Then You Were Gone Part 21

"Did I?" I lean against the door, snapping it shut with one hip b.u.mp.

"Everything okay?"

I've never seen the guy so manic and jerky. I shuffle forward and drop down in front of his desk. "Sure."

"Crazy quake, right?"

"Right."

He smiles. Does his signature head rub. Back to front, rub, rub, rub.

I feel a flicker of that earlier panic: zippy heart, dizziness. "I came to tell you something," I blurt.

"Oh?"

News of Dakota's miraculous resurrection broke yesterday, but I can't tell if the waxy glaze in his eyes spells relief or big terror.

"Yes," I say, feeling really ridiculous. This-whatever this is (some sort of showdown? Face-off?)-smacks of utter BS. I'm playing dress up. Faking it. "I'm dropping your cla.s.s," I tell him.

His gaze narrows. "You can't drop lit, Adrienne. It's not an elective."

"Right, no, I know." I pick at some paint peeling off the lip of his wood desk. "I just-" My tongue is sandpaper dry. "I think-" I'm doing this. I'm really, really doing this. "I think you're gonna pa.s.s me. You're gonna mark me on time and here every day, and then I don't have to-" Say it, Adrienne, for f.u.c.k's sake, FINISH it. "I don't have to watch you lie like a rat anymore."

His lips part. Out seeps a thin, two-syllable moan.

"You're not a family man," I say. "You're not some upstanding, shiny, clean guy."

"Adrienne-"

"You're a lech." My voice quivers like some brooding soap star. "I know what you did, okay? And I know who you did it with."

He stays very still, caught, yellow, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"So. To reiterate: I'm dropping lit. And you get to keep your job. And, ya know, your kid and your marriage." I stand, feeling triumphant and ma.s.sively freaked out.

"Adrienne, come on, s-sit down," he stammers. "Let's just-let's talk, okay?"

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Adrienne-"

"I'm done," I say, swinging my book bag over one shaky shoulder. And, "We good?"

He leans back. Drops his pen. Rubs his head the wrong way (front to back). "Yes," he says, acquiescing. "We're good."

I find Kate later. After school, by her car. She's pressed against the driver's-side door, something big and dark mauling her body. My first impulse? To attack, claw at, kill the creature sucking her face off, but-wait-they're kissing. Mashing. Loving, not fighting. I jog ten feet closer and crouch by Kate's front left wheel. I'm trying for a better view of the a.s.sailant: dark coat, big boots, likes to yank ponytails and bite earlobes: Wyatt Earp.

I let go an involuntary yelp of glee. Kate pulls back, twists around, wipes her mouth. "Knox?"

"Hi," I whisper. "Hi, sorry, carry on." I stand up. "I'll come back."

"No, Knox, I'm driving you home." She turns to Wyatt, says softly, "I'm driving her home."

"That's cool."

Their grins are gooey. They love each other. Oh my G.o.d they love each other. "Bye." More smooching. More pawing each other's faces. Wyatt looks longingly at Kate while backing away. He says, "Later, Knox."

I wave. Wait a beat. Kate pushes away from her car and whips around. I pounce. "What the fuuuuuuuuuck??!!!!"

She winks. "What? No big thang."

"You liar! You lie, you lie, you lie! You love him."

"I don't."

"Oh gosh, you love him!"

"Stop." She pushes my head down, checking over one shoulder to see where Wyatt's gone.

I lean in, sniff her neck. "You smell like boy."

"f.u.c.k off." She slaps at me. "Get in the car."

I do. She does. We look at each other. "How the h.e.l.l did this happen?" I say.

"Thanks."

"No, I mean-" I think about it. "No, actually, that's exactly what I mean. What the f.u.c.k, how?"

"He's shy," Kate says plainly. "He needed encouragement."

"The letter?"

"The letter, sure. I texted too."

"Saying what?"

"I asked him to come over."

"You made out with him."

She laughs. "Right, I made out with him."

"You did, right? You totally had to kiss him?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"What's wrong with dudes?"

"So much."

We're beaming.

"You ready?"

I nod, buckling up. We exit the student lot, gliding by faculty and backed-up yellow busses, rolling past cl.u.s.ters of frosh Dakota wannabes looking upbeat and chipper. Then, Christ, there's Lee with Alice Reed on the curb, ready to cross, clutching hands. "c.r.a.p," Kate mumbles, and all my joy leaks out my feet. "You okay?"

We drive by. Lee grins warmly, waves. I nod back. "Fine," I say to Kate, looking forward, a smidge queasy.

"You sure?"

I'm p.i.s.sed at myself. Feeling regretful and confused, but also? Unashamedly free. I smile at Kate just to see if it sticks.

"Pretty," she says.

"Thank you."

"You want to eat something? Smoke something? We don't have to go home yet."

I watch out the window. Kate's shiny palms. Jewish deli in the distance. "Drop me someplace?"

"Yeah, anywhere. Where you wanna go?"

I ding the bell. Kate watches from the street, her car softly rumbling. Dakota answers, looking more like herself than she did two days ago, wearing a knee-length witchy dress, and over that, a thin violet hoodie.

"Adrienne."

I whirl around and wave good-bye to Kate, who waves back. Then say, "Can I come in?"

We sit side by side on her sofa. A clean pile of laundry stacked on Emmett's recliner. Something moody and acoustic playing on the stereo. Angry piano. Smoky girl vocals.

"Where's Emmett?"

"Work."

I watch the rug, the window, the wall clock. She doesn't offer more, and I wonder what their relationship looks like now, postDakota desert retreat.

"Did you want anything?" she asks, picking at a thumbnail. "Juice? c.o.ke?"

I shake my head. Ask if she's feeling okay.

"Fine," she says quietly. She looks alert, antsy. She waits for it: "I need to know something," I say.

"Yeah?"

"That phone call." I'm shifting in place. "Before you left-that message."

"What about it?"

"Why me?"

"Why you what?"

"We hadn't talked in years."

Dakota wiggles around, then deflects with, "You and Julian getting along all right?"

I flinch, look down at my pale hands. "We're just friends."

"No you're not." The CD skips. I glance up. She's half smiling, shrugging one shoulder. "It's okay. He's a good guy. He needs someone nice, like you."

I wave dismissively. Guilty. Caught.

"Anyways," she continues, cheerfully redirecting our talk. "I don't know why I called." A beat. "I felt bad. Thought you might pick up."

I pick a set of socks off Emmett's recliner-roll them into a snug ball, then set them back down. "What'd you feel bad about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you felt bad."

She pauses as if to retrace her wording. "I meant, yeah, I meant what I said. It feels s.h.i.tty not having friends."

"You had friends."

"Who?"

"Your band? Julian? You have legions of obsessed freshman girls dying to get close to you."

"They're not my friends," she says. "I've seen you with that girl."