Runaway

Four nights. Coming up on five days.

The feeling is strangely empty, not unlike her locker or her chair. Two days of missed school has caught no one's attention; it's her pattern, at this point, her rule. Perhaps that's why the talk has been muted, the whispers less urgent. Or perhaps no one really believes.

We assume, we hope, that she's still in town; we wonder if anyone knows. We are skeptical of the boyfriend's denials. We tick off the names of those she calls friends. We expect the phone to ring; it's so unlike her to stay silent. But still and so far, not a word.

"Ms. P., I'm going to tell you a story that will make you cry," was my introduction to the story of a girl gone missing. It hasn't, and I don't expect that it will. Instead I feed her friends lines to recite during the please-be-inevitable phone call. Assurances that she's not in trouble, that we just want her safe. It feels rote because I'm faking it. Of course I care, but I don't know what I'm doing. How to coax a runaway home was not in my training. But odds are, when she surfaces, she'll call someone I know, and I'll be the adult that they turn to. They'll again lead me out into the hall, and they'll spill out the please-don't-be-drama as I lean on the door, and I'll try to say the right thing.