Then You Were Gone (6 page)

I hit replay. I can’t even remember the real Dakota. This—this pretty package—is this who she was/is? Is this who I am? An adoring fan?

New search: “Dakota Webb missing.” A gazillion links flash in my face. I click one that leads to some music forum with pages of speculation about her disappearance. Suicide, murder, kidnappings, claims of scientology involvement, conspiracy theories, a handful of kids from Langley reminiscing
about the last time they saw her alive (at a Smell show, at Grauman’s Chinese, at a deli on third, snorting things in public restrooms).

Knock, knock.

I jump, startled shitless, smooshing my cigarette tip into a plate and fanning the air. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” comes a drunk, familiar boy voice.

I undo the door a crack. “What’re you doing here, Lee? It’s late.”

His face is splotchy from drinking. “You left the party and didn’t say good-bye. Door was open . . .” He pushes in, grabbing my cheeks and kissing me. “
Fuck
,” he whines, shoving me lightly. “Fuck,
Adrienne
—” He’s laughing now. “What’s with the cigarettes all of a sudden?”

“What’s the big deal?” I squeal, sounding psychotically defensive. “Why do you care? It’s not
your
body.”

“It kind of is . . .” Lee says, clutching my hips. “And anyways, I’m the one who has to kiss you.”

I turn away, embarrassed. “It’s just a thing, okay? I’ll stop soon.”

He wraps his arms around my waist. His nose grazes my neck. “Where’d you go tonight?”

My body kick-starts—a low buzzing that starts in my knees and moves upward. “Nowhere,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”

He kisses me. This time, I kiss back. One of his hands is clamped around the back of my head, the other is lifting my
dress up. “I like this,” he says, backing me into my blue bedroom wall. “This black thing. It’s sexy.”

Something angry and hot slips down my spine.
I’m not dressed like me.
“It’s not,” I say, my voice sounding sharp.

“It is,” he insists, undoing the clasp at my breastbone. Then, “Adrienne, hey, look at me.” I glance up. His eyes are pink and glassy. “You’re beautiful,” he says, plainly. And inexplicably—
so quick
—Lee slides out of place in my heart.

Kate passes me a big bag of wasabi chips. “Want some?”

I take two and chew, feeling mildly high while the spiciness eats at my sinuses. “Where’re we going?”

“Don’t know. Sandwiches? Or we could get takeout from that vegan place on La Cienega? You liked their lentil salad. ’Member?”

I nod. We’re weaving through the student lot, headed for Kate’s car.

“Get that, will you?” She’s searching her bag for her keys. Something’s tacked to the grimy windshield. I stretch across the hood and pry the paper loose from under the wiper.

Dark Star performs a Dakota Webb tribute show.

Thursday night, 8 p.m., the Smell

My balance seesaws. It’s a black-and-white Xeroxed photo of Dakota in her room. She’s laughing and looking sideways. Who took this? Julian?

“What is it?” Kate calls from inside the car.

“Nothing,” I say, pocketing the flyer and getting in. “Trash.”

I’m wearing beat-to-shit booties and kicking around outside the Smell. There’s a loud, smoky pack of girls huddled together by the club entrance looking ratty and elfin and chic. I dig my phone from my purse and shakily dial Dakota. Straight to voicemail, of course. I flip my phone shut.

Inside it’s all brick walls and cement flooring. A gazillion Langley kids hold candles and lighters. Girls with Kool-Aid-colored hair sip things encased in brown baggies. Is this what I’ve been missing? Dank rooms and cuckoo crowds?

Dark Star is midway through their set, playing an instrumental version of my favorite—“Art School Sluts with Razored Haircuts.” I’m used to the scratchy acoustic version they have up on their website. Without Dakota, the song’s spoiled.

I box through the swaying masses and end up near the front by the stage. This blond girl from my civics class is
whispering lyrics. Julian’s up onstage pounding the shit out of a monster drum set. There’s an empty mic stand where Dakota used to be.

Then: show’s over. Everyone goes outside to smoke. I stay, watching the band pack up their equipment. Julian—he knows something, he does, he
must
. Could he have hurt her? Smothered her? Sent her running? Broken her? No way, right? That’s Dakota’s game. She does the breaking.

Julian sees me and hops off the stage. I wave, but he keeps on toward the exit.

“Hey,” I say, impulsively, grabbing at him. “Hey, wait. Please?” He stops. Stares at my fingers clutching his hot arm. I get a fast flash of him and Dakota doing indecent things together. “That was great,” I babble, trying to make the moment feel more upbeat and normal. “You were great,” I say, pulling my hand back, flustered.

“Thanks.”

“I kind of—I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I—we have to load up the van.”

“Oh.” I shrug. “That’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I blather, mortified. Why am I standing here, begging a stranger for time and attention?

“Just—” He looks up. “Wait, if you want. We’ll be done in fifteen.”

“Oh.”

“There’s a place next door that’ll serve us.”

I unclench my fists.

“Wait here, okay?” He’s jogging backward now.

“Okay.” I nod casually. “Cool.”

•    •    •

The backs of my thighs are glued to the sticky black bar booth. Ranchera music pumps out of a large speaker by the window. Julian drops two Negra Modelos onto the tabletop. “Here.”

I take a timid sip of beer and try not to stare as he chugs half his bottle, still standing. “You come here a lot?” I ask.

He swallows. “When we’re downtown, I guess. After shows.” He sits, finally, slumping against the booth back.

“You guys, you’re getting pretty big, huh?” Underground following. Weekly Smell shows. Rumor of indie label interest. Of summertime West Coast tour plans.

“We were on the verge.” Julian half laughs. Of course,
Christ
, what’s a band without their lead girl?
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Adrienne.
“We’re not really sure what we’re doing anymore.”

“Sorry.”

He shakes a shoulder. One careless wiggle.

“So, tonight . . .” I say, sounding inane. Where am I headed with this—
Great tribute? Super moving?

“She never talked about you,” Julian blurts. My neck tenses. He looks sorry he said it. “I don’t mean—I mean, I knew you two were friends, like, forever ago, I just—she never talked about it.”

“Oh.”

“So. What happened?” He’s rubbing his beard scruff. “Why’d you two stop—”

“No reason,” I say, cutting him off. “Girl stuff, I guess.” I shift around in my seat, my thighs making puckering sounds as they pull away from the pleather. “Sam saw her.”

“Sorry?”

“No, I mean—not, like, recently. I mean the weekend she . . .” I trail off, wondering what he’s thinking. Why his face looks so infuriatingly blank.

“Who’s Sam?”

“Oh.”
Jesus
. “My mom’s boyfriend?” I suck back more beer. Make it look like I like it. “She was outside the Echo.” I watch his face for flickers of recognition. “In a Bug.”

“A Bug?”

“Yeah, you know, the car?”

He nods. “Want another?”

“Still have to finish this one.”

He’s already at the bar buying two more. “Here.” He sits back down and slides one my way. “So, she was with someone?”

Can’t stop myself: “Wasn’t you?”

He swallows. “Wasn’t me.” He’s gazing intently at his beer bottle. He looks jilted. Heartsick.

I backpedal. “I don’t know if it was a guy. Could’ve been a girl. Sam didn’t see . . .”

He guzzles his drink, stares at the back of the bar, undoes the clasp on his wristwatch.

“Here. You should hear this.” I pull my cell from my bag. Dial voicemail. Punch in my password. Pass him the phone. Dakota’s small voice—tinny and far away—seeps from the cell speaker: “Adrienne? Adrienne, it’s me, remember? Call back, please?”

All the color leaks from his cheeks. “When was this?”

“A few days before.”

“Can I hear it again?”

“Press four.”

He does. He listens. He passes the phone back. “Did you call back?”

“No.” Shame on me. “Was she your girlfriend?” I ask, cautiously, after sixty seconds of wearisome silence. “I mean, I know you guys were involved, but . . . were you together? Like, officially?”

“That girl—” He smiles tightly. “Never really belonged to anyone.”

“Sorry, you’re just—” I’m grinning. “You’re really right.” For an instant I feel less alone. “So she wasn’t . . . ? I mean, I always thought you were a couple.”

“Sometimes,” he says, hesitating a second. “Sometimes not.” He peels the label off his bottle.

“Where were you last night?” asks Lee, his palm flat against my lower back.

I arch away, leaning into my locker. “Home.” I trade my trig text for
Frankenstein
.

“I called you.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t pick up.”

Second bell. I lock my locker and spin on one heel, slipping past Lee and down the hall.

“Hey.” He’s at my side now, running to keep up. “What’s your problem?”

A quick flash of guilt. “Nothing.” I stop, facing him. “I’m just late for class.”

“Well, so am I.”

“Okay,” I say, softening. “Sorry.”

“So kiss me.”

I hesitate for a second, then roll up onto my tippytoes. I peck his lips.

“That’s it?”

“Lee.”
I pull away, wiping my mouth. “I’m late.”

“Fine,” he says. His voice is clipped. “So go.”

•    •    •

After lit, Murphy packs up his crap. Kids scatter. Julian looms over my desk.

I get up, bite my pen tip, grab my bag, and together we go outside. Just like that. No talking, no sad glances—we walk quickly, side by side, off campus to the freak section. Julian sits on a slab of cement and lights two skinny cigarettes. He passes me one. I drag deeply, looking up, batting my eyes at Kate’s tall, glossy palm trees. Something brushes against my elbow. I look down. It’s Julian’s arm. I can’t tell if he’s touching me on purpose or not. I stay still. I like him there, his army jacket rubbing against my dress sleeve.

“Time’s up.” Second bell blares. “See ya,” he says, standing, leaving me. Snuffing out his cigarette and walking away without turning back.

•    •    •

“Have you seen that thing he’s dating?”

“That
thing
?” I ask, cranking the window down, hot exhaust pelting my face. “Yes, I’ve seen her. She’s cute.”

Kate accelerates, speeding through a yellow light. “
Cute?
She’s tiny. She’s like—” She makes a sour face. “Like a
shrunken, emaciated doll. Who would have sex with that?”

“Wyatt. Apparently.”

“Fuck you.”

I laugh.

“No,
fuck you
. Why can’t you be my friend and hate her with some commitment and sincerity?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes!”

“You’re still laughing!”

“Yes!
Yes
, sorry,” I say, turning up the enthusiasm. “She’s a troll.”

Kate eases up on the gas. “I’m better than her.”

“Katie . . .
hey
.” I rub her shoulder. “Yes. Come on, you’re my favorite person.” Her shoulders slump. “No one else brings me tiny, delicious snacks from the Japanese market or buys me books about controversial but revolutionary treatments in the fight against anorexia nervosa.”

She laughs.

“And you have the prettiest red lips.”

“Makeup.”

“And you have the best taste in experimental jazz.”

“True . . .”

“And does that girl Wyatt’s with take bubble baths
every single day
? Does she line dry her clothes like you do?”

A modest shrug.

“You’re a movie star.”

My cell dings. I grab my bag, fishing my phone from the side compartment and checking the ID screen. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Number’s blocked.”

“So?” Kate makes a circular gesture with her hand. “Answer it.”

“I—” I pick up. “Hello?” Zilch. Silence. Then, again: “Hello?” The line clicks dead.

“What? Who was it?”

“I—no one?” I roll the window up, feeling suddenly, inexplicably chilly. “I dunno. No one was there.”

“I wanna know who you love best.”

“You already know who I like best.”

“Not like, love.” Her mouth goes taut. “Seriously. Your favorite. Who’s the person you love more than anyone else in the world?”

“Excluding my mother?”

“Obviously.”

We both smile. “Hmm . . .” I stretch the moment. For once, making her wait for it. “You?”

So pleased: “Me?”

“Yes, you,” I say, eyes rolling. “You’re ridiculous.”

She winks, turning back to her reflection. Then she beelines for my closet, pulling three dresses off the rack and tossing them onto my bedspread.

“Feel free . . .”

She strips down, flinging her shirt, shoes, shorts, and bra
onto my floor. “You think I look fat?” She’s just standing there. Naked, save for her striped cotton underwear.

“No.” My eyes dart nervously to the cracked bedroom door. Sam’s home.

“You’re not even looking.”

I glance up. “You’re not fat, no.” She knows this. She’s tiny and pale with perfect, perky little boobs that match.

“Shit.” Now she’s all twisted up, struggling to get one of the dresses over her head. “Success!” Once on, watching herself: “It’s see-through.”

“That’s the style.” Sheer floral. “It goes with a slip.”

She scowls. Strips down again. Tries another. My vintage navy shift. “Can I wear this?” She’s inspecting herself sideways in the full-length. She looks spectacular. Like a sixties school-girl pinup.