When the real Mr. Burton entered the room I had mixed feelings. The inquisitive side of me was disappointed; the fourteen-year-old in me positively delighted. He was more of a Gregory than a Mr. Burton. He was young and handsome, sexy and gorgeous. He looked like he had just walked out of college that very day, in his jeans and T-shirt and fashionable haircut. I did my usual calculations: twice my age could work. In a few years it would be legal and I would be out of school. My whole life was mapped out before he had even closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Sandy.” His voice was bright and cheery. He shook my hand and I vowed to lick it when I got home and never wash it again. He sat on the brown velvet armchair across from me. I bet all those girls in the posters invented all those problems just to come into this office.

“I hope you’re comfortable in our designer, top-of-the-line furniture?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he settled into the chair, which had burst at the side and had foam spilling out.

I laughed. Oh, he was so cool. “Yes, thanks. I was wondering what you would think my choice of chair says about me.”

“Well,” he said with a smile, “it says one of two things.”

I listened intently.

“First, that you don’t like brown, or second, that you like green.”

“Neither.” I smiled. “I just wanted to face the window.”

“A-ha.” he grinned. “You are what we call at the lab a ‘window facer.’”

“Ah, I’m one of those.”

He looked at me with amusement for a second, then placed a pen and pad on his lap and a tape recorder on the arm of the chair. “Do you mind if I record this?”

“Why?”

“So I can remember everything that you say. Sometimes I don’t pick up on things until I listen back over the conversation.”

“OK, what’s the pen and pad for, then?”

“Doodling. In case I get bored listening to you.” He pressed RECORD and said that day’s date and time.

“I feel like I’m at a police station, about to be interrogated.”

“Has that ever happened before?”

I nodded. “When Jenny-May Butler went missing, we were asked to give any information we had at the school.” How quickly talk had come around to her. She would have been delighted at the attention.

“Ah,” he nodded. “Jenny-May was your friend, wasn’t she?”

I thought about that. I looked at the anti-bullying posters on the wall and wondered how to answer. I didn’t want to seem insensitive to this gorgeous man by saying no, but she wasn’t my friend. Jenny-May hated me. But she was missing and I probably shouldn’t speak badly of her because, after all, everyone thought she was an angel. Mr. Burton mistook my silence for being upset, which was embarrassing, and the next question he asked, his voice was so gentle I almost burst out laughing.

“Do you miss her?”

I thought about that one, too. Would you miss a slap across the face every day? I felt like asking him. Once again I didn’t want him to think I was insensitive by saying no. He’d never fall in love with me and take me away from Leitrim then.

He leaned forward in his chair. Oh, his eyes were so blue.

“Your mum and dad told me you want to find Jenny-May, is this true?”

Wow. Talk about getting the wrong end of the stick. I rolled my eyes, OK, enough of this crap. “Mr. Burton, I don’t want to seem rude or insensitive here because I know Jenny-May is missing and everyone is sad but…”

“Go on,” he encouraged me, and I wanted to jump on him and kiss him.

“Well, me and Jenny-May were never friends. She hated me. I miss her in a way that I notice she’s gone but not in a way that I want her back. And I don’t want her back or to find her. Just knowing where she is would be enough.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Now, I know you probably thought that because Jenny-May was my friend and she went missing, that every time I lose something, like a sock, and try to find it, it’s like my way of finding Jenny-May and bringing her back.”

His mouth dropped open a little.

“Well, it’s a reasonable assumption, I suppose, Mr. Burton, but it’s just not me. I’m really not that complicated. It’s just annoying that when things go missing, I don’t know where they go. Take, for instance, the Scotch tape. Last night Mum was trying to wrap a present for Aunt Deirdre’s birthday but she couldn’t find the Scotch tape. Now, we always leave it in the second drawer under the cutlery drawer. It’s always there, we never put it anywhere else, and my mum and dad know how I am about things like that and so they really do put everything in their places. Our house is really tidy, honestly, so it’s not like things just get lost all the time in a mess. Anyway I used the Scotch tape on Saturday when I was doing my art homework, for which I got a crappy C today, by the way, even though Tracey Tinsleton got an A for drawing what looks like a squashed fly on a windscreen and that’s considered ‘real art,’ but I promise I put it back in the drawer. Dad didn’t use it, Mum didn’t use it, and I’m almost certain no one broke into the house just to steal some Scotch tape. So I searched all evening for it but I couldn’t find it. Where is it?”

Mr. Burton was silent and slowly moved back and settled into his chair.

“So let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You don’t miss Jenny-May Butler.”

We both started laughing and for the first time ever, I didn’t feel bad about it.

“Why do you think you’re here?” Mr. Burton got serious again after our bout of laughter.

“Because I need answers.”

“Answers like…?”

I thought about it. “Where is the Scotch tape that we couldn’t find last night? Where is Jenny-May Butler? Why does one of my socks always go missing in the washing machine?”

“You think I can tell you where all these things are?”

“Not specifics, Mr. Burton, but a general indication would be fine.”

He smiled at me. “Why don’t you let me ask you the questions for a moment, and maybe through your answers, we’ll find the answers you want.”

“OK, if you think that’ll work.” Weirdo.

“Why do you feel the need to know where things are?”

“I have to know.”

“Why do you feel you have to know?”

“Why do you feel you have to ask me questions?”

Mr. Burton blinked and was silent for a second longer than he wanted, I could tell. “It’s my job and I get paid to do it.”

“Paid to do it.” I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Burton, you could have my Saturday job stacking toilet rolls and get paid but you chose to study for what, ten million years? To get all of those scrolls you’ve hung on the walls.” I looked around at his framed qualifications. “I’d say you went through all of that studying, all of those exams, and ask all these questions for more reasons than just getting paid.”

He smiled lightly and watched me. I don’t think he knew what else to say. And so there was a two-minute silence while he thought. Finally he put down his pen and paper and leaned toward me, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I like to have conversations with people, I always have. I find that through talking about themselves people learn things that they didn’t know before. It’s a kind of self-healing. I ask questions because I like to help people.”

“And so do I.”

“You feel by asking questions about Jenny-May, you’re helping her or maybe her parents?” He tried to hide the confusion from his eyes.

“No, I’m helping myself.”

“How does it help you? Isn’t not getting the answers frustrating you even more?”

“Sometimes I find things, Mr. Burton. I find the things that have just been misplaced.”

“Isn’t everything that’s lost, misplaced?”

“To misplace something is to lose it temporarily by forgetting where you put it. I always remember where I put things. It’s the things that I don’t misplace that I try to find-the things that grow legs and walk away all by themselves-that annoy me.”