by J. Forbes

Created on: May 20, 2008

Hiding

"Melissa's gone again."
I tie the lace of my running shoe slowly, not speeding up because of what I've just heard. It's important to do one thing at a time; I learned early on.
It always starts like this.
I straighten up, my leg still outstretched on the bench. "When?" I ask, looking down to where my best friend Matt is tying his own shoes. They are baseball cleats; white with red stripes, metal cleats on the bottom, cutting like knives into the turf. "And why?"

Matt tucks his straight black hair underneath his headband, and shrugs. "Why does Melissa do anything?"
It is the question we all want to know the answer to, of course.
As it is, we are late for practice. Matt stands up, doing some back bends. I reach down and touch my toes, in an attempt to limber up for the cross-country run that I'm about to set off on. "She'll be back," I say partly to myself, so I don't have to look at Matt and wonder, again, if I'm lying. "When did she leave, yesterday?"
Matt pauses slightly. "Yea," he mutters, "last night." He has his back turned to me now. "We'd better get going." He double-knots his cleats, and moves towards the door.
"Yea," I say, because there is nothing else to say. Melissa didn't leave last night. Maybe it was the night before. Maybe even before that. My trainers squeak as I head out of the wet locker-room. "She'll be back," I call out, even though Matt has already disappeared through the adjoining door and out onto the baseball field, "you'll see."
Sometimes I think he doesn't want to believe me.
I thud along the dirt path, my trainers hitting the hard forest earth in fast, sharp movements. Brushwood breaks underneath my feet, the May sun shines through the trees. The well-worn path pushes me forward and I don't think about anything.
The woods in Ticonderoga are beautiful at this time of year. Dark moss grows on trees, and wildflowers sneak up from between the patches of dirt that marks my path. I run along the path, snapping sumac leaves as I go. Memories come into my head as I make the uneven bends of the trail: the old broken down car that Matt, Melissa and I would play in, before we knew that real cars were much more fun. The hunting shack where Melissa would hide while Matt and I would search for her. All of these thoughts torment me.
Don't think about Melissa.
Now, I can't help it. I make disturbed deals with myself. If I make it up the big hill in thirteen seconds, Melissa will be ok. Done. If I take my next right, over the rocks and roots,

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