Finding Nika

When I was two years old my family moved into a white house next to the train tracks. In the pale yellow house across the street lived a family that also had a two-year-old daughter, named Julia. Julia and I were destined to be best friends due to sheer proximity, and so we were. Fast forward about five years after my family moved in, and Julia’s dog—Nika—went missing.

Julia and I were sitting on her bedroom floor next to her three-floor Barbie house. This was where we could be found most days after school, creating dramatic, elaborate stories all within the dull lavender walls of Julia’s room. Julia was excitedly acting out a scene, her skinny arms flailing in the air as she depicted the turmoil of the Barbies’ lives. The door creaked open to reveal Julia’s mom. Kathleen stood there, a mirror image of her daughter sitting on the floor— equally slim, the same deep brown hair, tanned skin, and perpetual smirk. 

“Girls, Nika got out again,” Kathleen announced hurriedly. “I’m going out to look for her. Don’t go anywhere, and don’t answer the door.”

Julia and I took little notice of this, as Nika frequently attempted escape. We continued to act out the antics of our Barbies, their grown-up, fictional lives being much more fascinating than a missing dog could ever be. Despite our infatuation with the stories we had created, our short attention spans called for a quick snack break. We left the dolls scattered carelessly across the floor and headed downstairs to rummage through the cupboards for any junk food we could find. Then the home phone rang. 

“We have to go find Nika,” Julia declared after hanging up.

My stomach turned at the idea of venturing out, just the two of us. But Julia’s brown eyes gleamed with the promise of an adventure. 

“Your mom said to stay here, remember?” I stammered softly. “I’m sure she’ll find her.”

Julia explained to me that a neighbor had called and told her that there had been a Nika sighting just a few blocks away. 

“Callie, by the time we call my mom and she gets there, Nika will be lost again!” Julia cajoled me. “We’re the only ones who can get her.”

Obviously I couldn’t argue with that logic. And once Julia got an idea in her head, arguing with her was a futile endeavor. So we grabbed our bikes and set out on yet another one of Julia’s crazy schemes. The neighbor told Julia that she had seen Nika on Boulevard, a fairly busy street. The highway let out directly onto Boulevard, so cars often barreled down the road, zipping by much faster than the speed limit on the residential street. 

We got to Boulevard, and much to our dismay, Nika was nowhere to be found. We stopped on the side of the road and puzzled over the mystery of where she could have gone. Cars flew by us as we stood and plotted our next move—two seven-year-old girls next to our sparkly pink bikes strewn on the sidewalk. We decided to just go back to Julia’s house, a decision driven mostly by my growing anxiety over being out of the house alone without parental permission. Julia rolled her eyes at what a goody-two-shoes I was, but agreed to return home. Just as we mounted our bikes and began the journey back, a car skidded to a halt next to us. Julia and I looked at each other, communicating through eye contact instead of words as we often did, a skill picked up over an (albeit, short) lifetime of being attached at the hip. We had heard stories of creepy men who wanted to take young girls like us. Julia and I clutched the handlebars of our bikes tighter as the intimidating black car loomed over us, idling for a few seconds that felt like a lifetime. Finally the window of the car rolled down. It wasn’t a predator, but the fearful look in Julia’s eyes did not dissipate. 

It was her mother. 

“Get in the car!” she shouted. We stood motionless and stunned for a moment, which earned us a high-pitched, “NOW!”

Julia’s mom seethed silently while Julia and I sat in the back seat staring at our sneakers. We came to an abrupt stop in the driveway, and that’s when the yelling began. Kathleen’s head spun around to face us in the back seat.

“What were you girls thinking?” she barked. “Callie, your mom and I have been terrified!”

I wondered how my mom even knew I was gone, but made my first intelligent decision of the day and stayed silent. We left the car, numb from the verbal assault we had just received. But the worst was yet to come. It turned out that Julia’s mom had called mine and asked her to check on us. In those days it was a constant back and forth between 102 Cliff Avenue and 101 Cliff Avenue; our families communicated through unannounced knocks on the door instead of phone calls. In any event, my mom went to their house, and when she found it empty, did not take it well. As soon as Kathleen delivered me home, my mother gave me some version of the lecture Julia’s mom had given us, and grounded me for the first time. 

I sat in my room that night, tears streaming down my face. Always the good girl, my shenanigans had rarely resulted in actual consequences. My heart pounded as I heard my dad’s footsteps coming up the stairs; I was already drained from the two sermons I had received and was not emotionally ready for another one. After recovering from my third tirade of the day, boredom overtook my sadness and shame. I tried desperately to entertain myself with the slimpickings of my bedroom. I missed Julia and her Barbie house.