Then You Were Gone (15 page)

“What do you mean?”

“You said you
felt
bad.”

She pauses as if to retrace her wording. “I meant, yeah, I meant what I said. It feels shitty not having friends.”

“You had friends.”

“Who?”

“Your band? Julian? You have legions of obsessed freshman girls
dying
to get close to you.”

“They’re not my friends,” she says. “I’ve seen you with that girl.”

“Kate?”

“The one that dropped you off?”

I nod.

“It’s nice, the way you are together. We were never like that, were we?”

Something hard and sharp solidifies in my heart. “No,” I say. “We weren’t.” She’s
lonely
. Of course. Years of pushing people sideways, of manipulation and seduction and worthless, sexy gestures—a wink, a lick—then what? Who’s left now? “Why’d we stop talking?” I ask.

Her face falls. She crosses her ankles and clasps her hands like someone so virtuous and good. “I stopped liking you.”

I swallow my shock. My belly—instantly rigid.

“You just—you let me
do
things to you,” she continues. “Everything was always so easy. You were like a boy—super agreeable and passive and doting.”

She’s right. I let her lead, always. She told me who to like and what to wear and how to play.

“I stopped respecting you.” Her voice trembles a bit. Her mouth settles into a straight, unreadable line. “I wanted something, I dunno, mutual, I guess? And what we had? Nothing was ever
even
.”

“So . . .” I see it now—all her faulty, fucked-up logic. “That was a test, that kiss? You were
testing
me?”

She rolls her bottom lip between her pointer finger and thumb. “I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.” It’s her party trick. Seduce anyone! Your teacher, your bandmate, your best friend. “Anyone’s fuckable, right?”

She glares back. “Right.”

I stand up, hot with fury. “You’re insane.”

“No, I’m
right
.”

“About
what
?”

“All anyone wants? Is to have their pretty, precious ego stroked.” She’s standing now. “No one wants anything real.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s true.”

“You? You’re not real.”

“Right. No, I know. I’m the fantasy.”

“You set
traps
.”

“Yes! I do! And you
all always fail
.”

I sit down, hands on head. Take three slow breaths. Pat
my hair. “I wanted you to like me.” My voice breaks.
“You never seemed like you liked me.”

“I did.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you like about me?”

She laughs. “Can’t remember.”

I turn away, toward the wall. “I remember what I liked about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“You were fun. For a while.” I cluck my tongue. “You were really, really fun.”

She’s quiet for a bit. “You think I don’t see anyone but myself.”

I shrug.

Then, softly, as if whispering to a puppy or a child, “Hey, turn around.” She touches my shoulder. “Hey, come on. I won’t bite.”

I don’t believe her. I twist forward.

“People like me for the wrong reasons.”

“Meaning?” I say, my patience waning.

She sighs heavily. “They want to screw me. Or
know
me. They like my music. They like the way I look.” Her voice is flat. “My songs, my clothes—none of that’s me.”

I consider this.
Recognize it
. Me in Dakota’s dresses, smoking her cigarettes, wearing her eyeliner. Lee wanting
me. Me hating him for it. “I get it,” I say, because suddenly, unexpectedly, I do.

Dakota slouches, relaxing slightly.

“But you make it that way, you know that, right? You invite it,” I say. “You don’t get to—” I stop, searching for the right analogy. “—put up a sign selling fruit”—
lame
—“then get pissed when people want to buy apples off you.”

She blinks. Picks up the remote. Puts it back down. “I guess,” she says softly, and the mood lifts a little. “How’d you meet Kate?”

“Ceramics. Sophomore year. She and Lee—they were kind of, like, a package deal.”

She looks at me. “Where’s Lee now?”

“We broke up.”

“Right, Julian.”

“Nothing’s happening with Julian—”

She makes a face.

“Well, I don’t know,” I say quickly, defensively. I look at the wall clock: 4:12. I look outside: nearly dark.

“I used to see you guys by the pool sometimes between periods. You and Lee.”

“Yeah. We liked it there.”

“You seemed happy.”

“We were,” I say, blotting my runny nose with my sweater sleeve. “I fucked it up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding.

“Well.” Dakota shrugs. “I relate. I fuck shit up all the time.”

Right. At least I don’t fake suicides and fuck a billion people and break hearts and set traps. I suppress a giggle.

“Go ahead, laugh,” she says, pulling a Red Vine loose from an open package on the coffee table. “It’s funny.
I’m
funny,” she says, laughing now too. Chewing and sucking and rolling her eyes.

Elysian Park, two thirty, Saturday.

Green trees. Brown grass. Men in white vans.

I’m waiting for Julian.

It’s breezy and crisp. There’re a gazillion dogs off leash. I used to come here all the time with Sam on hikes. We stopped a few years ago when we discovered the reservoir: flatter, less sketchy, just as many dogs but more babies in strollers.

I missed this. Eastside wilderness. Overgrown and a little grimy.

“Hi.”

Two thirty-two. Here he is. “Hey.”

“You ready?”

I nod and climb over the rusty guardrail.

“Haven’t been here in forever,” he says.

“Me neither.”

“Nice, right?”

“Totally.”

We stand at the base of the hill together, staring up.

“Steep.”

“Yep.”

“You have an okay week?” I ask. “You were out sick.”

“I wasn’t, really. I was just—home.” Of course. Dakota fallout. She’s back. He’s reeling. He sticks a hand out. “Tired already. Help me up?”

I take his fingers, yanking hard. They’re dry and hot, and touching him gives me the nuttiest little thrill. We run together, huffing, for a hard fifteen seconds. Then we rest, hunched over, inhaling and exhaling like old, fat men.

“What?” he says. A crooked look.

It’s different, being with him. Things feel bright now, less dirty and sad. He looks the same, only shades pinker. No Dakota lens skewing my view.

“We don’t really know each other,” I hear myself say.

“No,” he says, righting himself. “I guess we don’t.”

We’re walking again.

“I went a little crazy this month.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I don’t really smoke, you know.”

“Yeah, you make shitty smoke rings.”

I smile, hands on hips, leaning into the incline. “I was an asshole to Lee,” I say. Lee. Who’s on his third official day of
doing
Alice Reed. “Super shitty,” I mumble. They get four full weeks of supper club—free of me—we agreed. Seems only fair. “Have you seen Dakota?” I ask. Julian’s watching the ground, not me.

“Wednesday. I had some stuff of hers I wanted to get rid of.”

Rid of.
I relax, slightly. Still: “Happy to have her back?”

He frowns. “Happy she’s safe.” After a beat: “We’re done, Dakota and me. You know that, right?” His brow scrunches up. “I mean, the whole screwing-my-lit-teacher thing . . . ?”

I laugh. Can’t help it. Psychotic relief.

“Hey, look.” He points.

We’ve plateaued. Beneath us, a deep, empty ravine. A runner and two dogs jog past, collars and keys jingling.

“It’s all downhill,” he says. There’s a wonky, unhinged feeling in my chest. I look at my sneakers, powdered with gritty, gray dust. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“I—”

I kiss him. Super quick. Then, bouncing backward, I blurt, “Just checking.”

He laughs. “Checking
what
? My vitals?”

“Checking, you know, to see if . . .” I shut my eyes. Shake my head.
Jesus, Adrienne.
“To see if—” I’m whispering. “To see if I feel the same.”

“Well?” he says, amused. “What’s the verdict?”

I look at him. “Yeah, you know.” I shrug. “You still got it.”

We do it again.

This time, though, we go slow. His hands slide around my ribs. I get a chill.

“Gimme your hand,” he says. I do, I give him my hand.

“You ready? Let’s run for it.”

“Okay,” I say, gazing downward, my pulse quickening with something girlish and crazy-making—adrenaline? Hope?

“Count of three.” He squeezes my fingers. I squeeze back—“One, two”—then let go, darting ahead. I’m flying, flailing, screaming gleefully all the way down.

“Adrienne, wait!”

I don’t. I scream louder. My heels pound the sandy ground and something mystifying and joyful creeps high up my spine.

Anica Rissi and Jen Rofé, I am so stupidly lucky to have you two in my life. Thank you both for your support, wisdom, enthusiasm, faith, and friendship.

Pulse team, endless thanks, as always, for all you do.

Jade Chang, Adeline Colangelo, Amanda Yates, Milly Sanders, Jenna Blough, Anna Spanos, Morgan Matson, Hannah Moskowitz—massive gratitude for your feedback and writerly guidance.

Joanna Weinberg Lawless, you know how you helped. Thank you. Love you.

Dad and Aaron, thanks for being the absolute best.

T
URN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT

L
AUREN
S
TRASNICK’S

NOTHING LIKE YOU

We were parked
at Point Dume, Paul and I, the two of us tangled together, half dressed, half not. Paul’s car smelled like sea air and stale smoke, and from his rearview hung a yellow and pink plastic lanyard that swayed with the breeze drifting in through the open car window. I hung on to Paul, thinking,
I like your face, I love your hands, let’s do this, let’s do this, let’s do this
, one arm locked around the back of his head, the other wedged between two scratched-up leather seat cushions, bracing myself against the pain while wondering, idly, if this feels any different when you love the person or when you do it lying down on a bed.

This was the same beach where I’d spent millions of mornings with my mother, wading around at low tide searching for sea anemone and orange and purple starfish. It had cliffs
and crashing waves and seemed like the appropriate place to do something utterly unoriginal, like lose my virginity in the backseat of some guy’s dinged-up, bright red BMW.

I didn’t really know Paul but that didn’t really matter. There we were, making sappy, sandy memories on the Malibu Shore, fifteen miles from home. It was nine p.m. on a school night. I needed to be back by ten.

“That was nice,” he said, dragging a hand down the back of my head through my hair.

“Mm,” I nodded, not really sure what to say back. I hadn’t realized the moment was over, but there it was—our unceremonious end. “It’s getting late, right?” I dragged my jeans over my lap. “Maybe you should take me home?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Paul shimmied backward, buttoning his pants. “I’ll get you home.” He wrinkled his nose, smiled, then swung his legs over the armrest and into the driver’s side seat.

“Thanks,” I said, trying my best to seem casual and upbeat, hiking my underwear and jeans back on, then creeping forward so we were seated side by side.

“You ready?” he asked, pinching an unlit cigarette between his bottom and top teeth.

“Sure thing.” I buckled my seat belt and watched Paul run the head of a Zippo against the side seam on his pants, igniting a tiny flame. I turned my head toward the window and pressed my nose against the glass. There, in the not-so-
far-off distance, an orange glow lit the sky, gleaming bright.
Brushfire.

“Remind me, again?” He jangled his car keys.

“Hillside. Off Topanga Canyon.”

“Right, sorry.” He lit his cigarette and turned the ignition. “I’m shit with directions.”

Topanga was burning.

Helicopters swarmed overhead dumping water and red glop all over fiery shrubs and mulch. The air tasted sour and chalky and my eyes and throat burned from the blaze. Flaming hills, thick smoke—this used to seriously freak me out. Now, though, I sort of liked it. My whole town tinted orange and smelling like barbecue and burnt pine needles.

I was standing in my driveway, Harry’s leash wrapped twice around my wrist. We watched the smoke rise and billow behind my house and I thought:
This is what nuclear war must look like
.
Mushroom clouds and raining ash
. I bent down, kissed Harry’s dry nose, and scratched hard behind his ears. “One quick walk,” I said. “Just down the hill and back.”

He barked.

We sped through the canyon. Past tree swings and chopped wood and old RVs parked on lawns. Past the plank bridge that crosses the dried-out ravine, the Topanga Christian Fellowship with its peeling blue and white sign, the Christian Science Church, the Topanga Equestrian Center with the horses on the hill and the fancy veggie restaurant down below in their shadow. That day, the horses were indoors, shielded from the muddy, smoky air. Harry and I U-turned at the little hippie gift shop attached to the fancy veggie restaurant, and started back up the hill to my house.