We Run the Tides(28)

“It’s a strange party idea, don’t you think?” I ask.

“It’s an unusual circumstance,” my mother says.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. When you go to the stationery store there’s the section for ‘birthday’ and ‘anniversary’ but not one for ‘return of people who went missing and were suspected to be dead.’”

I smile, hoping my mother will laugh. Instead, she looks at me with a tilted head.

“I want to go,” I say. “I just don’t really think she wants me there.”

“Of course she wants you there.”

I stare at my desk as though there’s something of particular interest on it. I haven’t told my parents that Maria Fabiola hasn’t talked to me since her return. She wasn’t talking to me before her disappearance either, so that means that it’s been three and a half months of silence.

“I think her mom must have invited me,” I say.

“Well then you should go for her mom’s sake. Unfortunately, we can’t make it,” she says. “Your dad has a big auction that night—Danny Glover will be coming to the gallery.”

“I don’t think you were invited anyway. The envelope was addressed to me.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, why don’t you go mail the RSVP now before you change your mind?”

“Okay,” I say. I wonder how she knows this about me—that today I want to go but I’m worried that tomorrow I won’t.

“Also, Eulabee,” she says. “I’ve been thinking that now that you’re not doing ballet anymore, or dancing school, maybe you want to take some other kind of lessons?”

I stare at the book I’ve been reading. “I want to take lessons in Czech,” I say.

“Czech,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

She looks at me as though she’s about to say something. But she decides not to. Instead she nods and leaves the room. “Open or closed?” she says about the door.

“Closed,” I say only because I want to exert this new power I have over my parents, who are cautious not to upset me.

I read for ten more minutes and then fill out the RSVP postcard. I write my name very, very neatly. There’s a small box by “Yes, I will be there to celebrate!” I fill in the box completely, as though it’s a multiple-choice test.

As I’m walking to the mailbox I see Keith. He’s out by himself on Lake Street, with his skateboard.

“Hey Keith,” I call, and he doesn’t respond.

Shit, I think. He’s turned on me, too. But then he pivots on his board and I spot the bright yellow Walkman case attached to the waistband of his pants and see he’s wearing headphones. I get closer and he looks at me and waves. He removes the headphones so they circle his neck.

“Hey,” he says. “What are you up to?”

“Mailing something,” I say.

“Is that for Maria Fabiola’s welcome-back party?” he says, nodding toward the postcard in my hand.

“Yeah, you going?” I hope I don’t sound too excited.

“I don’t know. I’ll check with my parents when they get home. I think we’re supposed to go away that weekend for a wedding.”

“Where?”

“Yosemite.”

“In the winter?”

“Yeah. We’re not camping. We’re staying at this hotel. The Ahwahnee.”

“The Ahwahnee? That’s where they filmed The Shining.”

I expect him to say “Cool,” the way most guys would, but instead he shares my response. “That’s a little scary,” he says.

I nod.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of weird to have a party for her?” he says. “I mean, I’m glad that the kidnappers brought her back but it’s just . . . I mean what’s going to happen at the party? Will there be party favors?”

“Maybe they’ll give out blindfolds,” I say.

He stares at me for a second. My sense of humor really is not for everyone. Then he smiles. “Or maybe they’ll give out suitcases of cash.”

“Was there a ransom?” I ask. “Did her parents pay?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But why else would she suddenly be returned home?”

“How much money do you think?” I ask. “What’s the going rate?”

“For a heiress, a lot.” He pronounces it like hair-ess.

I consider sharing my theory that she wasn’t kidnapped at all, that she planned her own disappearance, but I decide this isn’t the time. I don’t have enough proof; in fact, I don’t have any. Besides, I’m tired of Maria Fabiola being the only topic of conversation. It’s been that way for months. Even when people are talking about other things, they’re talking about her. When my parents ask me what time I’ll be home, or when teachers wish us “a safe weekend,” it’s all because of her.

“What are you listening to?” I ask.

“The Furs,” he says. “You like them?”

A few months ago, I would have lied and pretended I knew a band even if I didn’t. But I want things to be different now. I want to be different now.