Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

OCTOBER 17, 1981

Six months before prom

Emily shivered as a bitter wind sliced off the ocean. Her eyes closed against the sting of salt in the air. She felt teary and achy and tired but also weirdly awake. She had never had insomnia before, though her grandmother had told her it ran in the family. Maybe this was what it meant to be almost eighteen—almost an adult, almost a woman—the inability to shut off your brain so that you could rest.

College. An internship. A new town, new school, new friends.

Emily put a silent question mark behind the friends part.

She had grown up in Longbill Beach knowing the same people, places and things. She wasn’t quite sure that she remembered how to make new friends, nor was she certain she wanted to. While she had other school-specific acquaintances on the periphery, since first grade, the essence of her emotional life had orbited around only four people—Clay, Nardo, Blake and Ricky. They had happily called themselves the clique after Mr. Dawson, the elementary school principal, had warned Ricky that she was part of one.

For as long as Emily could remember, the clique had spent every weekend and a good many nights together. They took a lot of the same classes. They were all enrolled in the honors programs. All of them but Blake was in Mr. Wexler’s running club. They read amazing books and talked about politics, world events and French films. They were constantly jockeying to make each other more intellectually pure.

And this time next year, they would all be scattered to different places and Emily would be alone.

She took a left onto Beach Drive. The empty shops lining downtown cut the harsh gale from the sea. The maddening throngs of tourists were gone, which was a relief but also sad in its own way. Emily’s senior year had put so many things into perspective. She found it much easier to look back than to glance ahead into the unknown. Everywhere she turned she was hit with nostalgia. The park bench where Clay had confided in her about the car accident that had killed his mother. The tree she’d leaned against while Ricky put a Band-Aid on a scrape Emily had gotten from a stupid tumble down the two steps to the library. The alley between the taffy store and the hot dog stand where Blake, giddy after winning the county-wide debate competition two years ago, had tried to kiss her.

Emily heard shouts of boisterous laughter, and her heart did a little purrup like a kitten at the sight of the boys at the far end of the street. Clay walked alongside Nardo, both of them talking and enjoying the late afternoon sun on their windblown faces. Nardo was lean from running but his cheeks had always been plump, almost cherubic. Clay was taller, more serious and steady. His strong jaw cut through the air as he turned to look over his shoulder. As always, Blake trailed behind them, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his corduroys. He was looking down at the sidewalk so was taken unawares when Nardo came to an abrupt stop.

Emily heard the shouted “Christ!” from fifty yards away. She smiled as Blake shoved Nardo, then Clay stumbled, then they were all jostling each other back and forth along the sidewalk like pinballs bouncing around a machine. She was overwhelmed with love at the sight of them—their youth, their easiness, their abiding friendship. Without warning, tears sprang into her eyes. She wanted to hold onto this moment forever.

“Emily?”

She turned, surprised but not surprised to see Jack Stilton sitting on the steps outside the police station. He had a pen in his hand and a notebook in his lap with nothing written down.

“Cheese,” she said, offering a smile as she wiped away her tears. “What are you doing out here?”

“Supposed to be writing a paper.” He tapped his pen on his notebook, clearly agitated. “Dad and me have been staying at the station.”

Emily’s heart sank. Her own mother could be cold and imperious, but at least she wasn’t a crazy alcoholic who occasionally changed the locks on the front door. “I’m sorry. That really sucks.”

“Yeah.” He kept tapping his pen, warily glancing down the street at the boys. As a group, they could be very unkind to him. “Anyway, don’t tell anybody, okay?”

“Of course not.” She thought about sitting on the steps beside him, but Clay had already seen her. There was sure to be teasing about what he called Emily’s collection of broken toys. “I’m really sorry, Cheese. You know you can always sleep in our gardening shed. My parents never go back there. You don’t have to wait for me to offer. I can put a pillow and blanket in there anytime.”

“Yeah,” he repeated, nodding his head. “Maybe.”

“Em!” Clay bellowed from down the street. He was holding open the door to the diner, but he didn’t wait for her because he knew that she would come.

She told Cheese, “I should—”

“Sure.” Cheese put his head down, scribbling lines onto the notebook.

Emily felt bad, but not bad enough to do anything about it. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets as she jogged the distance to the diner.

The bell over the door clanged when she pushed it open. Too-warm air enveloped her. There were only three paying customers, all sitting far apart from each other on swiveling stools that lined the long counter. The clique had already taken up their usual semi-circular booth at the back. Ricky winked at Emily as she walked past with a tray full of sodas and milkshakes. Big Al glared from his perch in the kitchen. Even in the off-season, he didn’t like the clique taking up space in his restaurant, but he’d decided it was worth the sacrifice to have his eyes on his two grandchildren. Also, Nardo always picked up the tab.

“You’re not listening.” Clay grabbed a milkshake off Ricky’s tray, but he was talking to the boys. “Are you all being purposefully obtuse?”

Nardo had just jammed a fistful of French fries into his mouth, but he answered anyway. “I prefer being hypotenuse.”

Ricky laughed, but everyone else groaned.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Clay pulled a straw from the dispenser. “The world is falling apart, people are starving, I’m calling for a revolution, and all any of you jackasses can think about is sports cars and video games.”

“That’s not fair,” Nardo said. “I think about sex quite a lot, too.”

Blake said, “We always want what we can’t have.”