Girlwood Read Free

during what would have been Polly's second period, her debate class. He wore civilian clothes and would have been completely ordinary-looking were it not for the gun at his hip. He shook her dad's hand but steered clear of her mother, whose head had begun to bobble as if her whole body was coming loose. Polly imagined she'd soon see bolts flying, rusted nails and screws dropping to the floor.
    They all knew Max Wendt: he was the one who was called out to Polly's grandmother's house whenever someone complained about the height of the weeds she called a garden or about the rough and desperate clientele who kept showing up at her door for her natural remedies. To Polly's grandmother,
natural
meant the extracts, oils, and teas she harvested from
plants, like the mallow ointment she'd used last week to soothe Abby Gail's chicken pox. To many people in town, though,
natural
meant "bogus" or "illegal." To Pastor Bentley, Baba's remedies were the work of the devil, which made Baba laugh. When Polly's grandmother heard she was the centerpiece of the minister's sermon, she called herself a celebrity and cheered.
    "We usually wait twenty-four hours before we do anything," Officer Wendt said, as they walked into the kitchen.
    "Usually?" Polly's mom cried, grabbing his arm. "What do you mean, usually? You have to do something!"
    The officer was a big man, probably six two, but he shrank from Faith Greene's frenzied face.
    "We'll go to the school, talk to her friends," he offered.
    Polly rolled her eyes. Bree's friends—the Fab Five, as they called themselves, though there was nothing fabulous about them unless you counted how good they all were at going up in flames—weren't big talkers. Like Bree, they used to be good girls; then the first fabulous one had shot up, and the rest had raced to keep up, as if they'd rather self-destruct than be left out. Bree acted like they cared more about her than her own family did, but where were the Fab Five now?
    "I don't think you need to worry," the officer went on, gently extricating his arm. "Teenagers are always getting mad at their parents and making a dash for it. But then they've got
to figure out the particulars, like how they'll eat, where they'll sleep. Your daughter will be walking through that door any minute. Mark my words."
    They all looked at the front door, which didn't budge. Polly's mom started making weird sounds, noises well beyond crying.
    "What about ... abduction?" she asked. Polly's dad stood uncertainly in the doorway to the kitchen, as if he hadn't bought this house himself fifteen years ago.
    "Faith," he said. "Stop it."
    Polly's mom pressed a hand to her belly and moaned like she had a terrible stomachache. The policeman fixed his gaze on Polly, as if she were the only safe thing in the room.
    "Was there any sign of struggle?" he asked. "Torn sheets? The window left open? Blood?"
    Polly was about to respond when her mom said, "She hardly took anything. Just a jacket, a pair of shoes, a stuffed animal. Is that all runaways usually take?"
    The officer looked away. "Let's not jump to any conclusions."
    "She wouldn't just leave," Polly's dad said. "There must be an explanation."
    They all shook their heads as if Bree were an angel, as if they'd forgotten who they were dealing with.
    "She was trying to vanish into thin air," her mom said. She
was absolutely still for a moment, not even breathing. "Now she has."
    Polly's teeth hurt, the way they did when she had a big test and had been grinding them in her sleep. She stepped forward.
    "Bree's in the woods," she said.
    For a moment, no one said anything. Her mom stared at her as if she couldn't understand a word she was saying. It was Max Wendt who finally broke the silence. "How do you know that?" he asked.
    Polly fidgeted beneath his steady gaze. "I saw her last night. She said she was going to the woods and would try to be all right."
    Her mother started moaning again while the policeman smiled at Polly the way