The Summer of Crossing Lines

1

Skydivers cross safety lines when they jump at 13,000 feet.

Runners cross the finish line at the end of a race.

I crossed moral lines to save a life.

It was a day of opposites, when crickets chirped in the sunlight and my words flowed like a swollen river. A day when I should’ve felt at ease. But I didn’t.

My brother was late.

He should’ve been here seventeen minutes ago. Wyatt used to be on time for everything, but these days? Not even close. Five minutes late had become the norm, then ten, now fifteen. I checked the time on my phone again. Where was he?

It should’ve been easy to step through the door, paste a smile on my face, and speak. The drama teacher was expecting me. But my shaky hand gripped the knob. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Someone snapped their fingers, startling me. Hellooo? Melody? My brother’s ex, Madison, tapped her foot. Her boyfriend-of-the-month’s class ring hung from a long chain. Can you move? I rushed to step aside. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, wiping my sweat off her hand as she entered the dark auditorium.

Auditions were in full swing. The drama teacher shouted, Next! The door swung closed.

I paced outdoors in the afternoon heat, practicing my lines. I’d rehearsed in front of a mirror and in front of Wyatt. When I stepped into another character’s skin, my stutter disappeared. Wyatt’s excitement over this revelation was the final push I needed to audition for the summer drama program.

Thirty minutes later, Madison breezed through the door—minus the necklace and class ring. She glanced both ways. Are you waiting for Wyatt? I nodded. She cocked her head and smirked. You aren’t seriously trying out, are you?

The answer formed in my brain. The word was spring-loaded on my tongue, waiting to break free. My pulse quickened. Muscles in my neck tightened. Y-y-y… For most people, the word yes was so simple. One syllable, three letters, over in a second. For me, it was on a long list of trouble words. I closed my eyes and tried again. Y-y-y…

Madison sighed. The scent of her vanilla body spray faded. When I opened my eyes, she’d already sauntered away. My cheeks burned. Why did I try to answer her question?

A light breeze rustled the heavy air and cooled my neck. Napkins blew against the chain link fence, catching between the squares.

I checked the clock. In five minutes, auditions would be over. One thing I knew for sure—I couldn’t step into that room without my brother. He’d taken drama last year and convinced me I could pull off an audition. He’d assured me that the drama club was full of quirky artists who didn’t care what your faults were. To them, faults were gold to be mined when stepping into character.

Four more minutes.

Three more minutes.

Two.

Footsteps thudded. Wyatt rounded the corner, his hair windblown and in need of a trim. Black and blue marks bloomed on his left cheekbone. His eyes were bloodshot, puffy, and round with worry. He dropped his expression, like a curtain closing between scenes, and replaced it with calm and confidence. I’m so sorry I’m late.

My heart rate slowed. Tension in my neck loosened. Being around Wyatt was like pulling on yoga pants after a day in tight jeans.

I opened my mouth to ask about the bruise, but his words came faster than mine. I know you’ve been freaking out. His cheeks were rosy from exertion. His chest heaved with each breath. I promise it won’t happen again.

He’d said this before. But still, I believed him.

L-l-l-late.

No, we’re not. We have one more minute. Follow my lead. He threw open the auditorium door and pulled me down the side aisle. It was cool and quiet. Mrs. Woodley sat in the front row, loading scripts into her bulging tote bag. Mrs. Woodley, we’ve saved the best for last.

She looked up, startled, but not angry or flustered. Why are you two so late?

It’s my fault, Mrs. Woodley. Melody was on time. He bent and helped stuff papers into her bag. She didn’t want to audition without her biggest fan in the audience.

Mrs. Woodley smiled at him and then looked at me. I wish you would’ve come in, Melody. She glanced at her watch. I can’t stick around. My daughter’s playing the tuba at school tonight. Can you audition in my classroom tomorrow at lunch?

Wyatt answered before I had a chance. We’ll be there. He didn’t usually speak for me, knowing it made me feel stupid. But this time I didn’t mind. She’ll ace her audition. She’s way better than me.

Mrs. Woodley grinned. No pressure, right, Melody?

Wyatt grabbed her bag, hefted it over his shoulder, and strolled beside her up the aisle. He asked about her daughter’s softball team, and how their dog was healing after surgery. I followed in Wyatt’s wake, like usual, marveling at how words rolled off his tongue with such ease.

As I passed row four, I spied Madison’s necklace and class ring hanging from an arm rest. I knew I shouldn’t do it. Experience had taught me it would feel good at the moment, but it never solved anything.

I grabbed the chain and class ring and stuffed them into my pocket.

***

I paced outside Mrs. Woodley’s classroom, peeking through her window each time I passed. She sat at her desk, poking lettuce with her fork and checking her watch. It was twenty-two minutes past our noon rendezvous time—still no Wyatt.

Had he taken my angry words seriously? After yesterday’s missed audition, we’d stood by his El Camino in the parking lot. He kicked his tire. I’m sorry I was late again.

This had become the new routine. He flaked out on me, then apologized, and I accepted. Not this time.

I turned my cheek.

It had been his idea for me to audition. But then he didn’t show up on time. I couldn’t shake the image of me waiting outside the closed auditorium door, as if I didn’t belong.

Come on, Melody, don’t be mad. I’ll be there for you tomorrow. I promise.

This was where I was supposed to smile and shake my head as if everything was fine. But I didn’t. I spoke two words that I’d never said to him before. Two words I didn’t mean.

Don’t bother.

I didn’t wait for his reaction. I strode to my own El Camino before he could say something charming. I hadn’t even asked about the bruise on his face.

As I drove out of the parking lot I stared straight ahead, determined not to show him that his reaction mattered. In my peripheral vision, I noticed his sagging shoulders. We hadn’t fought for years, since he’d deemed himself my protector and I relied on him to be there for me when I needed him. I merged my car onto the side road and didn’t look back. I hadn’t seen him since.

Mrs. Woodley stabbed a tomato with her fork and checked her watch again. I peered around the corner, hoping to hear Wyatt’s high tops squeaking along the polished floor.

The bell rang. Mrs. Woodley snapped the plastic lid on her bowl and caught me staring through the small window. She raised her eyebrows in a silent question. I should’ve stepped inside and auditioned without my brother, I knew it. But knowing something and doing something about it were totally different.

At the end of the day I sprinted to the student parking lot and scanned rows of VW Bugs, pick-up trucks, and clunkers, searching for Wyatt’s primer gray El Camino.

Melody, wait up! Susanna, President of the Don’t Tell Anyone I Told You Club, huffed and puffed her way toward me. She bent at the waist, gasping, holding her finger in a give-me-a-minute signal.

A cop— Another deep breath. In the office. She stood and fanned her face. Asked about your brother.

I wrinkled my brow and tilted my head.

Susanna’s breathing slowed. So, I was in the office during sixth period and overheard a cop asking Principal Cooper tons of questions about Wyatt. She paused, waiting for my reaction.

No time for my words. I waved her on.

Well, okay, but don’t tell anyone I told you this. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. The cop asked when was the last day Wyatt came to school. She tapped her finger on her chin. He also asked what kind of student Wyatt was. Stuff like that.

My normal routine of sorting information into columns wouldn’t work. I couldn’t figure out if this was no big deal or screwing up my life.

Susanna crossed her arms and waited for payment, which she expected in the form of information. So? What’s that all about?

Summer was only two weeks away. Maybe he’d ditched school. Maybe he’d argued with Mom and Dad again. I shrugged. I d-d-don’t kn-kn-kn—

How can you not know? She tapped her foot and sighed. Let me know what’s going on, okay?

All the way home I remained quiet while my little brother Maverick juggled multiple text conversations. Wyatt hadn’t been at school. A cop had asked about him in the office. It didn’t make sense.

When I rounded the corner of our street, I drew in a sharp breath. A black and white police cruiser was parked in our driveway. My shoulders tensed. My heart pounded.

Maverick looked up from his phone. His voice squeaked with panic. What’s going on, Melody? Why the cops?

I inspected his face for signs he’d done something wrong. Signs he’d fought at school again, or bolted from 7-Eleven without paying for a Slurpee like he had last week. But his brow furrowed and he looked to me for answers.

We got out of the car and trudged up the walkway. My hand rested on the front doorknob, refusing to twist its way into the unknown.

Maverick nudged me aside. What are you waiting for? He twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

2

Three pairs of eyes zeroed in on us. Mom’s, Dad’s, and a police officer’s.

Daisy, my Chihuahua mix, leaped into my arms and licked my face. I stroked her back while I absorbed the scene.

Tears streaked Mom’s make-up and dripped down her chin. Her hair was flat and disheveled. She tugged on her blonde extensions.

Dad’s jaw was set firm. He leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands tight. He rose to greet us and spoke in a low voice. Kids, have a seat.

My chest tightened. My arms and legs tingled. The police officer studied me as if he’d give a witness description later.

Dad cleared his throat. Wyatt’s been missing for over twenty-four hours.

I inspected his face for signs of humor, but his lips were pressed in a straight line. My legs weakened. I backed up to the couch, sitting across from the officer.

Dad’s voice was hopeful. Do either of you know where he might be?

Maverick and I glanced at each other and shook our heads.

Wyatt’s cell phone sat on the coffee table. He was constantly losing his phone and wallet. Nothing unusual about that.

The police officer tapped his pen against his notepad. Mind if I talk to your kids, Mr. Rivera?

Dad motioned his hand toward us, and the man leaned forward. Deep lines fanned from his eyes. His neck strained against his collar. His mustache was thick and black, like the hairbrushes Mom used at her salon. He smelled like stale tobacco. A silver name bar read Thompson.

You’re Melody?

I nodded.

When was the last time you saw your brother?

Yesterday afternoon in the parking lot. Don’t bother.

Officer Thompson tap-tap-tapped his pen against his notepad. Melody?

My jaw tightened. My tongue pressed the roof of my mouth. Yesterday afternoon. That was all I needed to say.

Officer Thompson pursed his lips and checked his watch. He tap-tap-tapped his pen again. We want to find your brother, but we’ll need your help. This man didn’t understand how difficult it was to push out the words I needed to say. Melody?

Maverick threw his hands in the air. Dude, she stutters. Give her a minute, will ya?

The officer’s eyebrows shot up. Mom concentrated on her lap. Dad scowled at Maverick.

Sorry, but jeez. She just needs time to get the words out, you know?

Officer Thompson crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

The clocked ticked. Lawn sprinklers popped up. Daisy licked her paws.

Y-y-y-y—

Officer Thompson gave me The Look, the one that bordered between pity and impatience. I’d seen The Look so often I knew it was coming the moment the corners of his lips dipped down. He tapped his foot but remained quiet. I couldn’t waste time worrying about The Look. This wasn’t about me.

Y-y-y-y— Deep breaths. Try again. Y-y-y-y—

Yesterday?

He finished my word, which was his way of saying he didn’t have time for me to push it out. I lowered my chin in defeat. Dad pressed his lips tighter. Maverick shook his head in disgust. They’d learned to wait for each word with patience.

The interview was slow and agonizing. The officer asked questions, I forced out half answers, and he finished my words. Through it all, I kept waiting for Wyatt to come home and save me from this frustration.

Where was he?

***

Two days later, my brother was still missing. While the police had been gathering information, my parents and I canvassed our neighborhood in separate cars. We’d searched friends’ houses, the movie theatre, and the mall. We’d called his hockey coach, his track coach, and the guidance counselor at school. We’d gone to Magic Mountain, where he worked, but so far no one had seen Wyatt or heard from him for days.

News about his disappearance had spread fast through our town, like a snowball barreling through grimy streets, growing bigger and collecting dirt along the way. Rumors were spreading about drugs, crime, and running away.

Now, I sat inside the fort Dad built when I was ten years old. The place where I’d devoured Nancy Drew mysteries by flashlight. A warped door clung to the wall with rusty hinges. Spider webs hung between chairs. Feeble light shone through the splintered planks. It smelled of dust and damp earth.

The last time I sat in here was three years ago, when I was thirteen. Joni the Giant, President of the Taller than Every Boy Club, had followed me around school all day, fake-stuttering to her friends.

Wyatt found me here later that afternoon. Bad day?

J-J-Joni the G-g-giant th-th-this t-t-time.

She’s a beast. Forget about her. He wiggled his eyebrows. I dare you.

In our family, backing down from a dare was like leaving a crusty glob of toothpaste on the bathroom counter—totally frowned upon.

He knelt beside me and handed over a plastic container with lettered beads. A stray curl flopped over his forehead. I know you like to make jewelry so I bought this for you.

I trailed my finger along the wooden beads and leather ropes, imagining all the words I could say with them.

We sat in the stuffy clubhouse for the next hour, making necklaces and bracelets using my favorite words. Believe. Dream. Speak. Joni the Giant was forgotten.

The memory felt like yesterday, and his presence remained strong in this quiet space. The silence outside was punctured by brakes screeching to a stop in front of our house. I left my sanctuary, snuck in the back door, and crept through the kitchen, careful to avoid the seam in the linoleum where it squeaked like a dog toy.

Mr. and Mrs. Rivera, my name is Detective Brewer. His voice was deep and gravelly. I’ve taken over your son’s case. An invisible cloud of musk cologne reached me at the same time as his words. Through a crack in the door, I watched him shake Dad’s hand. A paunchy stomach hung over his wrinkled chinos. His wedding band cut off circulation to his finger. Nancy Drew, he was not.

I remained hidden behind the kitchen door, confident I wouldn’t be forced to speak if I wasn’t in the room. We were hungry for information about Wyatt. I held my breath, hoping for good news.

Daisy sensed my presence and wagged her tail. I ducked behind the door, out of sight, until she lost interest and lay beneath the table.

Brewer cleared his throat. Your son’s cell phone records confirm what you’ve told us. Except for one call. He sat at our dining room table, the chair squeaking under his weight. He shuffled papers within his expandable file. Do you recognize the name Rex Santos?

Mom and Dad shook their heads. My mind sorted names into columns: track team, hockey team, Magic Mountain friends, brothers of ex-girlfriends. The name wasn’t familiar to me, either.

He’s in his early twenties. Brewer peered through reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He has some blips on our radar from his late teens. Petty thefts and such. Now he runs a small hot dog cart over at Balboa Park.

Dad leaned forward. Does he know something?

He was brought into our station and questioned, but insisted he didn’t know your son. He said the call from your boy must’ve been a wrong number. Detective Brewer paused, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. It’s odd that a wrong number call would last 30 seconds. But this guy contacted his attorney and we had to let him go.

They let him escape?

Mom’s voice wavered. Wyatt’s friends are honors students. He wouldn’t know someone like that.

True, Wyatt’s friends were honors students, but Jansport backpacks didn’t come equipped with halos and fluffy white wings. Rusty, his long-time friend, once offered to pay me a hundred bucks to write an essay for him. I refused, but he’d found another taker.

Mom dropped loose hairs on the carpet. In the past two days she’d gone through disbelief, anger, and frustration. Now she seemed to have settled into the shock zone.

When Wyatt flaked on my auditions, I’d wanted to give him the silent treatment. Now I wanted him home, where he belonged, no matter how late he was.

Dad leaned on rough elbows. His paramedic badge hung heavy on his shirt. Daisy stood and ambled to the kitchen door, sticking her