The Runaway's Shirt

I laid in the trundle bed next to my real one, where Emily was lying awake. Suddenly, We heard a phone ring. It was my dad's cell, the one phone Emily hadn't unplugged. We heard half of a conversation from which we drew that the cops knew exactly where Emily was.

"Fuck," she breathed.

She had better not be angry with dad, I thought fiercely. It's her own stupid fault she's in this situation. I felt like I knew the truth, though; she wasn't mad, just scared.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.

"I don't guess there's anything for you to do except to wait," I said.

So we waited. I was trembling like mad. I always got like that when I knew somebody was coming to get something. It's just this strange phobia I have.

Eventually, my dad stuck his head in the door and said, "Emily, sweetie, your ride's here." He knew she knew where she was going. He was trying to be kind about it.

She sat up, grabbed her stuff, and walked out the door, like she had done this before. My guess was that she had.

She never came back to school.

She left her shirt, though. Ever since that night, I've carried that shirt around in my school bag, just in case I see her again.