Then You Were Gone (2 page)

Meg Rofé—tiny nose, sweet voice—screams, “Orphan!”

Everyone laughs. Murphy nods. “Sure, orphans.
Likable
. What else?”

“No boning what’s-his-name.” Lynn Rofé, Meg’s twin. “The guy with the wife.”

“‘Boning,’” Murphy muses. “Choice word.”

Julian Boyd, Dakota’s quasi boyfriend/bandmate, sits two rows down and one aisle over. If I lean backward and a little left, my view is perfect. He looks miserable. He always looks miserable—under-eye circles, down-turned mouth—but today, he looks puffy and red and sincerely forlorn. Is
she
the one fucking his face up? Is he obsessed, perplexed, down, and done wrong by? Maybe he just really hates
Jane Eyre
.

•    •    •

Lee skips Intro to Economics and meets me behind the gym in the cozy little patch of cacti and rocks that overlooks the school pool. We meet here during free/not-free periods because it’s sunny and secluded, and because Lee likes the smell of chlorine.

“Hi,” he says, clutching my hands and hips, kissing my lips, ears, neck. “You wanna stay here or go to my car?”

“Here, please,” I say, sounding horse but feeling high. “The sun feels nice.”

“It does,” he agrees, backing me into the stucco siding. “How much time do we have?”

I shove my chin past his shoulder and check my watch. “Forty minutes.” Our stomachs are flush. “Pull up your shirt?” I ask. “Just a little?”

Skin-to-skin contact. What Lee and I do best: talk nonsense and push up against each other. “How’s that?”

“Good.”

Eighteen months. That’s how long we’ve been doing this. I met Kate in ceramics toward the end of sophomore year. She and Lee were close. “He’s a great guy,” she said. “He wants to F you,” she joked. He had floppy hair and rich parents. His dad wrote action scripts. His mom, an ex-actress, had done a bunch of crappy comedies in the eighties. But Lee seemed well-adjusted. He liked puppies and sports. He didn’t drink very much or smoke, or do drugs or spend excessively. He made me feel wanted and safe.

“Am I driving you to Kate’s later?” He wraps one arm around my waist.

I say, “Come get me at six?” And, “Can we stop for pie on the way?”

“Pie?” Lee laughs.

“We’re dessert this week.”

“Pie, then.” He snaps my bra strap.

•    •    •

Home.

Blue stucco, rusty gate, potted succulents, lantana shrubs.

“Hello?” I slam the back door, drop my bag by the hutch, and kick off my flats. “Who’s here?”

“Me.” Sam. Mom’s boyfriend. “Kitchen.”

I follow the smell of sizzling shallots and find Sam hovering over a skillet with a wooden spatula.

“Hi, kid.”

“Hey. Mom home?”

“On her way.”

Sam is always home. He does web design out of the walkin closet by the half bath down the hall. Mom converted the space into an office for him late last year (sloping ceilings with two tiny windows that look out onto our neighbor’s pretty mosaic garden—broken glass, bird baths, Technicolor tile). Before that, it was my favorite place to read and take naps.

“Want some?” He passes me a plate with some roughly cut apple.

I take a slice. “It’s good,” I say. Supercrunchy and tart.

“Farmer’s market. In that lot by the bank off Glendale.”

Sam and Mom have been happily unwed for ten years now. My real dad lives in upstate New York. Which is, whatever, fine.

“You okay?” He’s eyeing me sideways.

I grab a glass off the drying rack and fill it with tap water. “Dakota’s missing.”

He adjusts the burner heat. Doesn’t flinch. “What do you mean, missing?”

“I mean, she’s missing. Like, full-on gone. Like, troll freshman girls are spreading hideous, shitty rumors about—” I stop myself.

“Have you tried Emmett?” Emmett: Dakota’s stepdad. Less dad, more landlord.

“No.”

“Want me to call him?”

“No.”

Sam spends three seconds looking somber. He’s facing me. He looks so slender and serious. He’s wearing the apron I tie-dyed for Mom for her forty-third birthday. “I saw her,” he says.

I’m mid-guzzle. I swallow, slam my cup down, and wipe my mouth dry. “What do you mean, you saw her? When?”

“Sunday night. Outside the Echo.”

My insides seize. “You
saw
her?”

“I was picking up pizza for me and Mom, and she was getting dropped off.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” I roll it over in my brain for a bit. “Wait, why didn’t you tell me that?”

He shrugs, turning back to the stove. “Seemed pretty
minor. And I didn’t—” One quick stir. “I thought it might upset you.”

I shake my head, embarrassed. Suddenly so see-through. “Why would you think that?”

He looks up, suppressing a grin.

“Why are you smiling?” I say, sounding snappish. “This isn’t funny.”

“Adrienne, honey.” He pauses, tossing some salt into the sauce. “That girl doesn’t exactly trigger your inner angel.”

I flinch.

Sam softens. “No, look, she was pissed and kicking the crap out of some lunatic’s car.”

“Lunatic?”

“No, I don’t know. Just some guy. Or girl, maybe?”

I laugh. Involuntarily. Sam does too.

“Typical.”

“Right?” He ruffles my hair. “Honey, I’m sure she’s all right. She does this. Goes away. Comes back.” He looks at me. “You gonna be okay?”

I nod, shaking off my shit mood and stepping back. “So what’s with the white mess in the pan?”

“White
mess
?” He picks up his spatula. “No, no . . . white
perfection
.” He smiles and bites a bit of sauce off the spatula tip. “You’re eating out?”

“Supper Club,” I say. Weekly potluck at Kate’s place. “Can I have some money? I have to pick up a pie on the way.”

He pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and hands me a twenty.

“Thanks,” I say. Smile. On second thought: “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“She was
kicking
the car?”

“Yup, the wheel.”

“You’re sure you didn’t see the guy?”

“Sorry.”

Discouraged, I start down the hall to my room. Then, “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember what kind of car?”

I hear a couple of pots clink together, then the faucet goes on. “It was a Bug.”

“A bug?”

“Yeah. An old VW Beetle. I had the same car when I was sixteen.”

Huh
. “Color?”

“Yellow,” Sam shouts. Then, so soft I almost don’t hear: “Mine was red.”

In my room, on my bureau, a photograph. I’ve got dozens of these, but keep coming back to this one: Dakota and me, fourteen, side by side on my stoop. She’s blowing a kiss at the camera. Her lips are purple and puckered, her eyes lined with liquid black. She’s wearing boots and blue tights and a dark, floral mini. I’m in an oversized white tank and taupe shorts and she’s shoving me down. My head’s to my knees and she’s gleeful, her eyes shining.

Kate lives in Hancock Park, where they’ve got streetlamps and wide lawns and big stone homes. Her house is tall and covered with soft green moss. She has two parents, a pool, and a potbellied pig named Darla. Every Thursday we make a shit-ton of food, serve it up on nice china, and drink ourselves sick.

Tonight it’s me, Lee, Kate, Teddy Walker, Margaret Yates, and pretty, wispy Alice Reed, who’s across the table, next to Lee, fake smoking a giant breadstick.

“She has it all,” Kate whispers, smelling like crackers and strawberry gloss and Nag Champa incense. “Brains, boobs . . .” Kate’s being shitty. Alice Reed is flat and dumb. “Feels nice, right? Rounding out our social circle?”

“Round enough as is, no?”

“We’re too exclusionary,” Kate says, sighing. I smear a dab of pie custard onto her nose. “Mmm,” she says,
stretching her tongue over her upper lip. “Chocolate.”

A piercing laugh from across the table.

“Do it again,” shrieks Lee. Alice sucks, inhales, then exhales—forming her mouth into a pleasing, pouty O.

“Bravo.”

Smoke ring pantomime. We all clap.

Teddy Walker—rich, stuck-up, into boys, into clothes—passes Alice the lentil salad. “Here,” he says. “Smoke this.”

She takes the dish, serves herself, serves my boyfriend.

“A toast!” Kate’s filling my cup to its brim with red wine.

“To?” I say, slurping the overflow off the top.

She faces me and, with a hand to her heart, says: “You.”

“Oh, to
me
?” I fan my face with my free hand. “Really?”

“To Adrienne!” everyone screams, gulping wine and clanking cups.

Kate’s fat, surly piggy waddles past me and plops down on the Persian carpet.

“To Darla!” shouts Lee.

“To Darla!” we echo. And for the first time all week I feel the teensiest bit happy.

We keep toasting. To sunny skies and starry nights. To taco trucks and cigarette breadsticks. To Dr. Strange, our principal. To Gwen Murphy’s baby. To the Cannons, Kate’s parents, for supplying us with booze but then taking our car keys. To Margaret’s debate win. To Wyatt Shaw, Kate’s crush. “To Dakota Webb!” screams Teddy. And with that, my buzz fizzles.

“Where is that girl?” Alice asks.

“On the lam,” says Teddy.

“Yeah? What’s she running from?”

“Sex,” he says, laughing.

“Running from sex?” I say, super annoyed while everyone giggles. “Not funny.” I rearrange my silverware. “Doesn’t even make any sense . . .”

“No, wait—” Teddy again. “Drugs.”

More laughter.

“Running
from
drugs?” he ponders. “Running
with
drugs?”

“Moving on,” Kate interjects. “Pass the peas, please?”

No peas. But Lee passes the lentils and the bread basket.

I watch my lap. Sip some wine. Kate drills two knuckles into my kneecap. “Yeah?”

“You’re wanted.”

I look up. More giggles. More plate-passing and blue-cheese/tomato-salad/dry-salami/lentil-eating. Lee’s wiggling one brow at me, mock seductively. I grin a little.
What?
I mouth. He points left.

“Bathroom,” I say to Kate.

“Sure, slut.”

I stand. Lee follows. We go to the guest bath down the hall. Lee locks the door. Lifts me onto the vanity. “You okay?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” I lean forward, rub my nose against his nose. “Eskimos,” I whisper.

“Eskimos,” he says back. He licks my face. I kick him closer with one foot. We kiss slow, so slow, the slowest, most slippery kiss. I wrap my arms around his neck; my body settles. “Let’s stay here for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” Lee says.

I shut my eyes.

Everyone’s saying it:
suicide
. All those sneaky
s
sounds.

From the
LA Times
blog:

Eighteen-year-old Langley senior and Los Angeles resident Dakota Webb has gone missing. Webb fronts the local indie band Dark Star. Just last month, Dark Star played to packed audiences during its Monday-night residency at the downtown all-ages venue the Smell.

Webb’s abandoned Jeep was discovered early Friday morning in a pay lot off Pacific Coast Highway. A note, allegedly written by Webb, was found inside the vehicle. The note’s contents have not been disclosed.

Last month, another Los Angeles teen, Crossroads sophomore Cassidy Chang, disappeared. Her Ford sedan was found in the same beach parking lot.

“I’m taking you home,” Lee tells me. He’s holding one hand and Kate’s holding the other. “You’re gonna be okay,” they say. And: “Adrienne, hey, don’t go crazy with this.”

Principal Strange, moments ago: “Let’s say a silent prayer for our shining star, Dakota Webb.”

Two squad cars are parked by the auditorium exit.

“Knox, hey, they have a note, that’s all.”

Absolutely not, no way, not possible.
“She would never—not
ever
—” I hear myself stutter. Only, I dunno, would she? “Pills before razors. Razors before ropes,” we used to joke. But drowning? Rocks in pockets? She didn’t even like the beach. “You guys?” I’m being escorted somewhere. Lee’s car? We’re crossing the quad. Kate’s palm trees swoosh overhead.

“Knox.” Which one says this? Both their faces look flat and gloomy. “Knox, it’s okay . . . sit.”

I get in. Lee’s to my left. Kate stays outside, one hand touching the car door.

“It’s hot in here, are you hot?” I roll down my window. I’m shaky and flying and spaced out. Two girls dressed in funeral black shiver and clutch each other by the old oak near the exit. “You’re coming, right?”

“I gotta stay,” Kate says, leaning forward, kissing my cheek. “Call you later?”

I feel like a fucking hot-air balloon. “She didn’t kill herself,” I blurt. Lee rubs my shoulder. “No way would she copy some sad sophomore from Crossroads.”

•    •    •

At home, Lee sits with me in the den.

“You want anything?”

We’re waiting on my mother, who’s heading home from a design job in the Valley.

“Is this my fault?” I ask Lee.

“No.” The
o
in the ‘no’ is long and insistent.

“I waited. I waited
four days
to call back. She wanted help and I just—”

“You don’t know what she wanted,” Lee says. And, “Hey.” His hand moves to my thigh. “She wasn’t nice, Knox. She was shitty to you.”

True and not true. She was shitty, sure. Also? She was funny and magnetic and nutso-crazy fun. “Don’t say ‘was.’” I flick his fingers away.

Keys jingle, the door creaks, and: “Hello? Babe?”

Lee stands, says, “In here,” then greets my frazzled mom with a quick, loose hug.

“You guys okay?” She’s at my side now, rocking me, smothering my face with kisses. “Babe, you okay?”

I say, “Yes, okay,” then shoot Lee a frosty look. Mom’s face
is inches from my face. “Oh, babe.” She looks so brokenhearted. Everything about her looks gray and miserable, even her hair. “She wasn’t a happy girl.”

I stand up, stepping backward. “Stop saying ‘was.’” I’m furious and dizzy and completely perplexed. Why’s no one asking questions? What if she’s been abducted or hurt or worse? What about the yellow Bug Sam saw Sunday night? “Where’s Sam?” I say.