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counter whether Mr. Ressler had left a forwarding address. She had made up her mind that Jessie’s father had to be told what was going on, and she, Alisha, had to tell him. But she didn’t have the phone number, and it was no use asking Jessie for it–Jessie had made it pretty clear she wouldn’t cooperate. Alisha had no idea where Jessie’s father lived now, but she hoped if she could get his forwarding address, she might luck out with a phone number from Information.
    The pimply woman repeated, “Mr. Ressler?”
    â€œI don’t know his first name.”
    â€œWell, you’d better find out, hadn’t you?”
    It had been over two years since Jessie’s father had left, but Alisha remembered he used to work at the State Farm Insurance office, so she trudged down Main Street to ask there.
    â€œRessler?” said the receptionist, a young woman with a face that looked as if it had been spray-painted around her impossibly green eyes, probably colored contacts. “Ron Ressler ? He hasn’t set foot in here for years.”
    â€œDo you know where he moved to?”
    â€œIndianapolis, wasn’t it? Or maybe Grand Rapids. Or was it Saint Louis? I can’t remember.”
    â€œDo you, um, have it on file someplace?”
    â€œI doubt it. Why would we?”
    Starting to get blisters on her toes from her new sandals, Alisha trudged back to the post office and asked for the forwarding address of Ron, or Ronald, Ressler.
    The pimply, red-faced woman told her, “We don’t give out that information. Privacy laws.”
    Alisha cried, “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
    â€œDon’t get smart with me, young lady.”
    Clamping her mouth shut, Alisha turned to leave. As she went out the door, the woman called after her, “It’s been more than a year, anyway. We only keep the forwarding addresses for a year.”
    So she knew who I was talking about all along , Alisha thought, with a familiar sour feeling swelling in her belly, a kind of emotional indigestion. She wondered whether the woman had treated her that way because she didn’t like teenagers, or whether she was hateful to people in general, or whether it was because Alisha was Black. It was hard not to assume the worst, and it was no use asking. She would never know for sure.
    She never did know for sure.
    Except with Jessie.
    Around a corner away from the post office, Alisha plopped onto a park bench, slipped her sore feet out of her sandals, and grabbed her cell phone, aching to talk with Jessie. But she couldn’t let Jessie find out she was trying to track down her father. She’d just talk with her. She wanted to hear the sound of her voice. She dialed Jessie’s cell phone, but it rang and rang. Five times, six, seven. Finally the voice mail picked up, robotic. “You have reached the mailbox of …”
    And then Jessie’s real voice. “Jessica Ressler.”
    A sweet, soft voice. Tears stung Alisha’s eyes. She clicked off. Couldn’t leave a message. Didn’t know what in the world to say.
    She took a long breath, got up, and got moving again. To the public library this time, to use a computer, since her family didn’t have one at home. It was just her, Mom, and Grandmom. Mom worked hard for not much money. Grandmom cooked spicy food and gave out advice, superstitions, and warnings. Such as, don’t mess with other people’s business. Especially not what she called “funny business.”
    Alisha saw nothing funny about it. And if she didn’t try to help Jessie, who would?
    On the computer, she quickly discovered that most of the “Find People” sites wanted money. She tried the Whitepages.com without success. She really needed Ron Ressler’s middle initial. She tried MySpace and Facebook and LinkedIn; no luck. Same problem. Time to go low-tech. At the library’s reference desk she asked