Have You Seen Me?

by Sarah Newman

The hierarchy of birth order becomes all too real when there’s a turd at the bottom of the swimming pool and only one shower at home.

I’m coming to terms with this as I sit on a plastic chair outside of Dad’s front door. The turd-water has mostly dried from my bathing suit by the time Greg opens the door with a teasing smile curling at one side of his mouth.

“Your turn,” he says. “There’s no hot water left.”

“I’ll wait then,” I reply.

Greg’s face flashes disappointment before he slams the door, realizing he couldn’t get a rise out of me. He’s successful most of the time, but today the summer air is like a weighted blanket, and the cicadas have started to call out to each other, desperately searching for fleeting companionship. I wonder what they’re saying to each other.

My brothers and I were swimming in the neighborhood pool for over an hour before we saw it. Matt was throwing dive rings from the lost and found while Greg and I competed against each other to grab as many as possible in one breath. As I reached for a pink ring, I noticed what looked like a Snickers bar.

“What’s that?” I asked when the round was over and Greg and I were wading in the deep-end. Greg dove down to look.

“Looks like a Snickers bar,” he said as he surfaced.

We all got out and asked Dad to try and scoop the candy bar out with the cleaning pole hanging on the fence. As usual, we were the only ones there. It didn’t seem like any other kids lived in our apartment complex, only adults that liked to squint in the sun and chain smoke cigarettes while sitting outside their front doors.

“I don’t think that’s a candy bar, y’all,” Dad said, carefully maneuvering the cylindrical object into the net. He pulled it up and emptied the net on the concrete with a wet slap.

“TUUUURRRD!” Matt screamed.

“Yep,” said Dad.

“No way!” Greg yelped, backing away and knocking into a lounge chair.

“Wasn’t me,” I shrugged.

I’m replaying the chaotic scene that followed—more screaming from Greg, Matt doubled over with laughter, Dad grumbling as he snatched up all of our belongings—when Dad pops his head out, “Hey hon, sorry for the wait. The water should be warm now.”

Dad’s duplex is always dark. He hates overhead lights and insists on dim lamps instead, illuminating the colorless interior walls and his vast collection of DVDs. He keeps the big front window thickly draped so our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Hart, doesn’t pop by for visits as much.

The apartment is split by a large living room that leads directly into a small, open kitchen and an adjacent four-person dining table. To the right is Dad’s room with the full bath, to the left is the bedroom I share with my brothers. We have a half-bath too, but I use Dad’s to get ready for school and for all non-emergency bathroom breaks. It’s not nearly as gross.

I make my way over to Dad’s bathroom, passing Matt and Greg sitting on the couch, already playing a video game.

“Geez, you stink!” Greg prods. “I guess you’re not in a hurry since it was your turd in the pool.”

“Way to go, Kate. Thanks for ruining the day, yet again,” Matt adds without looking away from the screen.

“What are you talking about? Of course it wasn’t mine. I’m not a toddler,” I respond.

“Well, it wasn’t there when we got there, so it must have been you,” Matt says. A zombie’s head explodes on the screen as Matt hits it with a sledgehammer.

“How do I know that it wasn’t either of you? I’m sure it wasn’t me, so that only leaves two possibilities. Well, unless Dad—"

“Leave me out of it!” Dad calls out from the kitchen.

“As the youngest, you’re the person closest to the period in your life when you were using diapers, so it just makes sense,” Greg says with finality before reaching for the controller. “C’mon, Matt, it’s my turn!”

I close the bathroom door to the sounds of the boys wrestling over the controller and Dad’s exasperated voice threatening to throw the whole console away if they don’t stop.

Under the crash of the tepid water, I close my eyes tight, clench my jaw, and try not to think too hard about how long we were swimming with the mystery turd. It’s going to be a while before I can eat another Snickers bar.

***

It’s the first week of the 6th grade when I get into my first and only school bus fight. My friend Devin and I are taking turns doodling on the back of each other’s hands when Jami Kirkoff leans over the back of our seat.

Jami has shiny hair and a brand new set of colored gel pens, which she made a big show of during history class. We used to be friends, before Mom left.

“Nice tats. Reminds of the ones on your Mom’s knuckles. Didn’t they say something like, ‘W-H-I-T-E T-R-A-S-H?’”

“Shut up, Jami,” Devin says pausing her doodle.

“Wait, no, that’s not it. It was, ‘S-H-I-T-T-Y M-O-M.’”

And that’s when I punched her in the face.

Jami’s expression changes from taunting to shocked to pained in a matter of milliseconds, but the second stretches out to an eternity as I realize what I’ve had done.

“What the hell!” she squeals, clutching her nose and falling back into her seat.

“That was awesome!” Devin says with a smile so wide I can see the rubber bands at the back of her braces.

Luckily, Jami’s stop is next and she snatches her bag and runs off the bus crying without looking at me. By the time the bus makes it to my apartment complex, my heart is still pounding.

Mrs. Kirkoff’s massive white SUV is there, waiting. Greg gets off the bus, but I can’t move. As the bus driver, Mr. Weeks, asks if everything is okay, Mrs. Kirkoff darts onto the bus, an arrow aimed straight for me.

I’m frozen, my hands gripped around the straps of my backpack when she reaches me.

“You’re coming with me,” she says, icy hands around my arm. I wonder how her hands could be so cold on such a hot day as she drags me down the aisle and out the bus door.

“You can’t do that!” Mr. Weeks calls out after us.

When we make it to her car, Greg is lingering by the entrance to our complex. Mrs. Kirkoff throws the backdoor open where Jami is sitting, still crying, with a clump of tissues under her nose.

“You need to apologize to my daughter now or I’ll have you expelled!” Mrs. Kirkoff’s face is so close to mine I can feel her angry breath and see the yellow circles in her eyes. They remind me of a snake’s.

“Sh-she was bullying me,” I say, my breath caught in my throat. “She was making fun of my Mom.”

“I’m sure whatever she said about your Mom was true! What kind of mother abandons her family? You want to defend someone like that?” The snake bites.

My face feels hot and I blink away tears as Mrs. Kirkoff slams the backdoor and heads for the driver’s side. Greg is still lingering, so she yells to him, “Tell your Dad to expect a call from me about this!” Then she’s gone.

“You’re standing in the street, Kate.” Greg is beside me now. “It’s hot as hell out here; let’s go home.”

Back in the apartment, Matt is already home killing zombies on the TV screen. He’s in charge while Dad’s at work and is supposed to make sure Greg and I do our homework. Usually though, we watch TV or I watch the boys play a video game.

“Kate punched Jami Kirkoff in the face!” Greg says as his backpack slides from his shoulder with a thud onto the floor.

Matt pauses the game. “Hell yeah, sis! The Kirkoff’s are jerk-offs!”

Matt’s approval should make me feel better, but instead, I’m terrified of getting in trouble. Despite being the family scapegoat, I never really do anything bad. I don’t cuss nearly as much as the boys. I do my homework (just not right when I got home). I only eat from Dad’s not-so-secret candy stash once, maybe twice, a week. I don’t punch people in the face. At least, not until today.

“You have to help me delete the message after Mrs. Kirkoff calls,” I beg. “I don’t know how to do it myself!”

Matt and Greg look at each other before cracking into joint laughter.

“Kate, you never get in trouble. Like ever,” Matt says, turning back to his game. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta see how this goes.”

Dad’s apartment feels even darker than usual now. I could unplug the answering machine, but I know the boys would snitch on me anyway. There’s no way out.

Getting in trouble isn’t the only thing I’m afraid of. I also can’t stand the idea of Dad being disappointed in me. I need to be good so he won’t leave too.

I’m still standing by the door when an idea strikes me at the top of the head down to my toes, leaving my whole body tingling. I don’t have to worry about anyone leaving if I leave first.

***

While the boys bicker over their game, I grab a bag from the closet and stuff it with clothes, my toothbrush, my butterfly wristwatch, my favorite stuffed animal—a white tiger that I got with Dad at a Siegfried & Roy rip-off show at the local zoo—and the savings I hide in my winter boots. I have $26, which doesn’t seem like it will get me far, but it’s better than the alternative of staying here.

In the kitchen, I grab what I can find—a can of condensed milk, a roll of crackers, and an apple. I sneak into Dad’s candy stash and grab his last mini pack of M&M’s. I hope he’ll understand.

“Where are you going?” Greg asks as I reach the door.

“No where,” I say, stepping out into the blazing August sun.

I start walking. I pass Mrs. Hart’s front door and head down the street towards the complex entrance. It’s 4 pm, so most of the neighbors from the other duplexes aren’t home yet. Our neighborhood is among a giant web of other neighborhoods, so I have a long way to go before I get to the main road leading out of town.

The sun is brutal this time of year and I wish I thought to bring some water, but if I turn back now, I’ll never leave. So, I keep walking and try to stick to the shady side of the street.

I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt punching Jami. I should feel guilty, but punching her was like a release of all the pent-up anger and sadness and confusion that’s been building up inside me like a tidal wave. After Mom left, without a word to me or the boys, all of my feelings haven’t had a place to go. They just collect momentum, hurtling towards the walls of my brain, my heart. The punch gave it all somewhere to go—unfortunately for Jami’s nose.

I think about whether my brothers will even notice I’m gone. They might, since they’ll no longer have someone to blame things on. But more likely, they’ll be glad that they don’t have to compete so much for space or leftovers or Dad’s attention.

Dad will have the bathroom to himself now. Not that he’s ever made me feel like it’s a burden to share. I think about Dad and how he’s always making sure our plates are filled before his, giving us free rein of the TV remote before bedtime, letting us dictate every moment of his free time when he’s not at work, helping with long division, saying “I love you” to each of us every moment he gets, keeping his candy stash supplied because he knows we steal from it, never leaving without letting us know where he’s going and when he’ll be back.

The sun has sunk low into the sky by the time I reach the bus stop for the line I know heads north, somewhere. There are posters stuck all over the shelter with ads for music lessons, lawn mowing services, and yoga classes.

Between a poster for an upcoming farmer’s market and a notice about a change in the bus schedule, I see an image of my face. I’m eye to eye with what looks like a painted illustration of a girl with my same features—red hair, pale green eyes, freckles dotted on her nose above a small, pointed chin.

“Have You Seen Me?”

The poster is so sun-faded that I can’t make out most of the words aside from the question at the top and a few of the details about the girl, Claire Hicks, who went missing in 1995. It’s an artistic rendering of what Claire would have looked like if she made it to my age. She would have looked exactly like me.

I understand the pain of not knowing, the mystery of other people’s choices.

I think about Dad again and turn around.

I haven’t made it far from the bus stop when I hear a horn honking and see headlights flashing ahead. It’s my Dad’s old blue Buick and he and my brothers are leaning out of the windows yelling my name.

“It’s Kate!”

“There’s Kate!”

“Kate!”

Dad does a movie-like U-turn in the middle of the street to pull up next to me and they all spill out of the car surrounding me in a frenzy of hugs.

“Where were you even going to go, you idiot?” Matt says, squeezing my head to his chest.

“Who would I make fun of if you left?” Greg says, wrapping his arms around me and Matt.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Dad says gently, engulfing us in a tight embrace.

***

We’re at the pool again. After the whole Jami Kirkoff and running away incident, Dad grounded me for the rest of the month, but that doesn’t mean much when the people I hang out with the most happen to share the same space as me.

I heard Dad on the phone with Mrs. Kirkoff later that night, telling her in no uncertain terms to never lay a finger on me again or he’s going to sign me up for boxing lessons.

Matt and Greg let me play their zombie game that night too. I wasn’t very good, but they let me keep trying until it was time for bed.

In the golden light of the late summer sun, Matt throws the diving rings and it’s my turn to retrieve them. I’m reaching for the pink one when I notice what looks like a Snickers bar. At least, that’s what I tell Greg.