That's Not My Name

by Megan Lally

“My teenage daughter is missing. I can’t reach her on the phone; I’ve been driving around for hours trying to find her. I think I have to file a missing person’s report.”

“She’s here?” the man shouts. “Mary’s here?” Mary? My Lizzo heartbeat speeds up. Is that me?

“Our house is undergoing some renovations. All the floors are being replaced. So rather than tiptoe around subfloor, tools, stacked furniture, and dust the whole time, me and Mary decided to stay at my fishing cabin for a few weeks while the work is being done. I packed up my van, she packed up her car, and we were supposed to meet there. She never showed up.”

I may have no memory of what happened tonight, and I may hurt like hell, but I have a name. And a parent who remembers everything I don’t. That’s so much more than I had an hour ago.

Life really goes to shit when everyone thinks you killed your girlfriend.

Name: Lola Elizabeth Scott Age: 17 Hair color: Dark brown Eye color: Green Last seen: 10:55pm on September 29th at the Willamette River boat launch in Washington City

My family is…a lot. White on Dad’s side, Guatemalan on Papá’s, and they love to get together. My dads adopted me three weeks before my third birthday—I don’t really remember anything before them—and my whole life has been these big gatherings. Everyone talking, happy, in each other’s business—just like Max. Which was fine when they were pestering me about asking Lola to homecoming freshman year or crowding around to show her my gap-toothed tee-ball photos from kindergarten after she’d become a regular at family dinner. But now it means forced smiles and not talking about the one thing that consumes me. Everyone wants to help, but there’s nothing they can do.

the only reason Roane hasn’t put me behind bars already is because I’m a high-achieving white kid from a family that’s financially stable enough to pool funds and get me a lawyer.

“Because she can’t be. That’s…impossible.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “She ran away, or she was kidnapped, or…I don’t know. But she can’t be dead. They’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”

I scan the cars again, and glare at an old, dented Volkswagen across the road. Autumn’s here somewhere. What would a search party be without the sobbing best friend? I guess that explains why she wasn’t at school today.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Neither of them were supposed to be here. Who’s still looking for Lola?

Because Max is only half-right: The fliers probably won’t lead me to Lola. But they are something. They’re proof that I kept looking. And when she comes home, everywhere she goes, there’ll be a picture of her face and my phone number, and she’ll know that I never gave up. Which is the only thing I can give to her now.

“The kid I knew would never have left her alone at night. He wouldn’t have waited until the next day to call and see if she got home okay. He wouldn’t stop cooperating with the police. I don’t know you at all.”

pockets. “Lola was my best friend, and I’ll be damned if I let you get away with this.” “Is.” “What?” “Is. She is your best friend. Present fucking tense,”

“You know what’s funny? If the tables were turned, there isn’t a person on this Earth who could convince me you were capable of hurting anyone. I’d defend you until the end, Autumn. When she comes home, I don’t want to hear how sorry you are for stabbing me in the back. I’m fucking done with you.”

“It means I may not know what you did, but I know all this is your fault.” She stomps toward her house around the corner, leaving me alone with a knot in my stomach. Because she’s absolutely right. This is all my fault. I am to blame.