Page 20 of Catching Camila

Ms. K nodded. “Sorry, sweetheart. I'll let you know if I see her.”

Camila was already heading down the sidewalk. She ran around the trailer park once, checking down all the rows, but Mama was nowhere to be found. By the time she got back to the trailer, she was tired and footsore. She clomped up her porch steps, a thick dread hanging over her.

When her eyes found the clock, she realized she was over an hour late for work. She scrambled around the trailer for her keys and phone. She was on her bike and pedaling down the block in seconds.

She skidded up to the ice cream shop, dropped her bike at the back door, and almost ran into Lizzy.

Her boss whirled around, placing both hands on her hips. Her ratted hair was clamped back in a banana clip, the blond bangs spilling over the top like a hair sprayed wave. “Here you are. We've been trying to call.”

“Lizzy, I'm sorry. It was my mom. She's gone—”

Lizzy's red fingernails sliced through the air, cutting her off. “Camila, you know what I hate more than someone being late?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

Behind Lizzy, Travis offered a sympathetic shrug.

“I can't stand when someone tries to blame their screw-ups on others.” Her carefully drawn-on eyebrows drew together. “My numb nuts ex-husband tried to blame our breakup on me,” she pointed to her chest, “when I knew all along he was boinking Darcy in the back of his Suburban. Is that what you're trying to do to me?” Lizzy flashed nicotine stained teeth. “You trying to screw me?”

Camila dropped her head. “No ma'am, but you don't understand. My mom's missing. If I could just get an hour to go looking for her…” She trailed off when Lizzy's scowl did not fade.

“You can have the whole day if I fire you right now.” Lizzy jutted her chin and waited.

Camila dropped her eyes and shook her head.

“Didn’t think so.” Lizzy wiped a smudge of goo off the counter and frowned. “I'm a three-strikes kind of lady. You get another chance. But if you're late again, your ass is grass.” She gave Camila a final look. “Travis,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Get her a spare shirt from the back.” She turned to Camila. “It'll come out of your check, little lady.”

Camila nodded, but the news stung. She needed every bit of that money. She opened her mouth to tell Lizzy, but her boss was already stalking toward the back with her cellphone in hand. The conversation was over.

Camila grabbed the T-shirt from Travis, offered him a pathetic smile, and shuffled to the bathroom. Once inside she locked the door and slumped against the wall. She felt sucker-punched. First her mother went missing, then she got slammed by Lizzy, and now she had to pay for her extra T-shirt. She'd have to work nine hours with a fist of worry clenched around her stomach. She sat on the toilet and stared at the floor. A few dead flies lay on the peeling linoleum tile. Camila felt like one of those fly carcasses: broken, lifeless, and looking for hope that would never come.

* * *

Wednesday 3:43 p.m.

Travis leanedon his elbows and waggled his eyebrows up and down at Camila. “Season three of X-Files is by far the best. Mulder really hits his stride, man. And Scully’s bangs quit being so,” he tugged at his hair, “poufy.”

Camila giggled. “Definitely less pouf, but season four has that awesome episode with the genetic inbred farm mutants.” Oh God, did she hear herself? Back in high school this conversation would’ve been social suicide.

“True, true,” Travis said, shaking out a handful of chocolate chips from the container and tossing them into his mouth. “That was a dope episode.”

She tried to continue, but she was too worried. Pulling out her cracked cellphone, she stared at the screen. No calls. Mama had been missing for over five hours. She should leave work and look, but then she'd lose her job. Besides, Mama had taken off tons of times and always returned home. But what if she was out shopping? Maybe she should call Ms. K again to see—

“Customer!” Fer yelled, hopping off her stool.

“What d'you want?” she asked the pre-teen girl eying the menu.

“A slushy,” the girl lisped, tapping a finger to her braces in thought. “Blue Raspberry.”

Camila reached for a Styrofoam cup. “I’ll get it.”

“I got this one,” Fer said. Help a homie out and take out the trash, will ya?”

“Sure.” At least that she couldn’t mess up.

The sun baked her hair as she strode out onto the blacktop out front. The trash barrel smelled like a dead animal in the hot sun. Camila breathed through her mouth as she pulled off the dome lid. Five goopy bowls spilled out onto the pavement. A splash of something red splattered her shoe. Two teenage skater boys, sitting on the picnic table with boards in their laps, snickered at her misfortune. She shot them a dirty look, picked up the bowls and shoved them into the black bag. Then she hoisted the trash over her shoulder and shuffled to the back.

A man stepped out of the shadow.

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