Bri's Own World

“Miss Clemont?” asked a deep voice over the phone.

“Yes?” I answered, preoccupied with my burning macaroni.

“Are you in acquaintance with a Miss Rachel Zepher?”

“I am,” I replied, still trying to salvage my lunch. I figured it was probably some admirer who wanted her number.

“I’m sorry to inform you that she has gone missing. This is the Grand Junction Police Department, and we were wondering if you had heard from her,”

“Yeah…” I said absently, until I realized what he had told me, “Wait, what?” I exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. She was reported missing this morning.”

Forgetting about my pasta, I grabbed my shoes and keys and headed out the door.

My black Ford Focus was waiting for me in the garage, in need of a wash as always. I quickly told the police officer that no, I hadn’t heard from her, and then hung up. I sped past the familiar landmarks on the way to Rachel’s small suburban neighborhood, my mind reeling. Rachel was twenty four, like me, and had lived in this small Colorado town her whole life, as I had. She was nothing short of beautiful, with ash brown hair and big, dark brown eyes. Maybe it was one of her many stalkers who had kidnapped her.

I pulled up to her house, where there were three police cars parked. Bright yellow caution tape surrounded the small yard.

I ducked under that and made my way into her backyard. Although it was clean and orderly, there wasn’t much landscaping, only a couple of flower pots, most of which were empty.

I glanced around. The place was swamped with policemen. I depressed me; none of these men even knew Rachel. I walked around to the other side of the house. Here was out favorite place, a little nook between the fence and the house, just big enough to walk into. This was where we kept trinkets from our childhood to preserve memories. There was a wheel from the wagon we broke riding it down a hill; a notebook of MASHO games, the photo album of photo shopped pictures we made of us with celebrities. There were all sorts of seemingly insignificant objects here, but to us, it was a treasure trove. I looked around, getting the sense that something was missing, but I decide that I was just being paranoid.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” What are you doing here? This is a closed area,”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, turning to the burly police officer, not sorry at all. “I’m Brianna Clemont. Rachel Zepher was my best friend,”

The man’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can. Come look,” he gestured for me to follow.

He led me back to the flower pots. I looked around. Between two of the pots a pair of orange gardening gloves and a hand rake were laying, somewhat hidden. There was also a nail file and two barrettes with butterflies on them lying a little bit away.

“We’ve deducted that she was probably doing some gardening when she was kidnapped,” he said professionally.

I frowned. That was impossible. Rachel was no gardener. It was an activity that required patience, something she lacked.

But what she didn’t have in patience she made up for with brains. Rachel was an extremely intelligent young woman. We met through a gifted and talented program in elementary school. And one of our favorite things to do was read Nancy Drew mysteries.

Things began falling into place. I ran back to the nook, our memory stash. Looking around, I saw what I needed. The bright blue ball was gone. I rushed back to the detectives, who were staring at me in bewilderment.

“2134 North Valencia Drive,” I gasped.

“What?” They asked in confusion.

“Just… take me there,” I said.

Still confused, they complied. The thrill of riding in a police car was dull compared to my excitement.

We pulled up to the light yellow house in yet another suburban neighborhood. This was Rachel’s childhood home, but that wasn’t where I was headed.

When we were fourteen, we had been throwing a large blue four square ball at each other in the sprinklers. Don’t ask me to explain; it was a teenage girl thing. But as we were playing, we accidentally threw it over the fence. Wet and covered in grass stains, we ran over to her neighbor’s house, Mrs. Craft. She has a perfectly manicured lawn with a giant birdbath shaped as a butterfly.

We called her “Crazy Craft” because she was so obsessed with her flowers and plants. We rang the doorbell and were greeted by the white haired, middle-aged gardener. She left us to her back yard, where we saw our ball in a flower bed. Crazy Craft screamed. Apparently, we had killed her prize magnolias. We grabbed our ball and left as she chased us back to Rachel’s.

From then on, every time she saw us, the cliché ‘if looks could kill’ came to mind.

I now ran up to her front door, which was unlocked as always. Opening it, I found Rachel bound and gagged on the couch with a deflated four square ball next to her. Crazy Craft looked up from the chair across from her, surprised.

“Ten years is an awful long time to hold a grudge, Mrs. Craft,” I said.