Free The Lost and the Found by Cat Clarke

some reason he didn’t seem to understand it.
    Laney leaned close to me, and I could smell toothpaste on her breath. “Why do you think he let her go? It’s weird, isn’t it?” she whispered, eyes wide.
    “Fuck off, Laney.” Martha’s timing was impeccable.
    Laney flinched and turned to face Martha. “Excuse me, but this is a
private conversation.
”
    Martha stood next to me and smiled sweetly. “I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t think it counts as a conversation at all when you just talk
at
someone. So why don’t you leave Faith alone and go and cry over some Cambodian orphans or endangered pygmy elephants? Or endangered Cambodian pygmy elephants who also happen to be orphans.”
    Laney was too shocked to speak. Her mouth opened and closed again.
    Martha crossed her arms, looking like a burly bouncer. Martha is tall. Sturdy. Intimidating if you look at her in the right light. “Go. Away.”
    Laney looked to me for help, eyes pleading. “I was just trying to…I really do care, you know.”
    I nodded.
    Laney fled, her gaggle of friends enveloping her, sweeping her away, and shooting us dirty looks at the same time.
    Martha waved at them before turning to me. “You’re welcome.”
    “Thank you.”
    We hugged. It’s quite nice having your own personal bodyguard.
    —
    Martha and Thomas stuck to me like superglue for the rest of the week. If one of them wasn’t with me, the other one was. Laney wasn’t the only one who wanted to talk to me; the teachers were at it, too. At least I’d missed the special assembly they held on Monday.
    It should have been nice, and I shouldn’t have minded the attention. But it wasn’t nice, and I did mind. I just want to be left alone. It’s bad enough having photographers and camera crews stationed outside our house night and day—and a police car down the street—without being scrutinized at school, too. Hopefully things will get back to normal soon. Whatever normal is.

“L aurel! Laurel! How does it feel to be coming home? Laurel! Can you tell us…?”
    The front door closes, muffling the shouts from the yard. The curtains are already closed, but you can still see the flashes from the cameras. I wonder why they’re still snapping away—there’s nothing to see now that she’s safely inside.
    Dad locks the door and leans against it. “So much for them giving us some privacy,” he says. He was interviewed on the news last night—
on the eve of Laurel’s homecoming
—and he’d asked for exactly that: privacy. Unfortunately, it seems that’s the one thing the media is unable (unwilling) to give.
    Mom’s clasping her hands together and looking anxiously at Laurel, who is standing rooted to the spot, looking around the room, taking it all in. A teddy bear is nestled in the crook of her arm. It’s battered and worn, and I can smell it from here. It also seems to be missing one arm. Barnaby has been through more than your average bear.
    I bet the photographers got a shot of Laurel clutching the bear. That will be
the
photo—the one that will be on the Internet in a matter of minutes, on the news in a few hours, on the front page of the papers tomorrow morning. Maybe they’ll print the old photo of Barnaby the Bear next to the new one. Maybe they’ll use the word
poignant
a lot and draw ridiculous parallels between the bear and Laurel.
    The noise from outside dies down. Laurel (and Barnaby) and I sit on the sofa and Dad takes the chair next to the fire. Mom makes tea. I notice Laurel staring at the mantelpiece—there’s a picture of her, aged five, right in the middle. There’s a picture of me around the same age, just off to one side. There are no pictures of my parents. In the old house, we used to have a photo of the two of them on their wedding day on the mantelpiece. They looked young and kind of drunk, both of them raising glasses of champagne to the camera. I wonder what happened to that picture.
    Mom wanted to put up a “welcome home” banner,