Then You Were Gone Part 5

"Rach, wave," Sam says. Mom waves.

"Do I have to have salad?" I ask.

"Yep."

"I love salad," Dakota sings, picking a sprout out of the bowl and nibbling at it seductively.

"Babe, put the camera down?" Mom's got a fistful of silverware and she's b.u.mping the drawer shut with one hip. "Get the lasagna out of the oven? Come on, we're eating."

"Okay, all right," Sam says. The picture drops.

Last one: "Adrienne B-Day Fifteen." I remember this. Not long before our breakup. A few weeks, maybe? We're at Dar Maghreb on Sunset. Moroccan. Chicken pie with powdered sugar, tiled walls, belly dancers. Mom and Dakota on either side of me. Everyone looking pretty and made-up: three sets of red lips. Smooth hair.

Dakota-b.o.o.bs now, layered bob-says, "We do this with our hands?" She means eat-no utensils.

Mom: "Indeed, we do."

I reach for something. Chicken pie? Flatbread? Dakota stops me. "Birthday girl! Let me do that!"

"Let you do what?"

"I'm gonna feed you," she says brightly. She reaches down, pinches some pie between her fingertips, and raises it to my mouth. "Open up."

"No." I laugh.

"Why, come on, don't be scared," she coos. "Come on. Open your mouth."

"Be nice," says Sam.

Dakota looks directly at the lens, says, "I am nice." Then she pries my lips apart while I squirm. "There you go, baby." She smooshes the chicken onto my cheek, missing my mouth completely.

Freeze frame.

"Can I have one of those?"

Freak section. I'm b.u.mming a cigarette off a girl wearing an ap.r.o.n as a dress.

"Here." She pa.s.ses me her pack and a stubby pink lighter.

I help myself, light up, say, "Thanks." Today I dressed the part: dark brown sweater over black tights. And I lined my eyes with kohl.

Hours later I'm in the computer lab googling like a maniac. I find an online Dakota tribute: an ultra simple website with Dakota photos and some super sappy reader comments. I can barely look at any of it. Except the video. There's a s.h.i.tty, shaky video of Dakota performing somewhere. I dig through my bag, find my headphones, and plug into the computer. She's singing softly. She sounds like a gurgling baby. Below her are a gazillion bobbing heads. People love her. I love her. She's pretty and perfect and up onstage she makes magic. Made magic?

New website. New video. This one's overexposed. Dakota with Dark Star in some stark rehearsal s.p.a.ce. Daytime. She's barefaced. Her blond hair limp and long and just so f.u.c.king glorious. She's harmonizing with her own recorded vocals. Swaying slightly. Looking girlish and s.e.xy while she smiles at Julian, who's got his jean-jacketed back to the camera.

"How's that?" she asks, stopping, leaping up.

"Awful," says some guy off camera. Everyone laughs. Dakota's face widens. She's happy, laughing, flinging herself onto Julian's lap. The camera rotates. His hands are on her face. They're kissing and grinning. Someone throws a guitar pick across the room. My heart bleeds/breaks/aches.

Tap tap tap.

"Christ!" I jump, whip around, tug off my headphones.

"Hey, hey, it's me. It's just me." Lee with his hand on my shoulder.

"Hi, sorry, hi." I turn back to the monitor and quickly sign out of my session.

"What're you doing?"

"Nothing. Email."

We kiss. Lee pulls back, making a face. "Have you been smoking?"

"I-" c.r.a.p. "Barely. One drag, I had to. Margaret had cloves."

"It's s.h.i.tty for you."

"Right, I know. One drag, Lee, that's all."

"Walk me to chem?"

We walk for a bit, and he doesn't try to touch me, but he's staring, so I go, "Something up?"

"Your face looks different."

"My face?"

"I dunno, your eyes, maybe? Is that it? They're darker?"

"No, it's nothing." I shake my head, yanking at my tights and sweater-a far cry from my usual uniform: Lee's old jeans matched with whichever thrift store top is clean. "I lined them, that's all. You've seen them this way before."

He considers me. "I like it." He's nodding now. "It suits you."

I get off the bus at Benton and drop into a pocket of hot, sweet air blowing out the kitchen vent of a Mexican bakery. I stop in, buy a big pink cookie and a c.o.ke (old Dakota ritual), then glance out the window. The hill to D's house is twisty and steep. A long residential road that intersects with the eastern stretch of Sunset Boulevard.

Shoving half the cookie in my mouth, I exit the shop. To my left: two Korean markets, a clothing co-op, and a fruit juice stand. To my right: a ninety-nine-cent store. I finish my treat, dust my fingers on my tights, then start the climb.

When I reach the top, I'm breathless and hunched over, hands on knees, staring. There it is: two stories, pink, flat roof, clay tile. I'm dizzy with kid memories: sleepovers, prank calls, brownie binges, dance numbers. I try to see inside, but the house looks dead. Where's Emmett? Do I do this? Do I dare ring the bell?

Slam.

I whip around. It's Julian Boyd, walking away from a battered blue Datsun. "What're you doing here?" he asks, incredulous, as if he's just discovered me hiding at the bottom of his laundry hamper.

"I-what am I doing here?" I'm sweaty from the climb and suddenly embarra.s.sed. I pull my sweater away from my tacky body. "Why are you here?"

His chest deflates. He looks past me, at the house. "Don't know."

We're quiet. My eyes dart between the car and his face. The car, clearly not a VW Bug. I turn so we're standing side by side, our faces forward. I say, "I'm Adrienne Knox."

"I know who you are."

An unexpected kick, he knows me. I look down at my feet, tangled up in an overgrown mess of crispy lawn. "Anyone home?" I ask.

Julian unwraps a single slice of foiled gum. "No," he says, not offering me any. "No one's home."

For dinner, Sam makes spaghetti Bolognese with ground turkey instead of beef. We line our bowls up-one, two, three-on the mosaic coffee table in the den. We curl up in love seats. We twirl pasta and watch the six o'clock news. Sam kisses Mom. I feel cozy and-not happy exactly, but almost-happy, because for three seconds I'm able to forget Dakota. And heartbroken Julian Boyd. I'm home safe. Sam's Bolognese rocks. Mom looks flushed and pretty. But then straight from the sky falls this s.h.i.tty commotion: "Turn it up!" Sam's screaming. Mom's kneeling in front of the TV screen, pumping the volume.

"Early this morning, a body, believed to be that of missing fifteen-year-old Ca.s.sidy Chang, was discovered along the sh.o.r.eline not far from the Santa Monica Pier. The Los Angeles teen disappeared late last month after an argument with a family member. Amber King reports."

My head swings to Sam, who looks super stiff and alert. My legs tingle. Then back to school photos of Ca.s.sidy as they flash across the screen. She's wearing stripes. She's grinning. More talk of suicide. Of dental records. Another photo: cheek to cheek with a fluffy puppy.

"This past week, another local teen, Dakota Webb-member of the popular SoCal band Dark Star-went missing. Her abandoned Jeep was found in the same beach parking lot where Chang's Ford sedan was discovered late last month. Police are investigating a possible connection."

Mom quickly switches stations. She lands on an insipid sitcom rerun with a laugh track that strikes me as mocking and dark. She grabs my chin with her free hand. "This doesn't mean anything."

The pit in my belly deepens. Any momentary peace I thought I'd found has now completely vanished.

"Nothing's changed," Sam insists.

"I know that," I bluff. I look back at the TV.

The waiting room is windowless. There's a side table made of fake wood, a minifridge, a coffeemaker, and a faux-silver serving platter with stacks of powdered creamer and saccharin packets.

"Ms. Knox."

Officer Walsh shakes my hand and leads me through a cubicle labyrinth to a messy desk by a wall of filmy windows. "Have a seat." He rolls a chair my way, sits with a heavy thud. "Thanks for coming in." He's a big guy. Round and happy-looking with wild, watery eyes.

"Sure."

"Your stepdad-"

"Sam. He's not-he's my mom's boyfriend," I stammer.

"Sorry." He's smacking his clipboard with an eraser head. "Sam said he saw Dakota a few nights before her car turned up. Fighting with someone outside a music venue-" He checks his notes. "The Echo? On Sunset?"

"Yeah."

"Is that a club you frequent?"

"Can't get in." I raise one limp hand. "Seventeen."

Walsh nods. "You know anyone who drives an old Volkswagen like the one Sam saw?"

"No."

"You know anyone who might want to harm Dakota?"

Another "no," followed by a huge dagger of fear jabbing at my solar plexus. My head jumps to Julian. I chew my cheeks out of guilt.

"Were you two close?"

"I-for a while. We're not now." I wait for more. Nothing comes. "Is she-are you sure she's . . . ?" Can't say it. Is she gone for real, for good, forever? "What I mean, is-"

"I know what you mean." A beat. "We're exploring every angle."

I tug the loose end of one braid. "She does this, though, you know. Takes off sometimes?"

"Yeah?"

"We were thirteen, maybe? She just-she went away one night. We had plans and she never showed." I shrug. "She turned up, though. Totally fine. She'd, like, spent the night walking. She walked from Echo Park to Sunset Strip and back. She just-she wanted to see if she could do it." I pull a piece of berry gum from my purse, tear off the wrapping, and eat it.

"She did that more than once?"

"Yeah. You stop worrying after a while." I instantly, inexplicably, want to weep.

"When's the last time you two talked?"

"Two years?"

"And you just-grew apart?"