Emmy & Oliver Read Free

room for surfboards in the back. The van used to be his brother’s, but after Kane went to college two years ago, he gifted it to Drew, like he knew that Drew was going to need it as a means of escape.
    â€œOh no!” I said once I saw the sand. “I’m sorry, Drew, I should’ve—”
    â€œWho cares?” Caro screeched. “It’s sand, not acid. Just drive, okay?”
    â€œWait,” I said. “ My car. My backpack’s in there, my homework. I have a quiz tomorrow!”
    â€œAre you kidding me?” Drew backed the car up and the force of his acceleration smashed me into the seat. “Buckle up,” he said. “No one’s doing any homework tonight.” When we were finally cruising down the road, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Em, seriously, are you sure you’re not going into shock? You look pale.”
    â€œI already offered her electrolytes,” Caroline said.
    â€œI’m fine,” I told them. Only it came out sort of high and squeaky and any moron with average vision could probably tell that I was not fine.
    Caro reached over the backseat and grabbed my seat belt. “Here,” she said. “Drew’s driving. It’s a requirement.” She snapped it into place and then squeezed my shoulders. “Is this really happening?”
    Caro and I have known Drew since kindergarten. Actually, half our school has known one another since kindergarten. It’s one of those Southern California suburbs where few people move away from their pink stucco houses.
    Here’s something you must know about Drew before becoming his friend: he drives as if he’s being chased by a carful of depraved, evil clowns. I took driver’s ed with him in sophomore year, so I can tell you that he’s always been like this. (I can also tell you that our driver’s ed instructor had to renew his Xanax prescription after Drew’s first on-the-road lesson.)
    But when Drew’s upset or nervous or excited, that’s when he really lets it fly, and the day Oliver was found was probably the craziest driving I’ve ever seen from him. Caro kept one hand on her seat belt as he flew through a yellow light and when he hit a pothole, she yelped. “Drew, this van isn’t exactly built to break the sound barrier!”
    â€œOh, relax, Caroline,” he said, and I knew he was using her full name just to annoy her. No one ever calls her Caroline. It’s just too many syllables.
    â€œI’d like to see Oliver before suffering from debilitating whiplash,” I told him, trying to loosen my iron grip on my seat belt.
    â€œSo how real do we think this is?” Drew asked.
    He had a point. This wasn’t the first time that Oliver had been “found.” The sightings had been intense at first, hundreds of calls pouring in to the hotline saying that they had seen a sandy-haired, freckle-faced seven-year-old in Omaha, Atlanta, Los Angeles, even Puerto Rico. The calls died down over the years, but every year or so, there was a ray of hope. A short-lived ray, but hope nonetheless, enough to live on for another year.
    â€œMaybe real?” I said. “I don’t know, I . . .” I trailed off, not really sure what to say.
    Caro took over.
    â€œEmmy’s mom called me because Em wasn’t answering her phone,” she said. “Something about a fingerprint. He was in a police station for a school field trip? I’m not sure. Anyway, it matched the one in his file and they went to arrest Oliver’s dad at home. He wasn’t there, but Oliver was.”
    â€œNew York?” Drew asked. “Really?”
    â€œNew York City ,” Caro emphasized. “But here’s the part that’s bonkers: they still haven’t found his dad. Apparently, he’s on the lam.” Caro always liked the police lingo. I don’t think she’s ever missed an episode of Law & Order: SVU