Things We Didn't Say_ A Novel - Kristina Riggle [13]
Maybe it should have stayed that way.
I grind out my cigarette, and the phone buzzes. Angel must have snuck me a text between classes.
Not there? Will call Mom.
Mallory. Oh, shit.
Dylan’s room is not the smelly den one would expect from a teenager.
It’s not what you’d call neat, but it’s not filthy, either. No crumbs, no half-empty cans of pop. His dirty laundry is in the hamper, not stinking up his room. I almost wish it were disgusting, because I’m afraid Dylan is becoming a mini-Michael, that is to say, old before his time.
I value how responsible Michael is, truly, especially given what I went through with my brother. But Dylan is still a kid, even with a smudge of mustache on his upper lip.
I pull open the closet, holding my breath, bracing myself to see empty hangers as if he’d packed his things.
But no, it looks just as crowded as ever with his black T-shirts and oversize sweaters. Anyway, it’s not like he could sneak a duffle bag into the car with his dad.
If Jewel had turned up missing, I’d be in a panic. She’s vulnerable, small.
But Dylan is a teenager. And he got dropped off at school. This much we know.
My cell rings. Michael.
“Hi.”
“Any sign of him?”
“Nothing. Angel hasn’t seen him at school, either. I think she’s going to call her mother.”
“Well, maybe she had something to do with it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe she decided to take him to an amusement park, or the movies . . . you know how impulsive she is.”
“But she could have signed him out of school, claimed he was sick or going to the dentist or something. Dylan would have wanted her to, rather than get detention for skipping, don’t you think?”
“Maybe I should come home.”
Yes, please. I don’t know what to do. “I don’t know. What would you be able to accomplish? Sit around and wait.”
“I could call his friends.”
“I already checked with Jacob’s mom. She said they’re not even friends anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. His clothes are still here.”
“Of course they are. He didn’t just take off.” The scorn is palpable. I know why; it sounds like I’m comparing him to Mallory.
“He went somewhere, didn’t he? Did he walk right into the school?”
“I told you, I dropped him off.”
“Don’t snap at me, I’m trying to help.”
A heavy, aggrieved sigh. “And I’m at work and my son is missing.”
“I thought you weren’t worried.”
In the silence of his nonresponse, I can hear newsroom noise: a din of intense conversation, like a loud and disgruntled crowd.
“Michael?”
“I’m here. Just keep trying his cell, and call any other friends you can think of. Get the band parent list out of the junk drawer and try them. If a bunch of his friends are skipping school, then we know it’s probably nothing. It’ll be fine.”
“I guess.”
“What?”
“What if Mallory comes over here?”
“Well, we can’t very well tell her not to. Dylan’s her son, and if she wants to be at the house while we track him down—”
“By myself, though?”
“She’s not going to eat your spleen.”
I try to chuckle, and it comes out more like a cough. “Good to know she stops short of cannibalism.”
“We’ll find him, and I’ll kick his ass, and everything will be fine. If Mallory turns up, just . . . play it cool. Stay breezy, relaxed. Don’t hyper her up.”
Relaxed. Right.
I hang up the phone and go out to the patio for another smoke. I’m going to need it. I check my watch after I light up. It’s afternoon already, and all that I’ve consumed since one bowl of cereal at breakfast is nicotine and tar.
That means it’s almost time for my mother to call. I call her instead to get it over with so I can go back inside and call Dylan’s band friends.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Edna! Hi, honey. How’s your day going?”
I lie to her for the sake of simplicity. “Okay. Yours?”
“I ran into Petey at the store. You know he’s still asking about you.”
I know this, because he called me not long ago. “I’m engaged, Mom. And why did you give him my cell number?”
“I’m just saying.