Page 41 of The Narrow

“Yeah, you’re asking now. Because it’s a problem foryouall of a sudden,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true. I can’t tell anymore. I’m just angry.

She turns red, eyes sparking. Then she steels herself. She flicks her hair back from her face and archly she says, “Okay. You’re going through something and you’re mad at me and you’re what, punishing me with this Abigail House thing—”

“I’m not punishing you by living at Abigail House, I’m living at Abigail House because otherwise I would get kicked out of school,” I say, my voice too loud. Someone on the quad swivels around to look at us, and I drop my voice as Veronica gapes at me. “I need the tuition, okay? So leave me alone about it.”

“That’s what’s going on? You can’t afford school? Eden, I could have paid for you,” Veronica says. “Problem solved.”

I stare at her. And then I turn and walk away.

“Eden!” she calls, but I ignore her—and she doesn’t follow.

Anger scorches away the tears that might otherwise threaten. Veronica has never wanted for anything. My family has money, but hers isrich. Multiple homes on multiple continents, luxury-boat-with-a-full-time-staff rich. In Veronica’s world, every problem has a price tag and money is no object. My tuition being paid doesn’t fix everything. Not even close.

Veronica and I have always been there for each other. Nine months out of the year.

I spend a few weeks with her family here and there, but for the most part, they prefer to have her to themselves when she’s at home. Which means I’m on my own. I’ve always accepted that. I’ve never resented her. And it has always been a good thing that she can be a little clueless about other people’s lives. Fewer questions, fewer lies.

But now I can’t tell her what happened this summer because that would mean telling her everything else. Telling her how I’ve misled her and hidden the truth and lied. It would mean having to explain the whole sordid thing, and I can’t.

I step into the library blinking tears from my eyes and squaring my shoulders. Mr.Campos is there, and I stride up to him without hesitation.

“Miss White! More ghosts today?” he says.

“Yes, actually. Well, sort of,” I say. My voice is a wreck. I clear my throat, shoving aside the tangle of emotions inside me. “You mentioned newspaper archives. Do you think I could look at them? I need the local papers from the eighties. I’m not sure exactly what year.”

Mr.Campos presses a hand to his heart and looks up toward the ceiling. “Hold on. I’m having a moment.”

“Uh?” I say.

“A student wants to look at the newspaper archives—and not for a class assignment. My tiny librarian heart has grown three sizes this day,” Mr.Campos says, and a reluctant smile sneaks across my face. He stands, grabbing a huge ring of keys from his drawer. “Right this way, my young scholar.”

He leads the way to a door I’ve never been through before. He unlocks it and ushers me into a room that’s filled with utilitarian metal shelving filled with cardboard boxes.

“These are thePatterson Postand theAtwood Callarchives,” Mr.Campos says. “We have copies of every issue back to 1924. The eighties should be... here we go, this row.” He waves a hand to indicate the right section. There are a lot of boxes. I have my work cut out for me.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Is it okay if I stay in here a while?”

“No food or drink and no papier-mâché,” he says. “Otherwise, have at it.” He bows with a wave of his hand and retreats.

I walk over to the boxes. I decide to look at theAtwood Callfirst, since it only comes out once a week, so it’ll be faster to get through and pinpoint the right year. I start with 1980, opening up the box with a puff of dust and extracting a stack of papers.

I read about dances and school plays and new teachers, spicy editorials about politics, and reports on Atwood’s sports teams that confirm that they’ve always been terrible.

Then I find it suddenly. I open up a box from 1984, and there it is, the headline big and bold and startlingly out of place on theCall’s normally dull pages.

Atwood Student Still Missing: Feared Drowned

The paper was dated October 12, 1984.

The search for fourth-year student Grace Carpenter continues, now two weeks after she was reported missing from the Abigail House women’s dormitory. She was lastseen by her roommate, Cheryl Pennington, who reported that Grace was in her bed by lights-out. Miss Pennington did not notice her leaving but discovered her bed empty in the morning.

Atwood’s dean, Alan Lawrence, says, “We pray that God deliver Grace safely home into the arms of her family.” Chief of Police George Fairfax states that it appears that Grace left her dormitory voluntarily. When asked if it is possible that Miss Carpenter drowned in the Narrow, Chief Fairfax said, “If she did, we may never know.”

A prayer vigil will be held in Atwood School’s St. Mark Chapel on Saturday at 5 p.m.

Grace lived in Abigail House. Maybe that was why she kept returning. Trying to get home.

That’s all there is. The next week contains an update—Grace still not found. Then the mentions stop. I step over to the shelves where thePatterson Postboxes are and find the one that matches. This article is longer. I sit on the floor as I read through it.

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