Then You Were Gone Part 20

"Glad you came." She sips some water and pats the bed. Smiles wanly.

I sit, guzzling from my gla.s.s. The water tastes like pennies. "How long have you been here?" I ask, fitting the cup between my thighs. It's the first thing I think to say. Where the f.u.c.k have you been? seems too cruel and aggressive.

"A while."

"Doing what?"

She shrugs. Bends over. Picks up a half-eaten package of Red Vines. "Want some?"

No, I don't want some. I'm furious. Suddenly. It's a wild feeling-fierce, knotted, stuck just beneath my rib cage. "I don't," I whisper. Red Vines? Why the h.e.l.l am I here? A month of misery, self-loathing, guilt-all for what? For this? Why is Julian stuck outside in the car? What sort of c.r.a.ppy creature can't even say, hi, h.e.l.lo, to her ex? Why've I spent weeks-no, years-obsessing over someone so totally hard-hearted and f.u.c.ked? Why was I wearing her clothes, worshipping at her altar of rock? Christ, why'd I obliterate my relationship with Lee? I twist fully forward so she can't block me out. "Dakota."

She takes a tiny bite of licorice, mumbles, "Uh-huh?" She's chewing still, and rocking slightly. Pitching back and forth, her knees tucked under her sheer shirt.

"Are you high?"

"Don't be dumb."

f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.k OFF. I swallow a scream. "You know what people think back home, right? That you're dead. That you killed yourself."

She doesn't flinch, look up, change shades. She stays very much the same-pleasantly unresponsive.

"Do you know why?"

Another shrug.

"They found a note in your Jeep." And, "You made quite a splash."

She sighs heavily, gets up, picks a pair of jeans up off the floor, and slides them over her feet.

"Do you remember the last time we hung out?" I ask.

She looks at me, finally, fully connecting. "The guy who owns this place?" she says, switching subjects. "He cuts me a deal."

I can't help but wonder what he gets in exchange. "Oh yeah?"

"I couldn't afford it otherwise. I mean, it's a s.h.i.t hole, but I'm broke."

Of course. "So that's why you called?"

"I don't want your money," she snaps, shifting her weight from leg to leg. "I'm pregnant," she finishes, flatly.

My gut flops.

"I mean, I was. I'm not now." She follows fast with, "It wasn't Julian's, if that's what you're thinking."

I was and I wasn't. "I'm sorry," I say, but do I mean it? Am I surprised?

"It's fine," she offers. "I didn't lose it or anything. I came here to have it but I just-I couldn't-can't be a mom."

I nod slowly, the picture crystallizing. "Were you . . . was it Murphy?" I ask.

She stares for a bit, then smiles, and I see a glimmer of old Dakota. "He make a pa.s.s at you?"

"What? No."

She drops down into a chair, tugging boots on over jeans. "Nick-he likes little girls." Wow. "He liked me, anyways. I think maybe-" She pauses to chew a cuticle. "Maybe I loved him. You think that's possible? That I loved him?"

"How would I know?"

"He never said it back." More candy. "He talked about the baby a lot. Not ours." She looks up. "The one he was having with Gwen." Then, real casual: "Did she have it yet? Her kid?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"A girl."

She blinks. Blinks more.

I wait a moment. "What about the jacket?" I ask.

"Hmm?"

"The army jacket," I say. "With the writing."

She perks up. "Oh, my jacket? Oh yeah. Why, what about it?"

"We just, we thought-" I stop, starting again: "What's with the numbers?"

"Oh." She wrinkles her nose.

"I mean, they're dates, right?"

She shrugs.

"Just-can you not be coy right now?"

"Right, yes, they're dates."

"Marking what?"

"Just . . . days . . ." Spit. It. Out. ". . . I was with Nick." She squirms. "You know. Like, biblically."

Holy f.u.c.k, she sucks. He sucks. They've been f.u.c.king around for years. Since soph.o.m.ore year. "You're serious?"

"Of course, yes."

"Well, what about your boyfriend?"

"Jesus, Adrienne. We were never official. I never committed. Not really, anyways."

"He says something different."

"Of course he does. Of course. He's, like, rewriting history. He wanted it that way, he did, but I was never-" She shakes her head. "I wasn't ever really . . . free."

I picture Julian outside, alone. My chest tightens. "You left that note," I say.

"Note?"

"In your Jeep."

"Oh. That." She tilts her head. "Well, I wanted to do this. For real. Start over. But, you know . . . I thought it would feel different, being on my own."

"Like how?"

"Like, good. Like I'd raise my kid and make money off music and I'd be, I dunno, happy. Don't you ever just want to be new?"

I look down at my grubby jeans. I get a quick flash of Julian. Then of Lee back home with Alice Reed. I think of Dakota's dress crumpled up in that dumpster. "Yeah," I say. "Sometimes I want to be new."

She slides sideways off the chair. "How much s.h.i.t am I in?"

"Sorry?"

"At home. If you take me back now, how f.u.c.ked am I, really?"

"I don't . . ." I trail off. "Not sure."

"I'm screwed, right? G.o.d, I can't-"

"You can," I interject thoughtlessly. I have no clue what sort of trouble she'll face-legally, socially-but none of that matters now, does it? She's broke, alone, miserable, friendless.

"Yeah, and? What happens then?"

She'll worm free, won't she? She's manipulative, shrewd, charismatic, self-serving- "I come back, and what?"

"I-" I clam up. She's pale and meek without makeup, and for a split second I feel bigger and better than: I have a home, a Kate, a mom, a Sam. What does she have?

"Do you even like me?" she asks, a tiny tug in her voice.

"I-" Do I? I've spent four weeks obsessively mooning and grieving, and now here she is-she's real, she's here, she's disappointingly small. I think back to that last exchange, soph.o.m.ore year, in my room. My dress, her date, I only ever think about people loving me. "I don't know," I admit. "Not really."

She nods. "That's fine," she says, then, "Take me back?"

"Okay," I say. I get up.

It's everywhere now. Teen faked her own suicide. It's all over the papers, the local news; it's all anyone at school can talk about ('twas drugs, a psychotic break, extreme narcissism, borderline tendencies). Of course, the real "whys," the meaty details, Dakota keeps to herself. She's home again, with Emmett, and I'm back at school trying to pull my s.h.i.t together. Julian's MIA, but I'm not thinking about him right now. I'm not thinking of her, either.

"Bat-s.h.i.t, right?" It's Kate, at my side suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Oh, puhleaze. Like you know nothing. You and band boy. You want?" She offers up half her candy bar. "Salty chocolate. All the rage." I take the foil packet. "You feel like telling me any D. Webb deets? I know you know stuff."

"I do." I break off a piece of chocolate. Nibble at it. The earth, literally, shakes.

"Seriously?" Kate shrieks, sliding sideways toward the restroom. s.h.i.t's rumbling. Lockers bang. Everyone scatters, laughing nervously-clinging to each other, the doorways and walls, rocking.

"Hate, hate, hate this . . ." I whisper, squeezing Kate's hand. She squeezes back. Three seconds later: Loud, enthusiastic applause. Cheering. A few whoots. "It's over." Kate steps away from the wall. "See? Tiny quake. So nothing."

"I gotta go outside," I say, suddenly sweaty.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

I'm backing up, turning away, jogging quickly toward the exit.

Lee's favorite spot. Rocks, cacti, school pool.

I'm pacing, clutching my hot chest, trying to calm the f.u.c.k down. Panic attack. It's happened before. Once, while stuck at a light at the Glendale-Alvarado intersection in Echo Park; another time, on the 110 north with Sam driving.

This time it's that same creepy buildup: I'm shaky and tingly and can't keep still. Like some vicious, upside-down o.r.g.a.s.m. Someone pa.s.ses by and asks if I'm all right. I must look insane-pacing, weeping. I wave the guy away and pull a pack of Altoids from my book bag. I chew two. It helps, eating something-whips me back to earth.

"Hi."

I'm standing in Murphy's doorway. He's hunched over a stack of papers.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo?" I repeat.

He jumps, looking up. "Adrienne, wow, hey." He's clutching his chest and grinning uneasily. "You scared me."