We Run the Tides(19)

Detective Anderson looks down and balances her forehead on the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, as though she’s tired. Her ponytail flops to the side the way a horse’s tail moves when the horse is about to urinate. When she straightens up her head, her eyes are full of fire and desperation. “You realize that your best friend has gone missing, don’t you?”

I want to remind her that Maria Fabiola is no longer my best friend, but I sense this correction will further enrage the detective.

“Yes,” I say.

“And you’re not concerned?”

“I am concerned,” I say. What I don’t say is that I’m more concerned about how easily I seem to upset people recently—first Mr. London, now her. My capacity to ignite fury seems to know no gender boundaries.

“Can I ask a question?” the detective with tight pants says.

“Didn’t you just do that by asking?” Detective Anderson retorts.

The detective clears his throat. They are tired of each other already. Either that, I think, or they’re going to go fuck after this. I have many different and somewhat contradictory ideas of how adult seduction works.

“Do you know of any reason why Maria Fabiola might have . . . run away? You mentioned you had a falling out. Has she been . . . left out of things in the last months? Has she had friends?”

“She’s had plenty of friends,” I say. “I’m the one who’s been ostracized.”

The three officers stare at me. Then all at once, they turn to their notebooks and scribble. The officer with the loose pants peers over at Detective Anderson’s notebook. “It’s T-R-A-C-I-Z,” she says. Then she turns to me.

“Has anyone ever approached you and Maria Fabiola in a way that you thought was . . . inappropriate?” Detective Anderson says.

I think of the flashers in the park, of the man in line at Walgreens who saw me with a Kinks album under my arm. I was coming from a record store in the Haight and he offered to take me to coffee and talk about the Kinks. “I don’t drink coffee yet,” I told the man at Walgreens.

“I don’t really know what you mean by that,” I say to the detective.

“Have they ever made you feel uncomfortable?”

“Everyone makes me feel uncomfortable,” I say. “I feel uncomfortable right now.”

The men in the room roll back on the wheels of their chairs, retreating. Detective Anderson is now going to be the only one asking questions.

“Your friend is missing,” she says. “Her family is, well, her family is freaking out. They are crying and screaming. Can you imagine how your family would feel if you were missing?”

I nod, unable to picture it. My mother doesn’t cry.

“And Maria Fabiola is probably scared to death, too, wherever she is. You might be able to help us, to help her. I understand you two aren’t close anymore, but in the scheme of things, having a falling out for a couple months isn’t a big deal. It might feel like that now, but honey, when you’re older those three months will feel like a quick blip.” She snaps when she says the word “blip.”

I stare at her.

“Is there any information you have about any men, or anybody in general that you think might have had an interest that went beyond normal in Maria Fabiola?”

“An interest beyond normal,” I repeat.

“Yes, anyone who wanted her to himself, for example.” She pauses and adds: “Or herself.”

I think of Faith’s father. I think of the boys of Sea View Terrace. I think of myself. Everyone always wants more of Maria Fabiola to themselves. There is something about how she focuses on you with those ethereal eyes. Even when you aren’t looking directly at her—especially when you aren’t looking directly at her—you can see that she’s staring at you, her eyes unblinking.

A minute goes by, maybe two. I can’t mention the boys of Sea Cliff, that wouldn’t be fair. If anything, we have more of an interest in the boys of Sea Cliff than they have in us. But I do feel the pressure to provide an answer.

“Is there anyone you encounter on your walks to and from school on a regular basis?” Detective Tight Pants asks.

“There are a couple gardeners who harass us,” I say.

“Who?” the detectives ask in unison. They all lean in, like an a cappella group singing a high note.

“Well, there are a few. I don’t know their names. They have trucks and they all wear white undershirts as their T-shirts. They usually comment on our appearance.”

“What do they say about your appearance?” Detective Anderson asks with slow deliberate words. She’s trying so hard to be calm.

“They noticed when we started wearing bras. These white blouses don’t help.”

I sense that everyone in the room is sitting up taller. It’s like a fishing line going suddenly taut.

“What do you mean they noticed? How did they notice?”

“They comment. They chase after us.”

What I don’t say is that they chase us away sometimes when we’re bothering them. Sometimes when we’re bored on the streets of Sea Cliff, when the neighborhood boys seem to be gone, in some place in the city we can’t find or get to, we approach the gardeners and try to talk with them. That’s when they chase us away.