The Tension of Opposites (2 page)

The deep thrum of the drum line followed me as I made my way down the dirt trail, the echoing voice of the announcer sweeping through the air. “Touchdown by number seventy-two!” The sounds were faint, ghostlike, floating over the tops of the trees surrounding me, snaking through the leaves, puffing into my ears.

It was a muggy night. To keep my hair from sticking to my face, I'd braided it earlier, and the two thick ropes slapped against my back, keeping time with my steps.

I was violating some kind of high-school code by skipping the season's first Friday-night football game. Especially in Centerville, Ohio, where the football team's success or failure seemed to set the mood of the whole town. I was probably the only one not cheering the mighty Elks to victory. But I didn't care.

As I made my way to the Three Sisters, the tug of my grandfather's camera case, its strap slung over one shoulder and across my chest, comforted me. More reassuring than the sway of the camera, though, was the can of pepper spray weighing down my front right pocket as I walked deeper into the woods.

I wondered if Noelle was safe, if her plan had actually worked, and tried to picture her wrapped in the arms of her parents. It was hard to believe, but the last twenty-four hours of not knowing seemed longer than the entire two years Noelle had been missing.

Focus,
I told myself,
on what you do know.

Focus on what you have.

On the surface, my life was pretty great. The previous week, I'd passed my driving test on the first try. The picture on my license showed off the highlights that the summer sun had sizzled into my sandy-blonde hair. And with the help of my parents and grandparents, not to mention years of accumulated babysitting money, I'd just purchased my dream car. A Jeep. Used, but yellow.

Just yesterday I'd snapped a brand-new parking pass onto the neck of my rearview mirror, and thanks to having been held back in kindergarten for “social reasons” (if I hadn't been so painfully shy, I might never have met Noelle), I was one of the few sophomores with the freedom to drive to school. Soon, I hoped to have my best friend sitting next to me as I cruised around town. With her auburn hair blowing loosely around her face, Noelle would flip through songs on my iPod until she found one of our old favorites, then turn up the volume and belt out all the words, which she would, no doubt, remember.

Stepping into the clearing, I felt a rush. The lighting couldn't have been better if I'd been handed a giant paintbrush and streaked the sky myself. Behind the Three Sisters, the orange-red glow of the setting sun gave the impression of a looming fire, somehow making the heat of the night even heavier. Standing back, I snapped a shot of all three trees; their intertwining branches and leaves caused them to seem like a single entity. They were truly stunning, the three 550-year-old oak trees proudly stretching toward the sky.

A roar erupted from the nearby stadium, and I imagined Chip Knowles, the star quarterback, jumping up and down on the field, his helmet reflecting bright flashes of light toward the crowd. I wondered how many cameras were poised to take a picture of his hopping into the air to bump chests with the other players.

Lying on my back, I found a spot to shoot from the ground up, showcasing the immense trunks, the reaching arms. I'd taken five or six pictures, so engrossed in the moment that I didn't notice anything but the trees.

I tried to sharpen the focus, concentrated on bracing my elbows to hold the Nikon steady. That was when I heard it, a familiar click that had not originated from the nature surrounding me. A click that wasn't my own.

I'd just taken a picture—the shutter had flashed before my eye, capturing the moment—yet my ears told me that a camera was in use. Another camera.

My breathing quickened, and I lay unmoving for a few interminable seconds, staring through my viewfinder at the still leaves above me, listening. Four mosquitoes feasted on my blood, attacking my leg, shoulder, and wrist, but I didn't move. And then I heard the click once again. No mistaking it this time. I hadn't imagined the sound.

I was not alone.

Gripping the canister of pepper spray in my pocket, I sat up and looked around. At first, I glanced past him, but I backtracked and found myself staring at a guy in cargo shorts and a green T-shirt. He was holding a camera to his face, focusing on the three enormous trees. His black hair was messy, limp curls framing his face in the oppressive heat.

I heard the sound of the shutter again and watched as he lowered his camera and met my stare. The guy's face was tanned, and he needed to shave. He was probably old enough for college. I tried to keep from noticing how beautiful he was, because thoughts like those can make you vulnerable, leave you open for attack. Having a squared jaw, smooth skin, and full lips certainly didn't make him safe. I rubbed my fingers along the smooth cylinder in my pocket.

Finally, he spoke. “You scared me.”

“
I
scared
you
?” I asked with a shaky voice.

“Sorry. I figured everyone was at the game. It's like the town shut down or something. Kind of creepy.” He gently placed the camera against his stomach, letting it hang from a thick strap around his neck. Awkward seconds of silence stretched into a minute. Then he spoke again. “They're amazing, aren't they?” He looked past me, sliding his eyes along the trunks of the Three Sisters until his gaze rested up high.

I pushed myself up from the ground and brushed dirt and grass off the butt of my shorts. Studying my exit, I realized that I would be forced to walk past him, within arm's reach, to get back to my Jeep.

I glanced at his arms. They were thick and looked strong enough to keep me from leaving if that was what he wanted.

“You get some good shots?” he asked.

“I hope so.” I had no desire to be pulled into a conversation by this guy, but short of running, I had no idea how to extricate myself from the situation.

“That was a good idea.” He pointed to where the Three Sisters erupted from the ground. “Lying on your back and shooting up. Pretty cool.”

“Saw it in a book.” He couldn't be all bad, could he? He was a photographer, he had an old-school camera, and he knew about the Three Sisters. Still, I clutched the pepper spray.

He smiled, which scared me more than anything up to this point. I moved forward a few steps to give the impression that I was not afraid.

He tilted his head to the side. “Am I freaking you out or something?”

“No,” I said, pulling my shoulders back. “Why?”

“Nothing, I guess.” He walked backward a few steps toward the path. “Gonna be dark soon. I'm heading back to my car.”

I looked to the sky as if his comment about darkness clued me in on something. From the stadium, the announcer's voice boomed, and the band started playing the fight song.

“Wanna walk back with me?” he asked.

“Think I'll take a few more shots before I go,” I said.

“I can wait.” He nodded, and a loose curl slumped into his eye. His lips pulled back again, just a hint of a smile this time. He splayed his hands in the air. “I'm harmless, really.”

“I work better when I'm alone.” I raised my camera to my face and turned, noticing the shadows that were crowding the treetops. It hurt a little somewhere in my stomach, having my back to this stranger. My insides screamed for me to turn, to watch his hands, to make sure he didn't get too close. But I couldn't. Not if I wanted him to leave.

“Hope they turn out,” he said. “Your light's not going to last more than a few minutes.”

I lowered the camera and noticed that he'd taken a few steps up the path. “I'm experimenting with the aperture and shutter speed,” I said. “I know what I'm doing.”

“I'm sure you do.” He shot me another one of those smiles. This time it didn't creep me out. It just pissed me off.

He left and I stayed, waiting longer than necessary before making my way to the parking lot.
He should be long gone,
I told myself as I walked that last stretch of wooded trail.

But he wasn't. He was leaning against a black Mustang with his arms crossed over his chest. “Just wanted to make sure you got out okay,” he said, a hint of velvety softness creeping into his words. Part of me wanted to believe him. But the always-guarded part of me had the urge to scrape that smile off his face with my fingernails.

“I'm fine.” I waved my camera in the air and speed-walked to my Jeep, not wanting him to see me run. I unlocked the door quickly, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door before engaging the locks. I felt kind of silly. The top was off. He could jump in through the back if he really wanted to. But he just stood there, leaning against his car. When I turned the key in the ignition, the air-conditioning blasted warm air into my face, and the clock in the dashboard told me I was late checking in with my parents. But I needed to get out of there before digging through the camera case to find my phone.

As I pulled out of the parking space, I noticed a rusty orange Camaro that hadn't been in the parking lot when I arrived. For a second, I just sat there with the Jeep in reverse and stared at the rear window of the old car. Centered at the bottom of the window was a sticker of a screaming skull with flames shooting out the back of its head. It made my skin creep, spooked me even more than I already was. It was that silent scream. Lost forever.

Noelle was always in my mind. The trick was to push away any thoughts of what might have happened after the last time I saw her pedaling away on her red Schwinn. If I thought about it too hard, the little things got to me. Like not remembering if she turned back and waved over her shoulder that very last day, or just rode away without a glance.

It wasn't enough, just knowing that Noelle was alive and on her way back to us. So I sat there wondering if Noelle had screamed when she was taken. And if she had, why hadn't anyone heard?

I shivered in spite of the heat and put the car in drive.

She'll tell you everything soon,
I told myself.
She's almost home.

It was the guy who got me going, his offer to wait and walk with me through the woods. I tried not to think about the deep tan that must run along the smooth skin covered by his shirt. But that didn't work so well. And even though I promised myself I wouldn't look, the last thing I saw when I passed the black Mustang was that guy with all those dark curls, waving one hand in a silent good-bye.

“Did you see the news?” a girl behind me asked.

“No,” said another. “Something juicy?”

It was the first day of school, and I was standing in front of my open locker, staring at the looping
L
on the spine of my new literature textbook, listening to people nearby.

“Noelle Pendelton is alive.”

“Get out!”

“Seriously. You've got to see the picture of the kidnapper guy.
So
creepy. His eyes make me feel like I have bugs crawling all over my skin.”

“I'll have to get online during my free period.”

The story of Noelle's return had been splashed all over the TV since the day she'd been found. My parents and I had eagerly awaited Friday's evening news, our nerves taut as we read and reread the Breaking News banner that ran along the bottom of our screen.

LOST OHIO TEEN FOUND AFTER TWO YEARS OF CAPTIVITY.

My mom and dad sat on the couch, pressed against each other, not even trying to hold back their tears. I was balled up on the recliner, rocking slowly back and forth.

When the news began, a quick clip ran, and I caught my first glimpse of Noelle as she was shuffled into the police station. It wasn't a good view, and I strained my eyes trying to see around the crowd, but of course, it didn't work; I was looking at a television. Trying to offer her some privacy, the officers held up folders and jackets so the media couldn't catch a good shot. The attempt to shield her helped, but from between two men, I saw a flash of her. Noelle's hair wasn't auburn anymore; it was jet-black and really long and stringy. She looked pale, and her face was kind of puffy. I felt the first glimmer of the fear Coop had been talking about.

I sat there in the leather seat holding on to a pillow, scratching my fingernails over its embroidered flowers. Suddenly, it seemed like a lot more than two years had passed since that last day with Noelle.

Then the screen flipped to a shot of a police car, and through what seemed like an electrical storm of camera flashes, I saw Charlie Croft.

I felt really cold, but also hot and tingly at the same time.

After everything, I finally knew what he looked like, the man who had taken Noelle. He was very tall and large; his round stomach pushed against the fabric of the orange coveralls he wore. Cuffs bound his hands and ankles. His scruffy face was covered with deep, craggy lines, and his dark hair was flattened against his head. The news camera caught him head-on as he shuffled from the car toward an open door in the rear of the police station. When he glanced up, I saw a flash of his eyes. They were an opaque black and made my head feel suddenly afloat. I gripped the arm of the leather chair, not wanting to lose control.

As the newscaster reported that Noelle's kidnapper had never been arrested before, my brain whirred, repeating the one question that over the last two years had been totally and completely, under all circumstances, off-limits. Only this time, it was worse, because for some reason, seeing Charlie Croft made everything terrifyingly real.

What, exactly, did that man do to my Noelle?

“Tessa,” my mother said, stretching out a thin arm, waving me to the couch with her long fingers, “come over here.”

My father scooted over and patted the tan fabric with his bear-size hand. Then he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, smearing tears along his upper cheeks.

When I sat between them, their arms encircled me. The soft flannel of my mother's pajama top brushed my jaw, and the heat from my father's body melted me into a younger version of myself.

I breathed in the vanilla scent of my mother's lotion and waited to see the video of Noelle again. As reporters spewed the statistical unlikelihood of a missing child's being found after such a long period of time, all of them speaking with heavy voices as they deemed this homecoming a miracle, my father's hand gripped my arm.

I watched an interview with our seventh-grade social-studies teacher, who claimed that Noelle was “a little on the wild side, but in a fun way.” And another with an old family friend of the Pendeltons' whose house we used to go to for barbecues every summer. He claimed Noelle could beat anyone at Ping-Pong. I'd forgotten about that.

The clip of Noelle played several more times. After I had every detail cataloged in my memory, I stood and looked at my parents. They were both wet-faced. Soggy and limp. I reached for a tissue on the end table and handed it to my mother.

“It is a miracle,” she said, her words muffled by the thin paper that covered her leaking nose.

I smoothed down the fuzzy brown hairs sticking up from the top of her head.

My father stood and hugged me too tight, the zipper of his fleece biting into my cheek.

“We love you,” he said, his voice catching.

“Love you, too,” I answered, feeling robotic, like a mechanical me. I left them there staring after me, and climbed the steps toward my room. After crawling into bed, I stared at the clock on my nightstand, watching the numbers tick away as I wondered how many more hours it would be before I could talk to her again.

Four days later, as someone's shoulder bumped against mine while I walked down the crowded hall on the first day of my sophomore year, I realized that since Noelle wasn't there, I was her substitute.

Almost everyone I passed stared at me, but no one made eye contact.

“I heard there were a bunch of reporters at the park yesterday,” someone said as they passed me.

“Did you see the house she lived in?”

“What about that interview with the old lady who lived next door?”

I hoped that Noelle would be as strong as I remembered so she could face all these people. But if the old lady they were talking about was right, numerous people had seen Noelle in public over the years. I wanted to know why she had never told anyone who she really was. And I wondered if it was possible that Charlie Croft had actually broken her.

After ditching lunch to hang out in the library, I made my way through the crowded halls and slowly walked into the photography classroom. I was freaking out a little because I knew life photography, a yearlong class for upperclassmen (and me), would be different than any other photography class I had ever taken.

My breath was all shaky, and I felt a little off balance as I walked through the doorway. A few people stared at me as I sat down, but I didn't hear anyone whispering about Noelle. If nothing else, that made me feel better.

I was looking at my desk, rubbing my finger along a message carved into the wood that said
Run, baby, run
, when I felt a tap on my arm. Darcy Granger plopped into the seat to my left, her face and arms deeply tanned from summer break. I felt my shoulders relax, falling several inches.

“I thought you dropped this class,” I said.

“I talked my dad into letting me ax French four instead. Convinced him I won't use it ever again.” She shrugged. “College will have nothing to do with French and everything to do with fashion photography.” She swept her dark brown hair over her shoulder and leaned back in her seat, snapping a bubble of pink gum. She was always chewing gum, and she always smelled like strawberries.

“Isn't Paris the fashion capital of the world?” I asked.

Darcy flipped her hand in the air. Flopped her sandal against the bottom of her foot. “I did what I had to do.”

“I'm glad you're here,” I said.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Darcy crossed her long legs under her desk and smoothed her short skirt along the tops of her thighs. “You don't need me.”

“Whatever.” I opened the blue folder in front of me and pulled out several pictures, placing them on my desk. “If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't even be in this room, all tied up in knots.”

“You're not still mad at me, are you?” Darcy turned sideways in her seat so she was facing me. Her little nose twitched with each chomp of the gum. “Maybe I didn't do it the right way, but I know I did the right thing.”

“You were trying to be nice,” I said. “So I forgive you.”

“Good. Enough of that.” Darcy took a deep breath. “Did you see all the counselors in the atrium?”

I nodded. “Like they can say anything to help.”

“I thought maybe you'd … I dunno, need to talk to someone. With everything they're saying on TV about—”

“Nope.” I shook my head and looked down at the glossy black-and-whites, glad that this girl who had decided to take me on as her pet project last year knew when to push and when to back off.

I was about to pass Darcy my favorite pictures of the Three Sisters when he walked into the room.

With one hand tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, he drifted through the door. I knew who it was immediately: all that messy black hair gave him up before he even looked at me. I tried to look away, but I was still staring when his eyes found me. He paused, and then smiled. That same smile he'd flashed me in the woods. He nodded and walked to the empty desk to my right, sliding into the seat as I shoved my pictures back into the blue folder.

“Hey,” he said. “It's you.”

I tipped my head toward him, trying not to grin or do anything stupid that might give away how shocked I was that he had recognized me.

“I didn't catch your name.” He dropped a pen and notebook on his desk. “The other night, I mean. When you crept up and scared the crap out of me.” He was smiling again. His teeth were almost perfect, except for one that turned in a little on the side of his top row.

“Tess,” I said quietly. “And I remember the other night a little … differently.”

“I'm Max.” He pulled at a strand of his hair and tucked it behind his ear.

“Hey,” I said, and then looked at Darcy.

She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows, popped her gum, and mouthed the word
hot.

I rolled my eyes, trying to act like I hadn't noticed. But really, all it took was one glance. Every girl in our school would want a piece of him. Except, of course, me. I wasn't interested in guys. Not that I liked girls or anything. I just preferred to be alone.

A minute later, the bell rang, and Mr. Hollon, one of the school's youngest teachers, walked to the front of the classroom. He was wearing a navy blazer and a teal tie-dye T-shirt. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail that brushed his shoulders as he patted his pockets, looking for something. I had to force myself to focus on all this. To keep my eyes from darting to the dark boy seated next to me.

“Lose something?” someone from behind me asked.

A few people chuckled.

“My blue pen,” Mr. Hollon said.

More chuckles filled the room. The pen was clearly visible to all of us, tucked neatly behind Mr. Hollon's right ear.

Darcy ahemmed loudly and gestured toward the side of her face.

“One moment it is lost”—Mr. Hollon smiled and slowly reached for the item—“and the next it is found. And that, my friends, is our first lesson.”

I heard low chatter around me.

“This simple demonstration is the foundation for a yearlong project that I expect you to begin thinking about immediately.”

“Lost and found?” someone asked.

“Well,” Mr. Hollon said, “what those two words represent.”

I sucked in my breath. Knowing.

“Just like Noelle Pendelton.”

The whisper slammed into my back, and I stiffened. In my peripheral vision, I saw Max look at me. I ignored him.

“Maybe this wasn't the best idea, considering the recent news….” Mr. Hollon bent forward a bit and put the pen on the desk in front of him. “Let's try this another way. I'll say a word, and you say the first thing that comes to your mind. Ready?” He put his hands in the air. “Fast.”

“Slow.” Several voices spoke together.

“Hot.”

“Cold.” More voices joined in.

“Up.”

“Down.” This time almost the entire class answered together.

“We could go on all day, right?” Mr. Hollon nodded. “What are we listing?”

“Antonyms.”

“Ooh, fancy.” Mr. Hollon laughed. “Very good. And … antonyms are?”

“Opposites,” Darcy said.

“Right!” Mr. Hollon touched his finger to the side of his nose. Then he quickly walked to the door and flipped off the light. After stepping to his desk, he hit a few buttons on his keyboard, and the image of an eagle soaring over a mountain peak flashed on the whiteboard behind him. “What's this?” he asked.

“A bird.”

“An
eagle
.”

“Okay.” Mr. Hollon nodded. “But what does it represent?”

“Flight.”

“Freedom.”

“The United States.”

“Now we're getting somewhere.” Mr. Hollon looked at all of us. “Take out a pen and piece of paper.”

There was shuffling all around as I opened my notebook and pulled a pen from my purse. I couldn't help looking at Max, this new guy who, with his slouching posture and legs stretching into the aisle, seemed more at ease with my classmates after a few hours than I did after my entire life.