The story begins in a setting similar to the infamous scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. There is a room full of zombie-like teenagers, each sitting at his or her desk, popping gum and staring at nothing in particular. There is the drone of a teacher’s voice in the background, monotonously calling out names for attendance.

“Caitlin Smith?”

“Here”

“Eric Wilson?”

“Here”

“Henry Evans?”

“Here”

“Sara Brown?” Silence. The temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees. The students, once lazily sprawled across their desks, begin to sit up and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The teacher lowers her glasses and looks around the room.

“Sara Bro- Oh, that’s right.” The teacher is quiet for a moment, then coughs awkwardly and continues on. “Madeline Turner?”
It has been three months, five days, and seventeen hours and the school still has not taken her name off of the damn attendance list, thinks Reilly Jackson, laying her head down on her desk. Secretly, Reilly actually likes it when teachers call out Sara’s name. For a second, even a few seconds, she forgets. She waits and listens for Sara’s small voice to croak out, “Here,” her almond shaped eyes never leaving the floor. The silence always hits Reilly like a punch in the stomach. The weight comes crashing back down onto her shoulders.







~

“We have a few last minute details to go over. Okay, you all better know this. What time is the flight tomorrow?” The students slowly look around. They chuckle sheepishly when they realize that no one knows the answer. Their teacher, Mrs. Bayard shakes her head in disbelief. “Oh my God! SIX FIFTEEN PM. The flight leaves tomorrow night at six fifteen. That means that you have to be at the airport no later than three thirty.” Sara and Reilly sit side by side against the back wall of Ms. Bayard’s cozy living room. They squeeze each other’s hand. When they signed up for the spring break trip to Barcelona two years ago, it hadn’t even seemed real. Reilly had practically given up her entire summer to lifeguard to help pay for the trip. Day after day she dealt with peeling sunburns, screaming parents, and crying kids. Her only incentive was the glorious white envelope she’d receive at the end of each week, holding her minimum wage salary. Looking back, even those “accidents” in the locker room that she had to clean up were all worth it. She could not wait to escape the icy Michigan chill with her best friend.





~
The setting is a scene similar to one you would see in The Lizzie McGuire Movie. There is a montage of two starry eyed girls boarding a plane. A bouncy song plays in the background. The girls clumsily roll their suitcases down the small aisles of the plane, giggling all the way. There are a series of clips showing them chatting excitedly, taking pictures, bobbing their heads to music, and eventually, them sleeping on one another. A sunset streams through the plane window. Reilly leans her head on Sara’s shoulder, her mouth open slightly. Sara, wrapped in a thin airline blanket, rests her head on Reilly’s. The music begins to fade.





~
Since the first day of freshman year, Sara’s favorite class had always been French. She loved how small it was, each word staying towards the front of the mouth, the very tip of the tongue. It was the only class that she voluntarily participated in. Her soft voice only enhanced the beauty of language.
“Just ask, “Cuanto?” Reilly urges, years of Spanish class finally coming in handy. “It means ‘How much?” She sees the terrified look in Sara’s eyes and sighs. She cups her large hands around Sara’s face. “He’s not a murderer; he’s just a plain old street vendor. Go buy your postcards!”
“Alright, alright. I can do this.”
“You can do this!” Sara plucks two post cards from the rack. The short, balding, street vendor has a surprisingly powerful voice and she jumps as he lets out a booming greeting. She turns around and sees Reilly grinning encouragingly.
“Cuanto?” Sara asks cautiously. It comes out more like “cwan-toe” and she’s suddenly aware of how American she sounds.
“Two fifty together,” he says in English, giving her a wink. She exhales and laughs nervously. As the two girls join the rest of their classmates and continue down the wide main street, Sara realizes how out of her element she is. She is surrounded by beautiful people with big voices and big personalities. Reilly is soaking it up like the hot, afternoon sun. Sara, however, yearns to break from the group. She would love to explore the smaller, tangled streets that they had briefly toured upon their arrival. They remind her of veins, sprouting from nowhere and eventually fading into other streets.




~
“Say cheese!” Reilly calls. Sara scowls. She had never liked getting her picture taken, but Reilly was determined to document every moment of their trip. Sara trots over to Reilly to look at the picture. They simultaneously burst out laughing. In the picture, Sara stands stiffly next to one of the flamenco dancers they had just seen perform. Her dark clothes against the dancer’s radioactive colored attire makes it look as though she were photo shopped into the picture.
Looking for somewhere authentic to go during their free time, the girls had crept into a show of flamenco dancers. They soon realized that the entire audience consisted of Americans.
“This is such a tourist trap. Let’s just escape now,” Sara snorts.
“Yeah it’s touristy, but we should stay little longer. Come on, how can you go to Spain and not see flamenco dancers?” Sara reluctantly agrees, a little enticed by the twirling girls onstage. Within ten minutes, the two are clapping to the upbeat music and laughing alongside a honeymooning couple from West Virginia. They stumble out of the theater hand in hand, Reilly insisting that Sara take a picture with the flamenco dancer posing outside of the theater. With only twenty minutes left for free time, the girls meander towards the designated meeting spot.
Like a boulder sticking out of a river, a large circle of people gather in the middle of the main street. Some walk around them, but others join the clump, creating an even larger traffic jam. They figure that it must be street performers, and naturally Reilly needs to take a closer look. Sara digs her heels into the ground. She stays put even when Reilly tugs on her hand and gives her puppy dog eyes.
“Don’t give me that look. You know I hate big crowds,” Sara warns.
“Maybe in America you hate big crowds, but we’re in Barcelona and you are going to loosen up. Let’s go.” Reilly ducks behind her and pushes her towards the swarming nest of people. She then grabs Sara’s hands and leads her as she weaves through the mob. Reilly, for once, was wrong; Sara decides she still hates big crowds.
Reilly is tall and slightly burly. She doesn’t have to say a word, and people make a path for her. Sara, on the other hand, is swallowed up. She is ripped from Reilly’s sweaty palms and blocked by sticky people, craning their necks to see the dance crew in the center of the mass. The performers do an evidently crowd-pleasing move and the audience throws their arms up in the air. Wrapped in the stench of BO, Sara feels as if she is getting smaller and smaller. When the crowd erupts into cheers, she becomes hysterical. Her breaths become short and stinging tears escape from her eyes and stream down her face. She feels utterly and helplessly alone in the sea of people. She turns around, horrified to see that the commotion is attracting more and more people. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and bolts. She pushes through the crowd, and doesn’t stop running even when she is freed. She makes a sharp turn onto a smaller street, into the rapidly approaching night.
The scene is similar to one in The Little Red Riding Hood. A frightened young girl wanders through a dark alley. She imagined these small streets to be romantic, peppered with bookstores and cafes. However, she is only greeted by the dim glow of streetlights, which reveal graffiti walls and men standing idly against them.




~
The students leave Spain five days early. Mrs. Bayard and her husband stay in Barcelona to continue the investigation with the police. Sara’s mom is flying out within the next day. As excruciating as the seven-hour flight is for Reilly, she can’t even begin to imagine how painful it will be for Sara’s mom.
After weeks of therapy sessions, Reilly admits to herself that Sara is probably dead. She tries her hardest to believe the whole “God has a plan for everything” bullshit that she’s been hearing since she stepped off the plane. However, if God wanted Sara to die, why couldn’t she have just gotten hit by a car? At least then they would have a body, and a gravesite. Something more than the crinkled picture of Sara next to the flamenco dancer. In her darkest moments, Reilly hopes that Sara is dead; it’s better than any realistic alternative.

Three months, five days, and seventeen hours have gone by. Reilly raises her head from her desk and looks at the clock. Three months, five days, and eighteen hours. Another three months, five days, and eighteen hours will go by, and Sara will still not be found.

“Reilly Jackson?” The teacher calls.

“Here,” she murmurs, but her best friend is not.