Page 8 of That's Not My Name

This is my father. I belong with him, and this life is mine.

I am Mary Boone.

THREE

DREW

Life really goes to shit when everyone thinks you killed your girlfriend.

The screen flashes another error message, and I kick the base of the photocopy machine. The clang of shoe-to-metal echoes through the library, and one of the elderly community volunteers shoots me an annoyed glance from the travel section. But really, how many errors can this thing have in ten minutes?

I point at the machine, in aHey, this thing is junk, and you know itway. The old guy shakes his head and goes back to organizing travel guides, pretending I don’t exist.

Just like everybody else.

I jam my pointer finger against the unresponsive touch screen until the “copy” button lights up and asks me how many copies I need.

Finally.

I pull a folded piece of paper from my back pocket and smooth it across the edge of the machine. Her face stares up at me, and it suddenlyfeels way too hot in this stupid library. I slide my finger over the crease that cuts across her eyes, and I frown. I shouldn’t have folded the flier, but I didn’t want to lose it at school, and if I tried to run this errand before class, I would have been late. Again.

With the sheriff pulling me out of school every other day to ask me the same damn questions, I can’t afford to miss any more classes. My lawyer seems to have put a stop to it, but the damage is done. I’m barely clinging to graduation, and only my parents give a shit.

Because when your girlfriend vanishes into thin air, you instantly become the person who had something to do with it. At least in the court of public opinion. And maybe in the actual courts if Sheriff Roane has anything to say about it.

Rage rolls up my neck and pounds in my ears, but losing my temper won’t do me any good. It certainly won’t convince her parents, the town, or Podunk PD that I’m not the reason Lola hasn’t come home.

I slide the flier across the glass of the copier and punch buttons until the display says two hundred copies. I hesitate and check my wallet to see how much cash I have on me. I change it to seventy-five instead and feed the bills into the machine, cursing my printer at home for running out of ink.

And the random locals who stop to point at me every time I leave my house.

And the cops for not doing their job.

And, most of all, the world at large for going on with their lives like it doesn’t matter she’s gone.

The machine whirs to life, and Lola’s beautiful face multiplies over and over in the tray at the side of the machine. The giant MISSING headline printed at the top. Those fat letters are probably what killed my ink cartridge.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump straight into the side of the copier. I whirl around, expecting the library volunteer, but it’s my cousin.

Max holds up both hands and takes a step back. “Whoa, Drew, chill out.”

I cover my face with my hands and scrub them down to my chin. “Holy shit. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak anywhere. I called your name twice.” He tosses his curly black hair from his forehead. It sticks up in every direction, some parts longer than others, and I wonder if my aunt tried to cut it for him again. She’s never been as good with scissors as she thinks, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I shrug him off. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

Max hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and gives me hisyou’re full of shitlook. I ignore him and grab my fliers. Lola’s picture—one my dad took of her smiling on her front porch before her family’s annual Fourth of July BBQ—takes up most of the space. I listed her information at the bottom as simply as possible.

Name: Lola Elizabeth Scott

Age: 17

Hair color: Dark brown

Eye color: Green

Last seen: 10:55pm on September 29th at the Willamette River boat launch in Washington City

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