I glared at my scanty wardrobe in disgust. I know pig farming isn't the most glamorous of jobs, but you'd think Mom could afford to buy me at least one pair of nice jeans. "What should I wear?" my drawers basically hold three things: clothes from Goodwill, hand-me-downs, and overalls. While other girls spend hours in front of their closets crying, Of course, my wardrobe is sadly lacking in the popular-attire department. Today was the day Scott Waldron would finally notice me. Normally, I'd just grab whatever clean-ish thing is on the floor, but today was special. The morning before my birthday, I woke up, showered, and rummaged through my dresser for something to wear. I didn't think it would be that way for me. Countless stories, songs, and poems have been written about this wonderful age, when a girl finds true love and the stars shine for her and the handsome prince carries her off into the sunset.
Sixteen is supposed to be the age when girls become princesses and fall in love and go to dances and proms and such. In less than twenty-four hours, I'll be sixteen years old. It would be another ten years before I discovered what. Mom said she wanted to "start over," but I always knew, deep down, that she was running from something. Not long after my father's disappearance, Mom moved us far away, to a tiny little hick town in the middle of the Louisiana bayou. Every time I tried to listen to them, however, I'd wake up. As the water closed over his head, I could hear the ice cream truck singing in the background, a slow, eerie song with words I could almost understand. My father had disappeared without a trace.įor months afterward, I had a recurring nightmare about standing at the top of that hill, looking down and seeing my father walk into the pond. They sent divers into the pond, but it was barely ten feet down, and they found nothing but branches and mud at the bottom. Later, when the police searched the area, they discovered his shoes at the edge of the water, but nothing else. When I begged my dad to get me a Creamsicle, he laughed, handed me a few bills, and sent me after the truck. We were at the edge of the pond, feeding the ducks, when I heard the jingle of an ice cream truck in the parking lot over the hill. It was a lonely little park in the middle of nowhere, with a running trail and a misty green pond surrounded by pine trees. On my sixth birthday, my father took me to the park, one of my favorite places to go at that time. There was no car crash, no body, no police mingling about the scene of a brutal murder. He also did not die, because we would've heard about it. Leaving would imply he was unhappy with Mom and me, or that he found a new love elsewhere. Leaving would imply suitcases and empty drawers, and late birthday cards with ten-dollar bills stuffed inside.
Ten years ago, on my sixth birthday my father disappeared.
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