Dead To You

24. have you seen me?

Bridgette wasn't found the next day.

My homework was beginning to pile in the corners of my room and in the back of my mind, textbook chapters I should've been reading, upcoming exams I needed to study, a speech I needed to prepare for my all-but-forgotten campaign for senior class president against a boy who still hadn't returned to school, but—just like when the scandal broke out about my family—I couldn't bring myself to care about it.

I sat in classrooms and stared out of windows and at empty seats instead of the whiteboard, wondering every time I heard a distant siren if she had been found, the pages of my notebook left blank at the end of each lesson. None of it seemed to matter anymore, but it was like no one else understood that. My Spanish teacher said that it was important to restore a sense of normalcy at the beginning of his lecture when he gave the obligatory disclaimer that I heard in every one of my classes.

The P.E. teachers said that Bridgette would want us to carry on with our lives, like her most important concern was that the senior class at her high school still had a good time playing four square instead of actually being found. I told him that I had cramps, counting on his reddened face and sputtered reply, and headed to the nurse's office for some Advil. I stared at the ceiling tiles and checked my phone when the nurse wasn't looking, finding a text from my dad instead of a notification that Bridgette had been found.

I talked to him once since she disappeared, but I usually just sent him a quick text after I purposefully missed one of his calls. It wasn't that I was ignoring my dad, which was why I eventually caved and answered one call right before it went to voicemail, but I just didn't want to talk. He wanted to know how I was holding up, with that same voice he used after one of my parents' arguments got a little too loud, when the movers stomped through our old house carrying our lives all boxed up, when the divorce papers were drawn, and I found myself settling back into that old familiar lie I always had. I'm fine.

It didn't even make sense anymore, because it wasn't like this was about them. It didn't hurt them to know that this hurt me, but I had gotten so good at trying not to worry my parents that I couldn't bring myself to be honest with them. Or, at least, my dad anyway. It was easier to let him think that I was holding up alright, when he wasn't there to see how often I was checking my phone or the puffiness in my face, peak in my bedroom in the middle of the night to see that I was still awake, order my favorite takeout just for me to barely nibble at it.

I was pretty sure I was beginning to worry my mom, but at least she knew where I was.

Then, on Thursday night, there was a vigil for Bridgette in the park just a few blocks down from our apartment. All afternoon, I watched from behind the bookstore windows as candles and paper cups were purchased in bulk from the neighboring storefronts, multicolored posterboards rolled up and tucked underneath arms. The door to the florist's never stayed closed for more than a few minutes, and almost every customer that came into the store after I got back from school asked if we were closing early, the limited card selection at the counter dwindled down to nothing but Happy Birthday!

The streets were busy when my mother and I left the bookstore and began walking toward the park, cars lined against the edge of the sidewalk and slowly inching down main street looking in vain for somewhere to park. Dusk was settling behind the apartment rooftops downtown that turned into trees hovering just as tall, with leaves fluttering on their branches in the breeze that had just started to turn cool, as we approached the park. I hesitated at the crosswalk, feeling the brush of my mother's arm against mine as the traffic stalled and the lights switched, but I just stood there for a moment on the sidewalk's edge.

A crowd had formed near the front of the park, some adorned in merch from Bridgette's album—the sweatshirt she sang about in her song, you you you, available for purchase on her website—and others in white t-shirts with Bridgette's face smiling across their chests, and I found myself surprised that so many were printed in just a few days. Emblazoned above her hair were the words HAVE YOU SEEN ME? There were bouquets of balloons, combinations of smiley faces and foil stars and hearts, gripped in a few hands, and tied to the merry-go-round, which was when I realized a shrine was collecting on the rusted striped metal. Flowers in cellophane, cards propped open with handwritten notes inside, teddy bears and other stuffed animals bearing witness to her vigil. There were a few scattered prayer candles lit, their flames flickering against the glass jars. Even though the vigil hadn't started yet, people were holding posterboards, decorated with pictures of Bridgette, some in theme with her album, and I forced myself forward to read what they said. BRING BRIDGETTE HOME! PRAYERS 4 BRIDGETTE! MISSING! WE MISS YOU BRIDGETTE!