Then You Were Gone Part 7

"Goth light."

She wrinkles her nose.

"That was a joke."

She settles against the white wall, taking a long sip off her gnarly Sprite bottle. "Wyatt's here, you know."

"You don't say."

"I do," she says, her mouth splitting into a wide grin. "I say."

I lean back too, browsing the crowd. Some Langley kids, a few from Hollywood High, but most of the faces are fresh to me. "Oh, look," I say, extra dry, taunting Kate. I point left, at Wyatt's head, skimming just above the crowd. "The devil."

She stiffens and pats down her hair. "I look okay?"

"Yes, you're perfect."

"I was thinking I might tell him about when you and I got that nice bread from Gelson's and ate it with those baby cornichons and that blue cheese you like with the thick crust?" I wait for the punch line. She talks on. "'Member? It was super delicious. Like, last month? We made a picnic and put on red lipstick and played Chet Baker on my laptop and ate on your lawn?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"You don't remember?"

"Yes, I remember, of course I remember. Why would you tell him that?"

She shrinks. "I like the way it sounds. You don't like the way it sounds? Like we're glamorous? Like we do glamorous things together?"

I laugh. "No, I do, I do like it. You're right, sounds sensational."

The smirk returns. She's contented. "You okay if I go?"

"Fine," I say. "I'll find Lee."

She pinches my waist. "I'm gonna go make him make out with me."

"Good"-she's gone before I can get the rest out-"luck." I pull a warm piece of strawberry gum from my pocket, squish it between two fingers, then eat it. I wander away from the wall and end up by the bar, where I see Lee drinking drinks with Alice Reed. I go upstairs. More people, more vertical blinds. I slip sideways through a cracked bedroom door, past some sliding gla.s.s, and I'm outside, finally, breathing dry air that smells woody and clean, like night.

I love balconies. I want one. I feel like Juliet for an instant, super moony and romantic. I push forward, tipping myself carefully over the balcony lip. Who would do this? Toss themselves off a building or cliff or into the icy Pacific? What could possibly be that bad?

I pull back and rest my elbows against the cool, rough stucco. The city looks storybookish: dark valleys, squiggly freeways, glittery lights. I lower my gaze to the green, shiny treetops, then lower still, to the street below. A coyote. An angel's trumpet tree. And there, parked four feet from the party: a yellow VW Bug.

I go cold. For a second I just stand there treading water, my heart spazzing out. Moments later, I'm on the street, my nose pressed to the VW's curved back window. There's nothing inside-no candy wrappers, gym sneakers, cigarettes. Nothing that might link the car to its owner. I look back at the house. Whoever's car this is must be inside, right?

Back inside, too many faces. Who am I looking for? A guy? A girl? Someone who seems Dakotaesque? Pretty and pale and lit?

Kate: "Hi, hi, hi." She's tipsy and giddy and grabbing my sleeves. "Where've you been? I've been looking everywhere. Wyatt's with a girl-"

"There's a Bug out front."

"A what?" She's making a face-annoyed she's been cut off. "Where've you been?"

"A yellow Bug, Katie. The car Sam saw. Should we go check the plates?" I turn, heading back toward the door.

She grabs at me. "Adrienne. You're freaking me out." Then, soberly: "Seriously. Do you know how many Bugs there are in Southern California?"

"I-" I start to say something sensible-it's a lead, a clue, it's all we really have- She holds her hand up. "Please relax. Please? Forget her? For three seconds, just, like, forget she ever existed? Here." She thrusts her cup forward. "Drink something."

"I can't."

"Sure you can. It's sweet, you'll like it."

"No, I can't-" My eyes water. "I can't forget her."

Her shoulders droop. "Okay. Okay, this car. You know it might lead nowhere, right?"

"Why?"

"It's not-Adrienne." She frowns. "There are, like, four Bugs that are permanently parked on Sycamore. Four. One has a boot."

Not getting it: "Are they yellow?"

"No, Knox, I just mean"-she grips my shoulders-"you're obsessing over a car. A car. This isn't about a car."

"I know it's not about a car."

"It's not really about Dakota, either."

"What do you mean? It is. Of course it is."

She shakes her head. "That girl is selfish, Adrienne. You know, you're here, freaking the f.u.c.k out, and she's either dead somewhere or alive and warm in the arms of some douchey drug dealer. Either way, she did this. She chose this. There's nothing you need to sort out. Finding her, jamming all these jagged, arbitrary puzzle pieces into place, won't get you any closer to understanding why she s.h.i.t all over you and your friendship." She stops. Inhales. "You all right?" she asks. "You look bad." A funny beat while she inspects my face. "You wanna go or no?"

Out of me comes a very small whimper. I wipe my eyes, feeling hopelessly frustrated. "I'm just-I'm sorry," I say, confused and super spent. "I don't know what I want."

I'm on my bedroom floor with the computer in my lap, smoking my third consecutive cigarette. I'm rewatching the Dakota/Dark Star video. It's those same loopy sounds again, only this time I notice the dancing: how she rocks gently to her own fluttery voice-pretty, una.s.suming, swishy movements. This kills me. Why? Because on her-the dancing and dim lights-it all looks so easy and right. Why wasn't I born this way? Effortlessly cool?

I hit replay. I can't even remember the real Dakota. This-this pretty package-is this who she was/is? Is this who I am? An adoring fan?

New search: "Dakota Webb missing." A gazillion links flash in my face. I click one that leads to some music forum with pages of speculation about her disappearance. Suicide, murder, kidnappings, claims of scientology involvement, conspiracy theories, a handful of kids from Langley reminiscing about the last time they saw her alive (at a Smell show, at Grauman's Chinese, at a deli on third, snorting things in public restrooms).

Knock, knock.

I jump, startled s.h.i.tless, smooshing my cigarette tip into a plate and fanning the air. "Who's there?"

"It's me," comes a drunk, familiar boy voice.

I undo the door a crack. "What're you doing here, Lee? It's late."

His face is splotchy from drinking. "You left the party and didn't say good-bye. Door was open . . ." He pushes in, grabbing my cheeks and kissing me. "f.u.c.k," he whines, shoving me lightly. "f.u.c.k, Adrienne-" He's laughing now. "What's with the cigarettes all of a sudden?"

"What's the big deal?" I squeal, sounding psychotically defensive. "Why do you care? It's not your body."

"It kind of is . . ." Lee says, clutching my hips. "And anyways, I'm the one who has to kiss you."

I turn away, embarra.s.sed. "It's just a thing, okay? I'll stop soon."

He wraps his arms around my waist. His nose grazes my neck. "Where'd you go tonight?"

My body kick-starts-a low buzzing that starts in my knees and moves upward. "Nowhere," I whisper. "I'm right here."

He kisses me. This time, I kiss back. One of his hands is clamped around the back of my head, the other is lifting my dress up. "I like this," he says, backing me into my blue bedroom wall. "This black thing. It's s.e.xy."

Something angry and hot slips down my spine. I'm not dressed like me. "It's not," I say, my voice sounding sharp.

"It is," he insists, undoing the clasp at my breastbone. Then, "Adrienne, hey, look at me." I glance up. His eyes are pink and gla.s.sy. "You're beautiful," he says, plainly. And inexplicably-so quick-Lee slides out of place in my heart.

Kate pa.s.ses me a big bag of wasabi chips. "Want some?"

I take two and chew, feeling mildly high while the spiciness eats at my sinuses. "Where're we going?"

"Don't know. Sandwiches? Or we could get takeout from that vegan place on La Cienega? You liked their lentil salad. 'Member?"

I nod. We're weaving through the student lot, headed for Kate's car.

"Get that, will you?" She's searching her bag for her keys. Something's tacked to the grimy windshield. I stretch across the hood and pry the paper loose from under the wiper.

Dark Star performs a Dakota Webb tribute show.

Thursday night, 8 p.m., the Smell My balance seesaws. It's a black-and-white Xeroxed photo of Dakota in her room. She's laughing and looking sideways. Who took this? Julian?

"What is it?" Kate calls from inside the car.

"Nothing," I say, pocketing the flyer and getting in. "Trash."

I'm wearing beat-to-s.h.i.t booties and kicking around outside the Smell. There's a loud, smoky pack of girls huddled together by the club entrance looking ratty and elfin and chic. I dig my phone from my purse and shakily dial Dakota. Straight to voicemail, of course. I flip my phone shut.

Inside it's all brick walls and cement flooring. A gazillion Langley kids hold candles and lighters. Girls with Kool-Aid-colored hair sip things encased in brown baggies. Is this what I've been missing? Dank rooms and cuckoo crowds?

Dark Star is midway through their set, playing an instrumental version of my favorite-"Art School s.l.u.ts with Razored Haircuts." I'm used to the scratchy acoustic version they have up on their website. Without Dakota, the song's spoiled.

I box through the swaying ma.s.ses and end up near the front by the stage. This blond girl from my civics cla.s.s is whispering lyrics. Julian's up onstage pounding the s.h.i.t out of a monster drum set. There's an empty mic stand where Dakota used to be.

Then: show's over. Everyone goes outside to smoke. I stay, watching the band pack up their equipment. Julian-he knows something, he does, he must. Could he have hurt her? Smothered her? Sent her running? Broken her? No way, right? That's Dakota's game. She does the breaking.

Julian sees me and hops off the stage. I wave, but he keeps on toward the exit.

"Hey," I say, impulsively, grabbing at him. "Hey, wait. Please?" He stops. Stares at my fingers clutching his hot arm. I get a fast flash of him and Dakota doing indecent things together. "That was great," I babble, trying to make the moment feel more upbeat and normal. "You were great," I say, pulling my hand back, fl.u.s.tered.

"Thanks."

"I kind of-I was hoping to talk to you."

"I-we have to load up the van."

"Oh." I shrug. "That's okay. I'll see you tomorrow," I blather, mortified. Why am I standing here, begging a stranger for time and attention?

"Just-" He looks up. "Wait, if you want. We'll be done in fifteen."

"Oh."

"There's a place next door that'll serve us."

I unclench my fists.

"Wait here, okay?" He's jogging backward now.

"Okay." I nod casually. "Cool."

The backs of my thighs are glued to the sticky black bar booth. Ranchera music pumps out of a large speaker by the window. Julian drops two Negra Modelos onto the tabletop. "Here."

I take a timid sip of beer and try not to stare as he chugs half his bottle, still standing. "You come here a lot?" I ask.

He swallows. "When we're downtown, I guess. After shows." He sits, finally, slumping against the booth back.