Then You Were Gone (7 page)

“Where?”

“On my date.”

Typical secret, cagy bullshit. “Who are you dating?”

No response. Instead: “Sometimes I think—” She starts, then stops, hurling herself down onto the floor, next to me. “Don’t you ever wonder what real love feels like?”

I tell her everything. Every kiss, crush, grope. “Real love?”

“Yeah. Like really real love.”

“I guess,” I say, uneasy. “Sure.” I pick at the berber carpet, pulling loose a few nylon loops.

“I never think about loving anyone. You think that’s weird?”

“I—” I stiffen. “Never?”

“Not ever.” She blinks. “I only ever think about people loving me.”

I look at her perfect, poreless complexion. Her bony shoulders. Her puffy upper lip. “That dress looks better on you,” I say.

She pulls her chin to her chest, looking down, assessing herself. “Does it?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “It does.”

It’s five thirty. I’m in bed with
Jane Eyre
.

“How’s the essay coming?” Lee says this. He’s behind me, nudging my butt with his knee. I’m fake reading and staring out the window at the neon pink-blue sky. “Your
essay
?” he says again, when I don’t respond.

I wave
Jane
overhead. “Can’t write the thing until I read the book.”

“Wasn’t it due this week?” Another knee nudge.

“Monday, yes.” I reach around and grab his shin, shoving him off me. “And can you shut up so I can get through this?”

Lee stiffens. I get that tight, shitty feeling in my neck. I try reinvesting in the book, but I am blazingly, psychotically pissed. I hate him.
Why
do I hate him? He does nothing but coddle and care for me, and I’m an absolute dick back.

“Adrienne.” He sounds pathetically low.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, feeling sudden regret and shame.

“Come’ere, please?”

He’s begging. So I roll over and let him kiss me. I even like the way it feels: warm, familiar. He touches my hair, my hands, my lopsided boobs. Then he reaches beneath my skirt. “Don’t,” I say, no longer liking it.

“Why not?”

He tries again, so I clamp his hand between my thighs. “Lee.” My breath catches. “Stop it. I don’t want to.”

He glares at me, his eyes wounded and wet. Then he’s up off the bed and into the bathroom.

I wince and tug my skirt down, rolling back onto my side.

“Gimme the bread.”

“Gimme?”
Kate mimics, grabbing the bread basket, holding it high off the table. “Say, ‘May I.’”

Teddy’s drunk. He slurs, “May I.”

“May I what?”

They’re locked in a playful stare-off. “The bread. Gimme.”

She rolls her eyes and drops the basket. Leans into me. Whispers: “You and Lee look so cozy over there.”

Lee’s across the table serving Alice piles of puffy salad.

“That’s not me.”

“No way,” she deadpans, pulling back. “Hey, Lee,” she shouts. “Go get more wine. There’re two reds by the microwave.”

He gets up. Kate faces me. “Put a leash on that guy.” She shoves a forkful of pasta into her mouth, then turns to Margaret Yates, who goes, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“A freshman from Hollywood High tried to drown herself at Venice Beach today.”

“This
afternoon
?” Kate shrieks.

“Broad daylight. She’s fine. Lifeguard on duty. She got saved.”

Lee’s back with both bottles. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Kate waves him forward with one hand. “Wine, please.”

I exhale, relieved no one’s dead, but then:

“I saw two cops with Julian Boyd by the faculty lot after school.” Alice says this. Contributing something of substance for once.

“Doing what?” Teddy asks.

“Talking. I dunno. You think that’s weird?”

“Not weird,” I blurt. “They’re talking to everyone. They talked to me.”

Shit stops. Records screech. All eyes on me.

“You talked to the police?” Margaret asks, her brow creasing.

“She knew her, that’s all.” Lee to my defense. “No big deal.” He looks at me.

“Yeah, I just, I knew her,” I stammer.

“How?” Teddy asks.

“We were friends for a while. Before I met you guys.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No,” Margaret says, watching me like I’m someone she’s met before but whose name she can’t remember. “Were you close?”

I shrug.

“But”—her eyes dart down my body—“you’re not like her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like, I dunno, you’re not
crazy
.”

“Knox?” Kate quips, trying to lighten the mood. “Knox is nuts. Absolutely
wild
.” She uncorks one of the reds and waves the bottle around. “Want more?”

Teddy thrusts his cup forward and the energy lifts a little.

“Well, whatever,” Margaret says, talking on. “I like Julian Boyd. He’s a babe.” She shoves Teddy sideways. “He’ll make a good suspect.”

Ice-cold, I say, “Suspect?”

“Sure, why not? This whole thing is already a huge fucking soap opera. Now there’s some homeless dude who’s claiming he saw Dakota the night she disappeared, like,
walking
into the water. But then Teddy knows a guy—” She faces him. “What’s his name again?”

“Nate Garza.”

“Right, who says Julian has this wicked jealous streak, and that no way in hell would she kill herself—”

“But then, who knows, right?” Teddy again. “Because I
also heard she had a Klonopin habit. And that stuff is—it’s antianxiety, right? Or antidepression?”

“Hey, guys?” I warble, on the verge of implosion.

Kate puts her hand on my neck. She shakes her head, says, “Stop it.”

“Stop
what
?”

“Are you deaf? Did you not hear her say they were friends?”

Margaret’s mouth tightens. “I—” She starts to say something cute, then, “Sorry.” She’s facing me now. “Didn’t mean to offend.”

Kate leads me through a crowd of fourteen-year-old girls in Stetsons and sundresses fingering ten-dollar necklaces. We do this most Sundays. Melrose Trading Post at Fairfax High. Used paperbacks, used furniture, white lace shirts with yellow pit stains.

“Eat this,” Kate says, passing me the last of a Nutella crepe. “And come’ere.” She pulls me into a cluttered booth. Pulls a minishift off the rack. “I like the print. Try it on.”

Faded mint polka dot. Pretty, but I have zero zeal for shopping. “Why don’t
you
try it on?”

“Green makes me look sallow.” She stares at me for a few seconds, then puts the dress back. “You ever gonna pep up?”

No clue. I take a bite of crepe and trash the rest. We’re walking again. I spot a woman selling clothes arranged by color. I go for the blacks and blues. “What do you think of this?” I ask, tugging on something knee-length and dark.

“Where’re you gonna wear that? Up onstage?”

“Screw you.” I turn toward the mirror. “Trying it on.” I slip the dress over my shirt. It’s tight around my ribs and dips between my boobs. “How much?” I ask the woman manning the booth.

“Fifteen.”

“Buying it,” I say to Kate, who rolls her eyes. I unzip the back and shimmy out. I pull a five, a ten, from my purse and thank the tiny lady.

“Chiffon. So versatile.”

“Shut up.” I clutch the dress to my chest and push forward. We hop from booth to booth, browsing. Kate says, “I’m pretty sure Alice likes Lee.”

I search inside for signs of jealousy. “I know.”

“Do you care?”

“I mean.” I pick up a chipped magnifying glass. “I guess? I dunno, doesn’t really feel worthy of worry. Alice isn’t the most complex girl in the world.”

“You just—” She makes a face. “You don’t seem very invested in your relationship right now.”

A surge of fear, followed by a bleak, tangential thought: Dakota—drugged, beaten, bound, maimed. I shake off the image, redirecting my focus. “I’m invested,” I say to Kate. Her brow crinkles. “What? I am. I’m just—I’m not his keeper.”

“But you are.”

“But I’m not.” Would it be so bad if Lee left me? I’d be on my own, absolved of any blame or guilt. “He’s a free agent.”

“He’s not. He’s
not
free, Knox, that’s the point. He’s your
boyfriend
. Why commit to someone you’re not interested in being committed to?”

“Who says I’m not?”

She sighs, exasperated.

“Look,” I say, eager for new topics. I grab a wool fedora off a hat stand and slap it over her ponytail. “Sweet.”

She laughs, despite herself, popping her head in front of a mirror tacked to the side of a van. “I look like those little girls in Stetsons.”

“You do,” I say, thrusting my new old dress over one shoulder. “You’re cute, Katie. It’s a good look.”

Julian’s not in lit, so, like a lunatic, I spend most of Murphy’s
Franken
-lecture pushing the panic back by picturing his possible whereabouts: He’s home, hungover. His car’s stalled out on Beverly. He’s behind the school drinking black coffee from a blue paper cup.

“Adrienne.”

Why do I care? Who the hell is Julian Boyd anyway? Not a real person. He doesn’t have a mom, or go to a pediatric dentist still, like I do. He’s a luminary. A myth. He’s what’s left to gawk at now that Dakota’s gone away.

“Adrienne.”

I snap to.

“Can we talk?” Murphy, of course. He’s next to me now, wedged behind a small square desk, like mine.

“I—okay.” I straighten up. Class is over. I’ve just been sitting here, zoned out like a lobotomized lump.

“
Jane Eyre.
”

“Sure.” I shake my head. “I’m almost . . .” I don’t finish. I have nothing to offer but transparent excuses.

“Not done?”

“Right, not yet.”

He rubs his nose with two flat fingers, leaning forward. “Well, have you had a chance to see Griffin?” Guidance.

“I just—” I dodge the question. “I need a little bit more . . . can I have more time? With the essay, I mean.”

He’s eyeballing me now. “Adrienne, it’s not just the essay. You’ve stopped participating, you’ve gotten Ds on your past two quizzes . . . you used to be fully invested in discussions.” He stops to suck in some air. “You
loved
this class.”

I did. “Still do.”

“Adrienne.” His face says
bullshit
. “
Talk
to me. You’re having a tough time. That’s an okay thing to say out loud.”

I laugh. Like an idiot, petulant, piece-of-shit
kid
.

“Okay, or . . . walk with me.”

“Where?”

“Come on, get up. Let’s go see Griffin.”

My stomach seizes. “I don’t need to see Griffin.”

He’s standing now. “Okay.” And shifting back and forth from leg to leg. We watch each other. I wonder briefly what his regular life is like. What he’s like at home, with Gwen, their baby. Sweet, I’m guessing. Superattentive, like Lee.
“Just—” He throws one hand up. “Monday, okay? Get me
Jane
by Monday.”

See? Such a softy. “Yes.” I exhale.

“
Monday
, Adrienne. Seriously.” He grabs his leather tote off the back of his chair. “After this, no more favors.”

•    •    •

Me, Mom, Sam—at the fish taco stand on Sunset.

“Where’s Lee, babe?” Mom shovels a chip into a massive pile of ceviche.

I shrug, say, “Home.”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“And Katie?” She chews merrily. “How’s she? We haven’t seen her since—”

“Sunday,” Sam interjects. “ ’Member? She dropped Adrienne off after the flea market.”

“Oh, right.” More chewing. More staring. “New dress, babe?”

“Yep.”

Her smile looks wobbly and ready to crack. She gets up, rubbing greasy fingers against her jeans. “You guys need anything? Habanero? More salsa?”

“No, thanks.” I shove half a taco into my mouth and watch as she swerves toward the condiment bar. “What the fuck,” I say to Sam once she’s gone.

“Watch your mouth.” He knocks my elbow with his soda cup.
“And cut your mother some slack. She’s worried about you.”

“Worried
why
?”

“Look at you.” He wrinkles his nose. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“A dress.”

“Clever kid . . .” He taps his temple. Then, “Look, Mom just thought . . .”

Another huge bite. I’m not even done chewing the last. “What? Mom thought what?”

He sniffs. “Are you and Lee okay?”

My mouth is so stuffed I can barely speak.
“Why?”

“Jesus, Adrienne, eat faster.”

I laugh. Don’t mean to. But Sam’s jokes always hit unexpectedly. I’m choking on fried fish.

“You need the Heimlich?” He’s leaning across the table, patting my back while I hack up a lung. “I’m certified.”

I swallow finally, clutching my chest, breathless.

“What’s so funny?” Mom’s back with two tiny containers of pico de gallo. “What? What’d I miss?”

“Some sort of magic,” Sam boasts. “I made Morticia laugh.”

“
Morticia
?” I screech.

Mom smothers a guilty giggle with one hand and high-fives Sam with the other.

“You both suck,” I say, kneeing the table.

They high-five again.

I’m at school superearly, camped out at Julian’s favorite smoking spot. I sit, restlessly chewing my cheeks until ten past eight. He’s a no-show.

At half past, between first and second bell, I go and wait by his locker like a dumb dog. Kate passes by on her way to trig. She flicks a paper clip at my boob and flashes me a curious smirk, but doesn’t stop to say hi.

Ten to nine: I board the city bus.

Fifteen past: I get off at Benton Way.

More cheek chewing. More shitty paranoia. I buy a pink cookie at the Mexican bakery, then I hike the hill to Dakota’s house.

He’s there. That’s him,
he’s there
. Blue Datsun. Cigarette. He’s on a stakeout. I jog toward the car, elated. Relieved. “Hey,” I say, tapping at the passenger-side window.