Vanished Read online

  “Bye!” I replied as I slapped the laptop closed.

  I turned around in my chair, my heart pounding in my temples and my palms slick with sweat. Josh looked at me quizzically. How much of Upton’s half-naked body had he actually seen?

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “No one. Just an old friend,” I replied. “He lives in England and he knows the Langes, so he’s going to help us get the excuse note.”

  “Oh,” Josh said, his voice flat. “That’s good, then.”

  “Good? It’s incredible. Now I don’t have to find a way to get to Paris and back today. Not to mention a way to pay for it.” I got up and tried to go about getting my things together as if everything was normal, but Josh was still staring at me.

  “Yeah. I’d say that’s definitely a plus,” he said eventually. “So, ready for breakfast?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, avoiding eye contact as I grabbed my coat and slipped by him out the door. I glanced back at my computer, as if Upton was going to be sitting there, shirtless and waving at me. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I sat on the stone bench outside the Easton student post office on Saturday morning. I kicked at the snow, waiting for the FedEx truck to arrive. Upton had texted me to let me know my package would be here, but it couldn’t come fast enough. Noelle had already missed two days of school with no explanation. What if Headmaster Hathaway had called her parents? What if he was calling them right this very moment? I imagined a helicopter blowing all the snow off the trees as it landed in the center of the quad, and Noelle’s handsome father stepping out, the picture of concern and determination, ready to consult with the FBI task force, ready to do anything and spare no expense to find his daughter.

  Which would, of course, make it look like I’d broken the whole “don’t tell her parents” rule. Yeah. If this didn’t work, I was screwed.

  A frigid breeze stung my face and I tugged my scarf up over my nose. I should have gone inside the post office and warmed up, but I wanted to see the truck arrive. I needed to be there when it pulled up.

  After what seemed like an Antarctic eternity, I heard the rumble of an engine. A white truck came around the bend, its sides caked with muddy snow splatters. It ground to a stop behind the post office and the driver yanked on the emergency brake, leaving the engine idling. After he’d gathered his deliveries from the back, I ran for the door of the post office and held it open for him.

  Please just don’t let there have been any mix-ups, I thought silently as I pressed my lips into a tight smile. Please, please, please let it be there.

  “Thanks,” the delivery guy said, eyeing me with surprise. I guess not a lot of private school girls had held doors open for him in the past.

  “No problem.”

  I stood on my toes, trying to see the names on his armful of packages. He held them tighter to his chest and shot me an admonishing glance.

  Biting back my frustration, I trailed him over to the mail window. Mrs. Morrison, the most elderly of all the elderly mail people employed by Easton Academy, groaned as she pushed herself off her stool and placed her Sudoku puzzle and pencil down behind the counter. I knew the protocol. Mrs. Morrison had to log everything in first before my package could be signed over to me. If there was, in fact, a package for me.

  I bounced up and down on my toes in an attempt to bring some feeling back into them. Also because I couldn’t have stayed still if a sumo wrestler had walked into the room, thrown me to the floor, and sat down on my chest.

  The FedEx guy placed five packages down on the countertop–two boxes and three flat letters. My heart seized up when I spied Upton’s scrawled handwriting on one of the envelopes. I clutched my gloved hands together, doing all I could do to keep from snatching it.

  “Do you mind, miss?” the delivery dude asked, glancing down at me. “You’re a little close.”

  “Sorry,” I said, mortified. I backed away and waited for him and Mrs. Morrison to complete the transaction, then gave him an apologetic smile as he left the office.

  “Here you go, Miss Brennan,” Mrs. Morrison croaked, her voice hoarse from about sixty years of cigarette smoking. She pushed the letter across the small countertop to me and I quickly signed the slip. “What is it that’s got you so bouncy? A love letter?” she asked, raising one eyebrow slyly.

  “Something like that,” I replied. I turned around, tearing into the envelope like a rabid dog. Inside was a sealed, cream-colored envelope with the words “Headmaster Hathaway, Easton Academy” written in flowing script across the front, along with a note from Upton. The whole package smelled of lavender. It wafted up from the envelope, filling my senses and enveloping me like a hug. Somehow it made me feel calm, and a smile lit my face as I unfolded Upton’s note.

  Mission accomplished, beautiful. I do so love a visit with Lenora. She’s an incredible woman. I told her she’d like you and she said she hopes to meet you one day. I think you two have a lot in common. Hope you win the scavenger hunt.

  Love,

  Upton

  I smiled and tucked the note into my bag, wondering what on Earth I could possibly have in common with Mrs. Lange.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Morrison!” I trilled, feeling momentarily peppy now that I had the note in my possession. She lifted a hand, her eyes already trained on her puzzle. I took a deep breath and headed back out into the cold. Upton may have accomplished his part of the mission, but I still had to complete mine.

  I quickly trudged across the snow-laced stone walkway to Hull Hall and strode right through the front door. My boots left wet treads on the hardwood floor. The closer I got to the headmaster’s office on the second level, the faster I moved. I was so eager to get this over with I could barely breathe. I tried to quell my nerves as I passed through the deserted outer office. It seemed the headmaster had given his secretary the day off.

  The door to Mr. Hathaway’s private space was open. He sat in a high-backed chair by the fire, going over some papers, his feet up on the ornate marble-topped coffee table. I knocked on the open door and walked in, my throat dry. Even if this somehow worked and Mr. Hathaway accepted this excuse note, how were the kidnappers going to know? Was I supposed to text them back and tell them I’d finished the task? But I supposed that was a hurdle I could jump once I’d cleared this one.

  “Hello, Reed,” Mr. Hathaway said, laying his stack of papers down and placing his feet on the floor. “What brings you to my office on a Saturday morning?”

  I strode toward him across the Oriental rug, trying to appear as if everything was fine and normal. “Noelle asked me to give you this.”

  Headmaster Hathaway eyed the envelope for a moment before plucking it from my grasp. He picked up a silver letter opener from the coffee table and slit it open with such precision it barely even made a ripping noise. The swift action made me gulp.

  Please let this work, I thought again, clutching my gloved hands together in front of me as his eyes flicked over the page. Please, please, please let this work. I had a feeling I was going to be doing a lot of silent begging in the immediate, foreseeable future.

  Finally Mr. Hathaway cleared his throat. He refolded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope. Hours seemed to pass before he looked up at me and spoke.

  “Kindly tell Miss Lange that, in the future, she is to deliver her excuses to me herself,” he said.

  Then he turned back to his paperwork and crossed his ankles on the table once more. I hesitated. What, exactly, did that mean? Was she excused from classes or not?

  “Um, Mr. Hathaway? I’m sorry to bother you, but I just—”

  “Don’t worry, Reed,” he replied, lifting a dismissive hand, a silver pen clasped between two fingers. “Noelle is excused until her family no longer needs her.”

  Relief rushed through me so fast my knees almost buckled. “Oh. Okay. Thanks. Thanks, Mr. Hathaway!” I said a bit overenthusiastically. “I guess I’ll just … see ya!”

  Then I tore out of there, slamming the
door behind me in my zeal, realizing too late that it had been open when I’d arrived. But who cared? I ran down the stairs to the first floor and out into the sunshine, feeling as if I’d just been granted a new chance at life. But at the bottom of the outdoor stairs I paused. I still had no idea how I was going to let the kidnappers know I’d completed their insane assignment.

  “Hey, Reed!”

  I looked up to find Kiki and Astrid striding toward me. Kiki’s white knit cap almost covered her pink-streaked hair, and Astrid wore bright green earmuffs to match her green and purple plaid coat.

  “Hey, guys,” I said with an awkward smile. As much as I loved my friends, this wasn’t the best moment for company. I felt an almost primal need to be alone so I could figure out what to do next.

  “Come with us!” Kiki said, tucking her arm through mine.

  “Come where?” I asked, trying to figure out a way to pull away from her without seeming rude.

  “We’re going to Coffee Carma to load up on caffeine for a full day of research,” Astrid said, hemming me in on the other side.

  My heart thumped with that awful feeling that I’d forgotten something. “Research? For what?” I asked.

  “That English assignment?” Kiki said, tucking her chin and looking at me like I’d just started speaking backward. “A fictional account of a day in the life of your favorite classical author?”

  Right. That little thing. Leave it to Mrs. Carr to figure out a way to mix creative writing with extensive research with fiction reading and toss it all at us with a psychotic deadline. How the hell was I ever going to have the time or the brain space to work on something like that?

  “Have you picked your author yet?” Astrid asked, blowing a purple gum bubble. “I’m doing Mary Shelley. I’d just love to imagine a day in the life of that twisted mind.”

  “No. Not yet,” I replied as they steered me toward Mitchell Hall. The largest building on campus, Mitchell housed the Great Room, the solarium with its Coffee Carma counter, the art cemetery, and several meeting rooms and parlors. I glanced over my shoulder, looking for an escape. “I just … don’t know.” It was next to impossible to speak like a normal person while plotting to get away from them and panicking about the kidnappers at the same time. “Maybe I’ll think of something once I’ve got a cinnamon chip scone in me,” I heard myself say.

  “Oh! A cinnamon chip scone!” Astrid said, hugging me a bit closer to her side. “Brilliant! That’s why you’re our fearless leader.”

  Fearless? Hardly. Leader? I definitely didn’t feel like one. Finally I gave up on an escape plan and simply allowed them to drag me across campus. I decided that I would hit the bathroom when we got inside and try to reply-text to the last text I’d been sent. What else could I do? I had to let my evil puppeteer know I was ready for my next assignment.

  As soon as the door to Mitchell Hall slammed behind us, my phone beeped. My heart launched into my throat, a sensation that I seemed to feel ten times a day lately, but could not get used to.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I said, pausing near the door.

  “We’ll get in line!” Kiki said, tugging her hat off as they made their way down the hall toward the bustling conservatory. “Oh! Maybe I’ll get a chocolate chip scone.”

  “It’s only fair. Equal time for all manner of chips, I say,” Astrid agreed.

  Envying their carefree banter, I whipped out my phone. I had one new text. Fingers trembling, I somehow managed to open it.

  ASSIGNMENT ONE COMPLETE. GOOD WORK. STAND BY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

  I looked out the slim window in the door, but there was nothing. No one. Just a couple of guys walking from Ketlar to the library, and a pack of freshman girls headed to the gym. A chill went down my spine. Apparently the kidnappers had been telling the truth. They were watching me.

  I just wanted to know how.

  In 1903, Ida M. Tarbell published an article that launched the reform journalism trend and had great ramifications on big business in America. What was the article titled? What was it about? Discuss the impact reform journalism had on government regulations and business practices in the Unites States.

  I read the question, trying to make the words stick in my mind.

  Ramifications. Ram-if-ick-a-shunnns. That’s a funny word.

  I snorted in the back of my throat. Cooper Banks, the guy in the next desk, and the only dude on campus who insisted on wearing a tie to class every day, shot me an annoyed look and continued to scribble his essay answer in his tiny, psycho-killer style scrawl.

  I looked down at my paper. Each of the first three questions had answers, but I’d written them in huge, loopy script, trying to fill up the space with as few words as possible. I was so going to fail this thing.

  My eyes started to close for the ten billionth time since I’d sat down to take this exam. I’d been up all night, staring at the clock, waiting for my next set of instructions, which had never come, and now I was paying the price. I shook my head, gave my cheeks a quick pinch, and sat up straight, but nothing worked. It was like a team of tiny strong men were clinging to my upper lashes, using all their weight to pull them back down. Maybe if I just closed them for one, tiny second. …

  Suddenly my hand hit the desk, my watch smacking against the wood with a noise loud enough to wake the dead. A couple of people around me flinched. I looked at Constance, who was seated to my left, and tried for a “silly me” smile. She scowled a very un-Constance-like scowl, and leaned over her paper, but she wasn’t working on her test. The exam paper—which was completed, I noticed with chagrin—had been pushed off to the side, and she was now jotting down notes on a list entitled “V-Day Dance.”

  My face felt hot and I looked away. Clearly Constance was on the planning committee for the dance, something she would have announced to me with her particular brand of hyper excitement if we’d still been on speaking terms. We hadn’t spoken since our fight in the cafeteria over her not getting into the Billings Literary Society. Not one word. And I seriously missed her.

  From the corner of my eye I saw someone at the door. I flinched when I saw that it was Headmaster Hathaway. He was just standing there, watching me. And when he saw me look, he didn’t turn away.

  Now my face was on fire. What was he doing out there? Spying on me? I forced myself to look at my paper but couldn’t get my brain to focus on the question. Not with Double H staring me down. Then I glanced up at the door again, and he was gone.

  Okay. Deep breath. He’s probably just doing the rounds. He wasn’t looking at you, he was just … looking at the room.

  I read the question yet again. Maybe all this weirdness would keep me awake.

  In 1903, Ida M. Tarbell …

  Instantly, my eyes started to close again.

  Then something beeped.

  My head popped up and my hand was in my bag before I registered the fact that everyone around me was getting up from their seats, gathering their things, handing in their exam papers at the front of the room. It was the end-of-class tone that had sounded. Not my cell phone. I had fallen fast asleep. There was even a spot of drool on my test paper. My heart sunk to my toes. I looked down at the screen on my phone, just in case, but there were no new messages. Aside from the usual texts from the other Billings Girls and some check-ins from my brother, Scott, there had been nothing since Saturday morning. It was as if the kidnappers were enjoying keeping me in the dark, torturing me.

  Did that mean they were torturing Noelle, too?

  Constance was just getting up from her chair. As she picked up her V-Day dance list I saw that among the “to-do’s” were “Call the caterer” and “Have London confirm napkins and favors.”

  “Are you planning the Valentine’s Day dance?” I blurted.

  Constance turned to me with a scowl. “Yeah. I am.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, my heart pounding.

  “Yeah, well, I read this article that said that when all your friends dump you, it’s good
to throw yourself into something new. You know, as a distraction from your misery,” Constance said in an acerbic tone.

  I cleared my throat. The fact that I’d made her sound like that made me feel like ralphing. “Is London helping too?”

  “Yeah. She’s all into it,” Constance replied. “We’ve been hanging out a lot since you decided to ostracize us.”

  She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and I felt her itching to leave. My pulse raced. I felt like the parents in one of those kidnap movies, when the FBI agent tells them to say anything to keep the kidnapper on the phone so they can trace the call. I was so stunned and excited that she’d talked to me for this long, I just wanted to keep her talking.

  “Is Missy doing it too?” I asked, deciding not to acknowledge all the accusations.

  “Missy? Please. Like she’d get involved in anything that might bring people joy,” Constance said with a laugh. I laughed too. And for a moment, just a moment, things were the way they used to be.

  Then something in her eyes changed, as if she realized she was speaking to the devil. She stood up straight and the scowl was back on. “I gotta go.”

  “Constance—”

  But she was already down the aisle and I suddenly felt a hulking presence behind me.

  “Miss Brennan?”

  Mr. Barber’s voice sent an unpleasant sizzle of warmth across my shoulders and down my back. I turned to face him. His dark eyes traveled over the half-empty test page on my desk, and his lips pursed ever so slightly.

  “Ida M. Tarbell is not our favorite subject, I see,” he said, his bow tie bobbing up and down over his Adam’s apple as he spoke. He lifted the test sheet and looked down at it over the top of his new, gold-framed glasses.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I just … I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

  “Or perhaps you’ve been spending too much time texting and Twittering and whatever else it is your sad generation does on those contraptions all day long,” he said, glancing derisively at my phone, which I still clutched in my hand.