Another Word for Dead

The kids in the back, they're whispering it again: Spider . . . Spider's a virgin. And, God, she's old. Like in her thirties. Miss Laurel Mella, "Spider" to her students, hears the whispers, but pretends she hasn't. With her nail she etches a small "x" in the gray gum that keeps the windowpanes in place and watches the leaves outside, their colors crackling with tannic acid.

The kids are restless in American Lit. Late afternoon, their bodies suppurate with cafeteria starches. It's two periods until the end of the day. Michigan. October. Four days since Candace Miller disappeared walking home from school. This morning, a cold snap, and everyone's breath showed in mincing puffs, until finally the principal ordered the heat turned on. Now, the vents blow hot swirls of dust, toasting together wool sweaters, Miss Mella's fading hydrangeas and Nathalie the foreign exchange student's scented oil, which she rubs under her dark arms instead of deodorant—an acrid sweetness.

Yesterday afternoon, Miss Mella went out with the student government as they posted "Missing" flyers across town. She is one of their faculty liaisons, and so she held a map of the town, carefully crossing off the streets they papered. The students leapt ahead of her in a jolly pack, work-proud, rolls of masking tape circling their thin wrists like bangles. Every now and then the kids grew solemn, asking, Do you think they'll find her, Miss Mella? She would answer, The flyers will help, while dispensing more tape in sticky strips. This morning, though, the wind whipped through the streets; the tape didn't hold. Now, flyers skitter across the school courtyard, flirting with the fallen leaves, making a sound that reminds Miss Mella of the words "old bones."

Miss Mella sweeps a sheet of paper from her desk and walks briskly to the front of the classroom. She lifts the paper in front of her face then lowers it an inch, peering over the top at her students. Some lounge, sneakers twitching in the aisle. One or two sleep, faces pressed to their arms or desk; they'll soon wake, cheeks branded by clothing wrinkles. In the back, a cluster buzzes with whispers; every few moments a giggle explodes, rising and then dying as it hits the low ceiling. A few troopers, well behaved, watch Miss Mella and her sheet of paper.

"Heads up," Miss Mella says, and then louder, "Faces forward, please. We have an announcement from the principal." At this the students straighten and hush. They reshuffle into an orderly grid and fall quiet. They know it will be about Candace Miller.

Miss Mella reads verbatim from the paper. "One of our students, fifteen-year old Candace Miller, disappeared while walking home from school on Friday afternoon. She was last seen on Rosewood Avenue between 3:00 and 3:30 PM, wearing an orange windbreaker and blue jeans. Students are encouraged to go to the police with any information regarding Candace Miller's disappearance. Students are also encouraged to walk home in groups. The town will enforce a curfew of 10 PM for those citizens less than eighteen years of age, beginning tonight and lasting indefinitely. Thank you."

Miss Mella glances up at the students, surprised that there is no groan over the curfew. They remain quiet, watching her, waiting for her to say . . . something. What can she say?

"That's all," she offers. "Except . . . maybe you've seen this flyer around the school." She gestures to the blackboard on which is taped a sheet of bright pink copy paper—Candace Miller's school photo, smiling down at them. She has what Miss Mella's mother would call chipmunk cheeks. The word MISSING blazes in capitals above Candace's head.

"The Student Government is meeting in the choir room today to put more of these up around town. Mr. Witter and I are faculty liaisons. I hope you'll come. Um . . . any concerned student is invited to join us." The students remain oddly quiet. Miss Mella fusses with the hem of her blouse. "In fact, extra credit if...