Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

at her. Okay, they all look at her because that’s what guys do. But Gray Henley steps forward.

“Yup. What can I do for you?”

“How about you hop down from there and talk to us?”

Gray Henley—Tim, I guess—descends the ladder and comes over to us.

“You haven’t seen Jake Foster, have you?”

Tim tucks his thumbs in his pockets. “Sorry, ladies. Jake hasn’t worked for me since his accident. Why are you asking?”

I’m not sure the police want it public, but Jenna barges ahead. “Because he’s missing. Gone since the championship game.” She puts her hands on her hips, cocks her head. “Wait—he hasn’t worked for you since his accident? You didn’t fire him, did you? Because that would be pretty cold.”

Tim backs up, holds his hands out. “Hey, now. It was his choice, and I helped out with his medical bills. Jake said we were cool.” He takes off his hat and scratches his head. “He’s missing? You serious?”

“Yeah,” Jenna says. “But don’t worry. He’ll turn up. Jake’s the kind of kid whose face will look good on a missing-person poster. He’s a white male who happens to be good at sports. The whole town will care.” She stares him down. “We’ll find him.” She might not be trying to sound threatening, but Tim gives her a nervous nod and hurries back to the job, and I’m glad to be on her side.

I want her to be right about this. Still, I worry. Besides me and Kolt and Jake’s family, will anybody care long enough to bring him home?

We stop at Jenna’s dad’s pharmacy for a drink. While I grab a Gatorade from the cooler (Glacier Cherry; there is no other worthy flavor), her dad comes out from behind the counter and gives her a hug. Even though it’s cold outside, we’re too sweaty to stay inside with the paying customers, so we go to the bench behind the store to sit while we hydrate, dodging the guys who are working on remodeling the offices upstairs.

“You want Tim to take care of the roof for you?” I ask.

Jenna takes a swig of her (inferior) Glacier Freeze. “Tim can kiss my asphalt. I take it he seemed sketchy to you too?”

I twist the cap on my bottle. “I guess.”

Jenna chugs the last of her Gatorade and makes a perfect eight-footer into the recycling bin. “It’s too loud to think with the construction here. Let’s get back at it. We just haven’t been to the right place yet or asked the right questions. Time to retrace his steps.”

So we run past the high school, then follow the route Jake would have taken in his truck after the bus dropped him off Saturday night. There’s nothing that stands out to me, other than the fact that I feel totally useless and have no idea what I’m looking for.

When we’re about to turn the corner onto Jake’s street, I stop. “We’re not really going to his house, are we? They don’t need us bothering them right now.”

I picture Jake’s mom, still in her sweater and slacks from teaching all day. But she wouldn’t have gone to school, would she? Will Luke be home? What do you do the day after your life shatters?

Jenna’s already looking around the corner. “Jake’s truck is there, but that’s it. No cops.”

“No blue Civic?” I ask.

“Nope,” Jenna says.

Then Jake’s mom isn’t home. Maybe nobody is.

“Okay,” I concede. “Maybe we can look around. For a minute.”

We run down the street, then slow when we get to the house. I’m stunned, stuck. I can’t stop staring at the house, the truck. How many times have I walked through the front door? Or sat in the passenger seat and lifted up on the handle so the door shuts right? There’s a hollow ache inside me. Things will never be the same between me and Jake. I may never do either of those things again.

“It’s weird that the truck is here,” Jenna says. “I mean, if he was running away, wouldn’t he have taken it?” She reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze, then strides to the front door to knock. I’m terrified someone will answer, and terrified they won’t.

Nobody answers.

She tries the knob, and I’m almost relieved when it’s locked. After a quick peek through the mail slot, she just shrugs and smiles. “I guess we’ll have to try the truck.”

I’m rooted in the sparse grass along the curb. “Are you sure we should be touching anything?” I ask. “What if they’re considering it a potential crime scene?”

Jenna waves the questions away. “They’d have it taped off. Plus, you said they think he ran. I thought you wanted to do something about this, Sharp.”

I do. But the truck’s locked too—and Jake never locks his truck. He even leaves a key in the ashtray in case Kolt ever needs to borrow it. (When I asked Kolt why he doesn’t just keep the key, he said, “Because usually when I need to borrow Jake’s truck, it’s because I can’t find my keys.” Which makes perfect sense in the way only Jake and Kolt ever could.)

“Any ideas?” Jenna asks, pulling on the driver-side handle.

“Maybe…,” I say, heading for the passenger side. If whoever opened it last wasn’t me, if they didn’t know about the whole lift-the-handle thing, maybe the latch hasn’t quite caught.

Sure enough, with a strong lift and a little counterintuitive push, the door almost comes open.

“Try it again,” Jenna says. “I’ll grab the edge when it pops out.”

I’m not sure how this will change anything other than possibly breaking Jenna’s fingers, but Jenna’s stronger than I am, and she’s already getting herself in position. “Ready?”

“One…two…three…”

I yank and push the top while Jenna pulls the bottom, and somehow the door swings open.

And that is when the police cruiser drives up.

We spin to face the street, and the officer leans out of the window enough to shout, “Step away from the vehicle, please!” Then he cuts the engine and starts typing something into his computer. After