Where We Are, page 2
“What are you, our resident cult expert?” Sebastian sounds skeptical.
But he doesn’t know how much research I’ve done, ever since the Prophet started talking about the South Compound and the Living Lights Project. Inky frowns at him.
“If it’s true, it’s a fucked-up scheme,” she says. “But kind of a smart fucked-up scheme, if you think about it.”
“Smart if you’re into mind control,” I say.
“Why would Micah go with them, though?”
“I don’t know,” I say. Panic is rising in me again. Stop. Breathe.
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice,” Inky says.
The thought of which is terrifying. It’s all sinking in. Micah is gone and he’s in the hands of the Prophet and I have no idea where the South Compound could be and they must have taken his phone because he’s not texting and he’s not answering and—
“Whatever’s happened, let’s get going,” Inky says, bringing me down to earth. “Ses, you file the missing person report. Sebastian, you check with school tomorrow.”
“I’m going to make missing person flyers and put them up too,” I say.
“Old-school,” Inky says, nodding. “I like it. What else can we do right away?”
“How about social media?” I say.
I’m not on social media, and neither is Micah, but Inky and Sebastian are.
“You got it. Should we focus on the Twin Cities?” Inky says. “Or the whole United States?”
“Because there’s a big difference,” Sebastian points out helpfully.
“Sweet Jesus, Sebastian.” Inky lifts her hand like she’s about to pop him again, but I grab her hand and then Sebastian’s before either of them can move.
“Please,” I say. “Please, please, please.”
When you have friends who know you the way they know me, that’s all you have to say. What please, please, please, please means is Don’t waste time on anything, like being pissy with each other, because that won’t help us find Micah.
“Your aunt doesn’t have any ideas?” Inky says, and I automatically shake my head. Ever since my grandma died, I’ve been telling them I live with my aunt, who moved to Minneapolis to take care of me. After all this time of referring to my aunt this and my aunt that, it’s like I actually do have one. Inky and Sebastian have never met my aunt, but I told them she’s shy and anxious and doesn’t want me to have guests over. That she’s like my grandma that way.
They don’t know that she doesn’t actually exist. No one but Micah knows that.
Now that I’m finally a legal adult—my eighteenth birthday was last month—I guess I don’t have to be so careful. But old habits die hard.
“I’ll check his school locker, too,” Sebastian says.
“Good,” I say. “You do social media and Southwest, I’ll do real world.” Then an idea pops into my head. “I’ll put the flyers in my poem boxes too. They get a lot of traffic.”
The poem boxes. How to explain. After my grandmother died, I couldn’t stop crying. For, like, weeks. It was poems that kept me going, partly anyway, poems by Ada Limón and Mary Oliver and Danez Smith and Yeats and Warsan Shire and Ocean Vuong and a hundred others. Poems about fearlessness and grief and love and loss. I used to read them to myself late at night when I couldn’t sleep. And then I started memorizing them, and then I thought, Maybe there are others out there who feel like crying all the time too, and that’s when I started the poem boxes. And I got a little obsessive about it, so it kind of turned into this project—Micah and I call it the Poetry Project.
So far it consists of wooden poem boxes that I built and mounted on trees here and there in South Minneapolis, with old Scrabble tiles glued on them that spell out FREE POEMS! HELP YOURSELF! The more poem boxes I put up, the less I cried. Now I print out my favorite poems at the library, and then I scroll them up and put them in the boxes. You’d be surprised how many people need poems, at least judging by how often I have to fill the boxes. It’s like a tiny unpaid part-time job on top of my other paid part-time jobs.
“Should we see if we can find out who Micah’s relatives are and contact them,” Sebastian says, “on the off chance they, like, moved or something?”
“Their only relatives are distant cousins of his dad who live in Hong Kong,” I say. “Micah’s never even met them. His mom was an only child too, and her parents died before Micah was born. So there’s no one.”
They raise their eyebrows, like it’s hard to believe someone can have no relatives. Maybe because Inky and Sebastian do have relatives. Aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins, all of whom live nearby, so that every holiday means a big packed house full of noise and food. Micah’s family isn’t like that, and neither is mine. The only person I had was my grandmother, and she was suspicious of other people. Wary. She taught me to be that way too. Be vigilant, she used to tell me. If you want something changed, change it yourself. Depend only on yourself. Don’t ask for help.
“Ses,” Sebastian says, “are you really sure that—” But I break in before he can finish.
“Listen to me,” I say. “They didn’t move. They’ve been hijacked. They’re in a compound somewhere here in Minneapolis with a bunch of other followers under the leadership of a madman.”
They stare at me. Something in my voice, maybe. Hearing myself say it out loud like that makes it sound crazy, which it is. Why didn’t I take it more seriously? Why didn’t I make Micah take it more seriously? It was so ridiculous—a cult? I mean, come on—but sometimes things start ridiculous and then turn dangerous. Somebody like my grandmother would have seen that from the start. Watch out, girl, she would have said. Tread carefully.
“But—wasn’t Micah kind of going along with this whole thing, though? I don’t remember him being too worried,” Sebastian says, after a moment. “I mean, he used to laugh when he talked about how boring the Prophet was and how he could hardly stay awake during his lectures.”
Like he’s trying to make it sound not-bad, almost like a boring high school class.
“He was worried,” I say. “He was just trying to minimize the creepiness of his parents joining a cult.”
“Why would he go with them, then?”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Or maybe he was trying to keep an eye on them. Protect them.”
“That’s so warped,” Inky says. “I mean, parents are supposed to protect us, not the other way around.”
“Yeah. But it doesn’t always happen that way. Listen, will you do something with me? Like, right now?” I say, and they nod.
“Anything,” Inky says, and “Of course,” Sebastian says. “What?”
“Come with me to his house.”
* * *
Micah’s house is small and stucco, painted bright green, on the north end of the alley between Garfield and Harriet. Micah grew up with the sound of cars turning into or out of the alley all day and much of the night, heading for their garages. My house is on an alley too. It’s one of the things we both love, that sound of tires crunching on snow or humming on asphalt. We love winter, too. Sometimes when we’re alone I quote him a poem I love by Mike White, “Alley in Winter,” about how beautiful the fire escape is, all coated in ice, after a fire. That’s the thing about living in a place like Minneapolis. You learn to see a different kind of beautiful, the beautiful that happens after something ordinary, like water, transforms itself into something dazzling.
“Are we going to have to break in?” Sebastian says, once we’re at the front door.
He likes the idea of that. You can tell. He’s already swiveling his head, looking for a basement window to pry open. Or maybe he’s checking for cops, because teenagers + after school + locked doors + suspicious behavior = possible cops. But I shake my head. I know where the Stones keep their key. Yeah, their last name is Stone and they named their son Micah. Not sure they knew that mica is a kind of rock.
Then again, my grandma named me Sesame. She said it was because she grew up saying, “Open, Sesame!” when she wanted something good to happen. And that adopting me was like the best thing in the world ever to happen to her.
I shake my head and start pawing through the snow to the left of the front doorsteps.
“For real?” Inky says when I pry out the fake rock and brush the snow off it. “Like nobody would ever think there was a house key hidden in there?”
Yes, the Stones keep their key in the kind of fake rock that looks entirely fake. Which when you think about it makes sense. If the Stones couldn’t see how fake their fake rock is, then they wouldn’t be able to tell a fake prophet from a real one either. Although, are there real prophets? Or are there just people who like to think they know more than the rest of us?
Sebastian looks disappointed. Maybe he’s bummed we aren’t going to have to break into the house. Or maybe he’s having the same fake rock thought that I am. I unlock the door with the frozen key and swing it open. Inside, it’s still and cold and empty. You can always tell when a house is uninhabited. Don’t ask me how I know this. I’ll tell you another time. But it’s true. I check the thermostat by the door. It’s turned to fifty-five, which is something you do only if you’re not going to be around for a while. Minneapolis in December is not a fifty-five-degree-thermostat kind of place. The living room is spotless, as if company’s coming.
In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator, and everything inside is Micah. Clear glass containers labeled and dated: spinach lasagna and spareribs and pound cake and chicken noodle soup and kimchee and roasted beets. There is nothing Micah can’t cook. Cooking is what he does for the people he loves, like his parents. Like me.
The sight of Micah’s food in this Micah-less house twists something inside me, something new—worry over him—and something old, which is missing my grandmother. She used to cook for me too. I shut the refrigerator door and start to head upstairs, and that’s when I see the phones.
Three little phones, side by side next to the toaster.
His dad’s phone in its red case. His mom’s in blue.
And Micah’s, in the silver case I gave him last Christmas.
So. They’re gone for real.
“What?” Sebastian says as I stand there frozen, staring at the phones. “What is it?”
Then he and Inky both see them too. “Shit,” Inky says.
My heart is pounding, but I make myself go upstairs, and they follow. Towels are hung over the shower rod to dry, but no toothbrushes are in the SpongeBob SquarePants toothbrush holder. No toothpaste on the sink.
I think for a minute.
The call must have come quickly. Not enough time to put the leftovers in the freezer so they’d last, but enough time to shove a toothbrush in a bag. Enough time to be told to leave their phones on the counter. We go back downstairs. At the sight of the phones, lined up so neatly on the counter by the toaster, my stomach clenches. I pick up Micah’s phone—it’s cold, like everything else in this house—and cradle it in both my hands. It’s not dead yet. I open it with his passcode, which I know by heart, and flick to the texts.
The last one from me: k see you soon
Flick to the calls: nothing.
E-mails: only one unread one, some mass mailing from Southwest High School about the upcoming winter break.
“You think the prophet guy made them leave their phones behind?” Sebastian says.
“Of course, dumb-ass,” Inky says. “Nobody just leaves their phones behind like that.”
Their voices fade into the background. Micah’s trapped somewhere and he doesn’t have his phone. My heart is still racing. It makes me crazy, knowing he’s out there somewhere but I have no way of knowing where and no way of reaching him. Panic. Breathe, I tell myself, but it doesn’t help. Then I notice the whiteboard by the back door, the one that the Stones leave messages for each other on. There’s only one message now, in black dry-erase pen, in Micah’s spiky printing.
Hello Kitty,
Please be on the lookout for my GPS. I think it’s somewhere in the neighborhood.
xo
“That’s from Micah,” I say, pointing. My voice is tiny. Not like me. When did he write this? Did they see him write it? “It’s a message for me.”
“He calls you Kitty?” Inky says. “That’s weird.”
“No, it means he brought the Hello Kitty notebook with him. Vong gave it to him. And the GPS thing must mean I should look for him. He knew I’d come over here eventually and see the message.”
“It’s really cold in here,” Sebastian says. “It feels abandoned.”
“It is abandoned, dumb-ass,” Inky says. Inky doesn’t have a lot of patience. She turns to me. “Should we ask the neighbors if they noticed anything?”
But I don’t know the neighbors, and anyway, a little house on the edge of an alley doesn’t have neighbors the way a house in the middle of the block has neighbors, and anyway more, I don’t like talking to people I don’t know well. That’s a holdover life lesson from my grandmother. So I shake my head. Sebastian and Inky leave by the back door, the one that gives directly onto the garbage and recycling cans, so they can see if anything’s out of place there, and I lock up and rebury the fake rock in the snow.
I’m smoothing the snow so it looks undisturbed when I get a text. It’s from James One.
Sesame G, it’s James One.
So formal. Like I don’t already know it’s him from my contact info? But James One always begins texts that way, as if he’s leaving a voice mail.
The office closed early today, so I’m home with the dogs and will walk them. You have the day off!
Relief wells up in me—I can file the missing person report right away—mixed with worry, because days off mean no pay. James One is still writing, though.
You will of course be paid for the whole week as usual. See you tomorrow!
I should have known. The Jameses would never try to stiff me. I’m pretty sure even my wary grandmother would’ve eventually given in to the charm, respectability, and kindness of the Jameses.
Every weekday, rain or shine or sleet or snow, the mail carriers are out carrying mail and I’m out walking my dogs. They’re not my dogs—they belong to the Jameses—but I think of them as mine. I’ve been walking them every day while the Jameses are at work, and on some weekends, too, ever since my grandma died. Orphans have to earn their full living. Orphans have to find a place to live. Orphans have to stay vigilant, change the things they need changed, protect themselves, and not ask for help.
Sebastian and Inky have never seen my house. They don’t even know where it is.
No one knows where my house is except for Micah. Somehow the thought that no one knows where I live except him brings it flooding over me. I’m alone. Micah’s gone. My grandma’s gone. I’m alone. Oh my God. Oh my God.
“I don’t have to walk the pups today,” I say, trying to make my voice sound normal. “I can head straight to the police.”
“You want us to come with?” Inky says—she can tell how shaky I am right now—and Sebastian nods, like he’s okay with that idea.
I would actually love them to come with me, but I know Inky has a shift at Spyhouse Coffee and Sebastian’s due at Kowalski’s, so, no. I shake my head.
“I’ll handle that. You two plaster his photo on social media,” I say. “And if anyone responds, or anything else occurs to you, like, anything at all, text me, okay?”
“Will do, Shaolin,” Sebastian says. “Meanwhile, see you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”
He makes his prayer hands/yoga/namaste/praying monk signal again. Inky doesn’t say anything. She gives me an Inky hug, which means that it lasts a long time. She read an article once that said that you don’t get the true benefit of a hug unless it lasts at least six seconds, and ever since then Inky’s hugs have been the longest, tightest, and best. Except for Micah’s.
3 Micah
SESAME, REMEMBER THE day Vong gave me the Hello Kitty notebook? I waited for you in the office—the tutoring room at Greenway Elementary is connected to it—with a cappuccino for you and animal crackers for Vong, just in case he came trailing after you, like usual. Which he did.
“Thanks, mate,” Vong said, as if he were British.
“Anytime, old chap.”
Might as well play along with the British thing, right? He dug around in his backpack and hauled out a Hello Kitty notebook and matching pencil.
“This is a present for you, Micah,” he said.
A Hello Kitty notebook? Was he joking or was he for real? With Vong it’s hard to tell. Either way, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I smiled and said thanks.
“Use it for the forces of good,” Vong said. “Not evil.”
Remember how we looked at each other, Ses? Both making a silent pact not to laugh, which is often the way it is around Vong. Such a funny and solemn little kid, with his chopped-off hair and random fake British accents and strange commands. I nodded.
“Also,” he said, “there’s a poem in it.”
I opened the notebook while he watched.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Someday I’ll write a poem TOO.
“Nice,” I said. “Tell you what, maybe I will too.”
Vong inclined his head. “P’raps.”
Weird that he has a hard time reading and writing, when his speech and vocabulary are so good. You told me he won’t open his mouth in the classroom, which is how he originally got signed up for before-school tutoring. But when he’s around you, he never shuts up. The thing is, though, it’s like Vong actually gave Hello Kitty special powers when he told me to use it for forces of good, because that same day, I started carrying that notebook in my own backpack. Started making sketches and notes in it, ideas for the future. Hello Kitty holds all our plans for the future, Ses.
Our future ice sculpture for the luminaria on Lake of the Isles in February.
Our future fire spinner routines.
Our future around-the-world couch-surfing travels. I want to start from the Pacific and you want to start from the Atlantic, but whatever.
