Missing Mila

I open my eyes.

 

Water is spiralling around me, sand is churning under my feet, and ocean waves are crashing violently above my head. I let out a frantic, helpless scream, but it is muffled by the salty seawater that meets my mouth. My feet drag across rocks that are scattered on the seafloor as I am engulfed by the murky green ocean. The rapid thump thump thump of my heart echoes in my ears.

 

I breathe in.

 

The ocean floods into my lungs. I reach upwards – what I think is upwards – but nobody is there to help. The space around me becomes darker and darker as the waves push me deeper and deeper. I try to push back, to use all my strength to fight the ocean’s firm grasp, but I can’t seem to reach the surface.

 

I am running out of breath.

 

I desperately want to feel sorry for myself. I want to cry about how much I miss her, but I can’t, knowing it’s my fault that she’s gone.

 

Where is she?

 

Beep Beep! Beep Beep!

 

I open my eyes.

 

I feel the uneven floor of sand underneath my back and remember where I am, my nightmare already fading from my memories. I shake the layer of sand off my phone and turn off the alarm that I don’t remember setting the night before. I don’t even remember falling asleep here, by the ocean, a few miles from home. The white text displayed across my cracked screen reads Tuesday, August 22. 5:52 a.m. The intense, scarlet sun is beginning to emerge above the horizon, causing a rosy glow to fall upon the beach around me and turning the ocean, the air, and my skin shades of pink.

 

Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. There’s going to be a storm today.

 

The early morning moon, still perched patiently in the summer sky, looks down on me. She’s a sublime, complete circle, silently applauding herself for the unusually high tide. Her waves creep calmly up the beach until I feel their frigid touch on my toes.

 

I think of Mila and her unusual fervor for anything bitterly cold.

 

“Hey, M,” I chuckle, “why don’t you go jump in!”

 

My smile fades quickly. Good thing there isn’t anyone here, I think, realizing that she isn’t sitting next to me now. It’s been a few weeks, but I’m still not used to being alone.

 

I trek up the wooden staircase to the parking lot, where I hop on my bike, but I don’t go home. The spiderweb of bike trails throughout Cape Cod can lead me to the bayside, the oceanside, to downtown Eastham, Orleans, or even Provincetown, which is all the way at the tip of the Cape.

 

I love to ride down the long, flat stretches of overused pavement, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. It allows me to relax, to forget about my responsibilities. The wind blows my salty hair out of my face, and I am free from the bothersome honk of my brother’s saxophone and the never-ending yip! yip! of the neighbor’s new dog. As I ride, I pass pitch pine forests, kettle pond after kettle pond, ice cream shops, park benches, dogs on leashes, dogs off leashes, and I can think about what really matters.

 

I need to figure out how to get my best friend back.

 

—

 

I met Mila four years ago. My family had been going to the Cape for years, but had just bought a house in Eastham. Our friendship sparked through our exploration of every inch of the bike trail together. We then began going to the beach, having sleepovers, and soon enough, we couldn’t be separated.

 

Mila was usually the one to take me places, but I was the one who suggested riding to Provincetown. It was the middle of July, the hottest month on Cape Cod. Provincetown was more than 25 miles from Eastham – a 2.5 hour bike ride over hills and sand dunes and one part on the side of a four lane highway. It was a crazy idea, but we were Mila and Nicole. We could do it.

 

There was nobody crazy enough to bike on such a sweltering day, so we were able to ride side by side without getting in anyone’s way. On the long, flat stretches of trail, shaded by the vivid green oak trees, we chatted about our lives during the school year and our dreams for the future. On the highway, we rode single file as fast as we could as the cars zoomed past. When we went up the hills was the hardest – sometimes we even had to accept defeat, hop off our bikes, and walk up – but when we rode down, we were flying.

 

The wind rushed past our flushed faces and through our long hair, sending chills all the way to our toes. The wheels of our bikes spun faster and faster until they were a blur of black and silver. We took our hands off of the handlebars, threw them in the air, closed our eyes, and felt absolutely, truly, unstoppable.

 

Mila and I were already close, but our friendship got ten times stronger that day. If only I didn’t screw things up.

 

—

 

I wish I felt unstoppable now. Instead, I feel raindrops and snap out of my trance. I check my phone to see where I am.

 

The little blue dot on the map flashes near the center of Wellfleet. 7:03 a.m. Have I really been riding for an hour? I turn my bike around and begin to pedal in the direction I came from. How can I get Mila to forgive me?

 

—

 

One of her favorite things to do was to go to Higgins Pond. Bakers Pond is always packed with tourists, but right behind it, the entrance to Higgins Pond is a secret known to few.

 

“Are we there yet?” I joked, as we strolled through the Nickerson State Park trails.

 

I looked to my right at the girl with perfectly straight teeth, piercing blue eyes, and long, wavy brown hair. I couldn’t help but smile.

 

“It’s not much farther,” Mila giggled. “I promise.”

 

Mila had thrown off her dress and had submerged herself in the crystal clear, turquoise water before I had even stepped in the sand. The reflection of the mid-day sun sparkled across the still water and the tall, emerald-colored trees that surrounded the pond swayed slowly in the breeze.

 

Splash!

 

My hair and face, which had been completely dry only moments earlier, were drenched.

 

“Hey! What was that for?” I exclaimed, splashing her back.

 

As we shared a towel later that afternoon, all I could think about was how grateful I was to have Mila to spend my summers with. But as my mom always warned, good things don’t last forever.

 

“Nicole, can I tell you something?” Mila said. She stared at me for what felt like minutes, not breaking eye contact once. I could tell it was important. “You can’t tell anyone, I mean it.”

 

“Of course, M!” I smiled. “My ears are open and ready.”

 

But they weren’t ready, not for what I heard that day. How was I supposed to act the same around her, knowing what I had just learned?

 

—

 

As I continue to ride, I start to notice the weight of my rain-soaked hair slumped over my shoulders. It only adds to the weight of Mila’s whispered words, still echoing in my ears.

 

—

 

This summer started like any other. The little boxes for almost every day in June on my wall calendar were filled with plans for picnics, day trips, craft shows, you name it. I thought that maybe after a school year apart, things wouldn’t be weird anymore. But I was wrong, and Mila wasn’t herself. She didn’t smile or laugh the way she used to.

 

I remember July 16th so vividly, it haunts me. When I woke up, Mila wasn’t asleep under the bright, paisley-printed bedspread that was draped on the twin bed next to mine. I got up and peeked out of the blinds, but she wasn’t on the deck or in the yard either.

 

“Mila!” I called cheerfully. I was trying my best to make things work, or at least, I thought I was.

 

“Mila, where are you?”

 

No response.

 

She wasn’t in the kitchen, she wasn’t in the guest bedroom, she wasn’t downstairs.

 

I grabbed my phone and ran to the beach at the end of my street. I took the road instead of the path like I usually did. It was faster.

 

“Mila?” I called, more stressed this time. “Are you here?”

 

It was only about 8:30 in the morning, but the beach was already filling up quickly. I felt the hot sand under my bare feet and the sun’s burning rays through the back of my thin pajama top as I hunted for Mila’s long, voluminous hair among the other beachgoers. I ran around the corner, hoping to have a better chance of spotting her where the crowd of tourists was a bit more sparse.

 

“Mila?”

 

“Yeah, I’m over here,” she replied. Her voice came from a head of choppy chin-length hair. No wonder I couldn’t find her. Mila’s hair was her security blanket, I wouldn’t have expected her to cut it in a million years. Something is definitely wrong, I thought to myself.

 

“Are you okay?” I asked.

 

Mila nodded.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Mila shrugged.

 

“Can I help? What do you need me to do? You can tell me anything, Mila!”

 

Mila shook her head. She was crying, and I wanted to be there for her, like she had always been there for me. But I didn’t know what to do.

 

Every day, things got worse. She wouldn’t cry, especially not in front of my family, but she was always quiet. And every day I would ask her the same questions.

 

“Mila, please talk to me!”

 

“Why are you acting like this? Are you mad at me?”

 

“Mila, what do you want me to do?”

 

And every day, no response. She was in pain, and I was helpless. I couldn’t – I didn’t – do anything about it.

 

—

 

It’s raining much harder now, and ominous, grey clouds have blocked the sunlight, making it hard to see where I’m going. Strong winds whoosh past me, and tiny goosebumps form on my bare arms. Dammit, why didn’t I bring a jacket?

 

“I called it! I knew it was going to storm!” I yell, prompting no weird looks from anyone. It looks like I’m the only one on the bike trail. I pedal faster, and I remember August 3rd.

 

—

 

It was a chilly, partly cloudy evening. Mila and I sat on the beach alone as the sun set, as we did every day. But there was no longer any meaning to it. We didn’t run around and laugh and shoo away the gnats; instead we sat in silence as they swarmed us. We didn’t care.

 

“Mila?” I asked softly.

 

“Mhm,” she replied, even softer.

 

I took a deep breath. “Mila, we’ve been doing this for weeks. I ask you what’s wrong, and you don’t tell me. Over and over again it’s always the same thing. Are we going to do this for the rest of the summer?”

 

I winced at my harsh tone, and I felt bad, but I was fed up with talking to myself.

 

Mila turned and I looked into her blue eyes, but I couldn’t read what she was thinking. She turned back to look out at the ocean.

 

“Have you tried?” she said plainly.

 

“Yes, Mila, I’m trying to work with you here, but you won’t talk to me!”

 

I went on and on. I was yelling now.

 

“This is all I’ve heard from you for weeks, Nicole. Do you even care what this is like for me? No! You just want your precious Mila back!” she replied, agitated.

 

“But I’ve been here for you! I’ve kept your secret! Why are you mad at me?”

 

“Keeping a single secret is not being a friend. A friend would stand up for me, support me, talk to me. You haven’t done any of that, Nicole! All you do is pester me with questions! Maybe I would talk to you more if I thought you would actually LISTEN!”

 

“I try to listen, Mila, it’s just- I just-” I didn’t know what to say. She was right.

 

“You just what? Just treat me like I’m a stranger? Someone who’s sitting at your lunch table uninvited? Because that’s what it feels like.”

 

“If you hate being around me so much then why don’t you just LEAVE?”

 

I regretted saying it immediately, even before Mila’s expression transformed from resentment to a combination of shock and pain.

 

“Why,” she said quietly, “don’t you want me here?”

 

Mila and I stood on the beach, alone, and the moon watched silently. Tears were streaming down Mila’s face, but I couldn’t cry. What was wrong with me? The whole time, all I could think was, this is the most Mila has spoken in weeks.

 

“Please, Mila, can we just work this out tomorrow?”

 

“Whatever, Nicole,” she mumbled. We walked back to my house with an endless wall of silence between us.

 

The next morning, when I woke up, Mila wasn’t asleep under the bright, paisley-printed bedspread that was draped on the twin bed next to mine. I got up and peeked out of the blinds, but she wasn’t on the deck or in the yard either. It felt familiar. She wasn’t in the kitchen, she wasn’t in the guest bedroom, she wasn’t downstairs.

 

I called her mom.

 

“Hi, Mrs. Harte, this is Nicole. Is Mila there?”

 

I heard her calm yet tired voice on the other end. “Yes, she’s here…” There was a long pause. “Sorry, sweetie. She doesn’t want to talk right now.”

 

“Please, it will only take a momen-”

 

Beeeeeeeep. The dial tone cut off my pleading.

 

I ran to the beach, hoping Mila was there, even though I knew she wouldn’t be.

 

“M!” I screamed, falling to the ground. That was when I finally cried. I had just lost a friend, and it was completely my fault. Mila was gone.

 

—

 

When I look up again I realize I’ve passed my house, and I still don’t know how to win back Mila. Tears are streaming down my face, disguised by the pouring rain that has soaked through my clothes. I pull my phone out of my pocket. 8:34 a.m. I quickly go to put it away, knowing it won’t function properly if it gets too wet.

 

Bzzz bzzz. Bzzz bzzz.

 

“That’s weird,” I mumble. Nobody ever calls me.

 

Bzzz bzzz. Bzzz bzzz.

 

I take my phone back out. The raindrops block the caller ID.

 

BZZZ BZZZ. I still can’t see who’s calling, but I swipe to answer. It isn’t working, probably because it’s soaked. Great.

 

BZZZ BZZZ. I keep trying to answer, and the monstrous drops of water falling from the sky keep me from doing so.

 

BZZZ BZZZ.

 

Ok, Dammit! Shut up already! I’m a flustered, sobbing mess riding a bike.

 

BZZZ BZZZ.

 

Who. The hell. Won’t. Stop. CALLING ME?

 

BZZZ BZZZ.

BZZZ BZZZ.

 

CRASH.

 

I open my eyes only to see more rain and a trail of bright red blood dripping off of my scraped knee. My bike lays off to my left, the front tire appearing deflated and bent to one side. Great. Now I have to call someone to come get me. I reach for my phone, which has fallen face down a few feet in front of me, and cross my fingers that it works this time.

 

Thankfully it’s responding to my finger again. I tap gently on the green phone icon, and the tiny red dot on the corner of the app reminds me of why I had crashed. Who tries to answer their phone while riding a bike? Idiot.

 

Then, finally coming to my senses, I remember that I didn’t just crash, but I crashed into something. Something? Or someone?

 

I whip around and spot a second sorry bike, a second scraped knee, and a head of short, messy brown hair.

 

“Hey, Nicole” she says.

 

Just the sight of her starts to finally pull me towards the surface of the huge blue ocean that has been pushing me under since she’s been gone. If I don’t mess things up this time – if I can be a good friend – it won’t be long before I can breathe again.