Then You Were Gone Part 10

"Chiffon. So versatile."

"Shut up." I clutch the dress to my chest and push forward. We hop from booth to booth, browsing. Kate says, "I'm pretty sure Alice likes Lee."

I search inside for signs of jealousy. "I know."

"Do you care?"

"I mean." I pick up a chipped magnifying gla.s.s. "I guess? I dunno, doesn't really feel worthy of worry. Alice isn't the most complex girl in the world."

"You just-" She makes a face. "You don't seem very invested in your relations.h.i.+p right now."

A surge of fear, followed by a bleak, tangential thought: Dakota-drugged, beaten, bound, maimed. I shake off the image, redirecting my focus. "I'm invested," I say to Kate. Her brow crinkles. "What? I am. I'm just-I'm not his keeper."

"But you are."

"But I'm not." Would it be so bad if Lee left me? I'd be on my own, absolved of any blame or guilt. "He's a free agent."

"He's not. He's not free, Knox, that's the point. He's your boyfriend. Why commit to someone you're not interested in being committed to?"

"Who says I'm not?"

She sighs, exasperated.

"Look," I say, eager for new topics. I grab a wool fedora off a hat stand and slap it over her ponytail. "Sweet."

She laughs, despite herself, popping her head in front of a mirror tacked to the side of a van. "I look like those little girls in Stetsons."

"You do," I say, thrusting my new old dress over one shoulder. "You're cute, Katie. It's a good look."

Julian's not in lit, so, like a lunatic, I spend most of Murphy's Franken-lecture pus.h.i.+ng the panic back by picturing his possible whereabouts: He's home, hungover. His car's stalled out on Beverly. He's behind the school drinking black coffee from a blue paper cup.

"Adrienne."

Why do I care? Who the h.e.l.l is Julian Boyd anyway? Not a real person. He doesn't have a mom, or go to a pediatric dentist still, like I do. He's a luminary. A myth. He's what's left to gawk at now that Dakota's gone away.

"Adrienne."

I snap to.

"Can we talk?" Murphy, of course. He's next to me now, wedged behind a small square desk, like mine.

"I-okay." I straighten up. Cla.s.s is over. I've just been sitting here, zoned out like a lobotomized lump.

"Jane Eyre."

"Sure." I shake my head. "I'm almost . . ." I don't finish. I have nothing to offer but transparent excuses.

"Not done?"

"Right, not yet."

He rubs his nose with two flat fingers, leaning forward. "Well, have you had a chance to see Griffin?" Guidance.

"I just-" I dodge the question. "I need a little bit more . . . can I have more time? With the essay, I mean."

He's eyeballing me now. "Adrienne, it's not just the essay. You've stopped partic.i.p.ating, you've gotten Ds on your past two quizzes . . . you used to be fully invested in discussions." He stops to suck in some air. "You loved this cla.s.s."

I did. "Still do."

"Adrienne." His face says bulls.h.i.+t. "Talk to me. You're having a tough time. That's an okay thing to say out loud."

I laugh. Like an idiot, petulant, piece-of-s.h.i.+t kid.

"Okay, or . . . walk with me."

"Where?"

"Come on, get up. Let's go see Griffin."

My stomach seizes. "I don't need to see Griffin."

He's standing now. "Okay." And s.h.i.+fting back and forth from leg to leg. We watch each other. I wonder briefly what his regular life is like. What he's like at home, with Gwen, their baby. Sweet, I'm guessing. Superattentive, like Lee. "Just-" He throws one hand up. "Monday, okay? Get me Jane by Monday."

See? Such a softy. "Yes." I exhale.

"Monday, Adrienne. Seriously." He grabs his leather tote off the back of his chair. "After this, no more favors."

Me, Mom, Sam-at the fish taco stand on Sunset.

"Where's Lee, babe?" Mom shovels a chip into a ma.s.sive pile of ceviche.

I shrug, say, "Home."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine."

"And Katie?" She chews merrily. "How's she? We haven't seen her since-"

"Sunday," Sam interjects. " 'Member? She dropped Adrienne off after the flea market."

"Oh, right." More chewing. More staring. "New dress, babe?"

"Yep."

Her smile looks wobbly and ready to crack. She gets up, rubbing greasy fingers against her jeans. "You guys need anything? Habanero? More salsa?"

"No, thanks." I shove half a taco into my mouth and watch as she swerves toward the condiment bar. "What the f.u.c.k," I say to Sam once she's gone.

"Watch your mouth." He knocks my elbow with his soda cup. "And cut your mother some slack. She's worried about you."

"Worried why?"

"Look at you." He wrinkles his nose. "What the h.e.l.l are you wearing?"

"A dress."

"Clever kid . . ." He taps his temple. Then, "Look, Mom just thought . . ."

Another huge bite. I'm not even done chewing the last. "What? Mom thought what?"

He sniffs. "Are you and Lee okay?"

My mouth is so stuffed I can barely speak. "Why?"

"Jesus, Adrienne, eat faster."

I laugh. Don't mean to. But Sam's jokes always. .h.i.t unexpectedly. I'm choking on fried fish.

"You need the Heimlich?" He's leaning across the table, patting my back while I hack up a lung. "I'm certified."

I swallow finally, clutching my chest, breathless.

"What's so funny?" Mom's back with two tiny containers of pico de gallo. "What? What'd I miss?"

"Some sort of magic," Sam boasts. "I made Morticia laugh."

"Morticia?" I screech.

Mom smothers a guilty giggle with one hand and high-fives Sam with the other.

"You both suck," I say, kneeing the table.

They high-five again.

I'm at school superearly, camped out at Julian's favorite smoking spot. I sit, restlessly chewing my cheeks until ten past eight. He's a no-show.

At half past, between first and second bell, I go and wait by his locker like a dumb dog. Kate pa.s.ses by on her way to trig. She flicks a paper clip at my b.o.o.b and flashes me a curious smirk, but doesn't stop to say hi.

Ten to nine: I board the city bus.

Fifteen past: I get off at Benton Way.

More cheek chewing. More s.h.i.+tty paranoia. I buy a pink cookie at the Mexican bakery, then I hike the hill to Dakota's house.

He's there. That's him, he's there. Blue Datsun. Cigarette. He's on a stakeout. I jog toward the car, elated. Relieved. "Hey," I say, tapping at the pa.s.senger-side window.

Julian jumps, exhaling smoke. Then he reaches over and pops the lock.

"What're you doing here?"

I get in. "You're missing lit."

"So are you."

He offers me his cigarette. I take it, dragging on the damp, hot filter. "So you've just . . . been here this whole time? Watching the house?"

He shrugs.

"What about school?"

"What about it?"

I pa.s.s the cig back. "Well . . . have you seen anything?"

He s.h.i.+fts around. "You think I'm crazy, right? Sitting here? Expecting her to just . . . show up?"

"I don't think you're crazy," I say, and it's true, I don't. I settle against the broken leather headrest, relaxing finally after days of creepy jitters. I pull the cookie from my knapsack.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," Julian croaks.

It's Emmett. Emmett, headed toward his Ford sedan with a vinyl computer bag slung over one shoulder. We slump in our seats.

"Can he see us?"

"I don't know," I squeak. "Can he?" He looks so normal: skinny, s.h.a.ggy, serious, sullen. "What the h.e.l.l, where's he going?"

"Work?"

"How can he work? How can he work when his kid's missing?"