Then You Were Gone Part 9

"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 b.o.o.bs that match.

"s.h.i.+t." 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 s.h.i.+ft. "Can I wear this?" She's inspecting herself sideways in the full-length. She looks spectacular. Like a sixties school-girl pinup.

"Where?"

"On my date."

Typical secret, cagy bulls.h.i.+t. "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, a.s.sessing 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 b.u.t.t 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 s.h.i.+n, shoving him off me. "And can you shut up so I can get through this?"

Lee stiffens. I get that tight, s.h.i.+tty feeling in my neck. I try reinvesting in the book, but I am blazingly, psychotically p.i.s.sed. I hate him. Why do I hate him? He does nothing but coddle and care for me, and I'm an absolute d.i.c.k 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 b.o.o.bs. 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."

s.h.i.+t 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 f.u.c.king 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+rts with yellow pit stains.

"Eat this," Kate says, pa.s.sing me the last of a Nutella crepe. "And come'ere." She pulls me into a cluttered booth. Pulls a minis.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+rt. It's tight around my ribs and dips between my b.o.o.bs. "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 s.h.i.+mmy out. I pull a five, a ten, from my purse and thank the tiny lady.