IV

“All I’m saying is that maybe Ava doesn’t want to be found.” Carmen takes a final sip from her pop can before crushing it down and putting it on her tray. She returns to picking at her sandwich across from me on the cafeteria bench, like usual. Her and Mark on the side closer to the windows, Amelia and I with our backs to the rest of the school outside the cafeteria doors. Carmen, who had been the first to mention Ava since Monday afternoon, feels the shift in mood and doesn’t look me in the eye.

Frankly, I don’t care she’s spoken about it. It beats toeing around the bush.

“Who goes missing and wants to be found?” asks Amelia, furrowing her brows and shaking her head: signalling a deeper disagreement than just her words say. “Carmen, you’re theory has been rejected.”

Solemnly, I agree with Amelia. Though Carmen’s point isn’t far from possible considering Ava’s attitude and person, it’s not something I really want to consider. So that’s off the table.

I continue, “She took my license, our car and ditched the GPS.” I push my tray away -- I’m not hungry anymore. “Seems like too much work for a prank.”

When my courage strikes, I look up from the faux wood table to my friends in front of me. However, their focus has drifted over my head to something behind me -- someone behind me. Turning my torso, I turn to follow their gaze, including Amelia, to see a girl. A new girl; it’s obvious, small town, small community. She’s not dressed for the weather nor our culture, it makes her look foolish. Despite it being mid-April, it’s not as warm as everyone would like so her floral knee-length dress is far from suitable. Her platinum hair doesn’t look remotely disturbed by the hurricane force winds outside (a post-storm perk of Southern Ontario).

I turn quickly back around when her eyes catch mine. Then, before I can tear my friends’ focus from her, the clicking of her heeled sandals stops. Right behind me.

“Hey,” I say, mustering a cheerful tone, “I’m guessing you’re new here. I’m--”

She cuts me off, and lifting her hand, she says with a slight smile. “Charlotte Waters, yeah, I know. I’m Rosemary Rutherford, new to town: you’re right.”

Someone else joins the conversation from behind Mark. “With a name like Rosemary, you must have a phone number bank account.” It’s Blake and his presence alone is enough for Amelia to tug on my arm and Kaden to clear her throat. I pay them no mind; I can’t, I’m busy elsewhere

She lets out a lilting laugh. She’s unamused, despite it. “How many times have you used that line on me, Blake Weber?”

“Not nearly enough, Rose. And please, just Blake is fine.”

Rosemary rolls her eyes -- but somehow, the disrespectful gesture was graceful. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Blake was flirting with her, and based on her reaction, she knows as I do. My friends, on the other hand, seem to worry they’re in a lovers’ -- or ex -- quarrel. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

“Rosemary,” Amelia pipes up, her fingers balling on her lap “why St. Jacobs? All we have to offer is farmland and produce.” No one misses the beat of breath Amelia takes after her words: she was going to say more, and it would have been far from polite.

Rosemary smiles, her teeth flashing. “Amelia-Ann Smythe, I assume. I’ve heard of your family: your mother’s the mayor, right?”

“She is,” Amelia confirms, her jaw set and her voice tight; her full name in the mouth of a stranger nothing to gloss over. Amelia turns her gaze to me, her waterline eyeliner disturbed. I don’t know what to say, so I just catch her gaze. What a piece of work, her eyes seem to say, but beneath all her anger, there’s hurt. A new girl, a new rich blonde girl was finally here to rival Amelia’s status, and if there’s anything I’ve learned about Amelia in the decade I’ve known her: change -- good or bad -- is poison in her town.

Resolve regrown, Amelia looks away from me. To Rosemary, she asks, “So your business in town?”

Rosemary responds, unfazed and careless. “My family owns some land in town. There are some legal issues about trespassing.”

I think I nearly vomit my lunch back onto my tray. What saves me, however, from embarrassing myself so is the tone of Rosemary’s voice: she’s completely fine, no sense of anger. Thank the Lord above.

“We’ve moved here for the rest of the semester.” I can feel Rosemary’s gaze -- which hadn’t been on me earlier -- now shift to my back.

Bless Amelia’s heart. She speaks up, saving me. Amelia says, “Where from?”

Rosemary lets out an exhale kin to a laugh. “Here, there, everywhere. The world’s too small to stay put nowadays. Your family would agree though, right, Charlotte?”

I turn over my shoulder. Rosemary’s face is loaded -- the girl knows her stuff, I’ll give her that. “Ava always liked adventure.”

This time, Rosemary actually laughs, but the authenticity is ruined when her hand goes to cover her mouth. Lightly, she says, “Don’t we all?”

SJCI had a new girl, a ruler nonetheless, something only achieved through age during one’s time at the school. Rosemary, the force, was different: she didn’t need to grow up here, she didn’t need to like the town, and she certainly didn’t need to be tolerable: yet, somehow, after she walked into our school that Wednesday morning, she knew everything there was to know. What happens in St. Jacobs stays in St. Jacobs, so how does a girl like Rosemary know so much about us?

I’m no stranger to drowning; I’ve had my fair share of swimming in lakes too deep, or the metaphorical effects of procrastinating until the morning of, but Rosemary was a different kind of drowning. She drowned me in frustration: the kind that just sits under your skin until something completely unrelated happens. I’ve lashed out at Amelia -- after she touched me in a way I didn’t like -- and at Carmen -- after she made a dumb and rude joke -- and even at Dad -- shamefully, I don’t know why.

Ugh. I toss in my bed, pulling my covers over my head.

Then, something hits my window. I roll onto my other side.

Again. I slam my head into my pillow.

Once more. I’m up, throwing the covers off my body and stalking towards the window, my feet stomping louder than was emotionally necessary. As soon as I yank the window back and press my face to the screen, another rock hits. This time, in my face.

“What the Hell?” I exclaim.

“Waters?”

“Ethan? What in God’s name are you doing here? It’s three a.m.!” There’s a large part of me -- mainly my left hand that rests on the side of the window -- that demands I slam the window shut and go to bed. He has my number, he could have messaged me if it was important.

Oh. I check my charging phone on my bedside table. He did message me. Half a dozen times.

“I’m well aware of the time, Waters.” I don’t bother to peer down to where I know he’s standing. I don’t need to see his expression to know he’s not amused.

“If my parents find you they’ll skin us both alive,” I seethe, remembering my parents are just down the hall.

“Nora,” Ethan says, “Nora would skin us alive. I doubt your father would partake in such rituals.” His comment is the only hint of discontent he’s ever displayed regarding my mom. And it’s nearly been a week. “Okay, but no, I may have another idea.”

“Could it not have waited until this evening?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. My time for Ethan and his ideas are strictly reserved for after dinner but before midnight. This, here and now, is neither. I won’t let him forget that.

“I don’t know when it’s next supposed to rain,” he says. “Look, Waters, I was planning on going to Conestoga River, the water levels have lowered since the rainstorm. We’ve got today to check the shore for anything that’s been washed up.”

The GPS, it was found in Conestogo River. I hate to admit it, but for a split second, I admire Ethan’s intelligence.

The moment fades fast, however, when Ethan speaks up again. He says, “Whatd’ya say?”

I lean further onto the windowsill. “You think there’s more?”

I can hear his sigh: his exasperation that mirror mine. I owe him a great deal for all of this. Ethan says, “I think it’s worth a shot.”

That’s where the early hours of Thursday morning found me and Ethan Stock of all people: along the rain-swollen banks of Conestogo River between the border of St. Jacobs and one of our neighbouring townships. Cheeks wind-bitten pink, and fingers numb, we scoured along the rocks on the bank.

Twilight had yet to peak, even if the time neared five in the morning. We were running out of time but had cleared no more than a kilometre on either side.

“What is it you want to find?” asks Ethan.

I peek at him beside me, my attention tears away from the bank for the first time this morning. “I don’t know,” I mutter, “anything that’s not rock.” I pick up a stone the size of a toonie and toss it into the water to my right. It lands in the water with a sploosh.

“Thanks,” he says, eyeing the ripples of my sunken rock over my shoulder. “That really helped.”

I don’t pick up another one despite my temptation; he was judging me. “It was your idea,” I accuse, “what did you have in mind?”

“Honestly, Waters,” he begins, his tone tired, “anything.”

The silence resumes and I return to looking up and down the bank, kicking stones and sticks. As I suspected: nothing.

Something comes over Ethan -- I can hear it in his breathing -- because when he stops walking for a moment, he actually tried to start a conversation. “I never really knew your sister.” He doesn’t sound as tired anymore, which is a refreshing change from how I’m feeling. “I’d seen her in the halls at school, and at the police station, I guess.”

My laugh is dry. “I think she lived there,” I say. “That and the Weber’s.”

Ethan starts walking again, and though I’ve not stopped and am easily five paces ahead of him, he’s back at my side in no time. “I never saw him.” He doesn’t look at me. “Noah, that is, at the station, I mean.”

Before I can decide how to respond, Ethan is now in front of me, balancing on a rock near the river bank. Then, he’s hopping between that one and another one a foot or so further across the water. I hail him back when he turns to look at me, and he thankfully obliges. Hopping back to the original rock, his foot slips and my hand flies out.

My hand grasps his forearm and his mine.

Then he drops it and steps back to my side.

No one mentioned it.

“Really?” I ask when the awkwardness ebbs. “I was under the impression he instigated all of that.” Their ‘wrong doings’.

“Maybe she has a mind of her own. You didn’t seem to know her very well.”

I halt, the pebbles disturbing under my feet. Of all the things Ethan could have said, he decided on that?

Ethan looks back at me when he notices I’ve stopped moving. “C’mon, we’ve not got all morning.”

“You expect me to follow you after you insulted me?” I ask incredulously.

Ethan doesn’t look back but he does stop. “It wasn’t an insult directed at you, it was directed at Ava. Now, c’mon.”

I don’t think I could have predicted the consequences of my actions from Monday -- no, that’s a lie: I didn’t think there’d be any consequences. Thinking back, I had assumed Ethan would have taken me up on my offer then nothing would actually come of it; we’d both pretend the conversation never happened. Ethan surpassed all of my expectations yet managed to live up to them at the same time. Damn him.

We don’t talk for the next twenty minutes, as I remain a distance ahead meant to squash conversation. I can hear Ethan’s feet start to drag from his position fifteen feet behind me, kicking the small pebbles in an attempt to get my attention.

“Want to head back?” he asks, his voice raised. Dawn’s broken the treeline, likely past five-thirty: if we turn back now my parents will still be asleep when we get back. “There’s nothing to find, Waters.”

I glower, my teeth scraping together behind my tight lips. A small part of me wants to spit profanities at him for distracting me -- I could have missed something in the three steps I’ve taken since he spoke. A larger part of me, the one that knows better, decides it’s time to stop: my feet halt and my knees buckle. Before I can steady myself, I’m on the ground with my head in my hands. Ethan, bless him, doesn’t approach me.

I fumble with the bracelet on my wrist until I hear the click and it falls slack. I don’t catch it with my other hand, instead, I let it fall to the ground and get stuck between two rocks.

The joints in my legs crack as I stand-up. Wiping my running eyes and nose with the sleeve of my sweater, I turn back to Ethan. He’s tense, eyes on me, body rigid.

I break the eye-contact and walk past him. He turns around as I say, “I’m tired.”

Ethan, thank him, follows me wordlessly.