Then You Were Gone Part 3

"That's okay."

"Play something?" Kate offers. "Boggle? Apples to Apples?"

"No."

"Want to go somewhere?"

"Not really."

"Bake something?"

"Uh-uh."

They're stumped. Wound up. They want me fine again but can't figure out a way to make me feel fine.

"What do you miss?" Lee asks, abruptly.

"What do you mean?" I say back.

"About Dakota." He's forcing a small mound of dirt between two clay patio tiles. "What, specifically, do you miss?"

"I don't know," I mumble, unable to come up with anything definitive on the spot. She wasn't the nicest person, or the most loyal or loving or true, but we spent years knowing only each other. Why can't that count?

"Can I use your computer?" I say to Kate.

"It's in the den," she says, reaching for my hand and squeezing my pinkie. "Knox, hey."

"Hmm?"

"It's gonna be okay," she says.

I give a small smile and squeeze back. Then I pull my feet from the pool.

Later, around nine, Lee parks his mom's Range Rover half a mile from my house. "You're sure you feel like it?" he asks, killing the engine. We're on the edge of Elysian, overlooking Dodger Stadium.

"Sure I'm sure." I climb over the armrest and into the backseat. "Get my jeans?" I undo my fly and let Lee tug down my pants. I pull off my cardigan and frayed white tank. "Take off your shirt," I tell him. He doesn't. Instead, he kisses me.

Is this love? Shouldn't I feel happy or high or both? Is Lee's love worthy of song lyrics and sonnets? Is this what love was like for Jane and Rochester? Or Dakota and Julian? Did their love feel safe and smothering, like a blanket?

"Adrienne?"

"Hmm?"

He slides a hand between my legs.

Monday, and I'm back at school pondering cars. Everyone here looks pale and sh.e.l.l-shocked. The place even smells off-different disinfectant? Whatever it is, it smells sad.

"You're here." It's Kate, at my locker.

"Yeah, well, it was either this, or stay home and stare at the ceiling."

She sips her cafeteria coffee. "There's an a.s.sembly last period. Suicide prevention."

My stomach goes bananas. "Walk me to lit?"

We stroll. The halls are silent, like church. We stop just shy of Murphy's cla.s.sroom. "You've got a sub," Kate says, peering past me.

I whip around. "That guy." Bald, s.p.a.cey suspender dude. "That guy subbed my human development cla.s.s last spring. Super-hands-on."

"Really?" Kate pa.s.ses me her coffee cup, then uses both hands to tuck her T-shirt into her jeans.

"I'm kidding."

"Oh." She takes the cup back. "Maybe Gwen had her kid?"

"Maybe," I say, picturing a squished newborn version of Nick Murphy. "When do you have trig?"

"After lunch. So we'll see, I guess."

Babies. Suicides. "Life cycles, right?"

Kate blinks, tilts her head, walks off. I take two steps toward cla.s.s, then, rethinking, quickly pivot and head outside to the student lot.

Within minutes, I'm weaving between cars, searching for rusty and round and yellow. I touch the ones I like. A diesel Mercedes. A Carmengia. An old Land Rover. A khaki Jeep. I walk and I weave and I wade for a while, but no yellow Bug materializes.

Suicide-prevention brochures, warning-sign checklists, crisis-center locations, We miss you, Dakota Webb.

I'm at the back of the auditorium with Kate, Lee, and Alice Reed. Lee's holding my hand but I don't like how it feels: clammy and warm and too tight. Dr. Strange is at the podium babbling mopey nonsense. Two kids two rows back are heatedly debating Dakota's vanishing: suicide vs. murder vs. runaway madness. I get up.

"Where're you going?" Kate whispers.

"Bathroom."

"I'll come." She starts to stand- "Don't. Please?"

-then drops back down.

"I'll be back. I'm okay. I just-I can pee on my own."

I'm off. Out the tall double doors, into the blue, bright hallway, past the restrooms, out the exit. I'm not even sure where I'm headed, but at least now no one's watching me or clutching my hot hand.

I end up across the quad, Dakotaland, where the weirdos hang out. And look, there's Julian Boyd, crouched on the ground, five feet from a Hacky Sack circle, smoking and biting his cuticles and just looking generally low.

I b.u.m a cigarette. I don't smoke, but I b.u.m one off some lanky skateboarder wearing a belt made of rope. He lights it for me. I inhale. My head fills with white s.p.a.ce. "Hi, h.e.l.lo," I hear myself saying, not to the skateboarder, but to Julian. He doesn't respond. So I try again. "Julian," I say, louder this time. He looks at me, grinds his cigarette into the gra.s.s, and walks off.

I wonder what kind of car he drives.

Mom is at the kitchen counter, chopping white onion for guacamole. ". . . the props guy is new. We met up with Locations earlier-we're trying to get a concrete feel for the s.p.a.ce." She stops, nibbles a piece of parsley, turns to me. "Too much?"

"What?" I look up from my mound of mashed avocado.

"Work talk. You look bored."

"I'm just"-I laugh a little-"out of my freakin' mind, ya know?"

She cracks one knuckle. Pa.s.ses some parsley. "Eat that. It'll ground you."

I eat it. "Tastes like weeds," I say, swallowing, grabbing two tomatoes out of the sink. "What am I doing with these?"

"Cut 'em in half, scoop the seeds out."

"Can I have that?" I wiggle my finger at the serrated knife.

She pa.s.ses it. Wipes her teary onion eyes. "I called Emmett earlier."

I stop slicing. Look up. "Why?"

"To check in. See if he needs anything." I make a sour face. "What?" she says. "He has no one."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Babe."

"Just sayin'. No one's nominating the guy for any Stepdad of the Year awards."

"Shush, please." More parsley. "Dakota wasn't the easiest kid."

"Wasn't?"

"Isn't."

"So," I say, nudging tomato sludge into the trash with my nails. "How'd he sound?"

"Weird. Which is right, right? How else would he sound?"

"Weird, like, how?"

"Weird, like, fine, I guess. Just thought he'd sound a bit more shaken up."

"Well, what'd you talk about?" I ask.

"I just, ya know, offered my sympathies. Asked if we could bring anything by."

"And?"

"He said 'no thanks.' That he appreciated the offer. You done?" She gestures at my avocado/tomato mash.

"Here." I pa.s.s both. She dumps everything into one bowl. Does some quick mixing. Squeezes two lemons. "Did he sound sorry?" I say.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, did he sound sorry? That she's gone?"

"You can't tell that sort of thing over the phone." She digs a chip into the guac and waves it at me. "Here. Taste test." Then, "Besides, people process their c.r.a.p differently."

"It's good," I manage, mouth full. And, "I thought everyone processed their c.r.a.p exactly the same."

"Funny," she says, pulling me close, pushing my face against her chest.

"Can't breathe," I cry, writhing, whining.

"Shut up, please?" She kisses my forehead, hugs me harder. "I need to squeeze my kid."

My back is flat against Lee's locker. He's nuzzling me.

"I called twice last night."

I heard. Saw my cell screen blink. But the thought of talking-to Lee, to Kate-just seemed unnecessarily exhausting. "I was busy."

"With what?"