CHAPTER 3
1410 Words
CHAPTER 3
“No, I can’t calm down.” Kennedy didn’t mean to snap, but after the third or fourth time Reuben made the suggestion, she was ready to gouge his eyes out. Kennedy was pacing in front of some benches outside the student union while Reuben did his best to listen. “I mean, she might not have meant her dad is the dad, right?”
“I don’t know.” Reuben shrugged. “I wasn’t on the phone.”
Kennedy replayed those last few words in her mind. She could hear Rose’s voice, clear as a tiny glass beaker. Saturated with fear. I think it’s my dad ... I gotta go. Did that mean her dad was the father of the baby? Or maybe her dad was coming, and she didn’t want him to catch her on the phone. Even so, there were still troubling questions without any answers. How does a thirteen-year-old girl get pregnant if she doesn’t have a boyfriend?
“Why did she hang up so quick?” Kennedy asked the air.
Reuben picked his tooth. “Maybe it was time for dinner.”
She whipped her head around to face him. “I don’t think it’s something to joke about.”
He held up his hands in a position of surrender.
Kennedy hoped he knew she wasn’t really mad at him. She eyed the stupid phone. “Anyway, I better call the director.” She hated running to Carl her very first night on the job, but there really wasn’t anything else to do. “I’ll see you later.” She started walking toward her dorm, but Reuben ran up behind and reached for her shoulder.
“Wait, when are we going to work on the paper for chem lab, then?”
“I don’t know.” How could she think about some report while there was some traumatized little girl out there? “Let’s just meet in the library Sunday afternoon.”
“When? Two?”
Kennedy was hardly listening. “All right. Fine.”
She turned once more, only to hear Reuben call after her, “And don’t stay up all night worrying. These things work themselves out.” She gave him a brief wave, discarded his last words which were about as helpful as a lobotomy, and pushed all thoughts of Reuben and lab write-ups aside. She glanced down at the phone, and her fingers trembled so much it took her three tries before the call went through. Whenever she clenched her ab muscles to keep them from quivering, the tremors relocated all the way up to her teeth and sent them chattering noisily. She took a deep breath, hoping the phone would mask the choppiness in her voice. She had been so impatient to talk to Carl she hadn’t thought about what she would do if nobody answered at all. By the fifth ring, her shivering was so violent she sat down on a bench but hopped right back up again since her muscles refused to relax.
“Hello?” At the sound of Carl’s voice, relief flooded Kennedy’s whole body and seeped into each individual cell.
“Carl, it’s Kennedy. I just got off the hotline phone.”
“Oh, really? That was even faster than I expected.”
She hated to squash his enthusiasm, but she had no energy left for pleasantries or small talk. She summarized the call and waited for Carl to comment.
“So, you think the father might be ...”
“She didn’t say so,” Kennedy hurried to explain, as if that one simple statement could negate all her horrific suspicions. “But on the other hand ...”
“A thirteen-year-old without a boyfriend ...” Carl mumbled. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be her dad.” His voice held the same futile optimism Kennedy had been trying to cling to.
“That’s true,” she agreed.
“But it does have to be somebody.”
“Right.”
“Do you think it’d be a good idea to call her back?” Carl suggested.
“It was a blocked number. I couldn’t even if I wanted.”
He let out a huge breath of air. “We better report this, just in case.”
“Report to who?” Kennedy shivered. It was warm when she dressed that morning. Now she wished she had layered up. It wasn’t sunset yet, but the night was freezing.
“I think you should call 911. Tell them what happened.”
Kennedy hadn’t expected that. The police? But then again, the idea made sense. Maybe they could trace the number. Maybe they could actually find the girl. Get her some real help.
Apparently, the matter was already certain in Carl’s mind. “Tell them what you told me. And when you’re done, call me back, just to let me know what they say.”
Part of Kennedy wanted to ask Carl to do it. He was the director. But he hadn’t talked with Rose. He couldn’t give them the same details she could, details that might help the police stage a rescue. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll call you back in a few.”
“I’ll be praying.”
Kennedy’s corneas were still dry and scratchy, as if somebody had blown cold air at her until each tear duct shriveled up like a parched, sandy desert. She disconnected her call with Carl and paused for a minute to calm down. Thoughts, prayers, blurred images clashed against one another discordantly in her mind. What had she gotten herself into? She was a high-achiever, but she knew when to admit she was in over her head. Nothing had equipped her for the past twenty minutes. That tiny, frightened voice kept replaying in her head until she couldn’t think of anything else.
Kennedy was still staring at the hotline phone, as if Rose’s last name and address might materialize on the screen if she got lucky enough. Then with a sigh, she dialed 911.
“The location of the emergency?” The operator’s voice had an automatic, almost drone-like quality.
“It’s not exactly an emergency. At least, I’m not sure it is.”
“Your location?” he repeated, the smallest trace of annoyance creeping into his tone.
“I’m calling from Harvard.”
“Square or University?”
“University. But that’s not where the emergency is. I mean ...” Kennedy tripped and stumbled over her words but finally described her conversation with Rose.
The dispatcher’s tone didn’t change. “So you’re calling us because ...?”
“The director told me to,” she answered. Why had it sounded like a good idea at the time? “He thought maybe you’d have a way to trace the call or something.”
“Not without special equipment. And we can’t trace calls after they’re placed, anyway.”
They were the police. They were supposed to protect innocent people, like thirteen-year-old girls who end up pregnant and terrified, talking to strangers when there’s nobody else to turn to. “So there’s nothing you can do?”
“No.” She wondered if he spoke in a monotone all the time or only when he was on the clock. “And even if we could, there wouldn’t be enough evidence for us to take action at this point.”
Frustration and rage sandwiched Kennedy’s arteries, and she felt her blood pressure escalate with her pulse. “What do you mean there’s no evidence?” Had he been listening to her at all?
“She didn’t accuse anybody, for one thing,” the operator remarked. “In fact, there’s not even proof at this point that she’s pregnant at all. She could have just wanted some extra attention, create some false sympathy ...”
You didn’t hear her voice, Kennedy wanted to scream. Why had she thought the police would be able to do anything? The dispatcher didn’t believe Rose’s story. Next thing, he’d start telling Kennedy she was the one making things up and looking for extra attention.
“So you’re basically saying I’m wasting my time trying to figure out how to help her. Is that it?” Kennedy heard the sharp edge in her own voice but didn’t try to soften it.
“Without more information, there’s nothing we can do.”
“She said she was homeschooled,” Kennedy suddenly remembered. “Can’t you guys run a list or something of the families around here that homeschool their kids? See if there’s a girl named Rose?”
“And then what?”
Kennedy thought she picked up a hint of sarcasm although the operator’s tone didn’t change from its irritating, robotic lull.
She didn’t answer. So there really wasn’t anything they could do? Not even trace a simple call. How hard could it really be? They did it all the time in movies, right? “What if she calls back?” Kennedy asked. “Could you trace a call then?”
The operator let out a sound that was a mix between a chuckle and a sigh. “Theoretically, maybe. But we’d need a lot more evidence before we’d set something like that up.”
The last ounces of hope deflated out of Kennedy’s lungs. “So there’s nothing we can do.”
“Well, if she calls back, you can always try to get a last name. See if you can figure out if she really is being abused or not.”
Maybe the girl would call back. She could always hope. “But what if she doesn’t give me her name?”
“Encourage her to call 911. Or talk to someone, a teacher or something.”
“She’s homeschooled,” Kennedy reminded him, but the operator didn’t respond. “All right,” she finally sighed. “I guess that’s all.”
“Sorry we couldn’t be more help.” The words came automatically, and Kennedy doubted he meant them.
“Ok.” She hung up and stared at the phone. Her first 911 call, and he had basically told her he couldn’t lift a pinky finger to help. Exhaustion clung to her limbs as she made her way up the stairs to her dorm room. She’d have to call Carl back and tell him there was nothing to be done.
All right, God, she prayed. You heard him. If you want me to help, Rose is going to have to call back.
- Writer
