Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel by Holly Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

someone else’s, too, like a version of musical chairs.
    Mom never realized that I’d taken hers. When I got home, I put it back, but first I copied the playlist. I told myself there was something subversive—something punk—about planning my escape while listening to her music. But mostly, I just wanted to hear it, over and over.
    The song I love the most is by a band called the Church, and it’s called “To Be in Your Eyes.” It starts like this: “Nighttime is so lonely / When you hear a sound / But it’s only an empty heart / Beating on through the night / A sad, sad drum.”
    I want so much to hear it right now, but what if it has some mystical effect, like it turns me into her and makes me chicken out, or it draws me back home, despite everything?
    When I listen to that song, it’s like I get a jolt right in my brain, like I’m mainlining all this pain, only it’s actually my own pain. Idon’t know why it feels good to have this concentrated dose, but somehow, it does. Somehow, it makes everything hurt less, or hurt in a way that almost feels good.
    I can’t imagine my mom listening to that music, even though it’s hers. I can’t imagine her ever knowing how I feel.

Eleven Months Ago
    Facebook
    You’re right, you don’t know me. I get why you’re cautious. But I would really like to know you.

    I can tell a lot of things about you, reading what you wrote, what you like, what you don’t like. That last one’s the most important, in a way. You have to hate the same things, don’t you think? And we do. Read my profile. You’ll see.

    I can tell you don’t think you’re particularly special. But I can also tell that you are. Special in the good way, not like you’re riding the short bus.

    You asked how do I know Wyatt, how I found you. It was a couple of years ago, and my family rented a vacation house next to Wyatt’s in a place called the Outer Banks. It’s in North Carolina. Have you ever heard of it? Nice beaches, really peaceful. So Wyatt’s family and my family hung out all week. We had clambakes on the beach. The clams are harvested right there. Maybe you’ll get to taste them someday, with me. :)

    Kidding. We just met. But who knows where this could lead?

    The thing is, Marley, you never know about anything until you do. Never know about anyone. All those friends you have, even your family—they look one way but they might be another. I’m not like that. What you see is what you get. I can tell you’re like that, too.

    I feel like I know you already. Is that crazy?

    Write back, even if it’s to tell me I’m crazy.

    Wherever this goes, even if it’s nowhere, I’m still glad we met.

Day 4
    NO NEW LEADS. PAUL showed Marley’s photo to every bus station employee he could find, from the ticket agents to the janitors, and if anyone recognized her, they didn’t admit it. He’ll try again tomorrow. Since today is Sunday, there could be some weekday staff that he missed. He’s also canvassed the old neighborhood and a fair amount of San Francisco. Nothing. Is there any uglier word in the English language?
    He dropped Marley’s phone and computer off with the techies. The police didn’t care enough to put their own people on it, or maybe they don’t have those kinds of people. That could be why none of the CSI shows are set in small college towns.
    I’m despairing of Marley ever walking in the door. If we want her back, we’re going to have to use a net, like in a cartoon; we’ll have to catch her like a butterfly. What then? If we drag her back, she’ll only leave again. Whatever made her go, it’s still here—inside us, or inside her.
    I keep staring at that Facebook picture of Marley, the one where she’s hugging herself. That forced smile. I’ve seen it plenty lately, but I didn’t want to admit that she was just going through the motions.
    I can recognize my blind spot now. It’s that every time I looked at Marley, even when we weren’t speaking, I felt this