chapter fifteen #3
“Wow, you are suspicious. Can I say a little bird told me?”
I cross my arms and glare at her. “No.” Claire is looking back and forth between us as if watching an intense tennis match.
I think she’s holding her breath.
“Okay, then, I saw the newspapers from when she disappeared. Lots of newspapers show up in Lost. I skim them for anyone who
might be here, and there was the cutest little picture of our cutie-pie in several of them. Her parents had given a tear-filled
press conference.”
Claire’s eyes are huge. “They did?”
“Claimed it was a mix-up. Your dad thought you were with your mom, and your mom thought you were with your dad, and they didn’t compare notes until the end of the day. By that time, you’d wandered out of the police station and poof! You were gone.”
I reach over and hug Claire’s shoulders. “See, I knew it was an accident!”
“Or they said it was,” Tiffany corrects.
Squeezing Claire, I say to her, “They miss you!” She seems numb, limp like a cloth doll. I shoot a glare at Tiffany. “I can’t
believe you didn’t tell her this sooner.”
“Because it gets bad. Here’s the kicker: for a while, your parents were suspected of killing you. No proof was ever found,
of course, since, you know, you’re here. But must have sucked because they moved. One paper even said where.”
Claire’s mouth forms a perfect O.
“Where?” I ask.
Tiffany shakes her head. “That’s for me to know and—”
“You have to tell us,” I say, my arm still around Claire. She’s trembling now. “You can’t torture a little girl like this.
Where are they?”
“Help me, and I’ll help you.”
“She’s a kid! You can’t—”
“I’m a kid, too, or I was,” Tiffany says. “I don’t know why I’m here. Until I know why I’m here, I can never leave. Do you
know how that feels, to know that even if the Missing Man were to return tomorrow, I can’t leave? I have to spend eternity
in this dead town with these dead people in the same dead job . . .” She sucks in air. “Please. Please, try!”
Claire clutches my hand. “Lauren. She knows about my parents.”
I look in Claire’s eyes and know I can’t say no.
I’ll be careful this time. I’ll . . . think happy thoughts.
If I’m trapped in the void again, I won’t panic.
I’ll listen for the train. Or maybe I’ll walk out of there myself.
I did drive in and out of the dust several times .
. . And Peter will be back by nightfall. He always is. I’ll have a few hours
to find what Tiffany needs, and then if I can’t leave myself, Peter will fetch me. So long as I don’t lose hope, he can find
me.
Tiffany’s smiling. She knows she’s won.
I invite her inside and usher her into the living room. I offer her some water and some cookies—we have plenty of cookies.
We even have some juice boxes, though I’d rather save those for Claire. “Do you know what you lost?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“My memories.” She taps her head. “I remember my life absolutely perfectly up to right before I came here. But I don’t remember
how I ended up here.”
“Tell me what you do remember.”
“Well, it was prom. May 17, 1986.”
“1986? But you don’t look . . .” I trail off. “Sorry. Continue.”
“I had a hot-pink dress. Stiff satin. Sequins. Puffed miniskirt. Painted my nails to match, also had hot-pink eye shadow.
My parents took about a zillion photos of me and my date on the front step. He wouldn’t put his hands on my waist. Way too
terrified to touch me in front of my dad. His name was Robert. My date, I mean, not my dad. He’d borrowed his parents’ car
to drive me and Michelle and her date . . . what was his name?” She pauses, chews on her lower lip. “Lloyd? Can that be right?”
“Lloyd Dobler?” I ask.
“Yes! How did . . .” Her eyes narrow. “That’s from a movie. Are you testing me?”
“Sorry.” I’m not. She’d waxed poetic over the details of a dress that should have faded from memory by now. I don’t feel guilty
for being suspicious. I’ve never met a teenager who’s older than I am. “You went with Robert, Michelle, and Lloyd . . .”
“Or whatever his name was.”
“And then?”
“We had the radio up, and we were laughing about . . . I don’t know what. But I know we were having a great time. But I can’t
remember the prom itself. I remember every little detail leading up to the big event. But I don’t remember the arrival or
taking the cheesy prom photo that everyone takes or if anyone spiked the punch or if ‘Stairway to Heaven’ was the last song
or if the gym teacher was chaperone and if he danced or if the DJ played the ‘Electric Slide’ or any of it. I was in my prom
dress when I came here. I still have it.” She opens the suitcase again and pulls out a brown paper bag. It’s stuffed with
pink satin. She pulls out a dress and shakes it so the skirt hangs down: hot-pink, sequins, puffed skirt, exactly as she’d
described. Wrinkles crisscross the entire dress, and it’s yellowed under the armpits. It could easily be from 1986. It’s not
proof, but . . . does it matter how old she is or isn’t? She’s lost, and there’s a nonzero chance that I could help her like
I helped Victoria and Sean.
Seeing the dress, Claire claps her hands. “Ooh, can I try it on?”
Tiffany tosses it to her.
Squealing in delight, Claire squirms out of her princess dress and pulls on the 1980s prom dress. It hangs loose around her.
She twirls, and the satin flaps. “Can I have it?”
Tiffany looks at me. “She hasn’t said yes yet.”
Claire turns her puppy-eyes toward me.
“Fine. Yes.” For Claire. For her to find her parents. For her to have what she lost. And for me, to know if the star sapphire
ring was a fluke or if I really am, as Peter would say, “interesting.”
“Yay!” Claire throws her arms around my neck.
I hope I don’t regret this. “If I’m not back in a few hours, tell Peter to save me. Maybe without the train wreck this time.”