 This story is part of a new web feature: the calendar Pinup Series. We'll be bringing you great new work online each month. —The Eds. Missing Mary
by B. J. Hollars
You've heard this one before.
A sophomore at the local high school struggles through the periodic table.
The symbols aren’t the problem. She understands that B is for boron and C is for carbon. She even knows the trickier ones. But what she doesn’t know are their atomic weights or how to find them, what the teacher means when he says valence. And so, on her teacher's recommendation, she seeks out a tutor who we’ll call Tim, though that's not his name, but it’s good enough and you get the picture. And we'll call her Mary because that, too, will help to put a face on things.
So, after the final bell, Mary catches Tim beside his locker, introduces herself, and he stares at her for a while before saying something like, "Yeah, I know who you are."
Mary smiles, which is what she always does when she wants something.
“Valence,” she admits. “And atomic weights.”
He nods and picks at his nails, but he’s a teenager—don’t read too much into this.
"So?” she tries. "Can you help me?"
And so Tim, who's maybe a little strange but no more so than any other tenth grader, agrees to help her out.
"Can you meet me at the library at 8:00?"
She says she can. He’ll be at one of the tables in the back.
* * * * *
Fast-forward a few hours, and Tim has just finished pork chops with his family. His father reads the paper while he chews, but that won't prove to be a critical detail. Tim excuses himself upstairs to wet his hair some. That won't prove critical, either.
It's never quite clear what Mary is doing during this time, as Tim finishes up his dinner. She had soccer practice until 5:30, but there are discrepancies after that. Teammates swear she waved goodbye and started home, though others refute the claim.
“She was going to see her boyfriend. You know she had a boyfriend, right?”
Her mother and father were out watching the dress rehearsal of their youngest daughter's play, and while her mother had left a note—Leftovers in the fridge, sweetie—it's unclear if Mary ever entered the house to read it.
* * * * *
The library closes at nine, and at 8:15, when still she has not arrived, Tim begins wondering why he asked her to meet him so late. An hour, let alone forty-five minutes, was hardly time to cover anything.
He sits at the back table and examines his notes. The truth is, he rarely relies on them.
It is a fine library with an excess of hardcover books, subscriptions to major papers, and enough microfilm to blanket the town.
Though perhaps that doesn’t matter.
What matters is that Tim waits for her until the librarian begins tapping the face of her watch.
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