes worked against me because some people thought they could step all over me. So I was trying to be more assertive.

“I thought we told each other everything,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Courtney kept her eyes averted.

“Lucy … and you and Adam.”

“Why ask me?” my friend said.

“Because yesterday morning Jen seemed to think there was something going on between you two, and because I saw the way you looked at Adam at lunch yesterday.”

Courtney reached for a steaming bowl filled with the most unappetizing spaghetti and meatballs I had ever seen. “I think you’re imagining things, okay?”

I thought I wasn’t, but I also sensed that this wasn’t the time to push the topic harder. We were supposed to eat quickly and then head for the science lab, the regular Safe Rides meeting place, because Ms. Skelling taught chemistry. I picked at my salad while Courtney hungrily gobbled down the spaghetti and meatballs, then we headed toward the cafeteria exit.

Out in the hall we passed my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Towner. She was a tiny woman, not even five feet tall, and was very pregnant. She was walking slowly, with one hand on her swollen belly and the other on her hip. I gave her a friendly wave and she smiled weakly.

“Women are so not meant to be pregnant,” Courtney whispered with a wink.

As we passed the girls’ room I stopped. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Courtney scowled. “It really ticks Ms. Skelling off when we’re late.”

“I’ll just be a second. Go ahead.”

The scowl became a knowing smile. “Yah-ha! Let’s look nice for Tyler?”

“Don’t be so smart,” I said, and went in. At the mirror I touched up my hair and makeup. It felt wrong to be thinking about my looks and Tyler when Lucy was missing, but there was still no reason to believe that anything bad had happened. There had to be lots of innocent explanations for her disappearance, even if we couldn’t think of them.

I’d only meant to be a second in the girls’ room, but I guess I dawdled because when I got to the Safe Rides meeting everyone was already seated on stools at the lab tables.

“Why Madison, we’re so glad you could take time from your busy schedule to join us,” Ms. Skelling said with her unique way of gilding sarcasm with gentility. The Safe Rides advisor affected a slightly regal demeanor that some kids thought was obnoxious. She frequently hinted that she came from a well-to-do family in the area known as the Main Line outside Philadelphia.

“Sorry, everyone,” I said. Just about every stool was taken, except for one next to Tyler. It was almost a dream come true. I sat down next to him and he gave me a slight nod.

Ms. Skelling was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with bright, dyed red hair. She was new at our school that year and tended to wear too much mascara and eye shadow, favored copious amounts of vintage costume jewelry, and preferred name-brand outfits from Chanel, Dior, and Cardin that, given her teacher’s salary, I had to believe came from thrift shops. She often wore her blouses with one extra button open, revealing crevice-like cleavage, which the boys craned their necks to enjoy and, some girls suspected, was not of entirely natural origins.

“We were just talking about Lucy Cunningham,” she said. “You’re part of that crowd, Madison. What have you heard?”

There it was again—the same thing PBleeker had said. Maybe, if I was part of “that crowd,” it was because they were the only ones who invited me to do things with them.

I shook my head. “The same rumors everyone else has heard.”

“Someone said the police aren’t investigating,” said Dave Ignatzia, a slightly built guy who wore thick glasses and whose dark hair fell down on his forehead. “They don’t consider you a missing person unless you’ve been gone at least a week. What if she’s been kidnapped? By the time a week passes, it could be too late.”

“Dude, if she’s been kidnapped, someone’ll get in touch with her parents asking for ransom,” Tyler said.

“Unless they didn’t kidnap her for money,” Courtney pointed out.

“You mean, like they’re holding her as a sex prisoner?” Behind the thick glasses, Dave’s eyes went wide.

“Easy, Dave, keep your pants on,” said Sharon Costello, the squat, broad-shouldered half of an inseparable duo. Seated beside her was Laurie Clark, a tall, quiet girl who often came to school with greasy, unwashed hair.

“Screw you,” Dave stammered.

“You wish,” Sharon baited him.

“With you? No way,” Dave shot back. “I’d rather stay a …” He trailed off, but it was too late. Sharon pounced.

“A virgin?” she cackled. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Dave’s face turned red. “No.”

“Yes, it was!” Sharon insisted gleefully.

“S-so? Look who’s talking,” Dave sputtered. “You’re probably a virgin for life.”

“Only in your narrow definition of the word,” Sharon shot back, resting her hand on Laurie’s forearm.