A FEMA SITUATION
When I go down to the kitchen late the following Saturday morning, Sam and David are slurping cereal, my dad is reading the paper, and my mom is standing by the window, cereal bar in hand, looking at a tree in the yard.
"I can't believe that's a robin," she says. "It's October. Something weird is going on. Morning, Meals."
"Goddamn Mets," my father grunts, turning the page. "Morning," he says to me.
"Daddy cursed," Sam says. "Cursing is a sin."
"Don't be a tattletale," David says.
"I'm not," Sam whines.
David scoffs.
Sam scowls.
"Boys," my dad says in his this-is-my-day-off-so-don't-make-me-mad tone.
"I'm not a tattletale. I'm really good at keeping secrets. I never told Mom that I painted her a candleholder for Christmas, and I didn't tell Daddy about the mug. Did I?" Sam looks at our parents.
My mom nods. "You're good at secrets, Sammy."
"See!" Sam glares at David. "And I didn't tell on Toby for letting you play Grand Theft Auto last night."
My mom looks at David. "He did? He let you play that violent game?"
"Sam! You idiot!"
Sam bursts into tears and runs up to his room.
My mom looks at me.
"Don't look at me," I say. "I didn't have anything to do with the video games. I was at Muppet's last night." Muppet's was a bust since she spent most of the night texting Toast. Sadly, the best part of the night was watching the last half of Trainwreck with her stepmom.
"Lou?" My mom looks at my dad.
My dad sighs loudly and turns the page of his paper.
Wails ring out from upstairs. My mom leaves to comfort my brother.
"Sam's such a scaredy-cat," David tells me. "He couldn't even watch Pan's Labyrinth."
"You watched Pan's Labyrinth?"
"It wasn't scary. Sam's a wimp. Toby said I'd be fine and I was. I am."
"Guillermo del Toro is a great director," I say, horrified and impressed that Toby showed that movie to the twins. Poor Sam might be traumatized for life. "I was creeped out."
"I like Star Wars more," David says as my mom comes back into the kitchen. "Star Wars is the best movie ever."
"Where's Toby?" she asks me.
"Sleeping, probably," I say.
She shakes her head. "He's not in his room. I went to tell him that it's inappropriate to let seven-year-olds play that game, but he's not there."
My dad puts down the paper and looks at me.
"I was at Muppet's till eleven. Her stepmom drove me home and I went to bed."
My dad walks out of the kitchen and down to my grandmother's apartment. In less than a minute, he silently walks back through the kitchen and upstairs.
"He hasn't texted?" my mom asks.
"No." My most recent text was from Epstein last night.
My dad barrels back into the room. "He's not here," he booms. "And his room is a FEMA situation, Meg."
"I told you that," my mom snaps. "Did you think I just didn't see him?"
"What's FEMA?" David asks.
"Federal Emergency … it's not important, David. Go play, okay?"
David slides off his chair and shoves it forcefully under the table. "You always make me leave during the good parts."
"Upstairs," my dad says. My brother books it. My dad is not someone who tells you to do something more than once. He's very tall, has a bunch of tattoos on his arms, and has a shaved head. When he wants to be, he can be really intimidating.
"Amelia," my mom says. "What do you know? Were there any parties or anything?"
"I think Toast had people over. I'll text him."
have u seen/heard from toby? I text Toast and Ray.
Ray: No. ??????
Me: just wondering
Toast: Not since 6th period Fryday
"They haven't seen him," I say.
My mom rubs her palms over her eyes. I feel terrible. My parents are the hardest-working people I know. They probably weren't home till like 1:00 AM and then up early with the twins. How could my brother do this?
"I'm sure he's just at someone's house, Mom."
"But he knows to check in," my mom says. "It's always been the house rule. Just tell us where you are and when you're going to be home."
My dad nods.
She looks at me expectantly. "What's going on with Toby, Meals? He's been so … so distant. He's in his room all the time. Has he seemed distant to you?"
"He's probably got senioritis. A lot of them do."
"You're supposed to get senioritis when you've gotten into college." My mom picks at her cuticle. "You'd tell us if Toby were in trouble. Drugs or something."
I think back to the night after the eighth grade dance when Ray and I drank peach schnapps. Toby snuck us into the house and stealthily cleaned up gallons of our vomit. He wouldn't tell on me in a million years. How can I tell them he owes me more than a hundred dollars, which I think he's spent all on Toast's pot? "Yeah, I'd tell you," I say, crossing my fingers like I'm five.
"He's a teenage boy," my dad says. "Teenage boys don't want to talk to their mothers. I was the same way. Not that leaving like this is in any way excusable. He's working the next ten weekends. We can always use another busser."
"Maybe we shouldn't have made Ginger's a full restaurant," my mom says. "If we'd kept it a coffee shop, we'd be home more. I could have taken Toby to look at more colleges over the summer."
"He probably fell asleep at a friend's house," I tell her. "It has nothing to do with Ginger's." A few times a year my mom gets on a running-a-restaurant-takes-me-away-from-my-children kick. "You guys are here. You really are."
"I don't know." She doesn't sound convinced. "It's so much work, Meals. Something is always going wrong. The dishwasher is on the fritz. A waitress quits. It was simpler before."
"But it was boring," I remind her. "You and Dad were miserable just making muffins."
"Your dad was miserable. I was okay. I like making muffins." She looks at my dad.
I'm not sure what to say. And I guess my father doesn't either because he just picks up the paper again.
"Well, Prudence is here, so at least he's not driving," my mom says. "It's the driving that really scares me. There are so many accidents on these dark roads."
"Amelia doesn't drive," my dad reminds her.
I actually hope that my parents will have another why-won't-Amelia-get-her-license-already conversation because at least then they'll stop talking about Toby. But they don't tell me to get my license. They just sit there looking at me, as if I know something I'm not telling them, until my mom says that when Toby comes home, they'll talk to him about being a responsible member of the family, which means, in addition to checking in with his whereabouts, not letting the twins play violent video games and keeping his room cleaner. Then she asks me to write down the phone numbers of all his friends so she can call them herself.
"What's up?" Epstein says when he answers his phone an hour later. He's spending the weekend at Brown University.
I think about how my mom just called practically every senior at Washington Lincoln, but none of the ones who answered had seen Toby. Epstein is a senior, too. If he went to school here, my mom would have called him. Should I tell him? But Epstein doesn't go to school with my brother, has no idea that Toby played Peter Pan in sixth grade or got asked to the prom by three girls his sophomore year. Epstein barely knows anything about my brother so I don't want to tell him this.
When my pause is just a bit too long, I say, "Nothing. How's Brown?"
"Pretty awesome. I'm definitely going to apply. You sound kind of weird."
"I'm tired."
"Me too. I stayed up late at this improv comedy sketch thing last night. It was really funny."
"Sounds fun," I say.
"I miss you."
"You do?"
"Horribly."
"My parents loved you," I tell him. "So did the twins and Ray and Toby—"
"Hey, Amelia. I have to go. An informational thing is starting. I'll call you later."
After we hang up, I lie down on my bed and look at the ceiling. Out of nowhere I get a sour feeling, like a piece of ice is slowly and painfully melting in my stomach. Why would Toby just leave? My parents aren't strict about curfew. Most of the time, especially on weekends, they're home later than we are. Is he a drug addict? Owes the Mafia money? What if he killed someone?
When I can't get past the cheesy movie plots, I go into Toby's room and dig through mounds of clothes and crumpled potato chip bags like I know what I'm looking for. I find: three legal pads with lots of random things written on them, a Bible, four empty packs of M&M's, two black-and-white composition notebooks with some poems/lyrics written in them, a bong, three Sharpie markers, a half-eaten Snickers bar, two crushed Budweiser cans, a bunch of socks, and a family-sized bottle of laundry detergent. There's a Blu-ray of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, a beat-up copy of The Silmarillion, and a pile of T-shirts and jeans heaped on the floor. I also find two old flip phones that have been taken apart.
Like my dad said, his room is a total mess, but I don't discover any drugs, duffel bags of money, or, thank goodness, dead bodies.
By lunch, my parents are borderline frantic. They don't talk about it in front of the twins and I know they haven't told my grandmother because she would have come back from the weekend she's spending with Harry in Montreal, but my mom is glued to her phone and my dad shovels handfuls of potato chips into his mouth. After lunch I paint my nails, send Epstein a photo of my freshly painted nails that he doesn't respond to, take Kepler on a walk, and then, out of desperation, watch The Lego Movie with Sam, David, and Kepler.
When we sit down to dinner, my dad dumps a mountain of mashed potatoes on his plate and barks, "Everyone eat."
"Did Toby run away?" Sam asks. His eyes get big and buggy.
"Shut up," David tells him.
"David told me to shut up, Mommy."
"Boys!" my father barks.
My mom gives my dad a look and then says, "I want you both to think good, happy thoughts that Toby comes home safe very soon. Okay?" My mom sounds like she might cry.
I realize that my parents haven't said that Toby isn't missing, that he hasn't run away, and I feel sick.
When Epstein calls back later that night he tells me he might apply early decision to Brown and all this other random stuff that I sort of listen to.
"Did you watch seven movies already this weekend?"
"Just one. The Lego Movie with the twins."
"That was nice of you," he says. "You don't seem like the Lego Movie type."
Not really, I think, wondering if I should tell him what's going on. You gave him a blow job. He licked your vagina!
You're 99.9 percent sure he's your boyfriend.
"Well, Toby is, uh, kind of, uh, missing," I say. "He's been gone all day. That's why I watched the movie with my brothers. I needed something mindless."
"Oh no, Amelia. That's terrible. You must be so worried." Epstein sounds alarmed, which isn't the reaction I wanted. I'm not sure what I wanted but definitely not alarm. "I'm sorry, Amelia. That's really …" He trails off.
"Scary," I say. "It's really scary. Toby wouldn't do this. It doesn't make sense."
"I heard once that one in five teens under the age of eighteen will run away at least once."
"Oh." I'm not in the mood for a list of Random Epstein Facts. Especially when they're about runaway teens. "He hasn't run away. It's not like that."
"Did you ever tell your parents about what happened?"
"About what?"
"The stuff by the washing machine that night? His hallucinations."
I feel annoyed that Epstein's bringing up that night. Is this how he sees my brother?
"Amelia?"
"I gotta go."
"Keep me posted."
As soon as I end the call with Epstein, Ray calls.
"Toby home yet?"
"No."
"Your mom left me two voicemails."
"I know. She's been calling everyone. It's embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing. She's worried. Where could he be?"
I close my eyes, trying to connect with Toby's spirit, but that's ridiculous. "What if he was kidnapped?"
"Why would he be kidnapped?"
"I don't know. Do you think he's a heroin addict?"
"No."
"A lot of people secretly do heroin. You have no idea they have a drug problem until you read that they're dead on PerezHilton.com. Philip Seymour Hoffman, Heath Ledger."
"You watch too many movies."
"He's been smoking tons of pot, Ray." Philip Seymour Hoffman was a pothead in Boogie Nights. And a drug addict in Before the Devil Knows You're Dead. And Plutarch Heavensbee in The Hunger Games, which doesn't really work with the drug theme.
"Pot isn't heroin," Ray says. "It's mostly legal."
I want to stop thinking about Philip Seymour Hoffman. "I know. Toby is probably at some girl's house. He wouldn't run away, would he?"
"No."
"I know," I say, feeling relieved. Silly Epstein and his silly stats.
"Should I come over?"
"Nah. I think I might go to sleep."
"Really? It's not even eight o'clock."
"I'm tired."
"Okay. Text me the second you hear something."
"I will."
I call Toby twice more after Ray and I hang up, but it goes straight to voicemail each time.
I lie on my bed, thinking that I'll get up to brush my teeth and put on pajamas, but surprisingly I really do fall asleep because the next thing I know my mom is gently shaking me and I'm still in my clothes. "Amelia," she says softly. "Sorry to wake you, but Dad and I are going to work."
"Is …" I look at my clock, totally shocked that it's already 6:00 AM.
"No," she says, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Toby's not home. I left last year's yearbook and three recent pictures of him on the table … The cops need a picture. Someone will stop by. Jesus."
"It's going to be okay," I tell my mom. "He's not really missing." It doesn't surprise me that my dad is going to work, but I'm surprised that my mom is going, too.
"I'll leave work as soon as I can. Dad thinks it's better for me to be busy, and we're really short-staffed." She sighs and I feel mad at my dad. If my mom wants to worry about Toby at home, why can't she?
"Honey, I didn't call Grandma yet. I don't want her to worry or rush back from Montreal. Can you stay here? She'll be back this afternoon." My mom sighs deeply.
"I can be here all day."
She hugs me.
After my mom leaves, I can't fall back asleep so I go downstairs where the twins are on the couch, head to head, already glazed over by TV. A box of cereal and a gallon of milk are on the coffee table. Spoons and bowls are noticeably absent. Such a Toby move. I look at the clock. 6:55. Come on, Toby—come home.
"Scoot over," I say, standing over Sam and David. Grudgingly they make room for me. I sit in between them, vaguely comforted by their matching Halloween pajamas and comatose presence.
"Did Toby run away, Meals?" Sam asks.
David flicks Sam in the head with his fingers. "Probably from your tattle-telling, Shithead."
Sam howls.
"Apologize," I tell David.
David says nothing.
"Say you're sorry," Sam demands. "That hurt."
"I'm going to turn off the TV if you can't get along," I say. "You're taking total advantage. You're never allowed screen time this early."
"Sorry, Sam," David says robotically.
"When I was your age I went to church," I say, knowing I sound like a boring grown-up. "Grandma took me and Toby every Sunday. And Toby didn't run away. There's a simple explanation." Please let there be a simple explanation.
They nod, back in the trance of Phineas and Ferb, so I get up and walk into the kitchen, sit at the table, and look at the pictures of my brother. In one picture he's holding up a jar of applesauce and grinning. Another picture is of the four kids sitting on the porch. The twins are on Toby's lap and Kepler is on mine. The picture in last year's yearbook is the best, though. Most guys wear button-downs or sweaters for picture day, but last year Toby wore my grandfather's porkpie hat and tight pin-striped suit, with an enormous wing-tip-collared shirt he bought at the Salvation Army. He looked so outrageous that even the teachers talked about it.
"Where is he?" I ask Kepler as I let her out. I wipe a trail of crumbs off the table and into the garbage. How did it get to be 8:15? I sit back down at the table. I look at my fingernails. I kick my left slipper off with my right foot. Then I bend down and put my slippers back on. I can't help but think of 12 Years a Slave, The Call, and the stupid Michael Bay one with Mark Wahlberg. Plus there's Changeling and Gone Baby Gone and Argo and Gone Girl. Ben Affleck is kind of into kidnapping. I let the dog back in. Come on, Toby. I squeeze my eyes shut. Come home, come home, come home. I pick up the landline, hang it up. No more movies, I tell myself. Come on, Toby. I will my thoughts to travel into his brain. Come home.
The doorbell rings.
"I'll get it!" Sam screams.
Please don't be the cops. The cops only come for the picture of the missing teenager in the movies. And they never find them alive and well.
"Toby!" David howls. "Toby's home!"
I call Ginger's. My mom picks up in half a ring.
"He's home!"
"Thank God," my mom says. I can practically feel her relief pulsing through the phone. "Is he okay? Put him on."
"Yeah. Okay." I walk into the living room, where Toby is sitting on the couch. He looks terrible. His sweatshirt is ripped in the back; there are dark bags under his eyes. The twins stand five feet in front of him, like they're afraid to get too close.
"He'll call you back." I hang up before she can say anything.
"I can't find my keys," my brother says. "I've looked everywhere."
"Toby! Where the—? Where have you been?"
"Looking for my keys," he says calmly.
"Where are your shoes?" Sam asks.
I look at my brother's feet and see that he's only wearing filthy socks.
"Lost 'em," Toby says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world to come home without shoes.
"Sam, David, go get … Go get Toby a juice."
"Can I have one too?" David asks.
I nod. "Yeah."
They run into the kitchen.
"What the fuck, Toby? We've been totally freaking out. Why didn't you answer your phone or leave a note? I sent you like fifty texts."
"I didn't have time to leave a note."
I shake my head. "What are you talking about? It takes two seconds. You've been totally unreachable. Mom and Dad called the freaking police! They were going to come over for your picture!"
"I thought I wrote a letter," he says.
"Now that they know you're alive, Mom and Dad are going to be super pissed."
I shut up when David comes back in with Toby's juice.
"I don't know where my keys are," Toby tells us again.
"Yeah. You said that. It's okay." I take a deep breath. "Thanks," I tell Sam and David. "Why don't you go up to your room now."
"Can I use your iPad?" David asks.
"Yeah."
The house phone rings. I know my parents want to talk to Toby. But is he just going to tell them he couldn't find his keys?
"Don't answer it!" I yell upstairs as loudly as I can. "Don't pick up, guys." I feel guilty, but it's better to protect my brother.
"Who picked you up?" I ask, pretending not to hear my cell phone ringing. "Who were you out with?"
"It's not important, Amelia. What's important is the keys. Anyone could find them."
"They'll give them back. Everyone knows your yellow submarine keychain."
"Will you help me look for them?"
I remember the time when I was around the twins' age and tried on my mom's diamond earrings. Then I forgot about them and went scootering. When I discovered I'd lost one, instead of ratting me out, Toby helped me look for almost two hours until we found it inside my sweatshirt hood.
"I'll help you look," I say. "But what are we going to tell Mom and Dad?"
He looks at me.
"You need to say something more than you lost your keys. You've been gone for more than twenty-four hours! Where were you?"
He shrugs. "I can't really tell you at this time."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I will tell you. When the time is right."
"When the time is right? Are you stoned?"
"Maybe a little?"
"Jeez, Toby." I glance at his arms to see if there are any track marks, but I'm not even sure I'd know what a track mark looked like. Besides, Toby's arms look normal.
"Sorry." He gives me a sheepish Toby smile.
The phone rings again.
"It's not me you have to apologize to," I say, although I do feel like I deserve an apology. "How are you going to explain all this?"
"My foot hurts," he says, ignoring everything I've said. He holds up his left foot and I see there's a hole in his sock and a blistery wound under his big toe.
"That doesn't look good. Where are your shoes?"
The phone rings again.
"Can I answer it?" David yells down.
"No," I say. "Toby, look—I have to call Mom and Dad back. They're so worried. We have to tell them you're okay. But, Toby—"
"I had no choice, Amelia. I had no choice. I had to get out of here."
That doesn't make any sense. Nothing makes sense. For a second I consider telling my parents how much pot he's been smoking, how most mornings he doesn't bother to get up in time for school, and how he only seems to be hanging out with stoner Toast. But what good would that do? My parents will come flying back from Ginger's, and Toby will be grounded for life and furious that I hadn't helped him out the way siblings in the Secret Sibling Society are supposed to.
"We need an explanation," I tell him. "We need a version that makes sense. A simple explanation."
He looks at me intently.
"Okay … We'll say that you woke me up super early Saturday morning and told me you were leaving. You were going … camping? No, too cold. How about you went skiing … it has to be with someone they don't really know. I know! Arianna. Arianna Kaufman. Ari came home from school and you guys went skiing in Vermont. You lost your phone on the slopes. We'll say that you told me early in the morning that you were leaving, but I was half asleep and completely forgot. You couldn't call because you had no phone."
He yawns.
I can almost picture it. Me, half asleep, cool Toby dressed in hip snowboard gear, whispering to me that he was going with Ari to learn how to snowboard.
Toby coughs deep and rattly.
"Shower before Mom and Dad get home. Clean your foot. You don't want an infection."
He slowly stands up. "And then we'll look for my keys, right?"
"Yeah," I say, even though I have no idea where to look since he hasn't told me where he was. "I'm glad you're okay, Toby." I go into the kitchen to call my parents. My mom answers right away, answering with, "Amelia!" instead of "Ginger's."
"He's fine," I tell her. "He just came home. We don't need the police."
"You're sure? How come no one answered the phone? It's been ringing and ringing. I almost called the police."
"We don't need the police, Mom. Toby is here."
"Thank God. Here's Dad."
"Put him on," my dad says. Unlike my mom, he sounds more angry than relieved.
"He's showering."
"Why did you hang up?"
"Sam broke a glass." I look at the dishes in the sink. "I had to clean it up before someone cut an artery."
Please don't let him ask me any questions, I pray. Please just say you're happy Toby is home and the restaurant is busy so I should be a good egg and hold down the fort.
"Where the hell was he?"
Shit. "Well, see, it was kind of my fault, Dad."
"Your fault? What the hell do you mean your fault?"
I need to just say it and say it quickly. "He went snow-boarding. With Ari, his kind-of girlfriend. Remember her? She came back from college. Toby came into my room really early Saturday morning to tell me, but I totally forgot because I was half asleep. He didn't want to wake you guys. Then he, like, lost his phone on the slopes but he didn't think it was such a big deal since he figured I would've told you." I take a deep breath. "I'm just mad I didn't think to text Ari …"
My dad breathes heavily. "He doesn't ski."
"Snowboarding. He's good at it—you know, from all his skateboarding." This isn't really a lie, I tell myself. Toby is definitely the kind of person who could be an excellent snowboarder.
"This sounds a little far-fetched, Amelia."
"It's true, Dad. It really was my mistake."
"He went skiing? With his prom date?"
"Yeah. Snowboarding."
"In Vermont?"
"Yeah."
"And he lost his phone?"
"Uh-huh."
"Really?"
"Yeah. And his keys, too. I guess he had some terrific wipe out and everything in his pocket just went sailing into a crazy snowbank." You're talking too much. I glance over at the hooks on the shelf and see Toby's keys. They were here the whole time? Toby is going to be so happy!
"You're not lying, are you, Amelia? You're not trying to cover up for Toby?" My dad's questions jolt me back to reality. Am I lying for my brother? I wonder. Nothing he wouldn't do for me.
"Amelia?"
"No. I'm a terrible liar, remember?"
He grunts into the phone. "He's there now?"
"Yeah. In the shower."
"Alright. Mom's coming home. Hold down the fort till she's there, will ya?"
"Sure, Dad," I say, incredibly relieved. I hang up and pick up my brother's keys. Having the yellow submarine keychain in my hand makes me feel a million times better. Toby is home. I've got the keys. I'm pretty sure my parents believe me. Everything is fine.
Act II: Scene 3
AMELIA is twelve years old.
TOBY is fourteen years old.
FADE IN:
INT. AMELIA'S ROOM. NIGHT. A CLOCK ON THE DRESSER SAYS 9:30 PM.
AMELIA is lying on her bed with her head in her arms.
TOBY knocks on the door.
Amelia, looking miserable, opens it.
AMELIA
What?
TOBY
What's wrong? I thought I heard you crying or moaning or something.
AMELIA
I have a book report due on stupid C. S. Lewis. I have to compare and contrast The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and Prince Caspian.
TOBY
And? You haven't finished?
AMELIA
I haven't even read them and Mrs. O'Brien is going to kill me. She hates me and Mom and Dad will kill me and—
TOBY
Calm down. I'll help you.
AMELIA
Did you read them? Even one of them would be good. Do you have a report on it? Do you think Mrs. O'Brien will remember that you wrote it?
TOBY
Dude, relax. I don't have a report. I didn't read those books. But I'll help you.
AMELIA
But they're long books. And Mrs. O'Brien is a hawk for stuff on the Internet.
She flunked Matt Daley for the whole quarter when he did it!
TOBY
We don't need to steal anything. Relax, you look up biographical information about the author. Don't use Wikipedia. Use sites from colleges.
Amelia shrugs.
TOBY
It'll totally work. You read the first half of Voyage. That's only seven chapters. Maybe read the last five pages, too. I'll read the first five pages of Prince Caspian and the last seven chapters. That'll give us plenty to write about.
AMELIA
We're still going to be up so late.
TOBY
You have a date or something?
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. AMELIA'S ROOM. CLOCK SAYS 2:30 AM. The report is in Amelia's backpack. Both kids are yawning.
AMELIA
Thanks so much, Toby. That was so nice of you. I feel like I actually read both books!
TOBY
No problem. You should go to bed. School starts in five hours.
AMELIA
Aren't you going to bed?
TOBY
I have to study for a math test.
AMELIA
You stayed up to help me when you have a test? Are you crazy?
TOBY
It's not a big deal. You seemed really upset. And you're my sister.
FADE OUT.
