Short Story Draft 1: Bonnie

“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Pulling her pink backpack printed with blue flowers from under her bed, my sister rips viciously though our room. A dandelion yellow sweatshirt, a pink pen with a fluffy pom-pom on the end, and a loaf of bread stolen from the kitchen after dinner. They get shoved unceremoniously in her bag along with a pair of socks.

“Do you even care?” She sneers at me, her blonde hair looking even lighter in contrast with her ever-reddening complexion.

“Not really.” I respond, rolling my eyes with disinterest. I hear her voice attempt to speak again, but I cut her off, “You do this every week, you don’t have the nerve.”

“Oh, I DO so have the nerve!” Her usually upright and proper posture now curls intensely, muscles tensed as she replies.

“You know it’s not a fashion show outside, you don’t need to bring your dresses,” I taunt, seeing her holding her favorite blush pink dress with an attached tutu. She glances coldly at me, attempting not to let my words cut through her stupidity. She tidily yet haphazardly makes her bed, jamming the pink floral sheets between her mattress and bedframe. As I lie with legs outstretched onto my seafoam colored duvet, I watch as she arranges her prized teddy bear and gray elephant onto her pillows. 

I can hear the characteristic creaks of the floorboards in the hallway. Our mother is approaching, inevitably to shut this whole farce down. The door groans as she pushes it open gently with her right hand.

“What are you girls yelling about?” My mother inquires, poking her head through the cracked door.

“Nothing!” My sister’s teeth clench into an uncomfortably fake smile as she hastily tosses her stuffed backpack behind the closet door.

“Right, well, keep it down,” Mom sighs and rubs her temples, “Your father is trying to work.”

“Ok! We’ll be quiet,” My sister glances back at me with intensity, “Right?”

“Sure.” I answer, confused as to why my mother isn’t detecting the obvious lying in my sister’s words. I spend a moment mulling over in my head whether or not to spoil her plans, like I do every time.

“Well, goodnight, Girls.” She leaves and I hear the creaks again as she disappears down the stairs.

Bonnie left last night. And I let her go.

This morning was quiet. The bright September sun streamed through my windows and shone brightly upon Bonnie’s empty bed. Her pink sheets were left meticulously tucked in the corners and the gray stuffed elephant and pink teddy bear rest comfortably near the pillow, precisely where she left them. They look lonely. My side of the room looks unkempt compared to her side, apart from the remnants of her unceremonious snatching from our shared closet last night. The precise line of paint that splits Bonnie’s side from my own feels sharper today, the blue and pink paint split straight down the middle of our room and through the window that rests between our beds.

Stretching my arms towards the ceiling as I get up out of bed, I glance over to Bonnie’s otherwise orderly desk to see a piece of paper lying there alone. “To Mom and Dad” it says written in that same pink pen she had in her hands last night. The writing is swirly and the a’s are written weird, the way that they look when typed in basic Arial font. 

Can’t hurt to look.

But it did hurt. It said how I wanted her gone, how no one would notice her missing and that it didn’t matter if she left since they had a copy of her they liked better. How everyone at school makes fun of her and how she isn’t welcome anywhere. Her declaration ends with, “DON’T LOOK FOR ME. I don’t want to be found. Love, Bonnie.”

Nearly dropping the paper, I rush over to my half of the room and yank open the top desk drawer. Shoving the letter inside, I cover it with some assorted books and papers and push it closed before I hear the floorboards again. 

My dad’s voice wrenches me out of my panicked rush, “Everything OK in there?”

“Yep, everything’s great!” I say, trying my best to hold back the tremble in my words.

“Alright, then. Is your sister up yet? Your mom just finished breakfast and you should both eat before the bus gets here.”

“Nope, she’s still asleep. I’ll bring it up for her, I think she’s feeling sick.” My heart pangs as the words leave my mouth. Why am I lying about this?

I hear the floorboards creak again as Dad walks away, “Oh and one more thing, Happy Birthday honey.”

“Thanks Dad.” Guilt flushes my face, but luckily, my father’s back is already turned.

“Tell your sister I said that, I gotta get going to work now.”

My chest tightens as I hear him walk down the stairs, say a few quick words to Momm following it with a kiss on the cheek. As he leaves out the front door, I want to rush down the stairs, tell him everything I know. But I don’t. Instead I force my legs to move over to my desk where I laid out my school uniform last night; a dreadful ensemble consisting of a plaid navy skirt, a blazer that constricts all blood flow to my arms, and a navy polo shirt to match. Pulling the shirt over my waist, my usual shyness in getting dressed is replaced by an uncontrollable pressure in my ears and eyes. Opening the door to leave my room, I turn on my heels to make sure Bonnie is following me, she always did love our birthday breakfasts. But Bonnie isn’t there. By some mercy, Mom is in the bathroom when I go downstairs, giving me time to gather breakfast for two and bring it upstairs for one.

Two plates of pancakes sit lovingly arranged on the countertop next to the stovetop. I don’t bother to look at them closely before I pick the plates up and walk as quietly as possible towards the stairs, avoiding the spots on the floor that would alert Mom to my presence. Confidence starts to bubble up in my chest as I make it to the stairs, nearly escaping confrontation until my mother calls out from behind me.

“Bonnie! Wait up, your skirt is all wrinkled,” Mom’s voice chimes innocently up at me.

Like a criminal who got caught stealing from a convenience store, I turn around with a similarly fake smile that Bonnie used on Mom last night. She stands at the landing near the front door, “I’m not Bonnie.”

“Oh, sorry sweetie, I couldn’t tell from the angle,” Her chest deflates a bit, mentally beating herself up for the mix-up.

“You never can,” is what I want to say, but what comes out is, “It’s alright.”

“Not going to share your breakfast with me this year?” Mom looks up at me and her shoulders slump slightly.

“We’re getting a little old for that don’t you think?” I shift my weight from leg to leg nervously. What am I gonna do?

“12 is a big year! My girls are growing up so fast!” She sighs, playfully miming a tear running down her face.

“You still have plenty of time with us!” I say, a sudden sting roiling through me as the words leave my mouth. With a sudden need to escape, words flow inextricably out of my mouth, “I’m starving, we’re gonna eat and get going ok?”

She nods and I spin to continue up the stairs, hearing her voice behind me as I continue upstairs on tiptoes.“Don’t forget, your grandparents are coming for the birthday party tonight and you cannot be home late. Understood?”

I reply over my shoulder, “Yes, Mom, I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.”

Now at the top of the staircase, I grip the plates of sweet food tightly as I step across the creaky floor and stick out my foot to push the door open at the end of the hallway. I gingerly place the plate of pancakes laden with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles on Bonnie’s desk, right where the letter was just minutes ago. I sit down at my desk and stare at my identical pile of pancakes and yet I don’t feel hungry at all. (Mom loves making pancakes for our birthday. She always said Grandma used to do it for her when she was growing up. It was special, the first cake of the birthday before the official one.) I can’t manage to eat a single bite before the honk of the bus pulling up to the front of the house resonates through my skull. Instinctually, I grab my gray canvas messenger bag from the foot of my bed and rush down the stairs, yelling a cursory farewell to my mother on the way out of the door. 

School was annoying today. More people than normal up my ass about Bonnie, asking me where she is, and me telling them the real answer, “I don’t know.”

The next week is a flurry of phone calls, flyers, newspaper features. ‘How does a girl go missing without any witnesses? According to the sister, she was around that morning, the school must have lost her.’ Police, journalists, agents from child protective services, a slew of new people rotate in and out of the house asking me the same set of questions, to which I give the same set of answers; I’m in this deep, might as well have a solid story.

“When did you last see Bonnie?”

“When we got on the bus to go to school.”

“Do you remember what she was wearing last?”

“Her school uniform.”

“Who do you think could have taken her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has anyone threatened you?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

My parents have been inconsolable. My mother has been talking to anyone who would listen about her darling missing daughter. “She’s just 12, looks just like her! They’re twins. Please, if you see or hear anything here is my number.” I just want to disappear when she does that, maybe I’m just a walking missing poster to her. 

My father has been drowning himself in more work from the firm. All he does is leave for work then come home and sit on the couch, holding the house phone in his hands and having the news turned on. The people at school have been making fun of me. They say that I ate Bonnie and we merged into one. That she probably got tired of wearing the school uniform so she stopped coming to school. That she knew that she had a better future modeling than doing anything using her brain. Others make jokes about my parents pursuing legal action against the school for losing her.

Every night I open my desk drawer and pull out the letter. I read and reread and reread again until my eyes burn from the words I don’t remember saying. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about that night. Some nights I’ve been sitting awake at my desk with the letter clutched in my hands, until my Mom knocks on the door to tell me to get ready for school. The pancakes have started to smell noticeably of rotten milk, and the whipped cream has completely melted, turning into a hideous multicolored sludge from the previously intact rainbow sprinkles.

Playing outside the last few weeks has gotten boring. There’s no one to play mother when I play house, no one who wants to work as the hostess in my fake restaurant, and no one to chase when playing cops and robbers. Bonnie’s bed is still made. The pancakes still haven’t moved from her desk. They are now engulfed by a fuzzy green mold with white spots. It grows off the plate and reaches for the desk, clinging to whatever surface it can find. I know Bonnie would be disgusted by what has become of her immaculate half of the room, but I can’t bring myself to clean it up.

Mother and father haven’t been talking to me, but I overheard them last night.

“You need to talk to her, she’s struggling through this too.” My dad’s voice sounds strained, like the words don’t want to leave his throat.

“I can’t even look at her.” My mom’s once chirpy voice is now scratchy and broken with sobs, “I keep seeing her and thinking my Bonnie’s come home. But she hasn’t. What if she never will?”

“Hey, you can’t say that. It’s not good for either of us to think like that.”

“I’m stuck in this home every minute of every day,” mom continues, “I see her face everywhere in this godforsaken house. Hear her laughter, see her playing outside in the yard and running through the house in those ridiculous poofy dresses.”

My father has an uncharacteristic shakiness in his words, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” She sighs, I imagine she is pacing back and forth or rubbing her temples, I’ll try and talk to her. I just don’t think I can until I know my Bonnie is safe.”

“Anything from the newspaper or the police?”

“Nothing. Like usual.”

Screams. That’s all I remember from today. Almost a year has passed since her disappearance and no more newspapers posted her missing picture, no more flyers posted on the doors of supermarkets in a 100 mile radius. My mother and father were on phones all day, begging the police to reopen the case and hiring multiple private investigators to keep looking for her in their stead. They had lost their sympathy to us, the family who was now forever 25% smaller. I still check the letter most nights. Part of me is looking for a clue, a sign of where she could’ve gone or whether she’d be upset that I’m obeying her wishes. She didn’t want to be found, and I’m just doing what she wants, right? 

Christmas was Bonnie’s favorite holiday. She loved to be spoiled, get the newest princess dress to prance around the house in, be able to eat as many sweets as she wants and no one can give her crap about it, and get all these new toys to play with together. This year there was no tree, no gifts for that matter. There was no music, no gatherings of family where Bonnie would coordinate talent shows and dance routines, no baking late at night for Santa, no annoyingly long church sermon. There was quiet. Dad came home at 8, placed his briefcase on the dining room table, and sat alone on the couch, watching the news until he fell asleep. Mom went to bed hours ago. After she yelled up the stairs that dinner was done, I came down to an empty house and a small frozen Stouffers’ Mac and Cheese on the stove, ice still crusting the edges of the microwaveable tray.

“Happy 14th birthday honey,” Mom chimes from downstairs.

“Thanks mom,” I call, pulling on my school-sanctioned Mary Janes as I lean on the edge of my bed.

“I made your special breakfast, if you’d like to come down and eat.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I yell down, trying my best not to look at the now year old plate sitting on Bonnie’s desk. The pancakes are unrecognizable, a pile of green and gray dust that consumes the light stained wood and once pristine white plate. 

People at school stopped making the jokes about Bonnie. Maybe they forgot she existed in the first place. The teachers all look at me with tear lined eyes, like I’m missing something and they wish they could help me find it. The lawsuit against the school fell through, as there was no evidence of Bonnie even arriving at school in the first place that day, other than my testimony. My stupid, lying testimony. The year passes fast, each day like the last. Bonnie’s bed is still made, the elephant and bear continue to wait. 

“Are you up?” Dad yells from downstairs.

“Yep, just getting ready.” I reply, hearing the floorboards as he approaches the door from the outside. I step in the way of him entering.

“What’s up my high schooler?”

“Dad,” I say, slightly rolling my eyes,”It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It most certainly is a big deal!” My dad says, a smile stretched across his face, “My little girl is going to kill it!”

I roll my eyes, “Mhm, aren’t you going to be late?” I raise an eyebrow playfully, masking my sudden yet not unrecognizable feelings of guilt.

Dad looks at his wrist and checks his gold metal watch. It ticks so quietly that you need exact silence to pick it up with your ears, but it still ticks whether someone can hear it or not. “Oh shoot, I gotta go!” He turns and hops cheerfully down the stairs, “Knock ‘em dead kiddo!”

“I will!” I say, sighing as he rushes out the front door, briefcase in hand. “Ugh, can you believe him? How does he have the energy for this at like 8 in the morning.”

I spin around waiting for a response. I don’t get one.

It was surreal, showing up to high school alone. Suddenly I wasn’t part of an incomplete set, finally, I was just me. I could talk to teachers and peers without them looking at me so pathetically, I could walk down the hall without people making fun of me for having a dead sister. No one knew that here. No one knew Bonnie.

“Honey, are you ready to go?” Mom asked, knocking on my door.

“Just a sec, gotta get this stupid dress on.” My words get bent and warped like my torso as I contort to pull the zipper up behind my back. Bonnie used to help me put on my dresses.

“You know I can help with that right? It’s kinda my job.”

“I can handle it!”

Opening the door, I see my mom waiting patiently for me.

“Oh wow, honey! You look amazing!”

“Too bad it’s gonna be covered up by that hideous gown,” I reply, gesturing to the black graduation gown folded under my mom’s arm and shrinking my nose in mock disgust.

Before they call my name to make me cross the stage, all I hear is silence. Like they’re making space for a name to be called before mine. The name that was assigned 30 minutes before mine when we were born. But there isn’t. It’s just my name I hear next as I stumble up the stairs ungracefully. No one bats an eye. This is how it was meant to be right? 

Soon, I left the elephant and bear and pancake plate and tidy sheets behind, moving into a college dorm just a few hours from home. As I unpacked my things, I kept feeling unnerved being in a room without Bonnie. It was like my half of our room was teleported here. Everything I’ve ever had was shared. My room, the closet, the dinner placed on the kitchen counter. But now, it was as if all traces of Bonnie were gone. I get more affirmation that she ever existed from frantically Google searching her name and seeing her old gymnastics competition results and videos of her dancing troupe from elementary school than I do from my own parents.

Hunger strikes me as I am unpacking. I leave my room near 4 PM. The light is still full in the sky but I keep blankly staring at faces I feel as though I should know. I haven’t had time for friends, not since Bonnie left.

But across the road, I see something. A figure sitting at a picnic table, dressed all in pink and hair immaculately styled into curls. Bonnie.

The next thing I feel is my feet ripping across the pavement as my cheap, $2 Wal-Mart Flip-flops shred off my feet in the sudden force of my running. The only thing that stops me is a university bus. I catch it in my periphery and stop just before my hips are greeted by the front of it. It honks at me and drives past, people in the bus stare out the window at me and are laughing.

When the bus was gone, so too was Bonnie.